#tis the season to burn this fucker to the ground

[the-birth-of-art]

#gävle goat #gävlebocken #gavle goat #tis the season to burn this fucker to the ground

[ghostinthelibrarywrites]

touching 35 for yennskier or geraskefer please?? ❤

35. Touching their bruises and scars

And @handwrittenhello asked for "kissing each finger" for Yennskier, which tied nicely into this ficlet, so here's some post season 2 Yennskier hurt/comfort. Warnings for mentions of canonical self-harm and a past suicide attempt.

Yennefer finds Jaskier sitting on one of Kaer Morhen's few undamaged ramparts , feet swinging over the edge as he takes a long drink from a bottle of White Gull. It's just past dawn and the half-destroyed keep is lit up with a soft pink glow.

"Did you ever sleep, bardling?" Yennefer asks.

Jaskier yelps and drops the bottle. Far below, there's the sound of glass shattering as it hits the ground. "Fucking hells, witch! Are you trying to kill me?"

"I have my chaos back," she reminds him, perching on the rampart next to him. "I could use a more direct method if I wanted to kill you now."

"You don't need to remind me," he says. "I'm surprised you're not off with Geralt."

Yennefer shrugs, ignoring the sting of the words. "I don't think he has much to say to me right now."

"He'll forgive you, you know."

She stares hard at the horizon. "Maybe he shouldn't."

"Of course he should." He nudges her shoulder with his. "Yennefer, you had a demon inside your head."

"It didn't force me to do anything."

"Are you sure? Or did it just let you think you had free will so it could feed off your guilt and despair? That was its thing, right?"

She swallows the acid feeling in her throat. The inside of her mind still feels dirty and violated. "I suppose we'll never know."

"I know," he says with far too much confidence. "You wouldn't hurt Ciri, not of your own volition. And I'm saying that as someone who has absolutely no faith in your better nature."

Yennefer snorts and rolls her eyes. "I suppose you're right. I almost enjoyed your company back in Oxenfurt. Only demonic possession could achieve such a thing."

He barks a laugh. "Horrible woman."

"That's no way to talk to your wife."

Jaskier laughs so hard at that, she fears he'll fall off the rampart. When he gets control of himself, she expects him to make some pithy remark that isn't half as amusing as he thinks it is. Instead, he reaches out and takes her hand, turning it over. She sucks in a breath as he runs a finger over the scars on her wrists, old and new.

"Does it hurt?" he asks in a undertone.

"Not anymore. When my chaos came back, the cuts healed."

"Why did you do it?"

"Because someone had to," Yennefer says. "I brought that thing to Kaer Morhen's doorstep. If anyone was going to make a sacrifice, it should have been me."

Jaskier makes a small, wounded noise.

Yennefer touches the decades-old scar on her wrist. "My first night at Aretuza, I tried to kill myself. When I woke up, the rectoress asked me, 'Do you know how many people wouldn't even blink if you died?' And she was right. I could have died that night and not a single person would have given a shit."

"I would blink, Yenn," Jaskier whispers. "So would Geralt. So would Ciri. If you had died tonight, we very much would have given a shit."`

Yennefer feels too exposed in the soft morning light. It makes her want to say something cruel, something to start a fight and make him stop looking at her with those earnest eyes. "You don't need me to save you anymore, bardling. You have Geralt back."

"I get in a lot of trouble. There's plenty of rescuing to go around."

Yennefer huffs, but says nothing as he tentatively lifts her wrist to his lips and presses a feather-light kiss to the new scar there. It's a chaste kiss, but she feels it all the way down to her toes. "Trying to kiss it better?"

"No, I'm not the one with the chaos." His voice is light, but she can see the pain in his eyes and she remembers that he has some wounds of his own. She pulls her hand from his grasp and takes his hand, turning it over so she can see his burnt fingertips. His index and middle fingers are both shiny with burns.

"Fire fucker," she growls, thinking of the twisted, burnt corpses of that poor family in Sodden. She has no doubt that would have been Jaskier if she hadn't interfered and the thought is enough to make her want to hunt the bastard down.

"Yeah." Jaskier releases a shaky breath. "He was the worst."

She remembers the desperate, terrified despair in Jaskier's screams, the way he begged the mage not to hurt her, when anyone else would have been begging for their own lives. The way he leaned against her afterwards, completely trusting. She raises his burnt fingertips to her lips and kisses each of them in turn. His fingers tremble under her touch.

"Yennefer," he whispers.

When she pulls back, his burns are gone, the skin of his fingertips pale and unblemished, save for his callouses. His smile is more than a little watery.

"Yennefer of Vengerberg," he says, a quaver in his voice. "No one ever told me you were adorable. You kissed it and made it better."

She scowls at him, hoping to cover up the too many emotions welling up inside her. "Tell no one about this."

"Oh, I'm telling everyone. My next song will be about the witch with the healing lips. It will be my greatest--"

Yennefer pulls him into a kiss, silencing him. It's a long, lingering kiss, full of promises that need to wait until they're not still exhausted and recovering from the events of the last few days.

When Yennefer pulls away, she looks at Jaskier's dopey smile and says, "You're wrong. I don't have a healing kiss."

"Don't you?" He sound a bit breathless.

"No, because I just kissed you and you're as insufferable as ever."

Jaskier's mouth drops open. "You--"

She kisses him again. It seems to be the only way to shut him up.

It's not a surefire method, because between kisses, he murmurs, "I'm still writing a song about you."

"Don't you dare."

"I'm not even a little scared of you, witch."

Yennefer nips at his lower lip. "Yes, you are."

"Yes," Jaskier says, sounding a little dreamy. "I am."

Touch prompts

Tag list: @kueble @maya-the-yellow-bee @feral-jaskier

#the witcher #yennskier #yenskier #jaskier x yennefer #jaskier/yennefer #jaskier #yennefer of vengerberg #twn season 2 #the witcher season 2 #my writing #prompt fills

[ly-canthropewrites]

Love or War

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Reader

Word Count: 2998

Rating/Warnings: SFW. Brief mentions of previous season drama.

Summary: “I saw you staring at each other, I wasn’t sure if it was sexual tension or murderous rage” 

You can feel the heavy gaze from across the field. Intense eyes fixated on your figure as you rattle the chain-wire fence that surrounds the newest section of Alexandria. The post-apocalyptic town has been thriving since the end of Negan’s reign and with the undead being the town’s only consistent antagonist, it has given the community an opportunity to expand their borders. The chain-mesh fence was scavenged from the Sanctuary before the community fell off the map and serves as a strong protector as the new plot of land gets tilled. But it remains fragile when leant against and it has become a daily task during guard duty to rid the walkers that stumble near the temporary fence, a job you jump at to vent your frustrations. 

The deliberate noise draws the attention of the few walkers close by and they turn, growling as they catch your scent in the wind and they shuffle your way. It’s second nature now, muscle memory, to shift your grip on the knife handle and strike at their heads, using the fence for leverage and stability. The motions do nothing to quench the frustration and fire that rages inside you and you growl, yanking your knife from the last walker’s head with more force than necessary. The bloodied blade gets cleaned on the rag that is tied to your belt loops and then you are left with nothing to do, no more walkers to distract you from the boredom or the swirl of emotions that fester inside. 

You find yourself glancing over in his direction, succumbing to the gravitational pull of the universe and you don’t find yourself surprised at all to find him still staring at you, a dark scowl painted across his face. You sneer back at him, standing strong with your own gaze. 

“Stupid, fucking redneck,” you mutter under your breath and the fire that burns in your chest grows hotter, feeding off of your anger. 

The swishing of grass on your left distracts you and you are met with Carol only a few feet from you. You nod at her, giving her a tight-lipped smile as well before turning to look at the perimeter, finding nothing in the wilderness has changed and you sigh. 

“I saw you staring at each other, I wasn’t sure if it was sexual tension or murderous rage,” Carol says lightly, walking to your side and mirrors your stance; arms crossed and back straight. 

You scoff, openly showing that you aren’t in the mood for her banter today but it doesn’t deter the older woman. 

“Most definitely murderous rage” you grit.

“See, I don’t know about that - I see a lot of passion,” She teases.

You throw her a withering look, disdain heavy in your eyes and if Carol isn’t careful; some of that murderous rage will be pointed at her soon. 

“So if it is murderous rage, how long are you going to remain angry at him?” Carol tries a gentler approach, obviously getting the message and you wince, guilt beginning to set in as you mentally chastise yourself about your unrestrained attitude. 

Shrugging, you refuse to make eye contact with your old friend. “I don’t know Carol, he humiliated me,” you breathe.

“He didn’t mean too, he was worried,” Carol begins to defend him but when she sees you shaking your head and the flash of hurt across your face, she stops herself. 

“But he did it anyway. He humiliated me, he berated me in front of everyone, undermined me, treating me as if I am some soft fucker who hasn’t been beyond the walls” you spit and you render the woman silent, unsure about what to say next. 

When the silence between the pair of you becomes stagnant, Carol realises it’s time for her to leave and she steps back a few feet, mulling over her next words. 

“Talk to him,” she pleads and you snort, “Fuck no,”. 

Carol says your name in warning, making you roll your eyes. “I’m not fucking submitting. If he wants to talk, then he can man up and come to me with a goddamn apology,”. 

You hear her heavy sigh behind you before her retreating footsteps, leaving you to stew in your malcontent alone. It is your stubborn pride and bruised feelings that prevent you from talking with your old companion, from making amends and burying the hatchet, an ideal that is important in this world because life is too short and unpredictable to be so petty. And yet, you cannot help yourself this time. He hurt you, deeply, a stinging wound that will take time to heal. 

It’s not like you have done anything wrong in the first place. With the apocalypse a decade old, resources are unimaginably scarce, leaving only items that are grown, hunted or handmade to be used. It was commonplace for you to be the first person out of the gates in the morning and the last to return in the evening, spending hours and even days hunting, refusing to go back to Alexandria empty-handed. You are too stubborn for your own good, too arrogant in your capabilities to survive and adapt to the dangerous world. As a repercussion, your last run was almost the death of you. 

Enemies are like hydras; one falls and another takes its place. Negan was once considered Alexandria’s greatest threat, but that fear was usurped by the latest peril; the Whisperers. Negan ruled with fear and violence. The Whisperers rule with death. Their ability to influence herds is an obstacle that the community does not know how to overcome. The capricious nature makes every run, every scouting mission, every patrol dangerous and life-threatening. Therefore, it became law that no-one is to go outside the metal walls without a group and without informing the council. It should have been expected that you would struggle with this rule, never been one to abide by strict regulations, but the thought slipped the minds of the council and you kept slipping outside the gates. 

Your last run is a perfect example of why the rule is in place; you got caught by the herd with Whisperers dotted within. Perhaps they tracked you down or perhaps it was just shit luck that you ran into them, but it resulted in a fight for your life and an injury that planted fear on sight. It was sheer, dumb luck that allowed you to escape with your life; an old tree fell whilst you were in the midst of swiping at walkers and humans alike, and caused a great enough distraction that gave you the opportunity to bolt. You damn well shocked Rosita who stood on guard duty that evening as you came sprinting towards the main gates, coated in two types of blood and clutching at your side, out of breath with wild eyes. 

That night you had Siddiq inform you that you got lucky the knife wound at your abdomen was free of infection but he was stern to chastise that only one hour more and you wouldn’t have made it, wound too deep to be stemmed by only pressure and the combination of exhaustion and blood loss would have defeated you. His words didn’t shake you that night, instead, you shrug nonchalantly and smirked, telling him that death in this world is inevitable and you would greet it like an old friend.  

You refused to stay in the infirmary that night, scrunching your nose at the thought of being surrounded by sick people in a sterile environment, rather opting for the privacy of your own place. He was unable to stop you, letting you go with an armful of supplies and a sigh, watching you stagger down the pathway. You made it only halfway home before you were halted by a loud yell, the noise capturing the attention of not just you but the other residents that were milling in the nearby courtyard. 

“What the fuck wer’ ya thinkin’?” Daryl yelled, storming towards you with a glare that would frighten Hades. “How fuckin’ stupid are ya?” he adds. 

He berated you in public that night, practically screaming in your face about your stupidity, your lack of respect to the council and their rules, your selfishness and conceited attitude. He didn’t let you get a word in to defend yourself as he raged, words becoming harsher by the second. You could handle the words but it was the venom in his voice that surprised you. It was filled with so much anger, so much hatred and spite that you lost the words that you wanted to scream back at him. Instead, when he took a moment to catch his breath, you just walked away, your eyes on the ground as you stifled the bewildered cry that ached in your chest. 

The incident happened two weeks ago and you haven’t spoken since, avoiding each other like the plague but the distance hasn’t stopped either of your from directing heated glares at each other, consequently deepening the rift in your friendship. 

                                                          ----

The guard changeover occurs on dusk and when your replacement comes, you greet them with a tight smile as you pass over the unused rifle before quickly leaving the post. You don’t head home after the shift and instead, you go down to the armoury with hopes that working maintenance on the weapons will distract you from the words Carol has lodged in your mind. Daryl worried? You scoff at the thought. In a previous time, those words would have made sense - you and Daryl have been partners in crime since the fall of the world, similar in too many ways and it made sense that you were friends. But after seeing the pure acrimony he directed at you, you fail to believe it stemmed from a place of compassion. 

It was well past midnight when the doors to the armoury creaked open. It was probably someone on shift wanting to pick up more ammo or something alike. What you didn’t expect was to see the rugged hunter ease into the room. You stared at him with furrowed eyebrows and a twist in your lips, hands paused on the shotgun you were working on. 

“You weren’t home when I knocked,” Daryl states simply, gruff voice a melody to your ears after the long radio silence. 

“You know I don’t sleep when I’m alone,”

It’s true; you struggle to rest when there is no-one watching over you, a position that is usually filled by the man in front of you. 

Daryl nods, biting down on the inner side of his cheek as he reflects. Of course you don’t, you never have and he knew that. The poignant silence weighs heavily between you and Daryl shifts uncomfortably, moving further into the room to take a seat on the chair that sits in front of the sole workstation. You never sat at the workstation, preferring to sit on the floor so you had more space to work with but at this moment, you hated how you were positioned lower than the man. 

“Yer gonna use that thing on’ me?” There is a ghost of a sly smirk upon his lips, a sparkle of mischief in his eyes but you aren’t having it, you won’t befall to his sparse charm. 

“Don’t tempt me, Daryl Dixon,’’

The full use of his name and the stern attitude makes Daryl wince, the severity of damage he inflicted to you now evident before him. He nods silently, gnawing anxiously at his lip as you both fall back and stew in silence. You resume cleaning the weapon in your hands, needing to keep busy in an attempt to distract your mind from the chaos that sits in front of you. Daryl watches you, this time without the hatred and disdain, but his gaze is just as heavy as before. 

“Why are you here, Daryl?” 

He notes the tiredness in your voice, not the physical exhaustion that is a permanent state in this new world, but the emotional weariness that burdens you. 

“‘M here to apologise,” 

“Are you here because Carol told you to or because you actually want to?”

His hesitation is a loud answer and you scoff, glaring up at him with your teeth bared.  

“Of course not. Daryl Dixon never apologises because he actually wants to, no, someone else has to puppet him. You are so fucking incompetent,” you growl, “You can’t even do the right fucking thing. Whatever ‘apology’ you have concocted to make this all better; forget it, Daryl. I don’t fucking accept it!”. 

You take a predatory satisfaction in seeing the raw hurt flash across his face at your words. Your words are harsh, digging at old wounds that the man harbours but you can’t even conjure up the guilt or regret; hungry to dish out the same pain that you have received. Vexation and wrath raise its ugly head and you furiously rub at the long barrel of the shotgun, as if you would be able to transfer your rage through kinetic energy. 

“Yer keep sacrificing yerself for the group ‘n’ and I fuckin’ hate it,” He breaks the icy air. His voice cracks despite his whispered tone but you catch it the little hitch. 

Your cautious gaze meeting his is the signal he needed because he keeps going, as if the dam inside breaks and the words come spilling out; unrestrained, pure and honest. 

“You’v’ done it since the beginnin’. Take the burden of the group on yerself ‘n’ takin’ all the risks. We’v only survived this long b‘cause of ya. You’v always kept us goin’. When the prison fell, you wanted ter round everyone up ‘n’ then Terminus happened and..” he breaks off, eyes squeezing shut as he recalls the horrible and degrading things the savages there threatened you with; how they held the machete to your neck and how powerless he was to stop everything. You were so close to death that afternoon as well, mere seconds away from being just an empty vessel. 

“Then all the shit that's happened since. You’ve never stopped, never broke down. Just kept trudgin’ on. But it all caught up and you could’ve died out there… without me. ‘N I wouldn’t have known until it was ter late”. 

“But I could have died in here and you still wouldn’t have been able to do anything, Daryl - that’s life,” you argue.

Daryl’s head whips up so fast, you are sure he could have suffered whiplash, but you get distracted by the flames in his eyes. 

“It’s not life. You ‘ave no fuckin’ idea what yer do to me, woman,” Daryl groans, looking at you so helplessly, almost insulted at how you don’t get it. 

“Apparently I piss you off!” you retort, “Ya know, with my selfish attitude and lack of respect” you parrot his own words back to him, a glare resituating across your face. “You yelled at me, Daryl. You screamed in my face, in front of everyone, and then gave me the cold shoulder. Me, out of all people, your fucking friend”. 

He shakes his head while you speak, an action that only infuriates you more. You are ready to attack him about that, mouth already open as you reveal your disgust, “Stop fucking shaking your head as if I’m playing the vic-”. 

In your rant, you don’t acknowledge the scrape of the metal stool along the concrete, given barely enough time to react to the new stimulus of rough lips upon yours and a hand that grips your chin. Daryl swallows your surprise, mouth unyielding as he crowds into you, pushing you back against the back leaving you no room to run. He kisses you desperately. Frantically. It is messy and unruly, a bruising kiss that steals the breath from your lungs and makes your head spin. You can taste every single secret that has ever danced across his lips, taste the fear that dwells within him but has never been uttered to another soul. You learn more about Daryl in this instance than you ever will in a lifetime. 

You both are slow to break apart; lips barely separating as you catch your breath, greedily sucking in as much oxygen as you can to sate the burning of your lungs. 

“‘M so fuckin’ sorry,” he cries against your lips. 

His hand still has a firm grip on your jaw, which is sure to leave finger-shaped bruises in its wake, but like his kiss - his touch is desperate as well. 

“You’v neva been a victim. I was just so fuckin’ scared that I would lose ya. I can’t lose ya,” he stresses, a voice that sounds so pained and winced; it sounds as if the wounds were personally inflicted upon him. 

He drops his death-like grip on your chin, bowing forward to rest his head against yours, never straying too far from your space. Your arms wind around his hulking form; bringing him closer and Daryl lets himself slump against you, his head slipping to rest on your shoulder as he nuzzles into your neck and his body, although heavy, feels like comfort from a warm blanket. You can feel him utter endless apologises into the crook of your neck, lips brushing along your skin and you memorise the soft tone of his voice as he echoes “‘M sorry,”. 

You hush him, turning your head to press a gentle kiss to the dark tresses, whispering “I know,” to every apology he mutters. Eventually, the apologises fade and you are submerged in peaceful silence, curled into each other. You don’t need to ask why he couldn’t have just told you all those words at the beginning, to save you both the agony and trauma of the last few weeks. But your Daryl is complex, a stunning mosaic of intricate emotions that aren’t easily given and you accept that this is who he is. The man would go to war for love; for you.

Tags:

@guywithacrossbow​

@oncemorewithfeelingg

@rachelxxraucous

@gaenahelleborus​

#daryl dixon #daryl dixon x reader #daryl x reader #daryl dixon fanfiction #daryl x oc #twd #the walking dead #the walking dead imagines #daryl dixon imagines #twd imagine #daryl dixon/reader #twd imagines #daryl dixon fanfic #twd fanfiction #daryl dixon imagine #the walking dead imagine #ly-canthropewrites #angst #fluff #sfw #request #for anon

[minimalisticmonstermash]

What the Fandom (actually) thinks about the SPN Finale 15x20!

A short while ago I posted a Quiz  [Which Part of Supernatural Season 16 are you?]  and the post has 27 notes, so I thought barely anyone would have taken this, but it turns out actually a couple people did.  And I´m so glad I did put in one free form question: “Would be please be so kind to sum up the finale in 3 words. (Or 333 if you want to...)”  Because the past days I clicked through the notifications on the quiz, which is kind of tedious, but I could not stop cause what people put in there is a mood, a riot, the pure unfiltered truth, eloquent and outrageous in the best way!   And so I collected the answers and tried to roughly group them. Which you can find under the cut. (If someone that took the quiz wants to be tagged or have the commentary removed please just message me!)  Can you guess what the most common 3 words were? 

 The rare acceptance or praise  not that bad  // Not entirely horrible.  //  satisfaction and closure :D  //  good idea, shaky execution, ultimately fulfilling  // epic love story

Grounded Truth & the well adjusted It was something // well that happened

CW & Network aka. put the blame where it (probably) belongs network fuckery afoot  //  Corporate Fuckery Ahoy!  // network bullshit ruined everything  // fuck the cw // Fuck the CW //  Fuck you cw //  cw ships wincest  //   FUCK ROBERT SINGER  // Greed won

Make some Effort (@show) Lazy //  half-assed fever dream  // feverish dream (nightmare)  // Could be better  // Not comprehensible, stupid, low budget  // How did buckleming do better  // Fuck you, spn writers. Could have done better

Hate Crime  A hate crime // literal hate crime  //  The hate crime //  I only need 2 and it's hate and crime // subtle-but-not hate crime // hatecrime to all Homophobia Call Out Straight Gay Chicken// not gay enough // bad unsexy homophobic // Where's my gay? // horrific hetero nightmare // Homophobic queerbait bullshit // no homo shitshow // Bury your gays // silencing, erasing, ugly  //  Homophobic and incestual  // homophobic disappointing stifd // Character assassination and homophobia //  Stinky, censorship, offensive // Disappointingly heterosexual & bland You need to speak  fandom for that  why lamp wtf //  It’s the turbo hell we were all sent to // Wheres the tapes??? Castiel centric  so no cas?  // So no cas? // Needs more Cas // No Cas, pathetic // where is cas // why no Cas // where was cas //  yo a ti  // where was castiel Bless you I released scripts for a reason

Deserving Better! Damn Right! They deserved better // They deserved better // They deserved better // dean deserved better //  dean deserved better  //  dean deserved better // Dean deserves better  //  destiel deserved better // Destiel deserve better. //  Jensen deserved better  //  dumb , idiotic , horrible and #deanwinchesterdeservedbetter

Trash, Shit  & Garbage aka. The scatological truth FUCK THIS SHIT // Shit shit shit // Shit shit shit // total shit //  Shittiest fucking shit// Total and utter shite. //  Piece of shit // Fuck this shit  //  Complete utter shit //   Fucking pointless shitshow // stupid As all fuck // That was shit.  // A shit show  // what a shitshow // An absolute shitshow // total shit show // a shit show // A shit show //  total shitshow lmao // absolute shit show  // A shit show // Rancid shit show  // i would say it's a shitshow but that's mean to shit // Complete utter shit   // fuck that shit //  fuck that shit //  fuck this shit // Absolute fuckin bullshit // fucked up shit  // Utter shit bro //  Distilled horse shit // Absolute horse shit // Absolute Horseshit. 3. //  Absolute dog crap // Piece of crap // pile of crap // piece of trash // Steaming trash fire // Shit ass garbage   //  Gar ba ge // Fucking trash fire // Absolute garbage fire // A dumpster fire //  piece of trash // unfortunate dumpster fire //  Flaming pile of garbage // disaster dumpster fire  // Unsatifying flaming garbage // Dumpster fire on ice. A mess. Underwhelming. Incomprehensible. Oof // I got 2: dumpster fire // Complete. Fucking. Bullshit.   // Complete utter bullshit // utter gross bullshit // Shit fuck shame // hot mess inside a dumpster fire inside a train wreck

Still won´t read any praise here The worst thing  // a complete disaster // so fucked up //  It was terrible //  it really sucked  //  Man it sucked //  Well that sucked  //  Fucking sucked bro  //  it fucking sucked  // it sucked ass it was fucked // Sucked major ass.  // It sucked ass // very not good :(  //  it was bad :(  // Absolutely fucking awful  // The very worst //  bad. bad. wincest...  // Bad bad bad  //  bad poop ending // bad funni yuck // horrendous nightmare fuel  //   A fucking nightmare // worst thing i’ve never seen in my life //  an absolute atrocity  // a fucking disaster  it was terrible // an absolute disgrace  //  Just so awful // Really Fucking Bad // Literally the worst // Real real bad  //  Bad stupid bad  // uhh very bad  // crap bad lacking //  horrible rude worst // awful  //  bad // bad  //  Crap //  wack Ugh. // No  // UGH // Bad, messy, dumb   // Bad terrible worst ugh  // Oof my dude  // deep deep sigh 9000+ epic failure  //  Small dick energy

Demands!  Suck my dick   // Not it motherfucker

Thinking of all of us! We all lost

Summed up in 3 Words               Bitch. Fucker. Ass.    //  Death age heaven  // Dead, married, forgotten  // Sam Dead Car  // Dead, Sad, & Car.  // Dead, Sad, Car  // Slow shambling death  //  burns in hell // Absurd, wtf, huh  //  fucking odoriferous stench.

Not Canon & Fake  &  Insulting insulting. not canon  // Unsatisfying, degrading, noncanonical // Disgusting Insulting Fake // sad, bullshit, not-a-finale // Embarrassing, ridiculous, insulting // disheartening, harmful, horrible // Terrible. Disgusting. Hilarious  //                 Incomplete. Unkind. Nonsensical.  // Traumatising, stupid, horrendous  // horrible incomplete unsuccessful  // Disgusting, disrespectful, unreal

Disappointments & Complaints very big disappointment  //  disappointing, disrespectful, baffling  // An utter disappointment // disappointment of the decade  //  Fruitless, regressive, insulting, disturbing, and all-in-all just disappointing //  the complete unpackage  // supernatural finale clusterfuck  // WRONG, Horrible, Offensive //  poo rehash bad  // Unnecessary character deaths  Betrayal & Inconsistency   Stupid awful depressing poorly written inconsistent betrayal  // Boring betrayal // inconsistent, monotonous mess  //  inconsistent disappointing mess

Denial! Aka. The wise!  Finale? What finale? //   What finale ?  // what finale? //  Finale? What finale? Ohhhh yeah 15x18 was great // you mean 15x18?  // Did not happen.  // What the...what?? // What finale ??? // um.........what finale? // finale? what finale. // what finale? it didn't air yet. last episode that aired was 15x18 pffft  //  what finale :) //  Does Not Exist  //  It never happened  //   That didn’t happen // No, i refuse, there was a finale??? // what finale?? // It doesn't exist  // it doesn't exist // Weird of season 15 to end with 19 episodes and an open ending // what finale? the show got canceled after 15x18  // Finale? What finale? Supernatural isn’t over. I’m not in denial, you are //  an atrocity i've erased from my memory //  I Can't See Suddenly. I Don't Know// Don’t know her.        

Consequences & Emotions (I hope you´re all okay, have a hug!) Oh my god it was awful. Hated it. Made me reactivate in the fandom. And obses over that show AGAIN. Oh, and yeah, yeeted me to a place so dark that I got me some new scars.  // Ymmmmm, fuck the finale. It got me spiraling down back to depression and self harm. Didn't make sence. Badly written. Badly executed (well, except acting) // Never wanted to claw my own face off more than watching that heap of garbage // fuckin hated it // My heart hurts  // Stupid unsatisfying pain  //  slap inthe face // I am unhinged  // Im throwing up  //  I am sad //  i went feral  //  Broke my heart  // hurt my feelings  / I wanna die // i hate it <3  // I hated it  // I hate it //  Extreme rage inducing  // Trauma, It was   // Oh. Oh dear. // Absolute soul crushing, sucked sunshine and joy out of this world and any other possible reality this abomination exists in. It hurt so much I actually disassociated and had a real life horrible week. Luckily anger finally swept in and fan fiction ultimately saved the day. // AWFUL. HARMFUL. DEPRESSING. I HATE IT // Waste of time //  My villain origin story // Destroyed rewatch value

This is unfortunately too true  disturbingly pro-suicide   //   odd lacking empty

Valid Questions:  why’d’ya do that // Why why why

WTF?! What the …  “The popular 3” What The Fuck // What the fuck// what the fuck // What the fuck. // what the fuck // What the fuck //  What the fuck //  What the fuck. //  What the fuck // What. The. Fuck.  //   What The Fuck  //  What the fuck // what the fuck // what the fuck // What the fuck // What the fuck // What the fuck?! // What. The. Fuck. // What the fuck?!  // what. the. fuck. (was that????) // What the actual fuck? // 1. What 2. The 3. Fuck //  'what the fuck'  // The actual fuck? //  What the heck, //// What the heck //  What the heck // what the hell // What the hell? // what the hell

Narative & Character Development That was pointless // Failure of storytelling //  15 years of story and character development down the fucking drain // Fuck character arcs, no free will // Assassination of character  // Lost character development // character development is dead // disjointed alien mess I don't know these characters what the fuck // boring, loveless, characters are ignoring  // Season 1 Finale.  // From darker timeline // Awful Forgetable OOC //  piece of shit all the character development thrown out the window. cas deserved better (also to be with dean cause they are in love)   //  Underwhelming, disappointing garbage, a slap in the face of chatacter development. //  the dark ending //  The Chuck ending we didn't deserve. // a dumpster fire on the level of the GoT finale - all character dev & story arc thrown out. CLOWN VAMPIRES  

The Jokers among us, or those finding a laugh in the grimmest things a comedy  //  Just a joke

Relateable:  AAAA AAAAA AAAA  // AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

I see what you did there and I love you 333 // 333 // 333  // 333  // 333 variations of the word fuck I especially love you  666

Rebels! 4 words (sorry): they showed their hand  //  The end of hope (that’s 4 words but too bad)

Didn´t watch the Finale  for various reasons  Haven’t seen it,  //  i didn't watch it out of spite  // haven't seen it yet for some reason // didn’t watch it  //  I didn’t watch it but everything that happened because of it activated the decade-old sleeper agent part of my brain that was a spn fan  // I stopped watching spn in the middle of season 12... The finale was awful from what I gathered

Hello Stranger, we welcome you here  I don't actually watch SPN I'm taking this for kicks bro

The Refusal (either of the finale or the  question) Nope //  No thank you // no // No   // No thanks, fuckers // No thank you. // No // This is bullshit // haha what? No  // Please, not this  // Oh god no // noooooo oooo ooo  // ....no. //  No. It sucks // I will not <3  //  no thank you  // no no no  //  no thank you  // Lmao wtf no // Nope. Just no. Refusal is self care!  No, I won't let it hurt me again. //  I can't, it's too bad

The offensive Wig! Party city wig // party city wig  //  party city wig // Homophobic, bad, wig // shitty sam wig // party city wig // Party City Wig // party city wig  // Jared's fucking wig //  bad, homophobic, party city wig // The Wig™ Blurry wife Sam's blurry wife

The Nail / Rebar!  ( @the-rusty-nail-that-killed-dean  @therustynailthatkilleddean  you are recognized) nailed by dickbar //  rusty nail wins  // Rusty fuckin nail.  //  Nail Dean Death Clown  //  dean got nailed  // Rebar. Cas helped.

All of those  Dickbar, Blurry Wife, Driving for 40yrs,Party City Wig, Drone Shot (cringe) // absolute trash fire garbage, burn the party city wig and the cw down but keep the dog

Those with crystal balls expected i guess // disappointed, not surprised

Puzzled (Yeah me too) or Undecided or Eh i don’t even fucking know // Jggfdv //  Huy  // Meh // Meh // meh  // it was bad ??

Let´s create great fanworks!! free real estate

Defies Categories and is good stuff  everything for nothing. // traumatizing, badly-written, comedic   //  devastating yet obnoxious //  God is dead but hegemonic masculinity is still kicking // maam this is a wendys  // am so glad that I was a whovian. I've dodged two bullets. // F's in the chat // >:((

I´m sorry, I failed you with this quiz quiz was wrong // Dude. Dude you gave me "liking the finale" a minute ago. I assure you; i did not. "You have found peace" bro I haven't known a SECOND of peace since that ill-begotten nightmare of a shitstorm  //  [[“I STILL HOPE UR DAY WAS G”:]]  HOW THE FUCK DID I GET THAT I LIKED THE FINALE PLS OP THIS IS NOT A MARK ON YOU OR ANYTHIG I LOVE U EVEN IF I DON'T KNOW YOU BTU PLS THE DEPRESSIVE STATE THAT I SPENT MY LIFE IN POST-FINALE DOES NOT DESERVE TO BE SHAMED IN THIS WAY I. PLEASE. I DID NOT LIKE THE FINALE. HOW DO I GET A DIFFERENT ANSWER PLEASE

Misha? Was that you? Rancid Nut Work

Particular Stuff Fuck john Winchester  // [[“ Mj”; ]]fucking disgusting shitshow [okay so that was 3 words, but MAY I JUST SAY, c*w was incredibly disrespectful to Misha, Cas, Jensen, and Dean. Misha played a Cas for 12 years, and then he's not even in the finale? and Cas gets mentioned a whopping total of 2 times after he confesses his love to Dean?? and then, Jensen. 15 years of his life on Supernatural. Jensen turned down the role to be Captain America, and his best friend is Dean, the character he plays. But then Dean dies on a rusty nail, never getting to actually live his life? Dean died how he always thought he would- and he died as "Daddy's Blunt Instrument", finishing off his dad's unfinished case. J*hn Winch*ster ab*sed him and Sam mentally, emotionally, and possibly physically too, and does NOT deserve to get a Heaven at all, least of all, a Heaven right by Deans. Dean never got to live how he wanted to and was repressed as fuck, and this is all because of his dad, the resident shit head. And don't even get me started on the queer erasure, and racism. Kevin Tran deserved better. He, after through all he suffered on Earth, deserves to go to Heaven, not be tortured in the afterlife forever. I fully believe that it's just because he was Asian. If J*hn got into Heaven, why couldn't Kevin. Also, not to mention, Charlie, Rowena, Claire, Patience, Kaia, Crowley, Donna, and Jodi, and probably countless of other queer characters who were erased. They were silenced and fuck the cw for doing that. I could add so much more, but for now, have an excellent day and a wonderful year :)]   //  [[“Yellowcollins”:]] hat the fuck was that literally what the fuck. I’m convinced the writers did not watch a single episode they made past season 3. There was literally not a SINGLE character from season 4 onwards in the finale. LITERALLY. NO. ONE. and what about “family don’t end in blood” that they’ve been preaching since LITERALLY season 1??? huh??????? nah fuck 15x20, this will go down and the WORST ending in the history of endings.

[cookie] < for everyone that made it that far ;)  

#mmnope

[midnight-writ3r]

You, Me and the Monsters

Kang Yeosang x Genderneutral reader

Summary: You and Yeosang have been hunters since you were children. It had always been the both of you vs. the world of the supernatural.

And no one does it like the two of you.

Genre: Supernatural! AU, action, fantasy, fluff

Warnings: Mentions of blood, cursing

A/N: I started re-watching supernatural, cause I have to catch up with the final and I remember nothing from the previous seasons :´D So, I really got into the mood and the spirit! I also wanted to write something for Ateez for a while now, so yay! Hope you like it!

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-

The world is filled with monsters.

They hide under your bed, in your closet, sometimes even yourself. As a hunter, you had to learn that the hard way and you had to learn it as a child. On the day, you understood that all the stories were real, all the myths and legends were born from truth, you lost your mother and sister. Your father had slain the vampire, responsible for their death. However, both of you knew, it wouldn´t be enough to bring them back.

Furious in your mourning, you and him had sworn to rid the world from those creatures. Not just vampires, no. Everything that caused pain, suffering and death. You never cared that, in the progress, you left quite a trail of blood yourself. It was everything you could do not to loose your sanity. Everything, you could focus on, to not fall apart. A task. A duty. A family business.

Your father and you had always been a team and, soon enough, you were a big part of the hunter community. Connections in every city, aquaintances in every village. Your eyes and ears extended to every corner of the continent.

Which is how you met Yeosang. A talented hunter, despite being two years younger than you. From the first moment, the two of you clicked and soon enough, instead of joining your dad on his missions, you reached out to Yeosang instead.

He always had your back and you trusted him without hesitation.

Like right now.

“Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio!” Your voice rang out loud in the shabby apartment and the woman in Yeosang´s grip screamed at an inhuman pitch.

As she thrashes, her nails dig into the boy´s arm, drawing bloody, red lines across his dirty skin. Her head knocks back against his jaw and he groans. She even elbows him in the ribs several times. But he doesn´t let up, because that would mean your certain death.

That demon had gotten to you when he wasn´t around. Apparently the news of the demon nest you, your father and Yeosang excorcised two weeks ago had gone around and now, the leftovers have decided to take revenge. She had taken you off guard, kidnapping you and waiting for your father and Yeosang to look for you. You´re tied to a chair, defenseless and, until Yeosang had removed the gag from you a few seconds ago, also muted.

If he were to let go, one hit from the demon would be enough to kill you.

You scream over your raw throat: “infernalis adversarii, omnis legio!“

The woman screeches again and your heart jumps, when you see familiar, black smoke emerge from her lips and eyes. It slowly rises into the air, like smoke from an extinguished campfire. Yeosang´s grip tightens and he scrunches his face up with the effort. It causes the cut on his lip to rip open wider, but he doesn´t even wince.

“omnis congregatio et secta diabolica!” You spit at the demon´s knees, pleased with her frightened eyes, as she realizes the situation, “Take that, you son of a bitch!”

The cloud of dark smoke breaks out of the woman like a fire and as you blink the sharpness of it out of your eyes, it disappears through the ceiling.

Then: Silence.

You release a breath, you didn´t notice you had been holding. Yeosang, with the now unconscious woman in his arms, sighs and falls back on his butt. You examine him quickly, taking in the wounds he sports on his torso and face; Apart from the cuts on his lip and arm, there is also a big slash on his ribs, the shirt around it torn. As you look closer at his low shirt-neckline, you even find something that looks like a bloodied bitemark. You´ve got a fair share of your own wounds, but in comparison, he seems to have gotten the short end of the stick.

Finally, Yeosang moves the woman off him and gently places her on the ground. Like the gentleman, he likes to say he is, he takes off his leather jacket and huddles it into a ball, to place it under her head. Then, he is by your side.

With a knife, that had been tossed out of his grasp throughout the fight, he cuts your restrains open quickly. When your wrists are free, you rub the blood back into them. There´s a burning sensation against your cheek, where the demon had repeatedly hit you and you carefully rub it.

“Don´t.” Yeosang catches your wrist, “It´s going to get infected. Wouldn´t wanna have that turn into a scar.”

You nod, getting to your feet. Cracking your neck, you stretch the stiffness out of your limbs.

“You okay?” he asks you, holding your neck and fixing you with a worried gaze.

You nod, “Better than ever. Seeing that fucker go down was more satisfying than a box of ice cream.”

He grins at your reply and together, you start to clean up. Yeosang calls two of your hunter friends, to take the woman to a hospital, while the two of you can go home and rest. As soon as you arrive at the motel, you´re currently staying at, you fall into your bed with a groan. You´ve never felt this tired in your life.

No, that´s a lie. You felt that tired, when you ran after that skinwalker for two hours last month. Unfair stamina advantage. You felt even more tired when you were haunted by a nightmare three months ago, and weren´t allowed to go to sleep for a good five days. You do feel very tired right now though and you think you have every right to.

Yeosang has different plans though. He walks over to you and taps your leg, “You´re going to get your bed all dirty. I doubt you´d be pleased to wake up tomorrow and smell like literal death.”

You just groan into your pillow, “Leave me here, the stench of death matches how I feel.”

He chuckles and suddenly, you´re lifted into the air. Squealing, you feel how Yeosang adjusts you in his arms and carries you to the bathroom.

“Let me down! You´ll hurt yourself!” You demand.

He does drop you onto the edge of the sink then, but only because he had reached his goal anyways. With a warm smile and a beaten face, he looks at you. You know that look of course, since it´s one of your favourites: It´s that pure sort of adoration, so innocent that you momentarily forget about your dark lifestyle. It´s relieving and addicting. Because, truth be told, you doubt that it´s a feeling you´ll ever be able to experience full-time. You´ve accepted that a long time ago, but to say that you don´t enjoy it, would be a lie.

“Good hunt.” Yeosang murmurs, his hands placed on either side of your hips, leaning against the sink, “I´ll give your exorcism a solid… eight.”

“Eight?” You mock-gasp, “How dare you, it was at least a nine.”

Yeosang shrugs, his face forming a thoughtful expression, “Nuh, you kinda slurred the omnis immundus spiritus part and your voice-technique could have had more projecting.”

“I hate you.”

“I love you, too.”

You roll your eyes and take his face in your hands, placing a peck on his lips. He smiles, happily, and dives right back in for another. And then another and another. Kissing Yeosang has the same effect as that certain look: It makes you forget everything you don´t want to think about, even if it´s just for a short moment. The shitty bathroom light glows on his cheeks and nosebridge and even with his hair dishevelled and blood-stained, he still looks as beautiful as you had always expected angels to look.

His hand sneaks up to your waist, but you stop him just in time, “Nu-uh. Wounds first.”

With a pout, he lets you shuffle the two of you, until your positions are reversed. Without asking him, he takes off his shirt, tossing it right into the trash. There is no way you could have washed the blood out of that, and even if you could, there are more holes than fabric at this point. Giving an appreciative hum, you treat each of his wounds with disinfectant and bandages, also making sure to check on the older wounds from the last days.

Once you´re satisfied, you let him pull off your own shirt and give the same treatment to you. It´s a comfortable silence that envelopes the two of you and you allow your eyes to close with a smile.

After a good ten minutes, Yeosang´s arms snake around your neck and he pulls you against his chest. His skin is warm and the touch gives you more comfort than anything else could ever have. You hug him back, nose buried in his neck and inhaling his familiar, unique scent, to the point that you wouldn´t want to breathe in anything else. His hand goes through your hair, soothing motions and steady pressure.

“I´m so glad you´re okay.” he whispers.

You smile to yourself, “Me too. Thank you for coming for me.”

“Of course”, his grip tightens just a little, growing almost desperate, “I´ll always come for you Y/N. You´re the only thing that makes facing this world, filled with monsters, worth it.”

Your heart jumps against his chest, trying to escape and join his instead, “Likewise.” then, with a happy little smile, you add: “Guess that means we´ll just have to keep each other alive, until we grow old.”

“I might sound naive, but I think we can do it.” he says.

You nod, “Yes, I think we can do it.”

It is naive, certainly. But if you don´t, then this world would bring you down tomorrow. Yeosang is everything you can hold onto. The silver lining on the horizon.

And you are his. 

-*- FIN -*-

#ateez #ateez au #ateez yeosang #yeosang #kang yeosang #kpop #kpop au #kpop fluff #kpop x you #kpop x reader #ateez x you #ateez x reader #supernatural #supernatural au #supernatural setting #yeosang fluff #yeosang drabbles #yeosang imagines #yeosang fanfic #yeosang scenarios #fancition #ateez imagines #ateez scenarios #ateez drabbles #ateez fanfic #atiny #ateez x supernatural #fluff #action #demons

[rocksaltandmountainash]

Waking up in Beacon Hills - pt. 22

* Author: Ellie @rocksaltandmountainash​

* Summary:  Everyone is reeling from the events of the last few days, and Kara makes a hard decision. Set just after Season 3, Episode 22.

* Previous parts: can be found here.

* Warnings: swearing (always), descriptions of injuries, little bit o’ sadness too.

* Gifs: not mine, credit to the owners/creators linked here: One | Two | Three | Four 

* Word count: 4.7k

Through the jagged flashes of light pulsing at the edges of your vision, faces hover above you. 

“Should I call an ambulance?” Scott asks and Melissa nods, tossing him her phone before running back into the house. 

“ItsokayImFine.” you mumble and try to sit up but the faces yell “Stay still!” and “I've got you, don't worry.” 

Someone pulls your head back down to rest on their lap. The movement sends a spike of pain through your entire body so you comply, you'll stay put and watch everyone zip around from your vantage point on the ground at the bottom of the porch steps.

Melissa returns and ties a clean dish towel tightly around your thigh while Scott speaks to the 911 operator.

You raise your hand to your head, only someone else's is already there, stroking your temple. It's weird because you can't really feel it, only a swimming, beating pang in your skull.

Tipping your head to the sky again you see a blurry Peter looking down at you. You have to tell him...something.  You close your eyes for a second to remember, then Melissa shouts that you have to stay awake.

“No” you snap back, unaware of your tone, “I'm thinking.”

“Hey. Kara, focus. Do you know where you are?”

I was angry. Then I felt shitty because I lost my temper.

It's the last thing you can recall - asking Melissa where the glasses were so you could have some water after you…after...something pissed you off. You had that constricting feeling in your chest that you get after you've mouthed off or done something you should've known not to do.

“Your house?” you guess.

“That's good. Okay, so what day is it?”

Wednesday’s special - Grilled Cheese $2.00

“Uh, Wednesday?”

“Very good.”

“It's not Stiles!” you recall with a start, grabbing Peter’s shirt above your head to get his attention, yanking him toward you urgently

“Peter, it's not him! He took Lydia.”

“Shhh...We know. Don't think about that now.”

His lips are moving but you aren't listening. Not anymore. There's something else now - a burning, harsh throbbing in your leg. Like all your nerves have tangled themselves up and are coiled tight. Glancing down as best you can without moving too much, you spot the knife.

“That fucker!....Stabbed me with my own knife.” 

You recognise the bone handle and deduce that Sti - no, the Nogitsune - must have pulled it from your ankle sheath as you checked him over. 

The hint of admiration in your voice makes Peter chuckle, though he tries to hold it in so not to jostle you. 

“You have to find her. Go get Lydia, please.” you beg him, your breath becoming shallow. 

“I will, as soon as you're safe.” Peter whispers.

“It hurts…” you concede, tears slipping from your eyes as you break, pain and panic washing over you.

“Here.” Peter shifts a little, disentangling your right hand that's still clutching his shirt and placing his fingers around your forearm in a solid grip. 

Moving his other arm carefully from underneath your head, he takes your left hand in his, lacing his fingers through yours. 

Cradling you protectively he begins to siphon off your pain, the intensity of it taking him by surprise and turning his eyes blue for a brief moment. His veins pulsate black and when he hears the ambulance approaching, and breathes a deep sigh of relief.

Peter was experienced in concealing his scent, and his emotion along with it, skills which were being well tested with Derek skulking in the corner. 

You hadn't stirred once while the Doctors stitched your leg up, or when they'd taken you away for a CT scan. It had been hours since then and you were still sleeping soundly, knocked out by strong painkillers they'd administered after the scan came back clear. 

So why wouldn't Derek leave? 

While Peter brooded against the intrusion, Derek wondered why Peter was so adamant about staying. Maybe he felt guilty for pulling you into whatever miscalculated risk he had taken that had resulted in your injuries. 

Derek rolled his eyes and chided himself - Peter didn't feel things like guilt. 

The real reason had to be infinitely more selfish. 

Perhaps he wanted to exaggerate any help he'd given you, Derek could see and smell your blood on him after all. Or was it fear that Argent would find out what he'd done? Maybe he needed information from you? Whatever it turned out to be, Derek wouldn't be surprised.

He shoots daggers at his Uncle’s back as he walks past him to the door.

As he trudges the quiet halls of the hospital Derek questions if he's being unkind. On the one hand, how could he be? It's Peter. On the other, there might be a touch of projection going on. 

His day had started out so well too, that was the unfair part, he thought bitterly. 

Derek had risen early, and gone to get groceries so there'd be something for breakfast, imagined you sitting at the table with him and chatting easily, like you had the night before.

He'd actually been looking forward to spending more time with you. 

As much as he liked Scott and Stiles, it was nice to have someone closer to his own age to talk to. Plus, you were so obviously into Chris, there was zero chance of any non-platonic drama developing. Instead he'd wound up in Home Depot buying rope and lighter fluid.

Truthfully, Derek was dreading what Argent would do once he found out you were hurt (though if Chris hadn't killed him for attempting to burn him alive…) or what you might do when his actions this evening came to light.

He was the one who felt guilty for falling into the Nogitsune’s trap so easily, for becoming a pawn in its game once more and that it had left you alone to be manipulated by Peter.

Sighing, Derek fed bills into the coffee machine and pushed the button, holding the cup under the spout. He was exhausted, being under the Nogitsune’s trance had left him feeling like his batteries were drained. He decided on two cups.

* * *

When you do finally wake, you're dismayed to find yourself in an all too familiar hospital bed. You look up at the ceiling and slowly wiggle your toes and your fingers, while you fight off the dark cloud at being stuck here - again. 

Somehow, after everything, all the time since you first came to Beacon Hills, you still end up here.

Hurt. Alone. 

Abandoned, was the word the Nogitsune used. 

No Sam, no Dean. No goddamn clue where one of them was, and the other just as unreachable. 

You fleetingly considered calling Sam again, but if he didn't come after the Darach and your repeated pleads, why would he turn up for a simple knifing.

“How are you feeling?” 

You jump, you weren't entirely alone. Squinting into the low light you see Peter sitting in a chair at the end of your bed. 

“Jesus! You scared me.” 

“Sorry.” he sounds uncharacteristically sincere, “Should I get a Nurse?” 

“Nah, just give me a minute.” 

You eyed him quizzically for a moment. If anyone had told you that one day you'd be happy to see Peter Hale, you'd have straight up laughed in their face. But there was a flicker of gratitude, if only because his presence kept you from sinking further into the pit of your own thoughts.

You turn your head from side to side slowly, hearing a few pops of trapped air in your muscles. Peter leaps from his seat at the sound but makes no other movement, unsure what he can do without causing you more pain.

“Calm down.” you laugh, struggling to find a way to sit up in the bed. 

Your right wrist was now in a brace, so you couldn't push with your arms, and your leg felt bruised from hip to ankle so you didn't want to try to scoot your ass up.

“Um, can you help? Trying to sit up.” 

You reach your hands out, hoping he’ll pull you forward slightly, but instead Peter leans down and wraps his arms under your torso and lifts your entire upper body off the bed. You're half draped over his shoulder and when he doesn't let go, you think he's trying to cop a feel.

Then you hear the buzzing of the bed being repositioned and a ‘whack’ of him hitting the pillows behind you before he gently lowers you back onto their softness.

“Better?”

“Heaps. Thanks.”

Sitting up has put less pressure on your lower back which relieves some of the ache in your leg but as the blood gets flowing you have to grit your teeth - it feels as though someone has taken a sledgehammer to it, every inch aflame.

“No problem.” 

He’s still touching you and when the discomfort subsides enough for you to register his hand on your collar bone you remember...

“You took my pain. After Stil- after the Nogitsune.” 

It's a statement, not a question. 

You recall it now...lying in his lap, him caressing your temple and telling you he wouldn't leave, not till you were safe. It confuses you, the intimacy of those acts, those words, the tender worry that had been etched onto his face. 

These were not the actions of the Peter you thought you knew, the man everyone warns you about, not the things he should be saying. He was, well, he was kind of an prick. He was the guy you went to for some fun, specifically to avoid feelings, not the person who should be seeing you at your weakest, standing vigil by your bedside. Even though you appreciate it, it was worrisome - you were going to have to make it crystal clear to him that you weren't interested, but that felt like a problem for later, you were just too tired.

“Thank you.”

He smirks, back to his old self, “You already said that.”

“Shut up” you grumble lightheartedly, “And tell me what's been going on.”

“You don't remember?” 

“Parts of it. Well, I think I do. Just want to make sure I have it right.”

Peter runs you through what happened with Stiles, and you're able to connect images from your memory with what he's saying. Most of it was fuzzy and hard to focus on, as if it were a story someone told you years ago, so it was good to confirm what was true and what wasn't, sharpen the picture. Unbelievably, the bit about something growing out the floor at Scott's house was not a hallucination. 

“And then you kept begging me to take you back to my place and fu-”

 “Wait...What?” 

“Worth a shot.” Peter throws a wink your way.

“Nice try.” you have to give it to him, he seizes the opportunity when presented.

“And what about this?” you gesture to your leg, propped up on a pillow, with a large bandage wrapped around your thigh.

“Nothing too serious, it missed your artery, but they said you’ll be sore for a while. They’re keeping you in because of the concussion.”

You wince at the news, knowing a concussion could have some serious headaches and fatigue heading your way. You catch Peter’s gaze on you, where the hospital gown has been bunched around your hip.

“Hey!” you pull the gown down to your knee, “Eyes up here.”

Peters grins before continuing, and he's half way through explaining the other tricks the Nogitsune had pulled as a distraction when Derek returns. As he walks closer, the light dances over his features and you cringe.

“Oh my god, you look like hell!” you blurt. 

He waves you off, “How are you?”

“Good” you shrug, good being a relative term right now. 

Derek smiles faintly, happy you’re awake at least, but he hangs his head and won't meet your eye. 

He contemplates confessing what he did to Chris, what he had threatened to do to Allison, now, here. While you're incapacitated and can't react. It's a weak thought, but a smart one.

“Seriously you look knackered. What time is it?”

Peter glances at his watch, “2.20.”

“In the morning? Shit! You guys should get going…”

Peter begins to protest but you cut him off - “Go. We still need to get Lydia back and deal with the Nogitsune right? You'll need your strength for tomorrow. And I need some rest.”

Reluctantly Peter drags the chair back to the corner, and with his fingertips grazing your hand tells you to “Keep in touch.”

Then he's pushing past Derek and striding arrogantly down the corridor. 

“You sure you're alright?” you ask Derek, who’s standing near the door but hasn't made any move to leave.

Derek looks you over. Laid up in a hospital bed but still worrying about everyone else. Injured, because you didn't hesitate to throw yourself in harm's way to help your friends. And doing it all while knowing you couldn't heal as quickly as he did. 

It would be cowardly to drop a bomb and run away, to add to your troubles, so he rearranges his face into a smile and tells you he's fine. 

“Oh, here…” he pulls open the drawer in the nightstand next to you, “Your phone.”

As he hands the phone to you, it lights up, a ton of unread texts and notifications filling the screen. He can't help but notice: 

 Chris Argent - missed call (18); Voicemails (9).

Derek smells the anger on you, not as strong as before but definitely still present, as you swipe to clear the messages from Chris.

“Do you need anything?” he asks softly.

“Check on Stiles?"

Derek nods, affirming it was already his plan to, waiting for you to ask for what you really needed.

"Actually could I ask a huge favour? And you can say no. Well, of course you can say no...you already know that…When I get out of here could, um, could I stay with you again? It'll just be for a few days till I'm back on my feet, and I can, like, cook for you or something, though I only know like two meals -“ you pause to suck down a breath having used all your air to bake at him.

He holds up his hands; “Of course you can. Text me when you're discharged. I'll pick you up.”

It was the least he could do.

“For real? Derek…” you sigh, “Thank you so much.”

“No big deal.” he tells you, giving you an awkward pat on your arm and telling you to get some sleep. 

As you pull the blankets up around you, you read a text from Allison;

Deaton just told me what happened. Hopefully you don't read this til morning cos you should be concentrating on healing!!! I'll be there first thing. Love u.

Her message spreads warmth through your chest, and as you cuddle into the bed, you realise how mistaken you were. 

Everything was different now, you were surrounded by people who cared about you, not completely adrift. 

Not abandoned.

And even though it had earned you a stab wound and a rattled brain - you had managed to get the Nogitsune out of Stiles. This was progress.

* * *

“Should I wake her?” 

Isaac is seconds away from laying a hand on each of your shoulders to shake you awake.

“Not like that!” Allison tugs him back by his sleeve, “Trust me, there's an art to it.” 

She takes Isaac’s place near your bed, bending so she's close and can be heard but wisely keeping her distance.

“Kara-Kara” she sing-songs, “Hey Kara….wake up.” 

“Ughnfuck...shhh...grhm.”

She tries again, louder this time.

“Karaaaa. Come on...We have breakfast!”

“Goaway...Shhh.”

Holding up a hand with three fingers Allison counts down, she's able to decipher your words, which means you'll be up in, three….two….one.

“Ally?”

She beams at Isaac proudly, before waving the paper bag in front of your nose, making good on her promise. 

“Oh you legend!” you say using your elbows to shimmy up the bed. You swipe a hand down your face and blink a few times and when you're comfortable Allison looks at you seriously, widening her arms,

“Right, now, can I?”

“Sure. Top half only.”

She comes in fast, hugging you to her with her head tucked next to yours, 

“Are you okay? You seriously freaked us out.”

“I'm fine. It's barely a scratch.” you lie as you rub her back.

When she lets you go you spot Isaac, “Hey! Get over here.”

Isaac’s cuddle is brief, and with a look of practised annoyance he lets you gently turn his face left to right, inspecting the lack of marks left by his burns, though his sheepish smile gives him away.

“When did this happen?”

“Yesterday…it's why I didn't text you.” Allison replies.

“It was the Nogitsune.” Isaacs admits, not elaborating on what had occurred after the Nogitsune had healed him and shooting Allison a pleading look.

“Well, at least one good thing came out of all his bullshit. I'm glad you're better, we were getting worried.”

Isaac is calmed, more so when Allison nods in agreement but he changes the subject regardless, “So, when are you getting out?”

“No clue. Doctors haven't done their rounds yet. Must be early.”

Allison flashes a guilty look as she unpacks the food and hands you a large coffee, “Ahhh, yeah,  we sort of snuck in.”

Laughing, you tell her to close the door before you settle in to eat and talk; making a plan of where to look for Lydia. 

Allison perched on the bed next to you and Isaac sitting at the end, feet up on the chair - it wasn't quite as good as being curled up in the Argent’s living room, but it was close enough. 

The reminder that you could still be there for them, even when you and Chris were...whatever you were...was exactly what you need.  

* * * 

On the way. See you soon.

You locked your phone after receiving Derek's text.

The Doctor had barely uttered the word “discharged” before you began the arduous task of getting out of bed. It took patience, finding a way to stand while being mindful of your stitches, and battling waves of nausea. 

But you were resolute, biting your lip and hissing in a breath as you put weight on your leg. You fisted the sheet as you adjusted to the sensation of a million piercing knives travelling through your muscles before you edged your way toward the Doctor.

“Where do I sign?” you asked, wanting this done and dusted before he could change his mind, you had been waiting all morning to get released.

He tapped the appropriate box on the form and you scrawled your name, very nearly forgetting your alias, before handing back the clipboard.

“Thanks Doctor. One more thing. Can I get the knife?”

“You mean the weapon that was used in your attack?”

“Yeah. It belongs to me, I'd like it back.”

Any other day you may have taken the time to come up with a story about why you needed it. Something plausible to counter the strange look the Doctor gave you but today, you were desperate to get your shit and get gone. If it were possible you would have sprinted out the door after the Doctor gave you back your knife, along with a paper sack of medications and supplies, but you were limited to a lopsided shuffle.

You're in surprisingly good shape as you wait for Derek on the bench outside. Not physically - right now you’re practically useless - but emotionally. 

Lydia had been taken, that was terrible, but literally everyone you knew was looking for her and between hunters and werewolves you felt certain you'd hear good news soon. 

The Nogitsune was still a problem, but there was almost a whole day to come up with solutions. And really, there was only one - kill him.

You didn't have to despair now that it was out of Stiles, it could be put down without a second thought. The thought made you smile. 

Chris’s watches as you ease yourself gingerly onto the bench. He wants to rush to you, carry you to the car and take you home, but he couldn’t do any of that right now, he had no right to touch you. He’d messed up so badly, he had to make it right first.

He approaches you slowly, equal parts desperate and determined.

“Hi.”

Your eyes harden when you see Chris. 

“What are you doing here Argent?” you ask, ice in your voice. 

“Allison told me you were hurt. I wanted to check on you.”

You give a derisive scoff as Chris joins you on the bench.

What Allison had actually done, was to give him a stern scolding for letting a disagreement come between you. Reminding him that you were not just his friend, you were Allison’s too, she told him to get down to the hospital and apologise so you’d come home. She didn’t want another night of you staying with Derek or at a hotel, she wanted you back in their apartment, back with them, where she felt you belonged. 

“Kara I’m so sorry, about everything. I..I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“You were thinking he was a monster and you were going to kill him. But he wasn’t just a monster Argent, Stiles was in there too.”  

“I’m not sure I would have…” 

His defence is weak, because it hurts so much to admit that he might have actually fired. His fingers twitch as he recalls how gently they rested on the trigger, ready and waiting.

You draw in a breath, feeling your angry edges crumble at the anguish visible on Chris’s face. Because you know, maybe more than most, how confusing and uncertain his life has become. How easy it had been to hide behind his family name, his orders, his code for so long. And that since Victoria’s death he had begun to question everything he thought to be true about what his family did and the methods they used to do it. 

Perhaps it seemed simpler for him to stay in the darkness, where it was comfortable and somewhat safe, where he didn’t need to ask himself the difficult questions. You wished you could help him, drag him into the light, but what if you failed? What if his habits were too far ingrained and he pulled you down with him. 

“I can’t do this anymore” you whisper, the words spilling out before you can stop yourself to think of a better way to say what you need to say. 

You knew what you had to do, the thought had been at the back of your mind for a while. Or it never completely went away and you had only managed to occasionally push it down. Either way - it was too late now, it couldn't be ignored.

Chris stills, your words freezing him but he can’t help but beg.

“Kara...please”

“No. Let me..let me get this out okay?”

You still can’t face him, speaking your feelings to the ground, 

“I should have figured all this shit out earlier but I was so distracted. I didn’t do my job, and I almost got Stiles killed.”

“None of this is your fault.”

“Of course it is! Everything was there, every single thing I needed to know but I just didn’t piece it together.”

Sneaking a glance you see his pain, the tick in his jaw as he clenches it tight, like you’ve punched him. 

Chris wonders if what you’re saying is true, if you’d both be more effective hunters if you were apart.

Your stomach drops, knowing you’ve done this to him and you have to fight to keep your hands in your lap, to not run your fingers through his hair and take your words back. Have to physically stop yourself from pulling him close, telling him to forget it, and to pretend it will be okay, that you can both keep living in this fantasy forever.

But perhaps if you can just explain it right, if you can make him get where you are coming from, maybe you can erase that stunned look from his face. 

“I can’t do the things I need to do and be with you. It’s too much Argent. I...I lose myself when I’m with you.”

Chris flicks his gaze to you, shocked to learn he had no idea you felt this way.  He was pissed at himself for not understanding sooner. You had a whole life outside of Beacon Hills, Dean was still in the wind, and you hadn’t reached out to Sam yet. You had your own problems to deal with and he’d encouraged you to let that go, to put everything aside just so he could be with you. 

And what was he offering you really? He was a widowed, single father who still wore his wedding ring and made you sneak back to the guest room in the mornings. A broken man who broke things.  And you, a smart, vibrant, powerhouse of a woman that any man would be lucky to have. No wonder then, that you felt unimportant in his life. 

In truth, you were a gift, bringing him back to life, challenging and comforting him at a time that he doubted his ability to make it through. He had laughed more with you in these few months then he in the few years of his marriage with Victoria.

His heart expands whenever he watches you with Allison.

You blossomed under kindness, and there were so many more things he wanted to share with you.

He wanted…shit...he just wanted everything with you; more time, more hunts where he could watch you in action. Wants to know what its like to fuck you when you were both high off adrenaline, rushed and cramped in the backseat of his car like teenagers with nowhere else to go. He wants more of the coffee tinged kisses you sneak while Allison was getting ready for school, more afternoons on the couch where you stretch your legs out over his lap with your head buried in a book. More running errands where you hold his hand while he’d drive. More debates over stupid shit that doesn’t matter. More of you disagreeing with him, either because he’s wrong or just because you like to wind him up. The way you laugh, admitting you don’t even know what he’s talking about, just think he’s sexy when he’s mad.

He needs more nights where you’ve fucked your way to near collapse and your skin sliding against makes him forget that there is anything bad in the world.

He wants to know what you were thinking, to help you find the Winchesters, see you with them, do they care about you as much you do them? Wants to see where you grew up, how you grew up, to take you to France, to keep you safe.

He wants to tell Allison the truth about you, that yes, you were his friend but also so much more. He wants to tell everyone, anyone actually, whoever would listen, to shout it from the rooftops so that you and he could kiss and touch and love without restriction. 

Because fuck, he does. He loves you. Chris couldn’t pinpoint when it happened exactly but he knows it with a surety he rarely feels - he loves you. 

He loves you…and you don’t want to be with him anymore. 

How could you not know? How had he failed so badly, made you think for any measure of time that you were worth anything less than everything. He is the worst kind of asshole. Not only has he blown his chance at happiness, he’s made you doubt yourself, made you hurt. He loathes himself for this more than anything.

Chris nods instinctively, trying to remain clear headed through the misery of losing you, not wanting to make this harder than it needs to be. Because if he can’t give you everything, he will at least give you this. 

“I’m so sorry.”

Chris’s voice cracks, resigned to accept what you are telling him. It's done.

You get to your feet cautiously, wobbling as you collect your things and catch sight of Derek waiting next to his car. He’s looking away but remains alert, ready to step in if you need him.

Before you walk away, you take one more look at the man you think you almost loved;

“Me too, Chris.”

#wakingupinbeaconhills #chris argent x oc #teen wolf fanfic #supernatural fanfiction #tw x spn #3x22 #de-void

[gearprideproject]

Gear; chapter 2

 Before you read the chapter please be warned! This chapter contains blood, gore, body horror, violence, death and kidnapping. If ANY of these make you uncomfortable PLEASE DO NOT READ THE CHAPTER. This chapter gets REALLY DARK. If you would like a safe summary feel free to ask me and I'll happily do so! Love y'all and stay safe💙

//////////////////////////////////////////////////////

    The next week was hell.

    On Monday, after Blair went to work to ensure that Wren was working well with Zephyr, The Red Dragonfly Syndicate had finally gotten enough information on Blair to figure out where she lived. They then put that information to good use, kidnapping Femi to hold her for ransom. When Blair came home Monday evening, she panicked. Femi was just… gone. No note, the apartment had been ransacked, the guards that were supposed to do their jobs couldn’t remember what had happened, so there was no indication of who had taken her.

    Tuesday was a waiting game, filled with written plans of what Blair would if Femi was hurt. It mostly included people being burned alive, but there was also some threats of cutting the skin off of whoever it was that took Femi in the first place.

    On Wednesday came the cd.

    It was a nondescript looking thing, within one of two envelopes that came that day. Blair, after a long night of beating the shit out of people, napped for a couple hours before she watched it.  She regretted it immediately.

    The CD showed Femi and the Dragonfly Syndicate. The Dragonflies demanded $100,000 ransom for the mostly safe return of Blair’s girlfriend. Mostly because in the video, they cut off some of Femi’s hair, and ripped out a fingernail. That was what was within the second envelope. That was also when they developed the plan. Jason, their resident hacker, would first bring down all their technological defenses. Then, the rest of Gear would charge in and rescue Femi, the medics on standby to treat any and all injuries.

    On Thursday, she came into work ready to roll. "Darcy! I'm gonna kill them. Grab everyone let's go! Jason you know where they are right?"

    "Yes ma'am! They're at 405 Meadowcrest Lane, in the warehouse district."

    "Wonderful. Everyone gear up and move out! We're burning that place to the ground."

    "Yes ma'am!" The gang members scurried around getting everything before departure to the gang's location. On the ride everyone could feel the rage coming off of Blair in huge waves as hot as the desert sun in the middle of the dry season. While thoroughly terrified of her, they remained sharp knowing what happened last time. The van-turned-tank arrived at the location and Blair vaulted out of it before drawing her swords. Immediately members of the Red Dragonfly Syndicate surrounded her, expecting surrender since they far outnumbered gear. However, they were met with a pissed off Blair, and she started swinging before they could react. A sudden, "Charge!" Broke the tension and all of Gear except for the medics and the drivers jumped out or got to high ground and started murdering them. With a violent gleam in her eyes, Blair carved a path of blood and gore as she went to the entrance. Inside, she was met with more members of the Red Dragonfly Syndicate, and she plunged right in. When she arrived in the room where Femi was being held, she was a beast made of fury and determination, her one goal being to bring Femi back mostly unscathed. The boss cackles in front of the chair that Femi was tied to, holding a gun to her head.

    “Surrender or I kill her Blair."

    "No. I will not surrender and she will not die. In fact, she will be in my arms and you will be captured in 10."

    "You really think you can stop me?"

    "Yes. 9.” Blair took a step forward and was instantly by his side with a sword at his throat.

    "8"

    "If you think I'm surrendering you're wrong."

     "I don't intend on your surrender. 7."

     "If you think she'll love you after all this, you're wrong."

    "Well. Sorry to disappoint, but that won't happen. 6.” Suddenly, the mechanisms turned on the Dragonflies, catching them all in one fell swoop.

    "Thanks, Jason! 5."

    "This isn't over!"

    “Oh but it is, for you. 4" Blair twisted his arm and he was on the ground, disarmed with Blair towering over him.

    "I'll deal with you at base. But first, I’m feeling like having a barbecue. 3.”

    “You are a horrible person."

    "Well at least I don't hurt innocent people. 2. Any last words?"

    "I hate you." Blair grinned, a sadistic grin.

    “Oh come on. Nothing better? Well you're gonna hate me more! 1." And suddenly the world went black for the boss.

    "Tie him up for me, Darcy? I have to save my princess."

    "Sure thing Blair!" Blair went over to Femi and removed the gag and blindfold before she smoothly cut through the ropes holding her.

    "Hey Femi, you okay?" "I’ve been worse, and you know it."

    "Good. We're about to barbecue this place, sound good?"

   "I do love barbecue."

    "I’ll get you some. Just go to sleep for now. Alright love?"

     "Mmmmmmkay." And, within Blairs strong grasp once more, Femi fell into a deep slumber.

    "Light this place up, people!" Shouted Blair once everyone was out.

     “We're gonna barbecue the survivors. Tie them up. And get the acid, too! Better safe than sorry with these fuckers.” Gear lit the place up and placed the tied up members above the flames. As they burn acid is poured on the wound making them spasm from the pain. Their screams would have been heard for miles if they weren't gagged so Femi could rest. Blood poured from every orifice but they did not die until all that was left was a pile of bones and molten fleshy parts. As for the leader once they got back to base and Femi was getting medical care under heavy guard, he was slowly cut up as salt was poured and rubbed in every wound and every ten cuts Blair would douse him in acid. When she got to the organs she slowly burned them with a small candle, melting every last atom. His nerves were ripped from his body and he was thrown in boiling oil and freezing water multiple times. The last thing he heard before he died was,

    "This only happened because you touched Femi. You should have left her alone. Death is a close friend of mine and I assure you, you will never have a peaceful moment in the afterlife as she tortures you every single second. You will know nothing but pain and fear because you decided to HURT FEMI. Now DIE you piece of shit. Die and be forgotten." The next day the remains of the boss are left in a totem next to the burnt building with a sign written in his blood, 'THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU MESS WITH ANYONE AFFILIATED WITH GEAR. TOUCH ANYONE IN GEAR AND YOU TOO WILL BE BURNT AND CUT AS I HAVE NO MERCY' from that day on no one dares touch, look, or speak about Femi ever again because they do not want the wrath of gear upon them. Because if Gear can take out the biggest gang in the city, what would happen to them?

#tw blood #tw gore #tw body horror #tw violence #tw death #tw kidnapping #gearpride #GPblair #GPfemi #GPzephyr #GPdarcy #GPjason

[mmazzeroo]

Chapter 2: DANY I - How Does She Do That?

@helloimnotawesome - Happy 2nd December <3

Chapter 2:

DANY I - How Does She Do That?

"What a shit day!" she mumbled as she idly ran her finger round the edge of the shots-glass. That lousy piece of shit! It was her third and last glass for the night. He's not worth your tears, Dany, remember that!

She could feel Viserys edging closer. Holding up her hand, she closed her eyes and sighed. "I don't want to talk about it, Vis. Not now."

"Alright sis," he placed his arm across her shoulders, "just say the word if your brothers need to 'wake the dragon' on someone's ass, yeah?"

She nodded and couldn't help the little smile that crossed her lips.

Giving her a tight squeeze and a kiss on the head he whispered, "you know where to find me when you're ready."

Her sweet brother. Always loving and protective. Both of them though she was closer with Vis than Rhae. Could be very funny too, but couldn't think of that now. She could feel the anger coursing through her veins, needing to project it somewhere. She just couldn't deal with it right now.

"And what's with all the fucking elfs and gnomes and lights and relentless singing everywhere?! The noise. Oh the noise! Noise! Noise! Noise!", she cried out. Pissed off at Christmas because of an asshole? Good choice Dany, not a cliché at all. At. All! She rolled her eyes at herself.

"'tis the season", replied Tyrion calmly. "So just hakuna your tatas there for a sec 'Grinch'."

"'tis the season", she said mockingly, "yeah season for all the rats to crawl out of the sewer. Hope the turtles are enjoying the peace and quiet. I know I would!" She knew she sounded bitter but she couldn't find it in her heart to care. Not now. "Besides", she continued, "it was Halloween like last week! No reason to break out Santa and the reindeers just yet if you asked me."

"It was Halloween a few weeks ago...and no one asked thus the lovely cheery decorations everywhere", Tyrion said sarcastically. In the background Tormund muttered something about reindeers and farting.

She sighed again staring at the glass in front of her. He's not worth your anger either, Dany. Just drag your ass to bed, sleep it off and start afresh tomorrow. Gently pushing the still full glass away she slid down from the stool. Staggering a bit she blinked a few times trying to gain her balance.

Davos' gentle voice sounded behind her, "I'll have this added to your tab Dany-girl, don't worry."

She gave him a half-hearted thumps-up.

When he stretched his arm over the bar and padded her on the shoulder she reached her own hand up and gave his fingers a gentle squeeze. Thanks, Dadvos.

The old sailor had a good heart. He had landed on their shores some 12-13 years ago with a badly infected leg wound. In the end Dr. Stark had to amputate the leg below the knee to save Mr. Seaworth's life. Having lost his own family to war he had dedicated his life to helping others caught in the same kind of chaos. On that fateful night his ship docked in King's Landing he had been dragged into the ER by a shouting Gendry. They'd barely managed to dock before Davos had collapsed. What no one knew at the time was that the ship was loaded with Dothrakhi refugees. Scared, hungry, many wounded, and almost all of them seasick, but what parent wasn't willing to risk almost anything to save the lives of their children? Even crossing the poisoned water if it meant safety.

Gendry, being Gendry, had of course confessed to Dr. Stark after a day or two not knowing what else to do or where else to go. So her mom and Dr. Stark had pulled a few strings and somehow managed to get DA Tyrell (current President Tyrell) to reward Mr. Seaworth with amnesty for his heroic actions instead of being charged with human trafficking. They had showed up at the docks with food, water and meds for the refugees before sending them over to Dragonstone where a Dothrakhi community had long been established.  

Since then the Stark pack, Vis and herself had basically adopted Davos as their uncle, or 'Dadvos' as they lovingly grew to call him. Not entirely trusting his footing with an artificial leg he had given up sailing; not for good but no more rescue missions. Instead he and Tyrion had established a little pub which served as the front end of their 'shelter for cripples, bastards and broken things' as Tyrion proudly referred to it. Hot Pie and Gendry had been the first beneficiaries — Hot Pie had been sent to culinary school and now worked as head-chef at the pub. Overseeing trainees was part of the job description but Gendry and Davos made sure to alway be around. Hot Pie was a good guy, but a few sandwiches short of a picnic so to speak, so some of the kids liked to try to play tricks on him once in a while. Something that did not sit well with Dadvos! Gendry helped work the bar and being a pretty good handyman as well he would fix up whatever needed a brush up here and there. And Tyrion? Well, being a Lannister he obviously provided the cash, and though being trained as a psychologist, he also managed the business side of the pub. Loving every second of it. The heart of the place was Davos himself - always ready to listen, play games, give advise, or simply let people have their space.

Reaching the door, bag in hand she heard Tormund call out to her, "Whatever stupid shit the fucker did, where I'm from his woman would cut off his cock and wear it on a string around her neck as a trophy!"

"A pecker that small could never be anyone's trophy", she replied dryly stepping out in the snow.

Out in the cold she remembered why cold weather and alcohol is such a bad mix. You only feel warm because of the booze, Dany, don't let your body fool you. She could feel her head buzzing. Breathe! Stay focused! Luckily the hospital and thus the Stark and Targaryen residence was just across the street.

Watching the ground as she walked trying to steady her steps in the slippery snow, she didn't notice the man coming towards her. Inevitably they collided in the hospital foyer.

"Oh, I'm so sorry!"

"My apologies, miss!"

With the speed of light a strong arm was wrapped around her back preventing her from falling on her ass. Looking up she saw a familiar face.

"Commander Selmy", she smiled, "what a surprise! Sorry for, literally, bumping into you like this."

"Could say the same to you, Dr. Targaryen." He removed his arm from her back and gently resting his hand on her upper arm. "Was just informed that you weren't expected back until tomorrow or, technically, later today." He smiled back at her.

She cleared her throat. "Yes well, complications arose, ensued, were overcome."

Narrowing his eyes slightly Commander Selmy gave her a long inquisitive look. She did her best to look back at him with as much confidence as she could muster at this hour. Just breathe, Dany. Whatever you do he'll know something's up anyway. Whatever his conclusion he just gave her a tight nod and warm smile.

"Right, I best be on my way now, have something for the lab." He lifted his hand slightly holding up a paper-bag.

"Oh? Has there been any trouble here?" She looked around the foyer for any signs of an altercation of some form, but saw nothing other than the usual few anxious relatives and a couple of nurses sitting behind the reception desk working quietly.

"There was a serious traffic accident earlier in the evening. A family of five was brought in, but no ID's so..." He trailed off. When anyone was admitted to the hospital without any kind of identification fingerprints and blood samples were taken to hopefully verify the individuals' identity that way.

"So standard operating procedure was followed. Got it!" She nodded absentmindedly eyes again scanning her surroundings. "But why you though?" Her head shot up, eyebrows furrowed, giving him a puzzled look. "It's usually something the City Watch handles, but you're Commander of the Gold Cloaks. Must be very high priority." She  tilted her head to the side and narrowed her eyes suspiciously. What in the Seven Hells is going on?

He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, eyes looking over and behind her clearly avoiding direct eye contact. Looking very uncomfortable he cleared his throat and said, "Just a precaution. Wish you a good night Dr. Targaryen." He was out the doors before she could respond. What the fuck was that about?!

As she crossed to the private lift at the back of the foyer she was approached by Margaery.

"Dany! Didn't think you—"

"—you'd be back until tomorrow, yeah I know", she finished exasperated.

Margaery gave her an amused look trying to hide a smile. "Won't ask", she said smiling holding up her hands as if surrendering. "Since you're here though would you be up for doing me a favour?"

"What's up?"

"Grey is currently sitting watch at a dog we got in this evening. The poor thing was in a terrible vehicle accident. Thing is he's beginning to wake up and..." Margaery looked at her expectantly.

"And you'd like me to go have a look to see if I'm going to get my head bit off, is that it?" she asked with a smirk while crossing her arms over her chest.

"Exactly!" Margaery grinned.

"Give me the headlines as we walk." Work! Nothing focuses the mind like work! Maybe that's why I enjoy it so much? Who do you think you're kidding, Dany, that's exactly why you love your job! That and you get to help. Helping does make me feel useful. She could feel the anger from earlier slowly began to subside, her body felt more relaxed. The alcohol had done it's job now it was time for her to do hers, and with a task at hand she quickly felt sober again. Strange how the mind can clear up like that. Damn it Dany, pay attention to Marg now!

"He came in sedated so we had to work quickly. The x-rays only showed a broken front leg. Lots of bumps and bruises though and some burns, but overall just getting away from that alive is a miracle."

"How so?"

"According to Tormund the vehicle took a tumble downhill and burst into flames."

She gasped in shock. Poor guy! "What about the rest of the family?"

Margaery waited as she dropped her bag off by the door to their break-room. She heard Margaery sigh next to her. The normally optimistic woman was clearly hesitant.

"They didn't exactly get away that easily." Another heavy sigh. "The man was patched up by Dr. Lannister and is currently stable and expected to wake up sometime within the next few days. His wife on the other hand..." She trailed off and dropped her eyes to the floor.

Her heart dropped. Oh gods! "She didn't make it." The words came out only as a whisper.

Margaery closed her eyes and shook her head slightly. "Sadly no." She lifted her head again and looked at Dany, "but Dr. Martell and Robb were able to save the babies so I guess there's a bit of a silver-lining?"

"Babies? She was pregnant? How far along was she?!" She could feel her eyes grow big in horror. Does this story just keep getting worse?!

"Robb said based on weight and length they estimate she was about 36 weeks, so based on that alone the babies are quite well and safe." Oh thank the Gods, but there's a 'but' there's always a 'but'. "But" Yup, fucking knew it. "because of the rolling, falling and  various hits their mother suffered Dr. Martell wants to keep them under observation for a while just to make sure they're as good as can be. Robb's up there with them now."

"Wow! Can't even imagine what it must be like for him when he wakes up." She couldn't find any words to describe how she felt for that man somehow losing and gaining everything the same night.

They walked in silence until they reached the pens at the back of the vet wing. The smaller animals had cages where they could rest and heal, but the bigger ones had a pen. Basically fences only about 50 cm high as the animals kept there were not in a condition to stand up on their own, and this way also made it easier for the caretakers to check on them, change bandages etc.

In the pen in front of her was a big fluffy ball of white fur with two red eyes squarely fixed on Grey. He's gorgeous! Teeth barred and a low growling.

"Hey there sweetheart", she said tenderly as she carefully stepped in front of Grey. "I know this is scary. Unknown surroundings, unknown humans, and bet that foot of yours hurt too." She was gently guiding Grey away from her and towards Margaery and the door. "I'm sure those wounds on your leg and shoulder is stinging as well." She kept talking in a calm and gentle tone until the dog stopped growling.

"Atta boy, just breathe, I won't let anyone hurt you." She was holding a palm against the fence letting him get a proper sniff.

Glancing towards Margaery she asked, "do we know his name?"

"His name tag said 'Ghost' which by the looks of him is a very fitting name I'd say."

Grey smiled and nodded.

"Ghost", she whispered. The dog looked up. Didn't care when Marg said your name? "Hmm like my voice, do you?" She couldn't help the smile forming on her lips.

She opened the gate of the pen and took a seat in the corner next to the dog's head. A bold move but a necessary one. For a few tense seconds the dog just laid there looking at her. Then, as if he'd made up his mind about something, he put his head in her lap.

She carefully stroked his head and neck. "I'm so sorry this happened to you and your family," she whispered, "and I promise we're all doing everything we can to make you feel better."

She moved a bit lower so that Ghost was resting his head on her stomach. That way she could rest a bit as well.

Last thing she heard before dozing off was Grey's voice, "How does she do that?"

#joneryssecretsanta2018 #helloimnotawesome #jonerys fanfic #modern au #look I'm writing yay me

[kenzieam]

The Reaper and the Vixen - Chapter Twelve (Eric X Fox)

Rating: M

Genre: Drama, Angst, Language, Smut

Thanks everyone for the re-blogs and support!!! IT IS SO AWESOME!!!

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Four loitered in the hallway for awhile, listening to the faint voices coming from the far room. A times Fox and Eric’s voices would rise in volume and Four shifted uneasily at the sound. He’d truly thought that Eric and Fox were meant to be, that after years of being alone, his friend and brother was finally going to have the same happiness that Four had with Tris.

Faint stirrings of regret coiled in his gut. He’d come down hard on Fox today, and so had Tris. It had been a knee-jerk reaction when Tris had told him about Fox’s retreat. He realized he was abnormally protective of Eric, to the point of cruelty towards a perceived threat and began to pace to burn off his guilty energy. He’d seen true remorse on Fox’s face as he’d led her down here, and her crying had burrowed deeply into his heart, making him rethink his initial fury. Fox’s reaction was completely understandable once you stopped to think about it. Tris had hit her with a lot; fuck, Eric himself hadn’t been ready to tell her yet because he knew how big of a blow it would be. She already had trouble trusting people, of course she’d have problems adjusting.

Four realized the voices from the room had stopped and he paused in his pacing, listening closer. He’d no doubt that Fox was truly sorry about her actions, but what would Eric do? He was, deep down Four knew, insecure about himself and what he had to offer a partner. Those three dark years of hell had done a number on him, tattooed his soul and psyche. He was worried of falling back into that shadowy place, fearful about devolving, regressing into that monster and maybe never coming back.

“That him?” Four asked, glancing back over his shoulder.

“Yeah, don’t follow too close.” Eric replied, making Four snort with derision.

“I do know how to tail someone, Reap.”

“Yeah, like T-Boone? Fucker could hear you behind him the whole time, it was like a dump truck driving through a-”

“Shhh!” Decker grunted.

Four and Eric fell silent, glaring petulantly at each other for a heartbeat before grinning widely and looking away with a chuckle. Four grew instantly serious, glancing in his mirror before pulling out to follow the obnoxiously chromed Escalade currently carrying their quarry, the equally obnoxious Anthony Fraiy.

Reaper, Four, Decker, Dropkick and a prospect named Seger had left the compound at the ass-crack of dawn this AM in the club’s van, on their way to pay a visit to the slick prick currently concealed behind near-black tint, his vanity plate the ultra douchey ‘WINNING’. It irked them to no end to have to leave their bikes (extensions of their very selves) at home, but they needed stealth, and five Harley’s rumbling down the road were the exact opposite of that. After only an hour on the road Decker’s contact had called his encrypted cell with the news that Fraiy had left LA, was on his way to whoop it up in San Francisco for a few weeks. Immediately Four had gotten cold feet, demanded they return to the compound and make a new plan. The Golden Gate City was new territory, the battleground not set.

“No. I want it done now, while my girl’s not around. That fuck’s been walking around free for too goddamn long. It’s time to pay the piper. We’ll follow him for a while, but I want it done before Fox gets back from Seattle.”

Decker had been on Four’s side, ready to back off and attack another day, but Dropkick was squarely in Eric’s camp, while the prospect wisely kept silent, reluctantly agreeing with Eric only after being pushed to make some type of a decision.

Now they’d been tailing the bastard all day, taking turns driving, watching and learning, while Decker gleaned what info he could from his laptop. Fraiy was being careless right now, partying without care at a large outdoor park, drinking like a fish but surprisingly staying away from the powders and pills offered to him. There was no way that they would grab him there, with dozens upon dozens of witnesses, but Decker had done something extremely clever and even more illegal with his computer, and they’d tapped into Fraiy’s cell phone. After midnight Fraiy had decided he’d stayed clean long enough, called a dealer, and was soon gathering his posse to meet said dealer down by an abandoned pier before heading back to the lavish suite he’d rented at the Four Seasons.

“Thank Christ he’s got a flair for drama.” Four muttered, yawning. “A normal person would find a parking lot, this prick has to go all Hollywood on us.” They’d slept in cycles for the day, at least two awake and watching, following Fraiy as he’d jaunted about town, meeting new douche-canoe clients and flashing cash. “What an asshole.”

Eric’s adrenaline had been raging, in fact he’d been on fire all day watching Fraiy, watching the bastard dance around like he’d never done something so reprehensible as drug and rape a woman, like he was King Shit. Eric’s hands twitched constantly as the Reaper begged to come out and play.

They’d reached the docks first and killed the worthless dealer straight away. He was high as a kite, completely alone and consequently, an easy target; then they sat back and waited for the real objective to arrive. The Escalade had slowed to a stop, music thumping through the windows and a whole gaggle of merry assholes had fallen out. Fraiy and his posse were absolutely oblivious to any danger, laughing and goofing off. The only one paying attention was the new guy; the one Fraiy had just hired a few days ago, a big bastard who never stopped scanning the surroundings. But even he wasn’t ready for what was coming, courtesy of the Reaper.

It had been easy. A necessary evil, all of Fraiy’s posse was dispatched, most of them were too high to even realize there was danger and within seconds it was only Eric and his brothers standing over a babbling, stammering Anthony Fraiy. He’d sobered in a hurry, tried to run but Four had clothes-lined him, dropped him to the ground where he’d delivered a savage kick to his stomach, making him gasp like a fish.

Eric advanced on him, eyes unwavering and Fraiy started to tremble as he saw his impending doom.

“Wh- what do you want?” His voice shook, tears beginning to form in his wide eyes.

Eric didn’t answer immediately and dropped to a crouch next to the shaking man. Fraiy tried to crawl away but the brothers crowded him and he turned his terrified attention back to Eric, now the Reaper. Four could see the change, the very altering of Eric’s posture, the set of his shoulders. His friend was temporarily gone, and in his place was the man who brought death.

“Your soul.” The Reaper replied, his voice cold and Four couldn’t stop a shudder.

He’d stopped begging for mercy an hour ago, was now crying like a baby when the Reaper finally answered his tearful question. “Why? What did I do?”

“Remember Fox Layton?” Fraiy’s face went deadly pale. “The woman you drugged and raped?” The Reaper lightly trailed the gut-hook knife he’d been toying with along Fraiy’s jaw, almost like a lover. “I’m here for her.” Without hesitating he thrust the knife through the meaty part of Fraiy’s cheek and yanked harshly towards his chest, ripping open one side of a Glasgow smile in the howling man’s face.

Fraiy’s voice gave out long before he stopped trying to scream.

The body stilled, a few last shivers coursing through the limbs as the Reaper pulled the blade free. In all honesty, Fraiy had held out longer than anyone expected him to, and Four was toying with the idea of suggesting Eric wrap it up, the sun had risen for Christ’s sake, when he’d finally seemed to decide that Fraiy had endured enough, and stabbed him one last time decisively in the heart.

The Reaper stood, his back to Four, still staring down at the twitching corpse, then he turned his head, eyes meeting Four’s and the VP shuddered at the arctic cold in his brother’s eyes. Looking back down at Fraiy, he rolled his shoulders and exhaled heavily before turning to look again at him and Four could only breathe a sigh of relief as he saw Eric back in his friend’s eyes. The Reaper was asleep again, for now.

Slight movement caught Four’s attention and he glanced to his right. The bodyguard they’d thought dead, the only one who’d put up any sort of a fight, was weakly swinging an arm, holding a shaking gun in his hand. There was no time for anything else; the prospect, Seger, standing the closest to the bodies, was moving too slowly to help.

“Eric!” He pulled his gun, but it was too late.

Following Four’s horrified gaze, Eric turned to look and everything was suddenly in slow motion.

A gunshot rang out and everything fell apart.

Fox didn’t appear in the hallway, as Four was half-expecting her too; surely if she broke up with Eric she wouldn’t be staying in there with him and he began to wonder if she’d had a change of heart, if seeing Eric like that, near death and covered in blood had clarified things for her or maybe she’d just finally had time to think and acknowledge what everyone else could already see, that she and the Reaper were made for each other, that their pasts only made them stronger together.

Unwelcome images bombarded Four then, haunting memories he never wanted to go through again but knew he’d see in nightmares for years to come; the shock and first bloom of pain on Eric’s face when he’d turned at Four’s shout and right into the path of the bullet from the bodyguard with nine lives; the way his body had jolted, his faint grunt of surprise. The way his eyes had rolled back in his head as he’d collapsed bonelessly to the ground, his white t-shirt, already stained with Fraiy’s drying blood beginning to darken anew with his own. Screaming like a man possessed Four emptied the rest of his clip into the immortal bastard, would’ve slammed another clip in and emptied that one too if Decker hadn’t grabbed him, knocking the gun from his hand. Dropkick’s face was white with shock when Four finally broke free from Decker and scrambled to reach them. The man was on his knees beside Eric, pressing his hands over his chest while thick blood oozed from between his fingers. Eric was pale, half-conscious and hardly responsive. Seger, knowing he’d dropped the ball and allowed his President to be hurt, wavered on his feet, stunned.

Four had wasted precious minutes trying to get ahold of old Cyrus Packer, finally calling Ace, the President of their brother club down here, the Savages and learning that the infamous (in biker club circles) back alley doctor had OD’d a month ago and the club hadn’t found anyone to replace him yet. Eric was holding on, but he was definitely going to need someone with medical training soon. Feeling real panic, for one of the first times in his life, Four had made the call to try and get back to Doc at the clubhouse, then, after working it out with Ace for the Savages to get down here poste haste and clean up the mess the Hessians were about to leave behind, he’d spent the next three hours in the back of the van freaking the fuck out, begging Eric to stay with him, to stay awake and keep talking, to not die and leave him. Yeah, he hadn’t been in the best frame of mind when they’d arrived at the clubhouse, Eric had stopped responding to them twenty minutes earlier; only the pain of Silkie trying to get a vein and Doc all but digging his finger into the bullet wound had roused him enough to start struggling against them again, his eyes glazed with agony and confusion.

Fox had received the brunt of Four’s panicked desperation and he’d lashed out at her instead of doing what he really wanted to do, which was tear his hair from his head and run screaming around the compound until his fraying sanity finally snapped, anything but confront the reality that Eric could die, that he’d been shot right in front of Four, that he’d failed to protect his friend and brother. There was precious little in his life that Four wouldn’t willingly sacrifice to never feel like that again, to know the helpless terror of watching the life of someone you loved slip away.

He swallowed hard, blinked away sudden tears.

His feet carried him silently down the hallway and he peeked his head quietly around the door.

Eric had rolled partially onto his right side and he and Fox lay facing each other on the bed. They were pressed tightly together, hands clasped, heads sharing the same pillow. Eric’s eyes were closed and he appeared asleep. Although pale, he looked content; his jaw, gritted with pain only a short time ago was relaxed, his body peaceful and pliant.

Fox was still awake, gazing at Eric and the look in her eyes took Four’s breath away. Her hand traced lightly along his stubbled cheek and she was humming quietly, too low for Four to make out what. But the love that was shining in her eyes was what captured his attention; it was something Four had never seen before, it made his chest tighten, sent a sudden stab of guilt right through him at even contemplating the notion that Fox didn’t completely and irrevocably love Eric. It was glaringly obvious that she lived and breathed for this man, right now in this private moment of vulnerability, and Four felt suddenly like a voyeur, like an unwelcome spy.

Pulling back, Four turned and crept away, careful not to make a sound.

As he entered the bar area Tris looked up from a table then stood and stormed over to him.

“Where is she?” She demanded hotly. “Is she in there bothering-” Four grabbed Tris’ arm hard, and stunned, she fell silent. Glancing quickly around to make sure they hadn’t attracted too much attention Four started marching towards the stairs, pulling Tris along with him. He only released her arm once they’d entered their room and he’d shut the door behind them.

“Tobias! What the fuck-” Tris, already riled up, was firing on all cylinders now.

“You were wrong.” He snapped shortly. “We both were.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Fox. And Eric. She’s not trying to run away.”

“Sure the hell looked like-”

“You didn’t give her a chance to process the news. Christ Tris, don’t you remember what she just told you? What that bastard did to her? She has trust issues and rightfully so; and Jesus Fuck, neither one of us helped that by tearing her apart just now. She’s in there right now with Eric, so close they’re practically melded together and Eric’s sleeping like a baby; and fuck me, the look in her eyes, watching him? I’ve never seen someone look at someone else like that before, it’s like Romeo and Juliet level shit!”

Tris fell silent, and the belligerence that had been blazing in her eyes weakened. She started to worry at her bottom lip, gaze flicking from the floor to Four and back again.

“We owe her a fuck of an apology.” Four stated flatly. “But not right now, let them have some quiet time together.”

Tris nodded humbly, eyes flicking up at Four’s before dropping again. Like Four, she’d been too caught up in defending Eric to react rationally and, now that she was aware of that, felt a sharp stab of guilt.

“Are you okay?” She asked quietly, and Four knew what she meant. Was he still reeling from the shock of seeing Eric near death, of watching him bleed out? Was he going to be able to sleep tonight or was he just going to lay there silently, staring at the ceiling, or sitting down in the bar in the dark, smoking a joint and nursing a drink, waiting for the sunrise?

Four shook his head, closing his eyes and bit his lip as he felt Tris wrap her arms around him, then he let his head fall to rest on hers and, for a few short minutes, let himself cry.

***************************************************************************************************************************************************** Eric woke first, grimacing as his eyes opened and daylight struck him. He felt sore, disjointed, yet oddly content and his lips pulled into a smile when he saw the reason for his contentment. Fox was still asleep, long lashes brushing her cheeks, her skin pale, making faint freckles stand out. Her hand was curled tightly in Eric’s and he saw faint, dried tears on her cheeks, the pillow they shared still damp underneath her face.

When she’d confessed to him last night that she now knew the truth of his dark past, and that her first instinct had been to run, Eric hadn’t known what to do. The pain in his chest was suddenly nothing, the barest twinge compared to the anguish flooding his heart. If Fox left him, and over something like that, something he couldn’t change, then Eric might as well just stop fighting, stop living, just tear the stitches holding his bullet wound together and let his blood flow again, only this time, watch it surge across his chest and not try with everything he had to stay, to fight not to leave. Three hours is a long fucking time to be laying in the back of a van clinging desperately to life, battling the darkness threatening to consume you, frantically conjuring the image of your beloved, your fucking soul mate to keep yourself from succumbing to the peaceful oblivion, but Eric had; he’d fought tooth and nail to return to Fox, only to hear that she wasn’t staying. Anger had flooded him then, helpless rage and bone-deep fury, but even still, he hadn’t meant the words ‘get the fuck out’, and he never would.

Fox’s eyelids fluttered and she sighed breathily as her eyes slowly opened. Surprise flashed across her face for a millisecond, then was replaced by relief; tears started to form in her eyes and Eric winced as he reached to brush them away. Pulling back he just gazed at her for a long moment.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered.

The fragile hold Fox had on herself and her emotions broke and she started to cry; bowing forwards, tucking her face into Eric’s throat as she shook and Eric ached to comfort her. He shifted, hissing as his stitches pulled and a sharp stab of pain ripped through his chest, freezing in place until the pain weakened and tapered off, then shifted again, squirming closer to Fox. She clung to him like a life raft, anguish tearing through her, her body shaking with the force of her sobs and Eric could only hold her and stroke one hand slowly down her cheek, wait for her sorrow to abate. Finally, her tears slowed and Fox sniffled hard against his throat.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

“Don’t,” Eric murmured back. “We’re not looking back anymore.” He ducked his head, enough to catch her eye and used his finger and thumb to tilt her chin. “You and me, the past is over. It’s gone.”

Fox nodded, swallowing hard then her forehead furrowed for a heartbeat.

“Is he dead? Anthony? That’s where you went, right? Four told me.”

Eric nodded, eyes hardening. Before Four had brought Fox to him, he’d talked with his VP, learning what happened after he’d been shot. They owed the Savages big now, they’d cleaned up the mess left behind, disposed of the bodies while his brothers scrambled to save him.

“He’s dead, I made sure he suffered first, but yeah, he’s gone.” Eric held his breath, waiting for Fox’s reaction. How did you react really, when you learned someone had killed another for you?

A thousand emotions flashed through Fox’s tear-filled eyes; Eric saw brief horror, fascination and, overwhelming everything else, relief. Snuggling closer she burrowed her face in his chest. “Thank you,” she choked, clearly torn between bone-deep liberation and a nagging conscience. “I.... I hate to admit it and I’m not sure I’ll ever want the details..... It’s wrong, but I wanted him dead.... and I didn’t think I’d be strong enough to do it myself.” Eric heard lingering shame in her voice; although she was admitting to it, she was still struggling with her intent, with her desire for revenge that went so far against the grain of ‘civilized society’.

“Don’t,” Eric repeated. “Don’t waste anything more on that piece of shit. He’s not worth it, he hurt you unforgivably and now he’s paid for it. His life was forfeit the moment he decided to violate your trust like that.” Eric paused, a new thought hitting him, and he asked tentatively. “Do you wish you’d been there? I was trying to protect you from-”

Fox raised her head, eyes wide. “No, no. I don’t think I could stand to see him again.” Her eyes softened and Eric leaned gratefully into her hand as she cupped his cheek. “Thank you.”

“I love you Fox. I will always protect you, no matter what.”

Fresh tears spilled over Fox’s cheeks and she shook her head, wiping at her face. “I don’t deserve you-”

Eric crashed his lips to Fox’s to silence her; she had no idea of her worth, of her importance to him, of her standing in his life but he would goddamn well show her, every single day.

Fox melted against him with a moan, yielding to his kiss and drawing a groan from deep in his chest. Her hand curled around the back of his head, pulling him closer as their tongues tangled together and Eric felt her surrender to him, give over that last little piece of resistance, broken loose by the intensity and power of Eric’s love for her, by his reckless action to bring her peace.

The lingering pain in Eric’s body faded to the background as warmth rushed through him. His body, wounded and aching, wanted more, wanted to feel Fox joined with him, to chase away the last lingering doubts of their connection and he traced her cheekbone tenderly with his fingertip, his eyes and touch conveying his desire.

Fox pulled away, eyes widening. “No Eric, your chest-”

“Doesn’t hurt,” Eric grunted, eyes darkening. That was a lie, he was in considerable pain, but he’d gladly suffer through it for the chance to feel Fox now.

Doubt flashed in her kaleidoscope eyes but Eric pulled her back to him, pouring everything into his kiss and Fox gave in with a shudder. Her hand trailed down his abdomen and crept below the sweats Doc and Four had dressed him in earlier after he’d stabilized and he hissed, teeth gritted as her fingers grazed his straining cock.

“Fuck baby-” he groaned, palm finding the swell of her breast. His thumb flicked across her nipple just as she stroked up and down his shaft and they moaned in unison. Eric rolled onto his back, pointedly ignoring the jolt of pain in his chest and gripped Fox’s hips, pulling at her to straddle him. Fox followed easily, lips parted on harsh pants. Sitting up on her knees slightly Fox yanked at his sweats, pulling them down his thighs and letting his dick spring free, straining and red, tip weeping in anticipation.

Their eyes caught and held, a multitude of thoughts and emotions ferrying back and forth between them. Eric’s fingers curled bruisingly hard on Fox’s hips and she squirmed, struggling to shed her clothes. Her fingernails gouged red trails in her own skin as she yanked furiously at her underwear and finally she was free, tossing the articles away carelessly, focussed solely on relieving their desperate craving.

Eric arched back into the pillow with a strangled groan as Fox sank down onto him, as he filled her in one smooth push. Fox bit back a cry, bucking above him, her movements hindered by Eric’s grip on her hips. Their eyes locked again as their bodies began to move together, Fox rocking her hips, pulling Eric deeper each time. His eyes rolled back in his head as an amazing wave of sensations crashed over him, his pain forgotten. Wanting to see her again, he opened his eyes, a fresh claw of lust hooking him at the fierce desire in Fox’s eyes. Their gaze held as their movements grew less coordinated, as they climbed higher and higher together. Eyes narrowing as the sweet pain grew overwhelming, Eric reached up, cupping Fox’s cheek and pulled her down for a fevered, soul-claiming kiss before Fox reared back as her climax hit, biting back a shriek of ecstasy. Eric bucked beneath her, surrendering to his own violent release, choking back a roar as indescribable pleasure crashed over him, wave after delicious wave of soul-deep gratification. Everything else faded away as he pulsed inside his woman, filled her with his seed, felt her throb around him; then Fox sagged above him, panting, muscles trembling with aftershocks and exertion. Eric pulled her to him, gasping for breath, the adrenaline racing through him enough to dull the pain waiting to ambush him, but Eric didn’t care, he’d willingly put up with unfiltered agony just to experience this bliss again.

“I don’t remember giving the all-clear for that.” A dry voice remarked from the doorway and Fox bit back a squeak of surprise, yanking the covers over her naked body, burrowing into Eric’s side. Still riding a high better than any drug Eric grinned lazily at Doc, leaning against the doorframe and trying hard to look serious. Giving up he shook his head with a smirk. “Take it easy boss, I don’t feel like repairing any torn stitches.”

“Mind your own business.” Eric grinned and Doc snorted with amusement.

“You got five minutes then I’m coming back to check your bandage!” Doc yelled over his shoulder as he turned to leave, pulling the door closed again behind him.

#eric coulter #jai courtney #divergent #eric coulter fanfiction #eric divergent fanfiction #divergent au #fanfiction #eric and fox

[fierypen37]

Held Captive XXV

Another chapter! Enjoy lovelies!

Part XXV

 “Here, let me help you with that,” Asha said, interrupting Jon as he soaked his hands in river water. The blisters had burst after their third day poling up the Mander, and stuck to his gloves. The cool water felt heavenly on his abraded hands as he scrubbed gummy crusts from his gloves.

Dusk settled over the Reach, with a dove’s low, mournful cries filtering through the trees. Water lapped against the sides of the skiff in a soothing sound. Faintly, the soft breeze brought him snatches of conversation from the fire. The men had made camp a bit further off shore, beneath the shade of an oak. A surprise rain shower had left them damp yesterday. Jon rolled his shoulders to ease the day’s ache.

“I’m all right,” Jon said. Asha ignored him. She riffled in her rucksack and produced a round tin. Peeling it open, she smeared both Jon’s palms with a thick, greasy paste, smelling pleasantly of peppermint.

“What’s this?” Jon asked, kneading his burning hands together in sweet relief. Asha’s habitual smirk faded.

“As a girl, I served under my father’s captains, training and reaving and learning. They didn’t take to being saddled with a lordling, much less a girl. They’d seen my brothers die in battle. So I swabbed decks, scraped barnacles off ships’ hulls, but mostly I rowed. I was like you tough northern bastards, I refused to quit first. I don’t mind, it made me strong. And angry. This stuff saved my hands. Bear grease, ground witch hazel, and peppermint oil.” It was the longest and most earnest speech he’d ever heard from her. Oddly, it touched him.

“Thank you,” Jon said, sincere, tucking his damp gloves through his belt.

“You’re welcome. Keep it. Share it with your men,” Asha said, raking a hand through her thick black hair.

“What’s this?” Jon said, gesturing to curves scar on her right hand, on the meat below her thumb. Her scowl deepened and Jon half-expected her to brush it off and stalk away.

“I rode north with my crew and some men-at-arms. Maybe fifty of us. Leagues away from my ship, armed with only dirks and boarding axes, to the Dredfort. I found him sleeping in a kennel. Like a dog. Drowned God save him, he stank of filth and piss and dog. I tried to get him out. But he was frantic, saying he wasn’t Theon, but Reek. Only Reek,” Asha broke off, her voice holding the barest quaver. She traced the scar.

Jon swallowed hard, horror washing over him in waves. Theon had betrayed Jon’s family, taken Winterfell, killed most of the loyal guards left at the castle—men he’d known and jested with—burned two innocent boys to make the world think he’d killed Bran and Rickon. But did he deserve such a punishment?

“Fucker bit me, like a dog. A groveling dog loyal to Ramsay Snow,” Asha said.

“Robb took Ramsay’s head. There was justice done,” Jon said, laying a hand over Asha’s scarred one. Asha met his eye, and all of her laughing saunter was gone. Instead he saw a howling grey nothingness, as cold and merciless as the sea. The smile she wore was bitter.

“Aye. It took Robb Stark too long to get north. All that time Ramsay was abusing Theon, shaving off pieces of him. If the bastard knew where Theon was, he took those answers to the block. For all I know, Theon died in that kennel, so far from the sea.” An ironborn lament, not to be given back to the waves. Jon felt a soul-deep remorse for hating Theon so.

“I’m sorry,” Jon said.

“Forget it. I shouldn’t have mentioned it,” Asha said, jumping up in a smooth, brisk motion.

“Get some sleep, Snow. We should pass Highgarden by midday tomorrow,” she said, leaping atop the skiff to brood in silence. Jon shouldered his rucksack and scaled the rise to the oak. A flutter in the rushes made him half-turn, thinking it was Ghost. The night lay still and quiet. Jon shook his head and walked on. Ser Tallhart greeted him, offering him a wineskin. Jon took a swig, passing it to Brienne. After a grim supper, Jon shared the tin of salve, to broad exclamations of relief. Talk was low-voiced, edged with weariness. A long day’s poling made for sore muscles and lagging wits.

“I’ll take the first watch. Get some sleep,” Jon said, chewing hardtack. He was already thoroughly sick of camp fare.

As his men settled on their bed rolls, curled like sausages around the fire, Jon stared into the distance. Tall grasses waved idly in the wind, the night clear and cool. As time flowed on, as lazy as the Mander’s current, he contemplated the stars. Before his death, Maester Luwin enjoyed astronomy, he even kept an observatory at Winterfell. As such, Jon recognized the shapes of the Ice Dragon, or the Sword of the Morning. The Ice Dragon gave him pause. The glittering blue star in the rider’s eye pointed the way north, the way home. A dragon and rider . . .

“I hope you are well,” Jon whispered.

A snap of a branch caught his attention, crisp and close. Jon jumped up, gripping Longclaw. He waited, nerves drawn taut as a bowstring. His mouth felt dry. It sounded again, behind him in the direction of the river. Was it Asha?

“Asha?” Jon hissed, nudging Brienne’s bedroll with one toe. In the low orange wash of firelight, he saw the gleam of her blue eyes. Pressing one finger to his lips, he pointed down bank toward the river. Quiet as a shadow, Brienne rolled to her feet, Oathkeeper in hand.

“Asha?” Jon said again, moving in a circle to wake the men with subtle nudges. With Ser Tallhart and three others, he motioned for them to remain lying, ready to pounce. He heard snatches of Asha’s voice over the murmur of the river, and another, deeper register.

“We’ve a nip of ale left. Let me check with my useless man-at-arms,” Asha said, sauntering up the rise.

“What are you--”

“Shut up! Do we have any ale?” she hissed at Brienne. Riffling through their belongings, Brienne came up with the ale jug. Asha snatched it, taking a long swig before finger-combing her hair.

“Just our bloody luck, we run into sellsword scum. I’m Jeyne Grey, a westerland lady headed to King’s Landing. You’re my idiot man-at-arms,” she said, stabbing a finger in Jon’s direction.

“The rest of you stay hidden in the grass! Quiet! I’d rather not have to kill them—they outnumber us two to one,” Asha said. Ser Tallhart and the men looked to Jon.

“Go. Quietly, now,” Jon said. The men melted into the tall grasses, stepping light and quiet, timed with the gust of wind. Asha shoved the ale jug in Jon’s direction and stalked down the rise, motioning for Jon to follow.

The sellswords lounged around the skiff, upending rucksacks and riffling through their cooking supplies.

“Now come on, lads! Didn’t I promise you ale?” Asha said with a girlish giggle.

“We couldn’t wait for your idiot man-at-arms, little lady,” one said, draping a casual arm around Asha’s shoulders. Jon’s grip whitened on Longclaw’s hilt.

Every one of them were armed to the teeth. One big brute laid a war hammer at his feet with casual familiarity. Another leaned a steel spear against their longboat. A couple had silver hair, startling him, until he remembered they were Essosi, probably Lysene. Most wore only woolen tunics, a couple boasted motley bits of armor.

In the weak moonlight, he couldn’t find a tattoo, so perhaps not the Golden Company. Were they the Second Sons? The Stormbreakers? Both were groups of mixed Essosi sellswords and Westerosi exiles. Asha twined her fingers with brute’s and danced a circle, freeing herself from his cloying grip.

“Well come on, then, idiot! Serve them ale!” Asha said, with an impatient gesture. Jon shot her a black look, then grudgingly circulating pouring ale as Asha flirted and chatted. The tall, silver-haired one with the spear, bearing a tattoo of a fish on his face, sloshed his horn cup.

“More ale, boy,” he grunted. Jon kept his gaze meekly downcast, glimpsing their barge tied to a nearby tree upriver. That explained why they hadn’t heard them approach. Asha teased and danced from man to man and Jon found a sliver of hope. Maybe they would get out this without shedding any blood.  

“Is your man-at-arms mute as well as stupid, milady?” the man dancing with Asha said—presumably their leader.

“No, he can speak, but he’s grim, sullen sort. I don’t know why my mother puts up with him,” Asha sighed, pouting prettily. The man was solidly-built, and seasoned judging by the grey at his temples and the scars on his arms.

“What’s your name, boy?”

“Grenn,” Jon said, blurting the first name he could think of. He disliked the shine in the other man’s narrow dark eyes. Jon rested a loose hand on Longclaw’s pommel.

“Grenn. That’s quite the sword you’ve got. Know how to use it?”

“Of course. Milady’s lord father would hardly trust send me to mind her if I didn’t,” Jon said dryly.

“Good, good! We’d hate to deprive milady of such a competent protector.” Jon heard the mocking in the tone, as only a bastard could, but swallowed the burn of anger.

The men seemed relaxed, calm. Content to share ale and amusement. How refreshing would it be for a group of pillaging sellswords to treat a vulnerable woman with respect? There were stranger things in the world.

“Where do you hail from, ser?” Asha asked, batting her eyes. Her finger traced the line of muscle on the man’s forearm.

“Milo of the Free City of Pentos, Captain of the Stormbreakers,” he said, puffing out his chest like a proud bird. Stormbreakers. Jon knew little of them other than they were a sellsword company from Essos who lived by their contracts. Thinking of his own Stormborn, he disliked the name Stormbreaker.

“Sounds exciting! Traveling the world for gold and glory!” Asha said. Her twitter was very convincing.

“It is, milady. We are in the service of the true king of Westeros, Aegon of House Targaryen, trueborn son of Rhaegar Targaryen,” the tattooed man with the spear said. Pretender. Asha brow puckered.

“I thought the Mountain slew him when the Lannisters sacked King’s Landing,” she said.

“That was a tanner’s boy. The real Aegon was smuggled across the Narrow Sea by Jon Connington,” Milo insisted. How convenient. And all we have is this Aegon’s word that it is so. Any sane man would follow a true Targaryen whose blood no man could question.  

“Fascinating. And what are you handsome gentlemen doing in the Reach?” Asha asked.

“King’s orders,” Milo said, dark eyes shuttered. Jon felt a warning chill creep up his spine. Asha didn’t miss a beat.

“Well enjoy the ale with my compliments. Grenn and I shall retire for the night. A long day’s rowing ahead. Seven blessings.” She tried to move past Milo toward the skiff, when his grip tightened, pinning her still.

“Not so fast, milady. Don’t deny us your companionship,” Milo said, his grin revealing the faint wet gleam of white teeth. Jon tensed, casting a wary glance at the rest of the men. Without his noticing, each had edged closer to their weapons.

“I’d really rather seek my bed, please,” Asha said, with steel beneath the light tone.

“That’s not very polite. I insist you stay,” Milo said, propelling Asha down to sit on the riverbank.

“Hands off the lady, if you please,” Jon said, pulling Longclaw a few inches from its sheath. Asha rose with catlike grace, shedding the simpering act like an ill-fitting costume. Her posture was straighter, her gaze sharp and direct.

“Well, we tried,” she said, with a sharp smile and a shrug.

A flutter of movement, a whine of steel. Asha’s axe buried in Milo’s forehead. His expression was of blank surprise as blood trickled down his face. He fell to the ground with a squelch of river mud. Jon cursed under his breath as he drew Longclaw. The sellsword with the war hammer lunged first, swinging with a roar. Jon ducked, the wind of the blow whistling in his ears. Jon darted a quick slash with Longclaw, hamstringing the brute’s left leg. Spinning around, he found another sellsword lunging toward him, armed with twin Myrish stilettos. The sellsword darted low, intending to stab Jon’s leg. Jon moved to intercept with a backhanded slash. The weight and strength of Longclaw was his advantage. The Valyrian steel cut through stiletto and the hand that held it. The man shrieked, clutching his spurting stump. Another blow across the throat finished him.

“To arms!” Jon shouted. His men echoed the war cry, emerging from the grasses. Jon risked a searching look for Asha, finding her clutching a man in a parody of an embrace, burying her dirk in a sellsword’s throat. The air was filled with the clash of weapons, curses and shouting, the sharp, hot smell of blood.

“Come here, you wee fucker!” the sellsword with war hammer lurched toward Jon, his trouser leg dark with blood. Jon danced back, intending to tire out the big brute. Enormous, fat, and wheezing, the sellsword collapsed like a felled tree, Ser Tallhart’s longsword buried in his back. Their eyes met in understanding, and thanks.

Jon swiveled to look a—pain burst in the back of his head. Staggering, he found the Lysene with the spear approaching. His ears rang, blood filled his mouth from a bitten tongue. Jon shook himself, raising Longclaw to block another blow. He shifted with only the river at his back.

“Not so stupid, eh?” the man said, grinning. He was right to be confident, Jon thought. With a long spear he could stick Jon at a greater distance. The metal haft made it unlikely for Jon to shorten the distance by cutting it. Jon settled into his stance, ignoring the pounding in his head.

“Come on, then. Or are you afraid to die as quickly as your captain? Killed by a woman, no less!” Jon taunted.

In answer, he whirled the spear in a wide circle, Jon ducked the blow, keeping his sword in a half guard. The sellsword advanced, pushing Jon back until he was ankle-deep in the Mander. The other man hoped Jon would stumble, drop his guard long enough to strike.

A quick glance found their longboat within easy reach. He had to wait for his opening . . . Jon batted aside the spear point and lunged through the water to climb atop the longboat. High ground and unpredictable footing made for a hard opponent to reach. They traded blows, locked in a cocoon of intense concentration. Sweat trickled down the back of his neck, each swing made his sore arm muscles burn. Jon pressed forward, getting close enough to slash the sellsword’s spear arm. Blood spurted from the wound; he’d nicked a vital vessel, the blood looked black as ink in the wan moonlight.

“Snow!” The sound of Asha shouting his name distracted him for an instant.

Pain was a red-black explosion in his face.

Jon felt himself falling backward, arms wind milling. The Mander closed over him. Cold! Jon floundered, clawing upward and breaking the surface. Longclaw’s weight, usually so easy, now felt like a lodestone.

The Mander’s sluggish current dragged him downriver. Jon swam, angling toward shore. There was a snag around his ankle—rope? Vines?—he kicked at it, struggling to stay above water. Then the tangle around his leg snagged on something and dragged him under. Panic rose up sharp and jagged as he floundered blind and losing his air. Jon hacked at the thing around his leg with Longclaw. One blow, another, and he felt a loosening . . . the edges of his vision pulsed black. Jon mustered his strength, wedging Longclaw alongside his leg and sawing through. There! Free! Jon kicked hard for the surface, lungs about to burst . . .

He broke into the cold night air with a grateful sucking breath. Blood was a hot trickle, blinding his right eye. Weary down to his marrow, Jon swam to shore. He dug his fingers into thick handfuls of mud. Dry land. Sweet, solid land.  

He staggered to his feet, trying to ignore the chill seeping into his bones. There was a warning twinge from the knee that been bound, but it did not worsen as he bore weight. Jon clawed through bramble and sharp reeds. Gods, he couldn’t even hear the sounds of battle. He strained his eyes, attempting to make out the shape of the skiff or sellsword barge. Nothing. Jon heaved a sigh, grateful long conditioning had kept him gripping Longclaw. The sword would have been lost had his grip faltered. Jon glanced at the stars. By his guess, the river had dragged him maybe a league downstream.  

He gingerly touching his eye. A hard knot was forming below his eyebrow, the skin taut and tender. He hoped it wouldn’t swell shut. Jon tramped through the dense undergrowth lining the river. It was tense, sweaty work, hacking through the foliage. Stealth was all but impossible. A rogue amusement trickled through him. He almost apologized to his sword. Imagine, using a Valyrian steel sword as a pruning knife!

Time passed with Jon hacking away at vines and reeds until he reached camp. A deserted camp. Jon paused, dragging in deep breaths. The sky was beginning to lighten toward dawn, it was a softening of the blackness, really. Sunrise was still hours away. Dead sellswords littered the ground. Both skiff and barge were gone. Cold sweat dewed on his skin. Asha and his men were still alive, clearly, but how could he reach them on foot?

A snap in the bushes made his skin prickle, raising Longclaw in a guard.

“Jon? Jon?” Brienne’s voice made him limp with relief.

“Brienne! I’m here!” he said. Soon, Brienne’s lanky form shouldered through the bramble.

“Are you all right? I saw you fall.”

“A bit battered. Tired. Where is everyone?” he asked. Brienne’s shrug was barely visible in the gloom.

“I moved downstream to look for you after you fell. Asha must have ordered the men to push on,” Brienne said. Jon sheathed Longclaw with a crisp snap.

“Let’s get moving. Maybe we can catch up with them at Highgarden.”

#fp37fics #jonerys #snowstorm #please read #i crave validation #comments are love #myadorableidiots

[one-deranged-son]

For Wickedness Burn

Written by Gossamere as John and Froggy as Ian Nashton.

Warning:

This plot is rated explicit for language and description of violence. Read at your own risk.

Original story was posted in Twitter but due to it’s obtuse cleaning policy, some parts are unable to be saved.

John

Eyes widened, breaths ragged and harsh.

It's not the predictable pain that strikes the worst, it's the random shits you know is coming, but never when. The anticipation always managed to bring the worst of people. The work on random torture elevates everyone’s primal fear, decreasing logic, and degenerating self-control, and at last, they start to beg.

"End this! End this!"

Because death is kind. Death is better.

"So, Dick," even the Revelator couldn't contain his laugh at the stupid name, "is it Dick as in Dickon, or Dick as in, y'know—you. Get it? 'Cause you're a dick."

His humor didn't reach his eyes, 'cause the muffled scream and the dreadful atmosphere was never a good place to start a stand up comedy. Not that it was funny to begin with, it was straight off stupid.

"Aight, I love to stay a bit longer, but I'm running out of time," he said, "and honestly, talking with foolish fuckers ain't really my thing. Yea, you were children of fools, yea, children of base men, y'know? Y'all viler than the earth.”

"But don't worry, I'll make sure your brothers get the message, and you, mon ami, just happen to be the lucky one 'cause you get the chance to help me out!"

The muffled scream was the last thing he heard when the Semtex ignited in a fiery ball of flame. Roaring fire bleeds upward, leaving a series of smoke-rings which float as gentle in the dull, black sky.

The noise reverberated through the busy streets like a yawning lion, and by now, the police department would be on their way, siren's blazing.

The other police department, of course, because this one is fucked to the ground.

The Revelator marched towards his home.

He got some laundry to do.

Ian Nashton

"What's with the balloons, Cole?" Ian's nose scrunched up. It wasn't that he was a party pooper, but he didn't expect to be greeted with a dozen of balloons when he entered the station. Officer Cole grabbed one of the balloons and bonked Ian on the head with it, the action earning a stern glare from the detective.

"It's Jeffrey's birthday today, he insisted on having some balloons, even when I told him you would protest. Anyway, I'm going to collect my wager from him now. Thank you for proving me right, man."

The detective could only stand in confusion, he wasn't sure what just happened. Officers Jeffrey Hwang and Thomas Cole were the two officers that often helped the homicide department. Those two are great at their job and were fantastic people, but a lot of the times, Ian felt like he was babysitting two overgrown children whenever they were around him.

"Why not bring in a set of—"

Fireworks. He was going to say fireworks. But his sentence was cut short when he heard what sounded like an explosion from a distance. He wasn't the only one who heard it, either. His partner, Sam, immediately stood up and headed outside. Chief Margaret Kennedy also got out of her office with an alarmed look.

Before anyone could ask what had happened, Sam barged in with the answer, "Heads up! I think there was an explosion near that new station in the west. I saw smoke from there."

It could have been just a result of construction errors, but the fact that it was a newer building made everyone present at the time scramble out to the patrol cars to head to the location.

What they saw at the scene was devastating.

The building was engulfed in flames and reduced to almost nothing but rubble. There was a cacophony of screams and cries from the panicked onlookers; while the combined sirens of the fire department, ambulance and police wailed in the distance. 

Despite his own shock and the chaotic atmosphere surrounding him, the detective began to analyze the situation at hand. 

Fact number one: the destruction was far too large to have been an accident, therefore, someone must have been responsible. 

Fact number two: the scale of the destruction and the effectiveness hinted at the experience of the culprit. Whoever they were, they must have been a seasoned terrorist.

Fact number three: the culprit is certainly intelligent. They chose to attack one of the newly built stations, knowing that there would be less people in it.

"Is... is it just me... or...?" Thomas started, he pointed at a mass of... something in the middle of the rubble.

Sam squinted his eyes so he could see it better, and when his eyes finally adjusted, the blonde man's blood ran cold, "That's… an officer."

"Was an officer." Ian chimed in grimly, "I doubt anyone could have survived that."

With that said, Ian reached fact number four: the culprit specifically targeted the police rather than the government directly. Which meant that they didn't want a negotiation; they only wanted to see the world burn. Perhaps it was someone with a vendetta.

Jeffrey and Thomas went their way to help other officers secure the area while Ian scribbled down his thoughts and mental notes in a physical notebook, just to better retain the facts. Sam and Margaret were doing their best to talk to terrified bystanders to calm them down and urge them to go home.

Ian only hoped that at least one useful camera footage would survive the blast. Otherwise, they may not be able to solve this case and more people may get hurt.

John

It's straight-up depressin'.

When some people come home with neatly laid dinner and a clean house after working their ass off, John has to put up with the bullshit that they run out of food, there are two baskets of laundries needed to be clean, and the ceiling in the kitchen was leaking.

Fuck.

He had been careful and responsible, fortunately. After he finished his last step of burning the evidence, he safely stored his gear on a scattered place so that nobody won't find out about where he was heading next. He even picks up Chinese leftovers given by the owner who shoots up with him because he knew they don't have any meals at home! So much for the Revelator.

He made sure his presence goes unnoticed. It's late already and he had made sure that all of the other tenants are sleeping. John made his way upstairs to his floor, leaning close to the wall to avoid the unnecessary creaking from the old planks. He checked his surroundings, and after making sure nobody is following him, he slipped into his room and proceed to bolt his door using four different kinds of locks.

The TV is turned on, and coupla damned kids were tangled across the sofa with drolls rolling over their opened mouth. He found himself smiling at the sight, that, of course, until the voice of a reporter rolling through his ears.

"Three nearby public service catches on fire after an explosion blast off at the Chicago Police Station. Officials told the press that at least 3 people were injured and an officer named Dick Foster died by the heat exposure."

"The explosion is being blamed on a vigilante who called themselves as the Revelator. The police had found some evidence to support the proof, including a message written in red reciting the book of Job, Chapter 15, Verse 34, which said: ‘For the congregation of hypocrites shall be desolate, and fire shall consume the tabernacles of bribery.’"

John almost burst out loud laughter at the way she spoke, but soon covered his mouth 'cause they found his message. Aye, that's a good start! God knows if they actually get it or no, not that it matters.

"Officials said they also managed to retrieve the security camera footage revealing a man wearing a mask and heavily armed."

They started to replay the file, and John’s heart sunk.

Whatever the reporter said afterward, he doesn't recall. Because now he was staring wide-eyed, mouth partly gaping.

"Fuck."

What the fuck.

Alright, that was shitty.

ㅤㅤㅤ

Ian Nashton

It's been a couple of days since the attack, and just as Ian thought, the motive behind it was not to negotiate a deal. It was to send a message.

When he first saw the message painted in crimson, he thought it was the work of some bible-thumping cult. Despite not being a man of religion himself, Ian got the gist of what the message was trying to say. It didn't help that the footage they recovered from the ruins showed a masked man whose hair resembled Jesus. With the help of the message and the security footage they recovered, they now at least knew who they were dealing with and what they looked like (kind of, as far as the mask goes).

The Revelator. By definition, it was a person who makes a divine revelation.

Whoever THIS Revelator really was, he must think he's doing the world a favor by cleansing it of people he deemed sinful, therefore acting as judge, jury and executioner. Ian deduced that that was what happened to Dick Foster. Because Foster wasn't just some unfortunate officer caught in the explosion and blazing fires. No, he was tied to a chair to be tortured and murdered by the Revelator without a shred of mercy.

In this instance, the 'revelations' were anything but 'divine'.

It wasn't the first time the detective had heard of this character. Across the country, the name has been mentioned in the news a couple of times, but never did Ian think the infamous Revelator would come to his city; and as the self-titled representative of Chicago (this being a reference to a Green Day song and his Twitter biography), he wasn't having it.

They know who was behind the attack, but the question now was: where and how could they find him? The detective worked tirelessly to find any clues that could lead him and his colleagues to where the Revelator was hiding. He was actually surprised the FBI hadn't gotten themselves involved by this point.

A number of shop owners have come forward with tips that they had caught glimpses of the masked and deranged Jesus look-alike on their security cameras. Ian marked these locations on a map, intending to use them as breadcrumbs to follow. Unfortunately, as he got more and more tips, the points became more and more scattered.

The detective was willing to admit it, the Revelator WAS as intelligent as he thought; he chose to walk home the long way around to confuse the police. But Ian was certain that—like in a game of chess—the Revelator will make a blunder.

Well, being careless about security cameras could be considered the first blunder, perhaps Jesus' deranged look-alike had gotten careless. It would make sense if he did. In the past, no one has ever gotten good video footage of the man, and even if there was, there definitely has never this many. Ian figured the Revelator must have felt a false sense of security because of that and thought all law enforcement were mindless meatheads who couldn't solve even the simplest of crimes.

It would be fair for the Revelator to think that; but he hadn't met some of the finest members of Chicago's Police Department yet.

The big break came when Jeffrey Hwang came in to work with a few boxes of Chinese takeout. Jeffrey—bless his heart—decided to treat the team for lunch. He would have done that on his birthday if the attack hadn't happened. But the (delicious) Chinese food wasn't the big break. The big break came in the form of a number.

The owner of the shop saw Jeffrey in his uniform and pulled the Korean aside, at first he spoke in broken English, but fortunately, Jeffrey was able to communicate with the owner in Mandarin. Officer Hwang wasn't perfectly fluent yet, but his skill was enough to learn that the Revelator frequented the shop to get food. Foolishly, he also had used a delivery service for his food which explained the phone number.

"Okay, so... if we track this number, we could find our man?" Thomas asked. After finishing his question, the man immediately groaned in frustration as his chopsticks lost grip on a piece of meat for the umpteenth time.

"Hopefully. I mean, the man was quite frightful when he told me about this number. Either he was telling the truth, or he was a really good actor who worked with the Revelator. If that was the case, he probably gave me this to lead us all astray." Jeffrey shook his head in disappointment when he aw Thomas' failure. He proceeded to hold a fork in front of his colleague's face. "Man, you suck. Use a fork, loser."

The way Thomas bitterly snatched the fork out of Jeffrey's hand was so comical it made Ian smile a little. "I think it's worth a shot. I sent the number to the forensic team. Hopefully we can check out the general area after lunch and get a warrant by tomorrow. Well... that is if your man was telling the truth."

"I suggest using an unmarked car when going there. If he really is there, we don't want him to know how close we've gotten." Margaret said. "Good work, Hwang, and thank you for the food. Keep it up and you may earn yourself a promotion. Now if you all will excuse me, gentlemen, I need to speak with the superintendent. Again."

Officer Hwang beamed with delight at the mention of promotion. He bid the chief goodbye with a two finger salute and a wide grin.

Later, the forensic team delivered. A little later than Ian had predicted, but they delivered nonetheless. The number pointed to a location in the Motor Row District. This guy must have walked two hours on foot, or even more if he was trying to avoid police.

Sam volunteered to go check out the location accompanied by Thomas. The two drove around the area in an unmarked car as the chief had suggested. Part of them hoped to catch a glimpse of the Revelator, but another part hoped that they don't, they just hoped to find his place of residence.

Ian and Jeffrey on the other hand, worked to obtain a warrant. None of the four men wanted to imagine what would happen if and when they confront the Revelator.

All they know is that they'd do so with extreme caution.

ㅤㅤㅤ

John

Alright, that was shitty.

It's been exactly 25 hours, 13 minutes, and 8 seconds after the news about the Revelator getting foolishly caught on cam aired throughout the fucking States. And if that didn't make John all giddy and frustrated, then God fucking knows what will.

He had been hoping that nobody will find out about his place, God, he had other people around he obviously doesn't wish to harm, but it seems like the odds are against him right now.

Just after he finished on shoving the damned kids towards his good ol' neighbor's place, somehow, a car managed to park near his cheap apartment complex.

Now, John would probably just slip the damn thing away if it's a normal day, but it was never a normal day with his brain going full alert mode and the fucking fact that he's an open fugitive now. Best luck is he could distract whoever wishes to get near his family away so Pete and El won't have to suffer through the same bullshit.

Fuck, fucking hell.

They can't get to any more trouble.

He won't let 'em.

Just when John was about to get his hands on anything that could help him get a better view of the seemingly unmarked car, his phone rang, and 'twas really embarrassing, but he actually jolted at the sudden notification.

Three new messages from Wang Wei, the Chinese restaurant owner who speaks little to no English, but was always kind to him—well, partly because they're shootin' meth together, but not that it matters now.

Text Message from Wang Wei

Police ask question. Sorry.

"Fuck."

John hissed under his breath, his eyes darting across the space of his living room as he made his way towards where the plank is loose. He tore it in haste and doesn't even bother on closing the goddamn board back as he pulled his emergency backpack and just enough combination of light guns, more fucking guns, and shit tons of dagger that he could manage to strap into himself.

And really, though he's a goddamn arsonist who doesn't give a damn fuck about anythin', John still cringes inwardly.

'Cause he doesn't want to do any more damage than necessary, but he can't get caught now.

Not now, not ever. Not when he had come so far. Not when he had people to protect.

"Domine Iesu, dimitte nobis debita nostra, salva nos ab igne inferiori, perduc in caelum omnes animas, praesertim eas, quae misericordiae tuae maxime indigent."

With a Škorpion held tightly in his grip, he pulled his mask all the way up; covering half of his face.

"Amen."

Then he jumped out of the window, and run.

ㅤㅤㅤ

Ian Nashton

"I really was expecting a run down shack with biblical messages written in blood." Thomas commented, "That would be terrifying."

"Tom, this is also terrifying if you think about it. If the guy really lives here, it'd mean he'd just be like an ordinary guy on the outside. Makes you think about your neighbours differently, doesn't it?"

Their mellow conversation was cut short when they heard the sound of glass breaking. And just like in movies, out pops the Revelator, who jumped out of the window with a weapon in hand. Fortunately, he seemed to pay no attention to the two men (it was a good thing they came in an unmarked car).

"Jesus!" Thomas exclaimed, he'd be lying if he said he wasn't scared at that very moment.

"You're not exactly wrong. Holy shit. We'll surely get a search warrant for his apartment now." Luckily, Sam had snapped some photos of the apartment complex and sent it to his partner's number with a message that reads 'Found his place of residence. He's now running. We'll try following him'.

The two men watched as the Revelator mounted a bike and rode off to who knows where. Neither Sam nor Thomas were as observant as Ian, but even they knew deranged Jesus seemed paranoid.

Sam's quick finger managed to snap one decent photo of the fugitive and sent that to Ian as well. Detective Hooper puts his phone away and waited for a while before he started the car. He hadn't let the Revelator out of his sight, don't you worry; he was giving himself enough distance to be able to follow the arsonist without drawing too much suspicions. 

Sam knew all shortcuts in existence when it comes to Chicago; his knowledge of the streets rivalled that of a cab driver. 

Back at the court, Ian and Jeffrey were about to leave, after all, they had already obtained what they wanted from the magistrate: an arrest warrant. But just as Ian reached the doorway, a message from Sam came in.

Attached to the message was a photo of an apartment complex, one of the windows have been broken, the glass shards outside indicated that it was broken from the inside. Another photo showed the Revelator on a bicycle, probably stolen.

The crazy bastard must have known the police were on to him and made a run for it. Ian wasn't sure how he knew, but one thing was for sure: the Revelator made yet another blunder.

"Jeffrey, we got him. Shit, we got him. Quickly, start the car." Officer Hwang did as he was told, he ran outside and started the squad car. Before he left himself, Ian quickly turned his phone around and showed the images to the magistrate. "Sir, we'd need a search warrant for his house, we found him."

Ian apologized to the magistrate because he couldn't stay any longer, but he knew he'd get that search warrant later. He met with Jeffrey in the squad car and immediately contacted Thomas through the radio.

"Tom, talk to me. Where is he headed?"

"Sam said he just left the Chinatown area, we don't know specifically where he's headed yet. But he hasn't noticed us following him."

"Damn. You two be careful. Jeffrey and I are coming. Keep us updated."

It's been more than half an hour of tailing, but finally, it seems that the Revelator chose a church to serve as the  location of his last stand. It didn't take long for Ian, Sam, Jeffrey and Thomas to regroup. Other officers have also arrived, effectively surrounding the area. Any civilians present in the area has also been told to evacuate for their own safety.

Ian spoke through a loudspeaker to address the Revelator.

"You're surrounded. Give yourself up, this doesn't have to be harder than it already is."

Of course, he and the other officers knew that a man like that wouldn't give up easily, so they all positioned themselves in such a way that it would be easy to get behind cover should a shoot out begin.

ㅤㅤㅤ

John

John sat on the ground of the abandoned church, his eyes shut tightly as his lips begin to chant incoherent mumbles of old rosary. By the sound he managed to hear, it was already obvious that he was surrounded from all sides.

He didn’t know if he should feel shitty or grateful, 'cause he was trying to run away and failed miserably, but at the same time, he had managed to buy time and distracted 'em all from his home.

He just needed to look at the bright side, eh?

When he managed to open his lids, he eyed the sprawled weapon in front of him with bleak, gray eyes. All perfect combination from the Heckler & Koch MG4 to an M203 grenade launcher placed neatly on top of a cheap tarp.

In other situations, he might feel proud of himself by how neatly arranged and well kept his gears are, but it wasn't the ‘other situation’.

It was the situation.

"You're surrounded. Give yourself up, this doesn't have to be harder than it already is."

John wished he could laugh at the warning. It was already hard from the beginning and he bet his path will never, never, never, ever get easier after this. The only choice left was to either fight or give in, and the latter was never a goddamn option.

Better to die on the field than rot in a fucking cell.

The Revelator stood up, his body blocked by the high walls of the church as he secured his firearm in his hand. A soft sigh exhaled from his lips as he positioned himself near the tinted glass.

His ears weren't lying about it. Dozens of officers were surrounding the area with their muzzle aimed towards his position. Their faces stiff with fear and anticipation, but he can't blame them, though. He just killed their buddy and blown a whole station up, it's only natural that the Revelator had a special throne in their mind as the first person they wish to kill.

He laughed.

Mostly, he preferred not to think of his target, but when he did, it was as if they were already dead; sprawled on the road after an explosion with bleeding guts or simply because a bullet through their head.

So it's only natural for him to pay attention to their faces one by one, inhaling every expression and noticeable distress he could manage to pick up because that's his only opening. A distracted mind is always the weakest mind, so he can't help but cringe whenever someone looks as if they could beat him.

Like that goddamn officer whom he recognized as the voice behind the prior warning. That fucking face. The Revelator ain't giving him the satisfaction.

It all came naturally to him. His senses sharpened with adrenaline. The cool air whispered through the church ventilation as he positioned his gun.

He drew his first shot with a loud bang.

The first bullet was perfectly nested into an officer's head; effortlessly piercing through the soft tissue, allowing the arteries to split.

And so his body went limp before tumbling to the ground like a broken cartwheel. Then it was all it takes for all of the remaining forces to switch into a full berserk mode, and though, John was clearly outnumbered, he ain't having that shit today.

He ain't gonna die tonight.

Each gunshot rent the still, damp air. Each one of it wasn’t simply loud, it cracked into the air and echoes around the empty street. In every bullet shot, there were times when one person behind the trigger might have felt something; remorse, guilt, or compassion, perhaps, but the Revelator ain't feeling it today.

He wishes to see 'em fall.

Every tin projectile comes thick like a winter hail. Each one of it ripped into something, be it inanimate or living, spilling tree sap or blood, crashing through the glasses or bones with equal emptiness.

It felt like it lasted for days when in reality, it was barely one hour until his side ain't shooting no more. The Revelator dropped his last piece of weapons down to the hard concrete. He's almost out of bullet and his skin was scratched by the impact of shattered glasses. His body was all sore from the rapid shooting.

The other ain't stopping, and he knows for sure that it only needs a split second for the goddamn cops to realize he was utterly defenseless at this point in time.

"Fucking hell."

Desperate times call for desperate measurements, so he let his instinct kicks in. He lets his lingering desire he wished he could actually forget to take over his sanity.

The Revelator stares at his hand, a heavy sigh escaped through his lips. He knew that the grenade had one purpose. Killing. Every aspect of it was designed for this goal, from it's exterior to gunpowder inside.

Yet he can't help but frown.

He doesn't want to kill anyone, but he wants to watch them burn. And that is wrong, 'cause it was the same as killing.

So when he threw the first projectile with the last stretch of his power towards the commotion, he quickly slammed his back against the cold walls and listened closely.

"Take cover! Take cover!"

Screams and shout of pain fade away in the background as he stared down towards the other pieces of hand grenade he had. He throws it out, aiming towards whatever he could get.

And it came to the last one. However, this time he didn't throw it outside.

He throws it to the far corner of the church, just enough to 'cause himself harm, but not enough to kill himself.

Then it blew.

It was as though a fist of orange flame had decided to punch it's way out. Windows shattered. Smoke and fire rushed out. Thousands of pieces of glass and steel showered down on him. The building was crumbling on the side and the remained stature was set on fire. Every pillar fiery with smoke and dust, boiling and roaring out loud.

"Is he out of his goddamn mind?!" A voice rose from outside the church.

The Revelator made his way outside the burning church. He stood in semi-blindness and ringing ears, eyeing what's left amidst the chaos he had caused.

Some officers are laying on the ground, some in a fetal position trying to protect their ears and organs, others splayed like dead dogs on their pools of blood. The remaining standing officer was gifted with a sucker punch and some he found disturbing gets a bullet to their chest. Everyone was screaming, shouting, bellowing, and he loves it.

John stormed through the crowds and get himself in whatever vehicle he could get. He stopped dead track before starting the engine. Cold gray eyes locked towards a pair of dark orbs. That fucking face.

Nashton.

John batted his eyes. Starting the engine without hesitation this time.

Then runs away, once again, from the chaos he had caused.

ㅤㅤㅤ

Ian Nashton

Ian watched as that first officer fell. That officer stood not too far from he was. Really, it could have been him. The detective gritted his teeth and tightened the grip on his Glock 9mm issued by the department. Compared to what the Revelator had, it may seem laughable, but Ian knew that sooner or later, the bastard would run out of bullets. 

The last time he recalled a situation with this much chaos and bloodshed was when he had to deal with a shooter at a hospital; and even then, the body count wasn't as high.

With every seconds that passed, the body count seemed to increase exponentially. These fallen officers would have their stars displayed in a case back at headquarters. Nashton wouldn't lie. The thought of his friends' or his own name being displayed there did scare him. But he always put that thought aside to focus on the situation at hand.

So far, it has kept him alive.

Pane after pane, each stained glass window burst into thousands of little fragments, thus making it easier for the officers to see their target. As much as they'd like to kill him (just as he'd like to kill them), the officers also wanted to see who it was behind the mask. They wanted to know specifically WHY the bastard chose to blow up one of their stations. Hence, they aimed for non-vital areas. The intention was to incapacitate. But if he succumbed to his wounds afterwards... well, they can't do anything about that. If he survived, he will most likely face life imprisonment.

The state of Illinois abolished the death penalty in 2011.

From the west side of the church, someone shouted that a grenade had just been thrown. The officers frantically tried their best to avoid each one. The body count rose yet again, but more were seriously injured than dead.

And as if they could not catch a break, another explosion occurred, it caused the small abandoned church to burst into a deadly debris combination of glass, steel and stone particles. Ian took cover behind a car, but the shock wave knocked him down until he was flat on his back. He instinctively covered his head to avoid any debris that may still shower down on them.

It didn't take long for the detective to get back up on his feet. His once neatly combed hair was no more; it was disheveled and slightly dampened from his sweat. He pushed his glasses further up the bridge of his nose, just in time for the detective to lock eyes with him.

The Revelator. His gaze was as cold as Ian expected them to be. Now the bastard was in a car, obviously trying to make a run for it. 

Detective Nashton stood his ground. He was a distance away from the vehicle, but right in front of it. He shot at the windshield, then the front wheels. He was trying to do whatever he could to stop the car. 

Once the car came close, Ian dived out of the way and quickly scrambled to his feet and entered another vehicle. Officer Cole joined him in the passenger's seat.

"Shoot his tires." Ian's order was given through gritted teeth, he stepped on the gas and chased after the arsonist. As the best sharpshooter Ian has ever known in the department, it didn't take long for Officer Cole to shoot the back tires of the runaway police car. 

It skidded to a stop accompanied by an unpleasant screech. Without hesitation, Ian left the vehicle, either it was the adrenaline surging through him or brave stupidity, he decided that he'd go after the Revelator himself, despite Thomas' protest.

"Are you out of your mind, Nashton?! What if he—"

"It's either me, or you. Your children need you alive, Cole." Ian didn't look back. He slowly approached the eerily still police car with his pistol drawn. It was silent. Aside from the soft police radio chatter and the murmurs of his colleagues and his own heartbeat, thumping loudly in his rib cage, there really was nothing else.

Now, Sam wasn't about to let his friend—no, his best friend walk into the jaws of danger alone. So he trailed not too far behind, also with his weapon drawn.

He hoped that Ian wouldn't be another casualty.

ㅤㅤㅤ

John

The crash seemed to take for ever before it finally settled with the bumpers intensely making out with a tree. John’s body jerked to the dashboard, his forehead almost colliding with the window. Steam rose from the back, the smell too intense for words, stinging into his nose and ruining all of his senses.

He groaned loud at the sudden intrusion. John made his way outside, legs going limp and trembling out of pain. Then he saw him again.

Nashton.

Nashton was wearing different clothes than the rest of the officers. The muzzle of his Glock 9mm aimed towards the Revelator's head.

"Detective," he says; less than talking, more of a whisper. The fabric of his mask covered half of his face, making it harder for anyone to actually know what he said.

John threw his gun away from him, the metal surface clanked against the concrete road. He raised his hands above his head in full submission, walking in limp yet steady steps towards the Detective.

His gray eyes remained fixed towards the other man with the intensity of ten thousand burning suns. The Revelator didn't even flinch when they're only foot apart with a gun still aimed towards his head and his life inches away to be taken away from him.

But the Revelator ain't backing away just now. He ain't going down without a fight.

So he leaped towards the man, avoiding the bullet at all cost and disarming the man as quickly as he could. Never for a second, he tore his gaze away from the eyes behind the spectacle, even after he landed a harsh punch across his cheeks, John eyes still followed the movement of Nashton's head.

ㅤㅤㅤ

Ian Nashton

Take the shot. The tiny voice in the back of his head said to him. Take the shot and end it now.

But he didn't.

The Revelator, how he still managed to stand and walk after the shoot out and the crash, no one knows. Maybe it was some sort of twisted miracle, if Ian believed in miracles, that is.

He has met face to face with serial killers and mass shooters in the past. But none of them had a gaze as intense as the Revelator. Perhaps the mask made it even more so, as it only left the man's eyes visible.

Despite the arsonist throwing his weapon away in an act of surrender, Ian refused to let his guard down. Because he knew that even if the Revelator wasn't holding any weapons now, he might have some more on his person.

"Get on the ground! Hands behind your head!"

Yet the Revelator doesn't comply. No, the man kept walking. Closer, and closer.

Ian should have taken the shot earlier.

Nothing could prepare the detective for what happened next. The crazy bastard lunged forward towards him, and expertly disarmed him; his own weapon dropped to the ground. The split second where he froze caused the detective to miss his shot, and now his face paid for it. The force of the punch was so great that it sent his glasses flying a few meters away.

Ian never liked wearing contacts.

Instinctively, Ian withdrew his police baton and used that as both a blunt weapon and a shield to protect himself. He aimed his strikes on the other's extremities.

If they weren't moving around so much, Sam would have taken a shot, but he knew that if he did so, he might accidentally shoot Ian instead, and he doesn't want to take hat risk. Not yet.

Ian himself wasn't a fan of using deadly force. Even in this instance, he felt like he still had it under control. He didn't want to get used to the ease and convenience of using deadly force. He didn't want to be like those cops they often talk about in the news.

ㅤㅤㅤ

John

The Revelator wouldn't lie, it hurts like a bitch. God knows what happened, but he felt like he's going to collapse at any moment. His movement was all nothing but rigid and random punches, unlike his usual quick and lethal blows.

The police baton wasn't even his main concern, it's his stamina. Fuck. All those chasing and waiting made his muscles all tense, even the goddamn cop could get the upper hand if this keeps happening.

"You should've fucking shot me dead."

The Revelator held Nashton's wrist in a tight grip and landed another blow to the man's guts, his jaw, kicked him solidly in the midsection, struggled to knock the man down because he ain't killing the man. He ain't doing it when all Nashton did was pissing himself with that glare full of determination.

Fucking, fucking Nashton.

"Shit!" he barked, landing another punch to the man's face. Then he stopped his fingers at the detective's neck, hand tightening around the flesh with the last energy he had.

ㅤㅤㅤ

Ian Nashton

Now, Ian wasn't useless in hand-to-hand combat, but he was no expert. If this is what the Revelator was like when he was worn out, he wouldn't even want to imagine what the bastard was like at full capacity.

There was no time for him to shoot back a witty remark. It happened so fast. One moment he was standing and striking the Revelator with his baton; he next moment, his baton-wielding hand was gripped so tightly that it caused him to drop the baton. Ian was certain he'd find bruises later. 

In a rapid succession, he was punched and kicked down. He wasn't even given any time to react or reach for the baton again, because the Revelator had climbed on top of him with fingers wrapped around the detective's throat. 

With all his might, Ian tried to pry those fingers off of himself, but to no avail. His legs kicked frantically as he struggled. But the Revelator was intent on crushing his windpipe; Ian could see it in those cold eyes.

Maybe going after the Revelator alone wasn't a great idea after all. Fortunately, he wasn't really alone.

"Sam—" he rasped, the words struggled to come out of the detective's mouth, "—take the shot!" 

Detective Hooper didn't hesitate anymore. For one, while this position was dire for Ian, there was less chance of his partner getting hit. So, Sam fired the shot. 

The shot landed on the Revelator's shoulder. Horrifyingly, it didn't stop the arsonist from trying to choke the life out of his partner, but it did direct his attention away for a short moment.

But it was more than enough for Ian.

Ian frantically reached for his taser and held it against the arsonist's side, he didn't waste any time and shocked the other man. Not enough to kill, obviously, but enough to incapacitate him. 

Detective Nashton breathed a sigh of relief once he felt his airways have opened again. He pushed the Revelator off of his body and allowed himself to lie on the ground for a couple of moments, just to catch his breath and recover from what had just happened.

Sam, on the other hand quickly handcuffed the Revelator and checked to make sure that he had no other weapons on his person. Once that was taken care of, he helped his partner up with a concerned look on his face.

"Looks like he hurt you bad..." Sam muttered softly as his eyes darted across Ian's face.

"Yeah, I... he did. I'm lucky my windpipes hadn't been crushed yet. Thank you, Sam. I don't know what I'd do without you."

Their (tender) conversation was cut short when Jeffrey approached with Ian's glasses. Luckily, they weren't broken. He put them back on and glanced at the Revelator. His own breaths were still ragged from the struggle, but he knew he could manage.

"Search him again, get him patched up. And then we can question him. Fuck. Can you imagine the news headline when this guy goes on trial?"

"Easy, big man. Let's get YOU patched up first." Sam said, still worried, but Ian being Ian, he waved a hand dismissively and said that he was fine and that he only needed some ice and painkillers.

The others present knew well that Ian was a stubborn man, so they didn't argue with him any further. 

Other officers had come to the area and they loaded the Revelator into a car, first to treat the gaping gunshot wound on the latter's shoulder. But many felt he was undeserving of such a treatment, especially after what he has done that day, but they kept those opinions to themselves.

ㅤㅤㅤ

John

He remembered everything about the fight. His hands were on his throat, then there was a gunshot from across the field. He remembered the bullet which hit him right on his shoulder blades, then he remembered the stinging pain, then he remembered nothing but blackness.

His consciousness was floating through an empty space filled with a static. Throughout the emptiness, his heartbeats pounded loudly, echoing in his ears.

John jerked upright, vision hazy as the bright light snapped him back into full consciousness, but his wrists refused to budge. Something cold digs into his skin, rattling and sharp, resulting in a faint whine from his lips.

As he peered his eyesight downwards towards the table, he wasn't even surprised that there were handcuffs holding down his hand.

John tore his gaze away. His eyes were still blurry and his body was screaming for rest, but all of his five senses were still working. Yeah, his head hurts, the fucking throbbing headache will be the death of him, but at least he was alive.

For now.

He noticed the stature in front of him calling out his name, perhaps. He didn't know. Everything was still too blurry.

ㅤㅤㅤ

Ian Nashton

Whilst the Revelator was being treated at the hospital, the magistrate issued that search warrant. It seems the entire city of Chicago (and possibly the state of Illinois itself) was keen to see this arsonist put to trial. Bruises had formed on the detective's face and neck, but he was no stranger to them. He had accepted that it just comes with the job.

Ian actually waited a day before he searched the apartment; as much as he'd like to start right away, he knew his body needed rest, especially after nearly losing his life like that. It took him a while to fall asleep, but having Monty (his cat) by his side sure helped.

The next day, he drove to the apartment complex along with Officer Cole. Just as they all expected, the apartment complex were littered with weapons of all sorts. He left Cole to take photographs of the place to be used as evidence.

Ian, however, had noticed a couple of things.

One: there were a couple of cups of instant ramen in the kitchen. But a man of the Revelator's strength and stamina couldn't possibly live on a diet consisting mostly of instant ramen, so he must be sharing these with someone.

Two: there were a few pairs of socks scattered on the ground. The designs and size of the socks indicated that they could not have belonged to the Revelator.

Three: there was a box of monopoly in the living room. Someone like the Revelator was likely to be a lone wolf, but you cannot play monopoly by yourself. So whoever else lives here must be someone that the Revelator trusted.

Based on these observations, Ian had come to the conclusion that the Revelator must have a child or even children living with him. How old they were, he wasn't sure. One thing is certain, though: the detective wasn't sure how he felt about that. The idea a terrorist like the Revelator having some semblance of family life with a child or even more somehow bothered him.

Do they know about what he does as the Revelator? Have they been told that it was for the greater good, thus they saw nothing wrong with it? Did they help him in his activities somehow? Where are they now?

So many questions. Boy, the interrogation would be something.

When Thomas and Ian had finished their search of the apartment, they returned to the police station. Thomas handed the camera he used to a technician for the photos to be developed.

Ian specifically said that he wanted to do the interrogation, but before he could enter, he heard Jeffrey’s distinct voice which stopped him in his tracks.

“Wait, wait. Let me go in first.”

It wasn’t the fact that Jeffrey wanted to get in the interrogation room that baffled Ian; it was the fact that the officer had with him a goddamned guitar.

"I'll give you twenty seconds to explain to me, just exactly what the hell you're going to do with that guitar." Ian tried his absolute best to sound unamused, but he was actually intrigued by his colleague and whatever it was he had planned.

"I'm not going to beat him up with the guitar, don't you worry. But I will make sure that, after I'm done, he will want to speak truthfully to you."

Ian gestured towards the door, thus allowing Jeffrey to enter the interrogation room. The overjoyed officer carefully patted Ian on the cheeks as his way of giving thanks. Their small social circle had gotten used to Jeffrey's antics now, even Ian, but the bespectacled man still frowned.

Mostly because his face still hurt.

Jeffrey sat himself in front of the Revelator. He'd be lying if he said he wasn't scared, even with the mask off, this guy still somehow managed to strike fear into his heart. Nonetheless, he smiled politely, though it looked more like a grimace.

"Hello, I'm Jeffrey Hwang. I'm not the one conducting your interview, but I will be helping him."

Ian, joined by his faithful partner, Sam, watched from the other side of the one way mirror. Both were still confused as to what it is Jeffrey was intending to do, but their question was answered when through the intercom, they heard the guitar being strummed randomly and Officer Hwang began to make screeches resembling a pterodactyl.

Ian and Sam exchanged glances for a few seconds, before the two men burst into a fit of laughter. Apparently, Jeffrey's plan was to be as annoying as possible towards the Revelator, possibly so that Ian could use the act as a threat.

Ian won't lie, he thought it was a brilliant idea.

After about five minutes of... whatever that was, Jeffrey left the interrogation room with a proud smile on his face and took a dramatic bow in front of the room.

"He's all yours, Nashton."

"Let's hope you hadn't ruptured the bastard's eardrums, Jeff."

Ian took a moment to calm himself down and return to his normal resting expression. Then he entered.

"Good afternoon. I'm here to conduct your interrogation." Despite what the Revelator had done to him, Ian somehow still managed to hold an air of politeness in his tone. He sat across the other man and began observing him.

Slightly blackened fingertips and dirty fingernails. Probably from soot or gunpowder. Slight yellow stain on the nails themselves indicated that the Revelator often smoked; Ian wouldn't say he was a chronic smoker, but he probably did so more often than the average person. It wouldn't surprise the detective if the man in front of him used drugs as well, judging by how pale he looked. However, Ian wasn't entirely sure about that, the paleness could possibly be due to exhaustion.

"I have so many questions, I'm sure you know this. But first, your name. You know mine, yet I don't know yours. In fact, we've only put you in our system as 'John Smith'. It's as if you were a ghost; no name, no data... nothing. That could, of course, be changed. So, what do you say, hm?"

ㅤㅤㅤ

John

Everything was blurry, yes, and for once, John wished it would get better soon, but now he wished he was in a coma—or anything. Fuck, anything except for listening to the awful screeches which pierce through his goddamn auditory organs.

Oh my fucking God, perhaps he was in hell? Yeah, that would be the correct explanation why everything was happening so quickly and torturing the life outta him.

John exhaled a content sigh when the man he recognizes as Jeffrey Hwang exited the interrogation room, but his peaceful solitude doesn't last long. Someone else came.

Someone will familiar face with familiar bruises.

That fucking face.

Detective Nashton sat in front of him, still with a pair of glasses on the bridge of his nose. His voice was calm and polite, contrasting the sharp gaze of his eyes as he scanned through the Revelator, itching to know everything or anything about him.

John wished he could enjoy the attention, but obviously, he didn't.

"What can I say, detective?" John said, emphasizing the last word with a smirk. His lips curled upwards, but it didn't reach his eyes. Heck, it wasn't even a sincere smile to begin with.

He was just making it hard for both parties.

He shrugged, head titling sideways but his gaze remained locked towards the other's. God, how he wished he could tie his hair or brush it away from his sight.

"Smith is such a boring last name. It's only John."

ㅤㅤㅤ

Ian Nashton

"Fine. John, it is." Ian uttered flatly. That wasn't really what he was interested in; it's just that he didn't want to address the other as 'Revelator' all the time.

"Where do I even begin?" His eyes were narrowed and fixated upon the other. "In just the course of this week, you've caused dozens of casualties, destroyed two buildings and attempted to murder me with your bare hands. And that's just this week! what about your other doings in the past? You know, you have made quite the name for yourself."

The detective leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. There was a puzzled look on his face. "Really, I wonder what goes on in that head of yours whilst you were doing all of that." Ian paused and heaved a sigh, "I—these people had families, John. Really, I thought you'd have some sort of understanding with regards to 'family'. Then again, you could just be selective with it, isn't that right?"

All of Ian's questions and thoughts were swimming through his mind, but he had to hold himself back from blurting them all out. He wanted to be as thorough as possible.

"Why? Why murder Dick Foster?”

ㅤㅤㅤ

John

John wasn't even paying attention to the man's word until he mentioned anything about family. All of those daydreaming session crumbles away when Detective Nashton begins to blurt out the trigger words.

Does Nashton find out about Pete and El?

Is his neighbor alright?

John squinted his eyes. He, again, wished he wouldn't give a damn fuck about it, hell, he was supposed to not give a fuck about anything. To work effectively is by not have anything to lose, now look at him now, worrying about people—worrying in general.

As the Revelator, this surely is a goddamn personality flaw.

Nashton probably noticed the sudden distress across his face, but John didn't mention anything about it. He will let the detective guess with that super deductive skill he only ever saw on TV thinks about it. Who the fuck cares. Instead, he flashed another smile. Leaning away from the detective in a rather mischievous demeanor.

"Huh. Let's see," he begins. The corner of his lips rose even higher as his gray eyes intently stare at the other's figure.

"Perhaps we could get some coffee before I start?"

ㅤㅤㅤ

Ian Nashton

He may be avoiding the topic, but John's sudden discomfort only confirmed Ian's earlier conclusions. Truth be told, the detective was satisfied to know that he was right.

"I can tell you're trying to avoid my questions, John. Are you worried?" Ian didn't need an answer to that, he could observe it on the other man's face.

"Not about yourself, I figured that out when you chose to blow up that church; when you walked towards me without a care in the world despite having a gun aimed at your head." There was a pause, Ian glanced at the one-way mirror and gestured towards John, he knew his colleagues on the other side are hearing this conversation, Ian didn't need to leave the room for John's coffee. He then turned to face the other man and locked gazes with him once again. "You're worried for them. You're worried about what would happen to them. You live a double life, don't you, John?"

Ian was no psychologist, but the more questions he asked, the more he realized how intrigued and fascinated he was with John's psyche. When the detective saw him on the news for the first time, and when that station blew up, he thought that the man in front of him was an emotionless killing machine. But that gesture, that one little gesture that someone else would have looked over told the detective that there was so much more.

"Who would have thought, right? This... family of yours isn't involved with your... activities, is it? Answer this truthfully, John."

The door to the room suddenly opened and in came Jeffrey. Just in time. The man had with him a styrofoam cup of coffee and he placed that on the table in front of John.

"Don't make me screech at you again, man. Because I'd love to do it again."

Hwang didn't need to be told to leave, because he was already out the door by the time he finished that sentence.

"Now you have your coffee. You might keep avoiding my questions and make other requests, but you know something, John? I can do this all day."

ㅤㅤㅤ

John

He never thought he would feel this way, but John felt his heart sunk. Hell yeah, he's worried, he's worried sick. God knows what will happen to the damned kids if they get involved in this. Shit, his boy already get suspended for setting the school pool on fire, what will happen next?

John drank the coffee in a very non-fashionable way. He was struggling to keep his hair out of the way and his cuffs were making it harder for him to actually do anything. There goes his reputation as the goddamn Revelator,  but it's not like he minds.

Hell, he doesn't even care about anything. Except for his family, of course. Yeah, right. The goddamn detective really hits the spot.

He groans internally.

"Y'know what, detective?" John was smiling, 'cause damn right he's going to avoid all of the goddamn questions.

Sure, his kids never actually get involved in any of his Revelator jobs, but if Nashton wants to know shit about him, then he better hustles harder than this. 'Cause nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing, even death, could make the Revelator speak.

"You sounded like Captain America."

ㅤㅤㅤ

Ian Nashton

He chuckled at the comment, it wasn't his intention, but he supposed it works.

"I am right, though. Aren't I? About your family?"

There was a ghost of a smile on the detective's face, the smile he often had when he knew he was right. He stood up from his seat and began to walk slowly, circling the other man.

"You won't tell me, but that's fine. I'm sure my colleagues can find them and question them ourselves. But tell me this, John. How long until you will consider them a liability? What will you do then?"

The detective stopped behind John's chair, and he stood there for a few moments, observing the other man yet again. Even if the detective had no morals and was easily corruptible by power, he knew that using physical means of interrogation would NOT work. John simply had little to nothing to lose.

If only he could peer into the mind of the infamous Revelator.

Who knows what horrors he would see.

"Did you know that Illinois abolished the death penalty in 2011?"

ㅤㅤㅤ

John

He chuckled back, and he didn't even bother with eyeing the man's figure as he disappeared from his line of sight. John took a sip of his coffee that's no longer warm. He's grown far accustomed to the detective accusation to the point he didn't even flinch anymore. All he did was stare blankly at the wall before tearing his gaze it away, his eyes traveling from the boring white to the one-way mirror.

John couldn't see anything from it, and he didn't know if he was actually staring at something, someone, or anything at all.

Still, he stared. Not paying attention to the detective behind him. Then he smiled.

ㅤㅤㅤ

Ian Nashton

"What is it that motivates you? Can't be money, I doubt that. Power? Self-righteousness?" It felt as if he was talking to a brick wall.

Other criminals may have been dishonest or outright ridiculous in the interrogation room. But at the very least, they all said something. John? John just smiled and avoided questions.

And it was starting to get on his nerves. With every question asked and the hours that passed, Ian began to slowly lose his patience.

Nashton rant in 3, 2, 1.

"It's funny, actually. We don't need this interrogation. Really, we didn't. We have more than enough evidence and eye witness accounts to charge you. I am a patient man, John, I really am; but even I have my limits, and you know what? I HAVE HAD IT. You obviously showed no interest to even acknowledge that I am here. You—you really are just a misanthrope. A misanthrope and terrorist beyond redemption. Really, I shouldn't have bothered!"

The detective wasn't flat out yelling, but his voice was raised, and it doesn't take a genius to figure out his patience was running thin. Ian figured that he might as well unload whatever thoughts he had, it wasn't like John would respond in any meaningful way, anyway.

"I don't know what happened to you growing up, and somehow I doubt you even know or care yourself. You may think family is some sort of a second chance, a salvation, perhaps, that's a word in your vocabulary, isn't it? But, no. No, they're not. And they won't ever be. Now the world knows what you are, they've seen what happened over the past few days. History has its eyes on all of us, John."

Now the detective was in front of the man again, but he doesn't sit down. Instead, he gripped the edge of the table so tightly to the point where his knuckles became white. His brows were furrowed and his eyes narrowed, a clear sign of the detective's irritation.

"You might think you're justified in killing some of those people that you've killed. Your... 'revelations' or whatever it is. What about the collateral damage that you caused? Innocents have been killed. Do you really think that you, a single, lone man, can prove guilt beyond a shadow of a doubt? To be judge, jury and executioner? If even courts can make mistakes, then what about you?"

In the back of his mind, Ian knew he shouldn't waste his breath, but he wasn't quite finished with his tirade yet. All those pent up frustration were just eager to bubble up. But he caught himself and took in a deep breath which he released slowly. Now somewhat calmer, he started again, with the same calm tone he spoke with at the very beginning of the interrogation.

"You're just using this all as an excuse to satisfy your pyromania. Almost, if not all your victims have had their homes blown up or set on fire. It doesn't take a genius to figure that out. Not only would doing so get rid of evidence, but it does something to you."

Throughout his rant, his glasses had slipped down his nose, so he fixed its position and headed towards the door.

"Have fun rotting in a cell, John. I doubt even your 'God' would have mercy on you. Let us hope your family would do well in your absence." Ian doesn't actually believe in God, but really, the detective was running out of things to say.

"Oh, and your little cult of supporters? They're just as messed up as you are."

He stormed out of the interrogation room and slammed the door behind him. He wasn't sure how long he had been in there, but it was long enough that Sam had gone home and Jeffrey had fallen asleep on his desk.

Ian Nashton decided that he'd go home as well.

ㅤㅤㅤ

John

John wished he could ask for another cup of coffee before the detective stormed out of the room, 'cause he was tired, fuck, very. His tiredness was similar to wet jeans, clinging into the skin after a pouring thunderstorm. His body felt like it was torn apart, his muscles all sore and tense, and he wished, oh God, he goddamn wished, that he's home.

He needed some sleep, but did he?

He didn't.

John was, frankly, afraid.

He's afraid of his dreams. He's afraid if anyone knowing about the nightmares he had and he's even, for sure, more afraid that the goddamn detective received any report about his fucking episode. What if he scream in his sleep?

John knew he shouldn't show any weakness. Moreover, he can't.

He can't leak a single information.

Thus John sat still. Bleary-eyes locked towards the wall as if it was the most interesting thing across the whole universe.

"How long has he been staring?"

He heard the guard asked, he knew they were secretly scared shit about tonight's shift.

"Dunno, this dude is fucked up in the head."

Every minute felt as if it lasted for an hour when you're doing nothing, even John didn't know how the fuck was he able to go through the night without shifting a single inch.

Only then, when he heard the cell getting opened and an officer—never mind, there was a lot of 'em—shuffling into the already cramped space with guns pointing at his head, John stood up. His bones popping and his muscles screamed in relief.

He wonders what the kids are doing now as they cuff him up. The muzzle of their AK-74 still pointed at him as if he was a fucking dog ready to be shot dead whenever he made any simple mistake. He wondered if they did their homework, if his neighbor feed 'em well, if they're happy or at least worried about him.

He wondered if they're safe.

John bit his bottom lips until he was able to taste a hint of copper in his tongue. Without the detective and his super observation skill, he figured out he could at least express his frustration without anyone pointing about it.

They said they were taking him for a trial and really, John almost laughed forreal this time.

Even Nashton already said that it was useless to interrogate him. John was being a good boy by not talking back, not barking back, and obviously not flexing his amazing memory about the content of the Bible in front of the man. Nashton should be grateful and everyone should learn from him.

A trial will be useless.

The ride was quiet and the tension between 'em was so heavy, he thought it will crush ‘em dead. John was about to say 'boo' just for shit and giggles. Even the thought of the officer's startled face was amusing enough to bring a smile into his face.

"Don't smile, goddamit. We already have a lot of situations because you blow the station and now your followers are raging because you're going to rot in jail. Seriously, are you Jesus?" said the cop, his voice was slightly trembling and his chin was sweating.

John couldn't blame him. Everyone would be scared if they're in a car with the Revelator.

He stared outside the window and witnessed a lot of people across the street. Some holding up signs with profanities directed towards the officials, some screaming his name as if he was some kind of hero, and some even trashing the public facilities around, spraying empty threats or just straight-up ruining everything.

Everything was chaotic, and he caused that.

He did that.

"I don't know, officer," he said, a smile creeping out across his visage, "who am I to play God?"

It shouldn't feel so good.

Then it all happened without him noticing it.

A moment ago it was just a simple crowd. Sure, there was probably someone passed out due to suffocation or whatever, but there wasn't anywhere coming near them. Nobody is harming them.

Then everything was burning.

The sound of molotov cocktail startled him at first, yet it didn't stop. The Dodge Charger swerved out of control. The two on-coming cars tried to avoid it, but failed. Both of them hit in a three-way head-on collision.

The explosion didn't stop. Tires burning throughout the street. The mass coming towards the other police car with bat and eyes filled with rage. Their faces covered in mask, similar to what he used to wear whenever he went out doing his job. There was another explosion, a ball of flame and a fist of gray smoke. A moment later there was another explosion. And there were more. More, even more. The sound traveling too fast, the glasses and steel rained afterward.

There was a third car which had been traveling too fast. It plowed into the burning wrecks, flipped over and continued, screeching along the runway on its back before it too burst into flames.

John watched in slight horror as his car was burning. His eyes hazy due to the crash and he feels blood in his lips. His consciousness fading away.

ㅤㅤㅤ

Ian Nashton

Even in the comfort of his own bed with his cat by his side, Ian struggled to fall asleep. He couldn't seem to shake off the thought of the Revelator from his mind. Ian tossed and turned restlessly, to the point where Monty let out a meow, as if the feline was annoyed with his owner.

At the very least, he did manage to catch a few blinks of sleep, though he didn't feel well rested. He hasn't felt that at all ever since this case began.

He couldn't get a break yet, no. As one of the primary investigators in the case AND the victim of an attempted murder, Ian had to be present in court.

Already, the media had spread news of the Revelator's arrest and subsequent trial at the speed of wildfire. Ian had mixed feelings about this (as he does towards mainstream journalists) as he felt that the case was  getting an uncomfortable amount of coverage. Knowing that the Revelator had garnered a large amount of supporters, he felt that this wasn't the best idea.

Surely, the news would have been spread all over the country. He wondered if his brother was aware of what's been happening.

Ian Nashton dressed himself one of his best suits for the court appearance. He even decided to wear contacts, just for today.

Despite nearly all of the residents of Chicago witnessing the Revelator's disturbing and destructive acts, despite it being obvious  what it is he had done; due process still had to be followed. This particular trial felt more symbolic than functional.

Getting to the courthouse itself was a challenge, as a crowd of rioters blocked the streets or made it difficult to get there, but in the end, he made it. It was a good thing he decided to go by car rather than public transport. It still baffled him how a terrorist can have such a large following. It concerned him, actually; to know that some citizens of the city he loved so much actually agreed with the Revelator's ideologies. Were they that desperate to find a place of belonging?

Ian rushed past the hungry reporters and journalists and went straight in the building. It's not that Ian hated them, it's just... he'd rather not deal with them right now, he already had so much on his mind.

It's odd to not see his closest colleagues nearby. It felt as if this case brought them closer than ever. He figured they might be helping with riot control or back at the police station, or better yet, at home. Maybe they were watching the live news coverage.

Ian wasn't sure why, but he felt restless still. Something wasn't right. Despite the courtroom being a place he was familiar with, this particular moment felt suffocating for the detective. He excused himself out of the courtroom with the reason being that he wanted some fresh air.

And that's when he saw it. The officers who were controlling the riot crowd outside broke into a frenzy. No, not just the officers, but the crowd as well.

Oh no.

No.

Ian doesn't have his equipment on him. Suddenly the situation turned from unnerving to straight up dangerous. Ian overheard from a nearby officer's radio that a crash had occurred on the street not too far from the courthouse. And of all the cars involved...

It just had to be the one carrying the goddamned Revelator. He couldn't find out EXACTLY what had happened, at least not now.

Ian knew he needed to get out of here. He'd be surprised if one of these rioters didn't make an attempt at his life. After all, John wasn't the only one who had his face in the news lately. Speaking of news, the reporters turned their camera towards the fight that had broke out between the police and the rioters. At the same time, they tried to stay out of the way.

The atmosphere was almost as chaotic as when the station blew up. The only difference? THIS was more chaotic. Seeing some kind of path to the car he came with, Ian made a run for it. You know, before the rioters realized who he was. Once inside, Ian locked the doors and hastily drove out of there.

Not an easy feat considering the crowd seemed to get larger and larger like a swarm of bees.

He probably ran over some toes. Who knows?

Before he even got far, he heard an explosion behind him. It only took a glance on his rear view mirror to know that a molotov cocktail had been thrown by one of the rioters. The Revelator did this. Ian's grip on the steering wheel was so tight, it felt as if he would break it. He needed to get back to the station. Now that the arsonist was (presumably) free, he'd likely try to target HIS station.

When he arrived, Ian nearly leapt out of the car and stumbled his way into the station, in his haste, he bumped right into an older officer, who (somehow) managed to catch him.

"Hey, hey, son. Easy. Why dont you—"

"Detective—detective Hooper? Is he—?" Ian struggled to catch his breath, but he thanked the stars when he saw the familiar face emerge from the chief's office. Ian left the confused officer's arms and grabbed his partner's shoulders.

"He got away! He's—out there! People are hurt. Shit. How could this happen?"

"Ian, Ian, buddy. Breathe. You'd think clearer, come on." Sam knew Ian best for his calm and cool composure in a lot of situations, but today, the dark haired man seemed to be uncharacteristically on edge, and to be honest? It concerned him.

Ian closed his eyes and took in a slow, deep breath, and already he regained most of his composure.

"Were you here, the whole time?"

Sam shook his head, "I just arrived recently."

"Shit, Sam. He'd be coming for us, probably." Ian muttered, seeming like he would go into a pessimistic monologue, but he followed with, "I hope not."

It had been a couple of hours later, but the riot was finally taken control of.  There were at least four casualties and a dozen more critically injured. Many people were arrested that day, but thankfully, it won't be his department that dealt with them.

Jeffrey came back to the station with a bloody nose and bruise on his jaw. Thomas was mostly unscathed, but he did complain of a sore spot on his arm, It was great to regroup.

They were alright, that's all Ian needed to know.

ㅤㅤㅤ John

The Revelator woke up not long after the crash. His body, once again, feels like it was getting torn apart. Pain surged through his body. His head, his limbs; everything hurts.

He thought he was done for, no, he was sure he was done for. The explosion was so big and everything was fucking burning, how the hell does someone actually managed to live through that?

But he wasn't. He was alive. Breathing.

His legs are trembling, but he managed to stand up. His eyes were bleary, but he was able to see everything.

Then came flashes of anger, jeers, shouts. The mob was mindless and dangerous. Throwing explosives, burning tires, burning cars. Everyone is looting, smashing, destroying property with no thought to whom it belonged to. Anyone who tried to stop them was beaten severely.

And the next thing John was conscious of was the sound of his name. People, like a swarm of bees chanting the word 'Revelator' as if he was the goddamn President of United States. Police in black uniform with their transparent shields and full face visors marched towards them in rigid formation, but if anyone think they would just back off, like a typical rioters, they didn't.

John thought he was in hell, but he wasn't. He was alive. Breathing.

And he caused this.

Instructions were given through loud speakers and then the tear gas was unleashed. Everyone was running, screaming, throwing counter attacks with explosive and marching like dogs. They marched with the anger, joy, emotion of themselves and a thousand others.

John the Revelator stands still with his heart thumping furiously against its cage. He could feel a tightening of his throat and a short intake of breath, and there was a moment where he couldn't get his feet to move, but in an instant he was running. Running away from the crowds.

He choked back his whine, forcing himself not to groan or moan as he drags his limbs outside the raging mass. Whereas some people were kind enough to shove away from his line, the rest was far too overwhelmed by the police until he feels like they're going to step on him.

At last, when he felt like he's about to collapse, a hand scooped his shoulder, some even push through his back. John was far too tired to protest. He didn't know if they're on his side or if they're going to lock him in jail. But then everything makes sense when he was outside the crowds, 'cause that's where he sees it.

Kerosine, old school matches, hand grenades, firecrackers for the Fourth of July, and oh.

Semtex.

John stared in the direction he's about to head.

His mind wandered to that fucking face.

ㅤㅤㅤ

Ian Nashton

"Remind me to never be a part of riot control again... it hurts, man." Jeffrey whined as he held an ice pack to his bruised jaw. Despite being the same age as Ian, sometimes officer Hwang's actions made him seem younger than he really is—this was one of them.

"Damn it. All our hard work. It's all gone down the drain." Ian held his head in his hands and let out a groan of frustration. "If it hadn't been so heavily televised, maybe this wouldn't have happened. And I thought serial killers having fans were bad. This is a whole new level. That being said, we still have his fingerprints and photos, getting around the country would probably be a hell lot harder for him."

Some of the breaking news footage showed the rioters chanting the Revelator's name as if he was a celebrity figure. It made Ian's stomach turn  to see his fellow Chicagoans support a literal terrorist. As if he doesn't trust people enough already.

The Revelator appeared again on the footage, but only for a moment. He seemed to just... dissolve into the crowds. Who knows where he'd go.

No, Ian knows. He knew that, sooner or later, the bastard would come for him. The whole station was on high alert, Ian even more so. He hoped that there would be no more casualties today.

The detective traded his contacts for his glasses (good thing he carried the lens case). The contacts tended to make his eyes all watery and dry, and he liked the look of his glasses better, anyway.

Thinking the police station would be guarded enough to be safe was a mistake.

BIG mistake.

The relative silence of the station was broken when a loud crash was heard at the front end. Someone had thrown something through the windows.

But...

It wasn't a rock or brick they threw.

It was a grenade. A live grenade. That older officer from earlier was the first to notice it, he warned the others to take cover and attempted to take cover himself, but he wasn't fast enough. He took most of the blast's shockwave.

The unmistakable, deafening sound of an explosion, the shattering of windows and the ripping of doors from its hinges—those were just some of the sounds Ian registered. Add on to that the same cacophony of panicked screams and shouts from his colleagues combined with the angry shouts from an incoming mob. How big the mob was or if it could even be called a mob at all, he wasn't sure, but he knew that there were more than one person attacking. It wasn't long before shots were fired from his side. Aiming for the legs or shoulders was more than enough to bring down these stray rioters. Behind their anger and masks, they were still just your average Joe.

Another crash from the far left side of the building. The closest officers dived behind whatever cover they could find and hoped for the best. Hoped that they would at least survive this. As he had his head down and covered, Ian only saw the flash from the corner of his eyes, even then, he knew what had happened.

Not even a full minute later, a terrible, thunder-like clap ripped through the air. A fiery ball of orange and yellow flames invaded the building and smoke began to rise. Pieces of metal became like darts, the glass cut through the air as if they were like throwing knives, wood and shattered brick dangerously rained down on the officers. Many of them lay on the ground in a fetal position, whilst others were splayed out lifelessly like forgotten rag dolls.

Through the smoke and his irritated eyes; through the gaping hole that had formed in the back of the building, Ian swore on his life that he saw HIM. Just for a brief moment.

The next moment, however, he was gone. As if he disappeared with the smoke.

All sorts of emergency vehicles wailed in the distance, but none of the officers were able to hear it clearly. Their auditory senses were assaulted by the horrible screams of their comrade and the roar of the flame from the back of the building.

The group of rioters that ambushed them were all on the ground, writhing in pain from the gunshot wounds that have been inflicted on their arms or legs, but some lay motionless on the ground. It seems, in a twisted version of poetic justice, they had became victim of their own chaos.

The whole building had been engulfed in a ferocious flame. Suffocating smoke slowly began to replace the oxygen in the room.

They needed to get out.

Ian struggled on to his feet, but his eyes landed on a sight he WISHED he hadn't seen. His partner, Sam, was on the ground. He was alive, but with his leg trapped under a wooden support beam, he might not be for long. Without thinking, Ian leapt through the raging fire; he didn't give a damn if he got burnt.

"Ian! Ian, please—" Sam hissed in pain, he kept averting his gaze away from the block of wood trapping his leg.

To avoid burning his palms, Ian took off his suit jacket and used it as a makeshift glove. He grunted as he lifted the wood. It wasn't much, but Sam managed to drag himself from under there. When he was sure his partner's legs were out of harm's way, Ian dropped the support beam and his jacket, which became trapped under the beam.

That's fine, he can always get new jackets.

Ian rushed to his partner's side and grimaced when he saw the pained look on the other man's features.

"Can you stand? Shit, I'm—I'll help you up."

Sam knew that the answer was probably no, but either he forced himself or burn alive. Ian pulled him up by the arm and bit his lower lip when his partner groaned in pain. It must have hurt him terribly. But they both knew they would rather go through the pain than burning alive. So the pair slowly made their way towards the nearest exit.

The main entrance wasn't an option, the front of the building had collapsed and thus blocked their path, the same goes for the back. Their only option was a shattered window.

Detective Hooper knew that that option meant even more pain for his injured leg, but it was his and Ian's only option.

Sam was the first to climb out, fortunately, the fire department had arrived and they helped to pull him out.

Unfortunately, however, the ceiling above them crumbled, thus blocking Ian's path to escape and fresh air.

"Ian! No!" Sam could only watch helplessly in horror as his mind began to think of the worst.

Inside, Ian was just as horrified, but he refused to give up just like that. The whole building could collapse any moment, and if that happened before he got out, it'd mean his star would be displayed alongside all the other deceased officers'.

He wasn't going to let that happen today.

The bespectacled man once again ran through the inferno to reach the opposite side of the building. His once crisp white shirt was now a crinkly mess of ashy gray.

He reached a door, and in his state of urgency went straight for the hot handle. His hand recoiled from the heat and he shouted in pain. He frantically kicked the door down and was grateful when he saw the sky once again. The detective stumbled out and found himself face down on the concrete. He was coughing profusely, trying to get the smoke out of his lungs.

At least he was out, now.

But what about his friends? Where are they? Are they alive?

Detective Nashton struggled to stay conscious. He was put on a stretcher by the paramedics and was given an oxygen tank to aid with his breathing. Though his vision was blurry and out of focus, he could see Sam's figure, also on a stretcher.

Officer Hwang had escaped the building with a few mild burns and a broken arm, which was now wrapped in a makeshift sling. He (foolishly) leapt away from the paramedics that were attending to him and approached the ones that were carrying Ian on the stretcher.

"Hey, is he going to be okay? Are you going to be okay?"

This idiot, Ian thought. Running away from the paramedic while they were treating his broken arm. But Hwang's concern for his teammates was always admirable, so Ian nodded and weakly formed a 'thumbs up' to answer Jeffrey's question.

"Thank goodness. Hey, uh... Cole's already being taken to hospital right now. I hope he's—"

Before Jeffrey could finish, a strong hand slapped him (gently) on his good shoulder. It was one of the paramedics that were treating him.

"Kid, you're a crazy bastard. Just because your legs are fine, doesn't mean you can just run off from me like that. I'm not done treating your arm."

"Sorry, I was just—"

"Concerned about your friend? I know. But... from the looks of it, he'll be fine. Now, come on, you're also injured." The paramedic's tone softened as he led Jeffrey away.

So it seems that his friends had survived. He hoped they could recover nicely without any problems or disfigurement.

The oxygen tank had been removed, but still, he felt lightheaded and faint. It must have been the heat exposure.

Despite his best efforts to stay awake, the detective passed out.

ㅤㅤㅤ

John

Three days after the riot started, everything went well again. There were no sightings of the Revelator and everyone who supported him doesn't even know where he went.

Duh, of course, since John has been hiding outside the area for a while. Blending with the civilians after he finished shaving away his beards, wearing dark contacts every now and then that contrasted his bright colored wigs and makes him look like a clown. And considering everything he had done, it can be concluded that he's, indeed, a goddamn clown.

Three days after the riot started, John knew that the Revelator will always be on the government radar. Best luck is, he could still get a job with his covers, but then again, the main problem was never the government or job to begin with.

It was his kids.

Will they be cool with him after all he had done? Holy fuck, he's having a headache just because of this.

John took a deep breath and decided to shrugs it off. He had another important schedule to attend to.

So imagine a blond man walking into the hospital with a complete suit. Everything from head to toe screaming prince-like aura. His smile never for a second left his face as he greeted the eldery woman with sparkling blue eyes.

John is being that figure right now.

"Visiting a friend, sir?" the nurse asked, perhaps shaving his beard off was doing the job.

"A colleague of mine, actually," he replies, still with his ever-loving smile. A bouquet of tulip in his hands. He's going all out to meet the man he wishes to kill the most.

John peered over the room 714 quietly, his eyes grazing over to see if there's any other visitor at this hour. When he finally decided that the coast is clear, he didn't even bother on knocking., deciding that they will eventually let him in, and that they don't have any power to actually resists his visit. He placed the flower at an empty vase, not bothering on greeting the patients and sat down across the room with his legs crossed.

ㅤㅤㅤ

Ian Nashton

What are the odds that he and his partners would be put in the same hospital ward? Maybe someone told the doctors that they were a team, maybe it was by chance. Either way, Ian was grateful for it. He'd rather see their faces than any other officers.

Sam had his leg in a cast, the doctors told him that he had nothing to worry about and that the leg will heal eventually. He'd be able to walk again.

Jeffrey, aside from a broken arm, had suffered some mild burns on his leg, but it wasn't anything major.

Both Ian and Thomas had inhaled some of the smoke, but out of the four, those two were relatively unscathed. The doctors said that, if their lungs don't become infected, they would be permitted to leave the hospital within a week.

Even if Ian had a burn on his palm and Thomas some minor cuts caused by glass shrapnels on his face.

Ian's parents had called just an hour earlier, turns out they've been watching the news religiously ever since the first attack happened. His mother was in tears when she first spoke to him, despite Ian telling her that he would be fine.

Can't blame a mother for worrying.

The days at the hospital was a stark contrast to the fast paced life he was used to. But aside from the bland food, it wasn't that bad. It felt nice to have a break, somewhat.

But Ian couldn't keep his mind off of the goddamned Revelator. Where is he now? What's his next move? Will they meet again?

Ian had his back turned towards the door, the poor man was trying to catch up on some sleep. When he heard the door open, he thought it'd be one of the nurses. And yet... the footsteps sounded different.

It's not hard to tell people apart just by hearing their footsteps. So he turned in his bed. Ian wasn't wearing his glasses at the time, but he could make out the man's figure. How odd, none of his teammates were expecting any guests, nor do they knew anyone with that shade of blonde hair.

When Ian put his glasses on, he nearly jumped off his hospital bed. The wig and the contacts and the clean shaven face may have fooled other people, but they didn't fool him.

"You! What the hell are you doing here?!"

Sam, who had been asleep, jolted awake due to his partner's sudden raise in tone.

"Ian, what is it? What's the matter?" Sam asked, his voice was still a little groggy. It seems that he hadn't noticed who this visitor was.

"It's him, Sam. The fucking Revelator!" Ian frantically searched through his belongings for something, anything that he could use as a weapon. But the sad reality is, he had nothing.

(No, don't panic, Nashton. Think.)

Hearing the name 'Revelator' made Jeffrey spring up in an upright position, he must've thought: to hell with the arm, the Revelator is here!

"I-I'm gonna call a nurse!" It WAS meant to be a threat, but being defenseless like this, Jeffrey's voice came out small.

"No! Jeff, don't."

Both Sam and Jeffrey looked at their bespectacled comrade as if he had just gone insane, but Ian held a finger up, trying to get himself time to allow him to explain his reasoning.

"If he wanted to murder us, he'd have done it by now. And I don't think he would have bothered with the shitty disguise either. Look at him, he's almost perfectly blending in like a normal civillian. There is no way that he would have gotten past hospital security if he had any weapons on him. And even if he were to try murdering one of us with his bare hands, three of us are able to use our legs to go and get help; this is the seventh floor, he couldn'tjust simply jump out the window to escape, unless he wants to splatter on the concrete below." Detective Nashton sucked air through his teeth before he continued, "John is here for a reason, and that reason ISN'T to finish us off. At least not here, a hospital is too risky for you, isn't it, John?"

Ian peered over his glasses, there was a look of hatred and disgust in his dark eyes as he locked gazes with their 'visitor'.

"Talk, damn you."

ㅤㅤㅤ

John

John smiled, this time it reached his eyes. He was truly amused by the fact the man had spare energy to actually say that. If it were John, he would just say fuck off and went back asleep.

"You're truly bright, detective," he said, "although, you might be wrong on that part. I am willing to jump off the seventh floor. I have nothing to lose, remember?"

John smiled brighter, wider. Interlacing his fingers as his eyes remain fixed to the detective's face. It didn't take long until he was leaning to the chair, comfortably observing the whole room with his sight.

He said, "I was just going to drop by and say sorry for, well, blowing up the building and almost killing y'all," and though, John did say he was sorry, the words were truly unbelievable as his expression didn't hint any single regret.

"And I figured out you might appreciate flowers," he continues, his fingers flicked towards the vase of tulip.

John didn't wait for a single reply before he eventually stands up. Flashing another brief smile to the quartet and head towards the door.

"Good day, officers."

ㅤㅤㅤ

Ian Nashton

How the fuck is Thomas still asleep through all this? The man straight up sleeps like a log.

Ian accepted that he was wrong with one of his deductions, he's aware that it could happen. Ian scoffed at the apology. Even a naïve person wouldn't buy it.

Although... the tulips WERE nice. There's no way that John would have known this was his favourite, right? It must be by chance.

"You? Being sorry? Having guilt? Since when do you feel guilt?! That's gold, John. I didn't know you were such a comedian." Yet Ian Nashton didn't laugh. After all, how could he? The one time John actually answered his question, the man intended to leave again.

"Should have called security..." Jeffrey muttered. The man was terrified, Ian could tell.

"Cut the crap, John. Why are you here? What has that sick little mind of yours planned now, hm? Are you going to blow up this hospital, too? Kill more people? Women, children, the elderly?"

Ian stood up from his bed, but he didn't walk any closer. He supposed if things go bad, an IV stand could be used as a weapon.

"What goes on in that twisted head of yours?"

ㅤㅤㅤ

John

John stopped midtrack before he managed to get out of the room, his eyes darting from the knob towards the raging detective. He could see how mad he is now, he got himself on his feet and IV stand near him. John was super impressed with the man's staying power.

"If you're so curious about it, detective..." John paused.

Then he walked closer, not minding the glare which has probably been shot at his stature. Only when he was inches away from the man he stopped, smiling at Nashton with what it seems to be a mischievous look across his mien.

He stared at the man for a moment before bringing his hands to the other's cheeks, again, not minding the completely fumed look thrown at him from all sides as he leans his head closer, until their foreheads rest against each others. His thumb running along the curve of Nashton's cheekbone down to his jaw, before he pressed his lips against the other's.

And there wasn't anything passionate about it. It was soft and slow, and it wasn't a kiss filled with hunger or primal instinct. It was just a platonic, almost like how a mother kisses her child.

John pulled back, his fingers haven't left the man's cheeks as he said, "I've been thinking how cute you look whenever you're mad."

He turned his heels away, smirking at himself over the things he had done, and the thing he just did.

Then he left.

ㅤㅤㅤ

Ian Nashton

When John started to walk closer, Ian took an instinctive step back. Was he going to be strangled again?

They were right in front of each other. And even though John was wearing coloured contacts, there still was that fierceness in his his eyes.

No observation or deductive skill could have prepared Ian for the contact. Ian couldn't stop the small gasp when he felt the other's hand on his face.

Hey, they felt cold.

But it was different from the first time. It was uncharacteristically gentle, yet firm; as opposed to rough and brutal. It sent a shiver down the detective's spine.

"Let go, you crazy—"

Before the detective could finish his sentence, the crazy bastard had pressed their lips together. Right then and there, his mind went into a panic, yet his body froze, and his eyes were wide open.

What. The. Fuck.

When John finally pulled away, the detective was still so confused that he couldn't push the other man away or retaliate in any way. All he did was sit back down on the edge of his bed with the same dumbfounded expression as he watched John walk away.

When the door closed, Ian exchanged glances with Jeffrey and Sam, who looked surprised and horrified, respectively.

After what felt like an eternity of silent glances, Jeffrey finally cleared his throat and broke the silence. He was probably trying to lighten up the situation as well, as he usually did. "Well... uh... god's joke went a bit too far."

"Shut up, Jeffrey. Oh, fuck. Let's... let's pretend that never happened. Let's pretend, that we all had the same nightmare."

Ian slowly laid back down on his bed and stared up at the white ceiling.

But he knew, no matter how many times he'll tell himself, what just happened, actually happened.

He can't forget it.

Detectives rarely forget.

#deus det nobis suam pacem #4 #tw: blood #tw: gun #tw: graphic content #tw: violence

[enviromancomic]

The Gardner

It was a beautiful sunny morning and the gardner took a deep breath of fresh air as he knelt down to do a bit of weeding and tidying up.  Pluck, pluck, pull and pull he proceeded.  It was a day to do so as it had been raining lately and the ground was nice and soft.  A big grin on his face was evident as progress was moving like a knife through butter.  Reaching a little deeper into the bed as our plant man grabbed for another bunch of unwanted growth he looked up quickly with an unsure expression. That expression turned quickly towards the realization that he had been hit. Fuck! Mother Fucker! AHHHHH!!! He screamed as he bolted down the back forty and up to the garage holding his arm. SON of  A Bitch! I haven’t been stung for a long time, he said as he paraded and bombasted his way up and down the driveway holding the throbbing appendage.  Jesus that effen hurts worse than fat free ice cream! The gardner blurted out as he started to recover a bit from the temporary insanity that had been inflicted by what must have been one massive bee.  He figured it had to have been the size of a small school bus to cause this much distress.  Afterall he was a tough and rugged outdoorsman (oh wait….outdoors person.  Must keep the garden gender neutral).

The holding of the arm now more of a soothing rub the gardner tentatively made his way back to the sight of the attack.  The pace of the anger fueled walk slowed as he rounded the bend and came ever so close to where the calm of the morning began.  Strewn weeds lay discarded on the lawn, he looked.  The wind blew and a  gnat circled his ear which almost sent him right back down the driveway.  Once you are hit with a bee sting you think everything that moves is coming for you. Peeking a little closer there was one wasp patrolling the area.  The winged creature with dangling legs spotted the intruder and turned towards him readying for act two.  Our gardner stepped back dropping a few more f bombs to make himself seem tough even though he was prepared for the 40 yard dash if needed.  Deciding to retreat the gardner made his way to the kitchen for some ice and anti itch cream.

The next day our gardener walked back to the area of the scene of the crime and looked around to see if there might be some sort of nest.  Yellow caution tape would have been appropriate , but there was enough wasp inflicted fear still lingering in his mind. Huh?  He said. I don’t see anything coming from anywhere. It must have just been a one off coincidence.  Continuing on to look to see if the daylilies by the back fence had started to bloom he passed.  Through the gate and around. Nope. Prob still a few days off he said as he made his way back through the gate. Walking past the sting site once again our gardner definitely felt a little more tentative than usual and picked up the pace as he swatted at the breeze brushing up against his ear. Running down the driveway when the wind blows is chapter 2 in the tough guy manual.   A few days had gone by now and our plant guy was out in his domain once again.  He felt pretty good today and his memory of the insect invasion had all but left his mind.  Rounding the corner he stood point blank in front of the scene.  Nice! The Cosmo that I transplanted last week looks pretty happy.  He said with confidence and a hint of cockiness. From the corner of his eye he saw a winged creature entering his air space. He was back to normal  as he was an outdoors person and real gardener and nature’s creatures were ok with him.  His confidence was back.  He wasn’t gonna budge. In what seemed like slow motion he watched the insect come in and make a graceful landing on his arm. Before he thought “OH NO!” he was hit for the second time and running down the driveway yet again! Son of a Bitch! I can’t effen believe it! Twice in one week! What the fuck! The gardner now turned runner expelled as he bolted down the usual driveway grabbing his upper arm this time. Now doing circles in front of the garage our tough guy bit his lip in an effort to numb the shooting pain that was enveloping his arm. A bit more used to the reaction this time he screamed one more obscenity before launching into a somewhat sanity lacking laugh.  Haha….doesn’t hurt this time you long legged bastard. He blurted out in an ill fated attempt to protect his manhood.  There must be a nest! There has to be.  There is no way. Twice in one week in the same area.  There has to be. He thought.  Making his way back to the rough part of the garden he crossed the proverbial other side of Tiger Lillies. Now deep in wasp part of town he gazed left right and around. Not a flying creature in sight. Oh come on.  There has to be a nest. He said. Huh? Beats me.  He said as he went inside to ice up his second wound.

The following week our gardner rounded the bend past the Tiger Lillies to the other part of the garden once again. Just a tad of reluctance, he surveyed the area. Looks pretty good. Things are growing nicely. He said as he continued his morning rounds. Damn. That friggin dragonfly garden stake has tipped again. It always does that he said  as he reached in to straighten it for the millionth time this season. With a firm pull he righted the garden stake and then pushed down in an attempt to keep this ornament in place.  A burning sensation was now coursing through his wrist as our genius gardner had been stung for the third time. As the venom coursed an F bomb followed with the throwing of said garden stake and an exit to you guessed it the driveway where recovering sting victims go to lament how a bug could bring  them to their knees.  This time he retreated right to the kitchen for the ice pack.  Ice pack gracing the third sting site he said, “There is no way there is not a nest there! There fucking has to be!! I must figure this out. I must make the garden great again! MGGA! 

His adrenaline flowing he marched back out there towards the scene of the repeated ego dissipation. Past the Tiger Lillies he went. The gardener looked with a bit more anger than he previously had. The MGGA rally had fueled his garden rage. He looked left, he looked right.  Nothing. Huh? He said with some disgust. In his disgust he looked down at the garden stake laying on the ground. It had landed about 8 feet away.  It lay upside down. Its face planted within the grass. He chuckled a bit at the humor of the whole situation. Mid laugh he happened to see a wasp fly out of the back of the head of the garden stake. No shit! They were in the garden stake the whole time. No wonder they kept hooking me up!  I was literally knocking their house around. He said with a bit of relief because at least he had figured out the mystery.  He continued to look in the direction of the stake as he could not just leave it in the middle of the lawn. What would he do?  Should he nuke them?  After all they stung him three times! He thought about it for sure , but decided that they are nature’s creatures and belonged in the garden especially given the recent decline in bee population. Ok. I must put the stake back somehow. How would I do that? he said. He pondered a few minutes as he walked towards the driveway of retreat. Ohhh….how about I take the mosquito net from my bed? I could wrap myself in it and then I will be safe from getting stung. 

He marched himself upstairs with zest. He was determined. He removed the net from the bed and proceeded outside.  He placed the net over himself and pulled it tight. Securing it with zip ties he felt confident. It was cinched quite tightly around his legs.  This made walking more like a comical waddle. He waddled over to the stake and gingerly picked it up. He moved over to the area where it belonged and ever so carefully placed it back in the ground. Before he could finish  the wasps began to show themselves. He continued nervously as the wasps swarmed a bit. Just as he finished he felt the all to familiar pain.  He was hit! But how? The net! He attempted to run but the net was too tight.  He waddled with an erratic speed around to the good side of the garden. He was hit again! Ahhhh! He screamed. He waddled faster to the driveway of retreat.  His legs rotating in an erratic shuffle in an attempt to get away. His arms flailing inside the net. Smacking himself in the face he yelled, How did they get in! They have infiltrated the system. He screamed again. His erratic shuffle had come to a crashing halt as he fell to the black top. A group of kids had gathered and were of course now filming. Look at this loser he overheard them say. We are so going to upload this they continued. We are going viral with this moron. He had fallen in what was now labeled the driveway of shame. He was a Youtube star for all the wrong reasons.

Tommy Mic

#i hate wasps #garden funny story

[centaurianthropology]

Non-Supernatural TMA Episode Descriptions

I tried my hand writing brief descriptions of each of the episodes with all supernatural influences removed, and the results amused me.  They also made me realize that, sans the supernatural, the TMA universe is one where exterminators and mental health professionals have to be in HUGE demand.

Anyway, I posted my silly summaries here, for this is a trash post, and I am a trash poster.

SEASON 1

Man wisely does not give drunk creeper in an alley a cigarette.

Man makes a deal with a smuggler while high.  Ends up babysitting a box for months.  Uses it as a coffee table.

The dude across the street has psych issues, and should probably invest in some curtains.

Man buys incredibly valuable book in a thrift store!  Too bad he can’t read Latin.

Trash collectors see some really weird shit.

Man overreacts to finding out his one-night-stand had an STD.  Burns his sheets.  Burns his bed.  Burns his apartment.

War is hell.

Builder takes hallucinations out on a tree.

Turns out, being the child of a serial killer fucks you up.

Homeless man has violent delusions.  Also can guess your age very accurately.

Depressed man has some fucked up dreams.  Could benefit from Sertraline.

Working A&E at Christmas is the worst.  

Several reasons why you shouldn’t drive after your fiancé’s funeral.

Vengeance, criminal discovers, is a double-edged sword.

Spelunking with your sister is all fun and games until someone PLAYS THAT KNOCKING-ON-MY-HELMET PRANK ONE MORE FUCKING TIME, ALENA!

Anxious man should probably put the exterminator on speed dial.  And get therapy.

Man discovers fanfiction, and is forever scarred.

Upstairs neighbor’s dramatic failure in basic sanitation makes selling a flat challenging.

The Catholic Church should have better mental health oversight for its employees

The Catholic Church should have better mental health oversight for its employees II: Ecclesiastic Boogaloo

Skydiving instructor dies while on the ground.  Irony.

Martin’s apartment is infested, but he fails to call the landlord.  Wonders why the problem persists.

Victorian ideas of entertainment often involved graveyards.  Why?  Because Victorians were morbid fuckers who liked posing with their dead relatives and taking photos.

Being a shitty boyfriend to the granddaughter of a carnie was, on reflection, a poor choice.

Roommate finds a new church and can’t shut up about it.

Sasha makes a new friend, and nothing bad happens ever.

Old man’s grief not well understood or supported.

Ghost hunting show finds no ghosts.

This is your brain.  This is your brain on gambling.

Why slaughter houses have such a high rate of turnover.

Hunting is not as glamorous as man imagined it would be.

Woman has breakdown about bugs.  At this point, there should be a support group for all these people.

The challenges of being a woman in a male-dominated industry.

The worst part about teaching is the students.

Builders discover a historically significant area bricked off in the basement.  Owners don’t want to pay for restoration.

Funeral home director finds nursing homes depressing and creepy.

Man discovers ritual space in the woods, proceeds to accidentally wreck it.  Would probably be upset if someone did the same to his church.

Forgetful man blames a vase.

Martin’s little bug problem spreads to his place of work, because THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU DON’T TELL YOUR LANDLORD ABOUT THESE ISSUES, MARTIN.

Sasha and Elias call an exterminator.  Problem solved.  Everyone learns a valuable lesson, and NOTHING BAD HAPPENS EVER.

SEASON 2

Following the bug incident, Sims takes long walks to clear his head.  This does not work as well as anyone hoped.

The most metal band in London.

The police see some weird shit.

Small child finds the circus traumatic.

Medical research team fails to follow HIPPA regulations.  Is shut down.

Antiquarian bookseller sells things to weird guy.  Makes a new friend.

Estate agent stalked by guy with large hands.  

Traveling alone has its pros and cons.

PI should have called in the police when he discovered mob ties in his most recent case.

Petty architectural rivalries in Regency England.

Scuba team hopes to find valuables in wrecked ship.  Finds Nothing.

Prison guard is a dick.

Man visiting Egypt does not understand cultural differences.

Very cheerful IRS agent unphased by taxidermist.  Makes a new friend.

Landlord fails to take care of infestation plaguing tenants.  Maybe this was why no one bothers calling when these things happen.

Homeless man continues to have violent delusions.  Might need to join the traumatized-by-bugs support group.

Astronaut is the loneliest man … in the world.

All these problems could have been avoided with a walkthrough for Oregon Trail.

The foster system needs reforms, reason #8462.

Paranoid personality disorder in two acts.

#The Magnus Archives #this is a trash post #and I am a trash poster

[paranoidpopsicles]

The One With the Magic

This is a thing that started when I was reading a story idea from - maybe it was porcelain-blue? About Eren working in weapons & equipment store and sewing enchantments into Levi’s things. Maybe there will be more. Maybe not. But I sure had a lot of fun writing this :)

(Sidenote: how the fuck does anyone do anything on tumblr, it keeps lagging and formatting is kind of a pain, geez.)

-

Everything is sore and heavy and ouch. Levi isn’t sure where he is. He cracks one eye open and immediately snaps it shut against the sun. A moment later, he feels something block the light and warmth - he squints again, recoiling when Hanji is this close to his face. 

“Fucking - what are you doing?”

“He’s alive!” they call, ignoring him.

He grumbles - of course he’s alive, why wouldn’t he be, and Hanji glances down at him.

“You don’t remember?”

He jerks back as they begin to press fingers against his head, and pain blooms anew as they settle punishingly over his right temple.

“Shit, get off.”

Hanji frowns, but takes his hand and pulls him to his feet. Damn, his entire right side feels like a dragon has taken a bite out of him. When he says this out loud, Hanji laughs.

“Well, it certainly tried.”

Their battle mage, Petra, has joined them now, and she pulls at his jacket.

“Take this off, let’s see what the damage is.” 

“I’m fine, Petra,” he grumbles.

“You shouldn’t be. Off.” She gives another sharp tug to the hem of his jacket that sends a sharp pain through his right shoulder, and he grudgingly agrees that maybe - maybe he’s a little more injured than he feels.

This suspicion is only confirmed when Levi moves to take a step forward and drops gracelessly instead, right leg trembling. There is a communal sigh - Levi’s in annoyance, Hanji and Petra’s in relief - and Levi pulls out of his jacket and hands it to Hanji so Petra can take a look at his side.

It’s then, with Petra’s fingers probing his body and Hanji chattering away as they stand by, that Levi takes stock of his surroundings.

There are a few massive treetops that have been ripped from their trunks, and shards and splinters of wood are everywhere. The other members of his unit are scattered around; Gunter and Eld, his archers, are helping remove larger splinters from Oluo’s back and legs, and one of his trainees, Marco, seems to have broken his left arm and dislocated the shoulder. He sees Mike and Nanaba, and their units, spreading through the trees to check for any wandering Moss Folk or Landvættir who have wandered over to investigate the mess.

And, cradled by four large, broken trees, is the dragon that should have, by all rights, eaten Levi.

“Motherfucking - Ow, Petra,” Levi snaps as she presses into what he’s sure now is a broken rib. She gives him a stern look.

“Stop being a baby, Captain.”

It takes another hour for Petra to finish healing Levi to the point where he can stand unaided - every time he begins shifting impatiently she huffs and reminds him that she is a battle mage. This is not what she does, and if he would avoid getting injured (or, Hanji adds, if he would just let himself get eaten), this wouldn’t be necessary.

His eyes are watching the woods the entire time, waiting for the native creatures to start creeping out again, but they do not. Mike and Nanaba and their units have returned with nothing to report. Levi is uneasy - a quiet forest is a deadly one, but the dragon has only been dead for two hours.

By the time Petra has finished, the birds have started chattering again, and Levi has spotted four squirrels. His shoulders slump and he lets out a breath.

“So,” Hanji starts as they pull him up by his left arm. “How much did these cost you?”

Levi looks at them, confused, and they shake his jacket out. He eyes the inside with interest now - it’s glowing, what the fuck - and they continue, “Or did you have Petra do them for you? Petra, I’m jealous! Your protection spells have gotten so good!” Petra turns from across the clearing, where she is kneeling over a particularly nasty shard of wood sticking out of Oluo’s leg, and squints at Hanji.

“Nuh uh, not mine.”

Hanji turns back to Levi, eyebrows waggling and a grin spreading across their face. “Your girlfriend must be a pretty strong hand at charms, then. 

Levi is still frowning, confused, as he thumbs the stitching on the lining of his jacket and says, “I don’t have a girlfriend, Hanji.” Hanji grins wickedly.

“I didn’t think so either, but if you didn’t pay for these or get them from Petra, someone out there is awfully invested in your safe return.” 

That’s the last they speak of it, for a while, because Mike calls them over and they get to work disposing of the dragon’s body.

It’s grimy, backbreaking work; the dragon is hardly small, and they hack at it haphazardly to remove the claws and teeth for Hanji before burning the flesh. Every scout grabs a few bones - dragon bones, after all, are the best ward against Druden, the nasty fuckers - before they mount up and ride out of the forest.

When they camp for the night, Levi changes out of his clothes and gear, and takes note of every glowing enchantment glyph - an amount that is frankly alarming and would have cost Levi more money than he has ever seen in his life. He runs his fingers along each of the careful stitches that have been masterfully hidden in places he wouldn’t expect: inside the cuffs of his sleeves, along the leather that fastens the buckle fixtures on his gear, stitched to hide in the inseams of his pants.

He cannot for the life of him figure out where they have come from. 

“Maybe they aren’t for protection at all, maybe someone is cursing you.” Hanji is theorizing noisily next to him, chewing with her mouth open (uhg), while Oluo finishes placing the protection wards around their camp.

(They’re not expecting another dragon or anything, but neglecting the wards is like inviting Elwedritschen wandering by to eat their food and sneak into their packs and tents.) 

Levi hums a noncommittal noise. “There are easier ways to get rid of me. Like, I don’t know, letting a dragon take a massive bite, for one.” Hanji nods their agreement.

“That’s true.”

Mike walks by and Levi rises, following to help him pitch the tents. They work in silence for a while, feeling the crisp autumn setting in. It is the end of summer - dragon season, the last dash before winter hibernation and six months of safety. Levi is thankful that, here at least, there are no ice dragons to torment them in the winter. Mike’s low voice breaks his train of thought.

“D’you take your stuff to Eren?”

Levi glances over as he ties off one of the bottom straps of the tent to a stake he’s pushed into the ground. “Who?” 

“The equipment shop I told you about - Eren is the kid who handles all the repairs. Materials mage. Good one too.” Mike grunts as a stake comes out of the ground, and Levi grabs the straps while Mike fixes it back into the ground.

“Oh.” Levi stands, brushes his clothes off. “How’d you know?” Mike towers over him with a crooked grin.

“I’ve paid my own pretty penny for his protection charms. Best you can get around here.”

They’re quiet for a moment. 

“I thought Hannes owns that shop? What’s he doing with a mage there?”

Mike nods. “He does. He’s edging on retirement soon though, wants to go spend time with his wife and their grandchildren. ‘S planning on leaving the store with Eren, I suppose.”

Levi is more confused than he was before - there’s a name now, but no face.

It isn’t until he’s lying in his bedroll, listening to Hanji snore, that he remembers the kid who had scrambled from the back when Hannes had called. There are no vivid details, but he remembers the boy seemed ordinary enough. Too ordinary to be a skilled materials mage. Plain clothes, messy hair, tall (but isn’t anyone, in comparison to him?).

What Levi does remember now is the way the boy had stopped dead as soon as he saw Levi, and the shy smile that had spread across his face when Levi had dropped by to pick up his things. He had placed them gingerly on the counter, glancing over as Levi paid Hannes and listened to the shopkeeper talk about his children. Levi wasn’t even sure he’d noticed, at the time.

He makes a solemn promise to look for the boy - Eren - next time; his gear is a wreck, anyways. He needs to get it repaired again.

#ereri #aot #attack on titan #snk #shingeki no kyojin #fanfic #drabble #my writing #fantasy au #just dickin around #riren #I'm new here #be nice please? #porcelain-blue

[zulghen]

Lord of the Hunt (#3)

The trees moved. The sound of something being dragged through leaves. A blurry vision was all Zulghen had. No movement possible for his arms, and he felt like something was pulling his legs. Slowly, his senses went back to normal, and a more clear version of the situation came to him. He was being dragged by an orc woman, with his hands and feet tied. The appearance of his captor was fairly common, except for her bald head and eyepatch. Her dark green skin mixed with the trees and leaves, making it even harder for Zulghen to figure out what he was up against.

The woman struggled to carry him, letting out grunts and huffs as she went through the bushes and short trees. He saw his fel glaive on her back, as well as his throwing knives around her arm, as if they were her own now. How arrogant.

He didn’t have much of a choice except for to scare her, to show who she was dealing with. He was a shadow hunter, after all! A feared foe! He called for Shango’s aid, summoning an uncontrolled storm around his arms that quickly called for the orc’s attention. She let go of her captive troll, turning around and drawing a sword pointed towards him.

“What...So you’re one of those?! That explains how you were able to take down Chika!” She yelled in a typical orcish voice. Loud and annoying.

The lightning was released, causing the rope to light on fire, weakening it enough for the troll to spread his arms and be freed. He quickly used his tusks to cut the rope around his ankles and stand up, cleaning himself and not giving the woman even a single look with his casual mocking air.

“What a foccin’ mess. Mah shit be all dirteh now…”

She enraged, charging at Zulghen with her sword back, trying to swing it openly towards his neck, failing miserably as the shadow hunter stepped forward and grabbed her by the arm, throwing the orc to the opposite side of the direction of her charge. She hit a fallen log, letting go of her sword as the troll appeared to be standing still.

As she reached for her weapon, a blue foot stomped her hand against the ground, and as she looked up to meet his crimson gaze, a punch was thrown to her chin. It stunned her enough for Zulghen to loot his glaive and knives from her, equipping himself fully now. She spoke out when recovered from the blow.

“ARGH! Come here, you fucker! ‘M gonna kick your ass so hard that you will never be able to fuck your wooden pole again, MOTHERFUCKER!”

Zulghen simply stared her down, quiet. Should he kill her or...Oh wait, she was crying? That halted his judgment for a minute, trying to see if those were -real- tears.

“You...you killed her...Chika...YOU MONSTER! ARGH, COME HERE!”

She threw herself at him without a plan, allowing the troll to just step out of the way and let her trip alone.

“AAAAAAARGH! SHE...She was my only friend...She understood me. AND YOU’VE KILLED HER! You’ve taken her from me…”

She didn’t even stood up, she only stayed on the ground, crying desperately. Zulghen was completely indifferent to her whining. He cared little for the orc or her gorilla, and just wanted to find his prey.

“Why did ya not kill me when I was out? Sounds like ya los’ a big chance tah stay alive.” He said in a harsh tone while crossing his arms

“I...” She continued to cry, sniffing her nose as well. “Wanted to kill in a more painful way. BECAUSE THAT’S WHAT YOU DESERVE, FUCKING RA-”

“Stop yellin’, for Loa’s sake. We in the middle o’ a jungle. All the predators now where we are now an’...Wait. Why the focc’ am I talkin’ tah ya?” He pondered for a moment before shrugging it off and walking away.

“NO. YOU WILL PA-”

The orc’s line was cut by a bitter sound. Her head was now engulfed by none other than Isithunzi’s maw. She was now united with Chika in the afterlife, for in this plane, her corpse faced the ground as if it was nothing. The troll jumped back, staring at the scene with wide eyes. Such an attack meant that this beast was more than just a target. It was an opponent.

Isithunzi turned its head towards Zulghen, staring him down with a pair of glowing orange eyes that gave him an unnatural sensation, as if his spirit was being judged. The two started to walk to opposite sides, forming a circle in the little open space that jungle provided. Isithunzi was a veteran hunter, and dealt the first blow. A pounce towards the troll neck could be enough to finish the fight, but Zulg was also a seasoned warrior. He brought up his fel glaive with the middle handle between his head and its claws, throwing the beast towards his back as the weapon connected. A strong willed animal like that wouldn’t give up so easily, and soon a mangle was attempted by Isithunzi at the shadow hunter’s arm, which successfully landed, giving Zulghen’s arm blood painting. However, that was the perfect opportunity for him, and as the panther opened its guard with the strike, he managed to slice through the front of its maw, causing no blood to drip, but a loud, unnatural roar from his opponent.

The attacks were halted. A burning stare was fired towards the troll, as well as teeth baring. Almost as if challenging him and taking the lead, Isithunzi sprinted into the jungle, giving Zulghen a primal, uncontrollable need, to follow it.

The game had begun.

#Zulghen #shadowtusk clan #shadow hunter #stranglethorn

[thefarlefchronicles]

Farlef Chronicles Episode 4 - The Farlefhymenning

This chapter is dedicated to Spotify and its creation of the exclusive Farlef Chronicles Playlist.

https://open.spotify.com/user/227f24h5jhnr6y6v6zhnfudsy/playlist/22y0Yqx1Ruj22k9TdJItbF

Previously on The Farlef Chronicles, HOLY FUCK WHAT THE FUCK, FUCK ME SIDEWAYS HOLY SHIT FUCK BALLS FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK EVERYONE'S DEAD FUCK ME. FIRE.

Current - December 25, 2016 2:21 A.M. at Farlef and John's Apartment in Spokane         

      After riding all night along US-395 N southbound they finally made it to Spokane, the upper echelon of Deer Park,Washington. As Farlef, his wheelchair bound dad, his brother John and his brother's girlfriend Sarah rode in silence wondering what they just witnessed and why it happened, they were all waiting for Farlef's Dad to finally get out of his own personal flashback after he declared it all started in 1941. In his blank daze all they could do was now stare at their Christopher Reeve acting father and wonder what images danced in his head. It couldn't of been of sugar plums dancing in his head cause he called them the fruit of the faggot and banished him from his home every Christmas. No what was going on through Farlef's Dad's head was much more barbaric and erotic.

  As John was driving towards his apartment in his Bitchin Brubaker Box he decided to address everyone in the car.

  "Farlef, this seems like the type of shit you and dad deal with, I never in the past wanted to know what you two did, I figured I let Bigones be bygones

 but now that Sarah is involved I am too. Whatever you two need, you can count on me."  

     "John I really don't give a shit, don't involve me in this" Sarah declared as she wondered what was on tv to watch.

     Farlef was shocked that his brother was willing to join them in whatever came next. He had heard tales of John's time down in the Congo as a member of the Peace Corps and how it turned bad. No one heard from his group for 4 months then one day on a small raft made of human bodies, not corpses, actual living bodies sewed together to make a raft he reappeared. He said nothing of the experience and no one asked any questions.

    "Glad to count on you bro, I have no idea what is about to happen but if they willing to burn down our town, try to kill us and somehow involve Justine in all this it seems like a bigger conspiracy then either of us could of imagined."     

John pulled his Bitchin Brubaker Box into the parking lot that was outside his apartment.

       "When Dad wakes up from his stupor, our lives will probably change. Not for the better, its never for the better when he goes on his rants but either way we are in this together. Now get Dad off the roof and I will see you inside" John said as he ran inside to avoid the rain.

     As Farlef was dragging his father up the stairs the back of his wheelchair popped open revealing a  secret compartment in his wheelchair. The back had a false backing and inside was many moose tranquilizers, moose pheromones, a selfie with a bear and a scroll that was thousands of years old written in menstrual deer blood on human skin named  'Ponere cervis auritosque Mailman et nuntiavit autem custos arrhabonem'. As he tried to say the words a loud his father woke from his stupor 

     "THE STAG, THE MAILMAN AND THE KEEPER OF THE PAWN" Farlef's died cried out startling Farlef.

    "Dad are you ok, you been passed out for over 3 hours since we fled Deer Park" Farlef exclaimed.

      “What are you going on about, got too much gay in your ears, this entire time I was explaining the deep rooted history of the war with the moose, how it happened, why it happened, fuck don't you two cock mongrels listen to anything. Always on your fancy pocket porn doohickeys and jerking off to Asian Bestiality Necrophilia porn. Fucking weirdos, back in my day we sneak into the forest during mating season and watch bears fuck to get our jolly's off. Sure it was risky, a bear in heat will fuck anything. If I had known that once that bear penetrated me and snapped my spin in two that I would never walk again I would have had the decency to go to the Deer Park Sperm Bank and made a deposit and hope to one day spread my seed again in hopes of getting a masculine son that was straight cause at the moment I can't feel any pain except the pain of knowing my sons are homosexuals." He bellowed out as Farlef brought him into John's apartment while Sarah came out of their bathroom and went to the bedroom she and john shared heterosexually pretending she heard nothing as usual.        

      "Dad you literally were about to explain what happened, said it all started in 1941, then went into some weird coma so we tied you to the roof of John's bitchin Brubaker Box and got the fuck out of Dodge”

     "Why where we in Dodge? We were in Deer Park, our precious holy land, burned to the ground"

         "Getting out of Dodge is just an expression and it turns out Deer Park was not burned down. The Moose used CGI to fake everything except our house burning down, that was real. They are sophisticated mother fuckers"       "You mean my antique collection of pharaoh pubic hairs are gone. I don't have a reason to live" Exclaimed Farlef's father. 

  Unbeknownst to Farlef and his brother, while their father had his 47th life crisis, they where going through his things and found charts and maps explaining the centuries long feud between Deer and Moose.

 "I’ll be right back I need to Back the bus out of the garage " Farlef said.

   "What?" John replied.

   "I need to Balance The Budget"

    "?"

    "I need to bomb the porcelain sea"

   "Seriously what are you going on about"

" I need to chop some butt wood, go colon bowlin', Dispense some soft serve, Drop Anchor, Fertilize the Ferns, Give back that Corn, Got to put one on the Radar, Ignite a Rectal Rocket, Log into the toilet and make a huge download,  Pinch a Stink Pickle, Release the Chocolate Hostages, ya know Montezuma's Revenge"

  "Farlef I have no idea what the fuck your rambling about"”

   "I NEED TO SHIT JOHN, I WAS TRYING TO BE DISCRETE"

 "Oh why didn't you say something, you could of just said you needed to get a Stranglehold on a Darkie"

"Hot peppers have killed all that I love And what I loved was an asshole that didn't burn like the great fire of chicago" Farlef declared as he left the bathroom.

He felt like Johnny Cash cause his asshole was a Burning Ring of Fire. After thoroughly destroying yet another bathroom, a record 13 he walked into a sight he had no words to describe.

"I was gone for 15 minutes reading a nice article bout bay window decor in Good Housekeeping and this is what I return to. First off Dad, what in the fuck are you doing"

   "I AIN'T GOT A REASON TO LIVE BOY, I COULD ONLY DEAL WITH YOU NANCY BOYS WITH MY VINTAGE PHARAOH PUBIC HAIRS. PAPI MADE THE PAWN OF A LIFETIME FOR THEM. I GOT NOTHING" he yelled as he swung there, his neck too fat to choke himself.

And John, what the fuck is happening here"

    "ITS ALL CONNECTED FARLEF, IT ALL MAKES SENSE. DAD IS A RAVING HOMOPHOBIC, RACIST, PARAPLEGIC, CAN'T FEEL ANYTHING IN HIS LEGS BUT THE FEELING OF KNOWING HIS SON IS A HOMOSEXUAL NO MATTER HOW MUCH HE TRIES EVEN THROWING HIMSELF DOWN A FLIGHT OF STAIRS TO ELICIT A REACTION OF PAIN BUT THE ONLY PAIN HE FEELS IS KNOWING HIS SON IS A HOMOSEXUAL OF A MAN BUT HE IS RIGHT. ITS ALL ABOUT THE MOOSE. ONE SPECIFIC MOOSE, PEPE SILVIA" he exclaimed as he took another drag of his cigarette.

 "In the name of the Mailman, The Papi and the Holy Stag" Farlef prayed to himself. 

   His brother was right, so was his RAVING HOMOPHOBIC, RACIST, PARAPLEGIC, CAN'T FEEL ANYTHING IN HIS LEGS BUT THE FEELING OF KNOWING HIS SON IS A HOMOSEXUAL NO MATTER HOW MUCH HE TRIES EVEN THROWING HIMSELF DOWN A FLIGHT OF STAIRS TO ELICIT A REACTION OF PAIN BUT THE ONLY PAIN HE FEELS IS KNOWING HIS SON IS A HOMOSEXUAL OF A MAN SO HE STABS HIMSELF IN THE LEG WITH A KNIFE TO FEEL ANY PAIN BUT THE ONLY PAIN HE FEELS IS KNOWING HIS SON IS A HOMOSEXUAL NOW HE HAS A KNIFE STICKING OUT OF HIS LEG THAT HE DOESN'T FEEL ANY PAIN IN EXCEPT THE PAIN OF KNOWING HIS SON IS A HOMOSEXUAL SO HE TAKES ANOTHER KNIFE TO JIMMY THE FIRST KNIFE OUT OF HIS LEG BUT YET HE STILL FEELS NO PAIN EXCEPT THE PAIN OF KNOWING HIS SON IS A HOMOSEXUAL, NOW WITH TWO KNIVES STUCK IN HIS LEGS HE CAN'T FEEL father. The moose where behind everything. 

"Dad you need to tell us everything, how this began, why its happening, we need answers"

 "I TOLD YOU ON THE RIDE UP HERE, CLEAN YOUR EARS OUT AND STOP THINKING BOUT CHANNING TATUM FOR 2 GOD DAMNED MINUTES." He yelled still swaying from the ceiling. 

  As both brothers stood their in a daze thinking bout Channing Tatum and his luscious body, his father went on to tell the tale of the greatest story never told except when he is drinking and on the drive up and to a young girl the one year he played Santa Claus at Reindeer Festival in '98 where they sawed reindeer horns shorter so they looked like regular deer.

  "Do you unorganized grabastic pieces of amphibian shit want to know the full story or just the cliff notes cause I don't got all fucking day. Now you slimy little communist shit twinkle toed cock-suckers cut me down, I gotta restock the pond with brown trout"   Not even 2 minutes after cutting their father down and watching him struggle to roll to the bathroom they heard a loud crash.

   “Fucking weak fucking ceiling can't even hold a fucking grown man's weight and his fucking wheelchair, good for nothing spic labor, Trump was right, build the fucking wall and make them pay for it. Sad part is they probably make it as shitty as your ceiling and first breeze rolls in the wetbacks would watch it fall over and then just get across" Farlef's dad muttered from the floor.

  "Ok queerbait and friend, story time, gather round the campfire" Farlef's dad said as he started a campfire in John's living room.

  "You want the whole story or the short version for your ADHD riddled minds" he asked.

"The beginning dad" they both said.

   "Ok I remember emerging from darkness, light blinding me. I was scared. I had emerged from nothing into this new world. A man in white was holding me and your grandmother and grandfather were there. I was naked and covered in blood"

"What the fuck you going on about" John yelled.

"You said from the beginning, I am starting with my birth, where was I? Ah yes I was crying for deer life, not knowing where I was or whence I came but every sight, sound, smell was new and exotic"

"Jesus fucking christ Dad tell us about the war, oh my God" Farlef said with disgust and mild intrigue.

"Fine for fucks sake, I asked if you wanted the long or short version ok, here we go……. We went on vacation to Moose Lake, Wisconsin, fucked shit up and now they hate us" Farlef's dad said as he took a puff of his deer shape pipe.

"OH MY GOD YOU HANDICAPPED OLD FUCK, ALL YOUR STORIES ARE LIKE THIS, EITHER WAY TO DETAILED OR YOU JUST MUTTER OFF A SENTENCE. FUCK. JUST TELL US THE STORY OF WHAT YOU DID AND WITH WHO TO PISS OFF THE MOOSE THAT AFTER ALL THESE YEARS THEY WANT YOU DEAD."

"Fine" he said as his eyes started glassing over, getting ready for another flashback.

    It was the summer of 1969. I was a young man, strong, smart, handsome, single with the legs of a Kenyan sprinter. Beautiful Adonis like legs, sculpted from marble. Hips that could crack a cinderblock between them and thighs that when they rubbed together started forest fires. If I wore shorts, panties hit the floor so hard it cracked concrete. My legs were so magnificent that it caused young men to hit puberty and women to ovulate. The population of Deer Park skyrocketed that summer when I came around.     

   Next was my brother from another Italian gangster mother, Sam. God Sam was a beautiful man. He was part James Dean, part Burt Reynolds and all sex. His nipples were the size of quarters, perfect. His ass was two handfuls of glory and his crotch was so astounding that he had to have custom cloths made to accommodate his Italian Stallion. I still remember when I could still walk we would go skinny dipping together and he would arise from the water, shinning in the moonlight, with a giant catfish on his crotch and he laugh it off saying he caught us dinner.

   Last but not least the third member of our rat pack, our Deer Drove. Papi. This is the sickest mother fucker I ever met. I met him one day while perusing a local mom and pop shop for some pop and a milkshake. As I was about to pay a brown hand stopped me. I was about to undo my pants and show him my legs, that usually did the trick when anyone fucked with me, but I looked into his eyes and saw myself. The past, present and future. I saw all possibilities and no possibilities. Time and space stood still in this man's eyes and I realized we were now imprinted for life. He then proceeded to throw a Molotov cocktail at the waitress and we fled with a free coke and a shake. We been best friends ever since.

The three of us where hanging out, getting ready for the Bi-Annual Running of the Farlef. It was a hot August 9th and it was an especially important year, it was the Bi-centennial of the founding of Deer Park. It was a momentous occasion, after Derby Deer Races, Deer BBQ, the tormenting of the Moose and the popular Running of the Farlef, the great Deer Shaman was going to come down from the mountains and bestow his wisdom on the town.

It was nighttime when the mighty shaman came and told his tale, the true meaning of Deer Park.

"Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent, a new nation, conceived in moose blood, and dedicated to the proposition that all deer are created equal.Now we emerged victorious in a great civil war, testing whether that deer or moose are the horniest and so dedicated, can long endure. We met on a great battle-field of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of that field, as a final resting place for those who here gave their antlers so that Deer Park might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this and of course fuck with the shitty moose.    But, in a larger sense, we can not dedicate -- we can not consecrate -- we can not hallow -- this ground. The brave Deer, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract. The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here. It is for us the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us -- that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion -- that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain -- that this Deer Park, under Farlef, shall have a new birth of freedom -- and that Deer Park of the deer, by the deer, for the deer, shall not perish from the earth. Amen."

       Grown men brought to tears at the great Shaman's speech. Women were so distraught they could not be consoled. Sam, Papi and I though swelled with great pride listening to this one of a kind speech from the elder Deer Shaman. A great pride in being a Deer Parkian and an even greater pride in being heterosexual apex predators of the Cervinae Animal Kingdom. It was that majestic moonlit night we decided to take a pilgrimage of 1,383 miles to the town of Moose Lake, Missouri, bypassing 18 construction zones to do what our forefathers had done for a millennia, FUCK WITH MOOSEKIND.       

After 21 hours, 13 bathroom stops, 2 glory holes and pawn of a lifetime in North Dakota, we made it to Moose Lake. In our time in the car we thought up the most vile, fucked up things to do to this town.

 First we found the first Moose we could and dragged it into their lake and poured liquid nitrogen on it freezing it in place. 

Then we found another Moose in that same lake trying to swim away and we decided to surf him. 

Once we put back on our clothes and dried each other off it was time to raze some hell in the name of Deer Park in their town.

   Papi and Sam decided to fuck with the local economy by firebombing their local pawn shop and Post Office respectively. I decided to defile their prized moose statue in the middle of town.

  I think it was some of my best work yet. Once we finished razing the town we decided to pollute their great lake, not realizing what we were doing would upset the peace treaty between our great families. To fuck with each others town was one thing but in the holy treaty it is stated "The Park and The Lake are off limits." Our ancestors were men of few words.  Once we arrived back at the lake we unleashed our secret weapon. BEAVERS. Three thousand angry beavers. They ravaged the local fauna, cutting down every tree and making a giant dam ruining Moose Lake for years to come. 

  By Papi's best estimate, in 31 years, with their main water supply cut off from the river that feeds into Moosehead Lake, the town would wither and die. Papi was into the long con and it suited me and Sam just fine. Once we were finished we got the hell out of Moose Lake and returned to a simpler life.

  "Little did we know that by cutting off the supply to Moosehead lake we awoke their shaman, a mighty beast by the name of Pete Silvia. He was the one who once awoken, to gather his strength created the APSAA to take down Papi, he rose through the ranks of the Post Office to become Postmaster General and made Sam never able to retire, made his routes longer and switched his mail order bride with a moose spy that poisoned him once they realized old age wouldn't kill him. And of course you know what they did to me. They brainwashed my young son during a wrestling match and turned him gay. They where behind all of it boys. Tonight was their final assault, they want to end this once and for all. So now I ask, are you with me, ready to take up arms against these Moose Mother Fuckers, defend our town and our rights to arm bears and drive these fucks back to their shitty lake or will you turn your back on your heritage, your history, your own livelihoods and sit their on your asses browsing Deer Parkr for some Antler. SO WHO IS WITH ME" Farlef's dad let out with a mighty roar, showing signs of a young Buck in heat once again.     

   Farlef and John were too busy watching the latest episode of My Hero Academia to notice what their dad was rambling about. When he was about to tell his story of what happened his eyes fogged over and he went comatose again so they turned on the tv.

  "GOD DAMN CARTOON WATCHING FUCKBOIS, I JUST TOLD YOU THE STORIED HISTORY OF WHAT HAPPENED, WHY OUR HOME IS GONE, SAM OUR BELOVED MAILMAN IS DEAD AND PAPI HAS BEEN CAPTURED AND TORTURED FOR THESE PAST 7 YEARS AND ALL YOU CAN DO IS WATCH SOME FAIRY SHOW BOUT GOOKS WITH SUPERPOWERS?"     All Farlef heard was Papi was still alive. He owed everything to that man and no new episode of his favorite hit anime My Hero Academia or Boku no Hero Academia  ,for our Japanese readers out there, was going to stop him.

"Dad as usual I have no idea what is going on or what you just said but I am in" Farlef replied, steel determination in his eyes.

"I'm in too dad, I swore I would never raise a hand in violence again after my time in the Congo but this reckoning is a long time coming" John said.

"Get the fuck out" Sarah replied as she turned the tv volume louder.

"All boys, its us Evans men against the world. Just the way we like it"

As the three of them got into John's bitching Brubaker Box one thing was known for certain.

HOUSE EVANS WAS ON THE WARPATH.