#bloody hell joe

[joes-sha-la-la-la-girl]

So I decided to get a Joe Elliott phone case… only now it won’t come off. It’s stuck on my phone and I have to go to appointments with it on, getting weird looks 😭😭

(Ignore the dirty mirror) 😭😭

@elliotts-personal-property

[thatboleyngirl77]

NOTHING PREPARED ME FOR EPISODE FOUR 😭

[cantquitu]

x

[kylewalker-peters]

Only managing to loan Rodon out for the season do we know that we can sell players? They can leave forever? They do not have to stay with us forever?

[m-50a]

Top Trump Ally Goes OFF THE RAILS With THIS New Claim

[burreauxsworld]

Ours To Keep | Joe Burrow

Smut/18+, Angst, Fluff

Takes place at the beginning of the 2023-2024 season. Reader is Joe’s assistant, and they are really good friends, whose lives are about to change forever.

Shit. This was never supposed to happen. This never should have happened. None of this should be happening. Your breathing picks up as you stare down at the the plastic stick in your hand. The two bold pink lines staring back at you, taunting you. Punishing you for getting intimately involved with, Joe Burrow, your boss. Your heart felt as if it was going to burst out of your chest.

Fuck. Joe. You scrambled around, dropping the stick onto the bathroom counter and bolted toward your bedroom. You’d lost track of time. You have to be at work in 15 minutes, and it’s a 30 minute drive. He shouldn’t be too mad. I mean you guys are friends, maybe even a little more. Definitely a little more after today.

Let’s go back to how this whole thing happened.

Flashback / January 2023

Your tires came to a screeching halt in front of Joe’s mansion. After a frantic call, where Joe was damn near crying into the phone begging you to come over, to say you were worried would be an under statement. He gave you no insight on what you were about to walk into. You slammed your car door, and shivered. Regretting only wearing leggings and a long sleeve sweater in the cold Cincinnati weather. You rushed toward the door, and entered the house with your spare key.

“Joey?” You called out. The place was trashed. Glass broken everywhere, cushions from the couch thrown around the room, wine stains on the white carpet. “Joe?!” You yelled, a little more frantic, moving toward the living room. Joe sat in the center of the living room, on the floor. His head in his bloody hands, and an empty bottle of grey goose laying next to him. “Joey, what happened? Are you alright?” You frantically ask, kneeling down in front of him, just nearly missing a piece of glass.

He looks up at you, and your heart nearly shatters. His eyes bloodshot, and cheeks stained with tears. “Oh, Joey” you frown, pulling him into a hug. It had been a rough few months for Joe. After finding out his girlfriend of 5 years, fiancé of a few months, had cheated on him. She was gone that night, and you were there to pick up the pieces within an hour. Joe was distraught. You’d never seen him like this in the 3, almost 4 years you’d been working for him. Usually he was Joe Cool, everything just rolled off his back, but this was different.

If anyone knew Joe, they knew how much he loved Olivia. Hell, he would’ve went to the ends of the earth for her if it would’ve made her happy. You actually almost lost your job in the beginning because Olivia had gotten jealous, but the two of you ended up becoming great friends. You often had dinner with her and Joe on late work nights.

So when he discovered the messages in her phone, his heart was broken. Completely shattered. A big fight had happened, and Olivia was gone that night. You’d received a number of text messages from her before Joe even called you, telling you how sorry she was and she hoped you’d stay friends. That went out the window as soon as you heard what happened.

“I tried. I really did,” Joe slurs, motioning to the empty bottle next to him. “It’s okay. Let’s get you to bed, I’ll clean up” you told him, attempting to help him to his feet. However, his 6’4 stature compared to your 5’1 stature didn’t make it easy. “You don’t have to clean up. I’ll hire someone in the morning” Joe slurs, and you scoff. “The last thing you wanna deal with is people you don’t know. I’ll take care of it” you tell him. “Alright, hold onto the railing” you order, bracing yourself for the journey up the stairs.

“Joe, hold onto the railing” you scold, when he reaches his other pen toward you halfway up the stairs. “Joseph, you’re going to make us both fall. Put your hand back on the railing” you order, and her frowns but does your bidding.

After what felt like an eternity you made it to his room, him falling onto his back on the soft mattress. “I’m gonna go clean up. You get some sleep okay? You have practice tomorrow” you told him, knowing he was gonna feel like absolute shit in the morning.

“Don’t go. Please stay with me. I don’t want to be alone” he pleaded, and you shook your head. Knowing this wasn’t what he needed right now. “You need to sleep-“

“Please stay. I’ll give you a raise”

“Joe, I don’t need a raise” you argue, and his pouty face makes you crack. “Fine, I’ll stay. But only until you fall asleep” you told him, kicking your shoes off.

End of flashback

It wasn’t only until he fell asleep. You ended up falling asleep too, and woke up tangled in his limbs the next morning. And you were correct, he did feel like absolute shit and practice went horrible that day. Nothing sexual had happened that night, just sleeping. It wasn’t until a few weeks later that you were in his bed again, only this time, no sleeping happened.

Flashback / February 2023

You don’t know how this happened. One minute you’re in the living room having dinner and watching a movie. The next, you’re sprawled out on his bed with your face shoved into his pillows and your hips up in the air. Skin slapping skin, your moans, and his grunts fill the room. Your loud moans muffled by the pillow.

Joe wraps your hair around his hand and pulls your head back, hard. “Wanna hear you,” he grunts. He slaps your ass with his other hand, and you let out a loud moan. “Fuck, Joey! Right there!” You cry out. “Yeah, right there? Fuck you’re taking me so well, baby” he groans, slapping your ass again. “This pussy was made for me. Fuck” he grunts.

“Fuck I’m gonna cum!” You whine loudly. “I’m gonna cum so hard” you grit your teeth. You gasp when his free hand reaches around to toy with your clit. “Cum for me baby. Cum all over this dick”

You yell out his name like a mantra as you come undone. He wasn’t too far behind you, grunting loudly as your walls squeezing him hard. “Fuck baby” he moans. “Milking me dry” he taunts, smirking while he unravels your hair from his hand. Weakly, you fall against the mattress, and he drops down next to you. Both of you trying to catch your breath.

“What just happened?” You ask, your voice to shaking from your orgasm. “I don’t know. But I’m not mad at it” Joe says, letting out a breathy laugh. “Joe, this can’t happen again,” you murmur. “It’ll complicate things” you conclude, looking over at him. He nods in agreement.

“We just act like it never happened,” Joe confirms, and you agree.

End of flashback

But it did happen again. It happened a lot more. It’s now July, and the two of you haven’t stopped fooling around since the first time. Now it was coming back to haunt you. What the fuck were you gonna tell Joe? You sigh as you pull into a spot outside of Paycor Stadium. Conveniently, right next to Joe’s Porsche.

Quickly getting out of your car, you rush toward the door. Practice started about a half hour ago. You hoped Joe wouldn’t be too upset with you.

“Look who finally decided to show up,” Gabby, Ja’Marr’s assistant jokes as you walk into your shared office. “Don’t worry, he’s not mad. More worried than anything because you’re never late. Why are you late, by the way?” Gabby asks, as you set your stuff down. “Lost track of time. Took an everything shower this morning,” you lie, and she smirks.

“Who’s getting the goods?” She questions, and you roll your eyes. Pulling out your phone, you make an online appointment with your gynecologist for tomorrow. Maybe the test was a false positive, doubtful, but you could hope. “No one. Just needed an everything shower” you told her, laughing slightly. “Are you okay?” She questions, noticing you seem slightly off.

“Yeah, I’m good. Being late to work throws off my entire day” you lie, and thankfully she believes it. Her phone chimes, and she sighs. “Duty calls. See you out on the field” she says, before leaving the room. You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. Hiding this was gonna be harder than you thought.

You began to pull out your laptop when you hear a light knock on the doorframe. “Hey, you okay? You’re never late” you look up and make eye contact with Joe. “Yeah, I’m all good. Just lost track of time while getting ready. I’m sorry,” you apologized, and he raised an eyebrow. “You never lose track of time. Are you sure everything’s okay?” He asks, stepping into the office with concern written on his face. “Joey, I’m sure. Just more mad at myself than anything. I swear-“

“You’re lying.” He says, eyeing you. “Excuse me?” You ask, feeling slightly offended. “You do this thing where you play with your bracelet when your lying. I noticed it last year when you’d lie to guys about why you couldn’t go out with them” Joe said, laughing slightly. “You wanna tell me what’s wrong now?” Joe asks, leaning on your desk closer to you.

“I’m okay, Joey. Promise”

He sighs, but lets it go. Until you open your mouth to speak again. “I’ll be late again tomorrow. I have a doctors appointment in the morning”

“Y/N-“

“Joe, it’s nothing. I told you I’m fine, now can you please drop it” you snapped, and immediately regretted it when he frowned. You never snap at him. Other people, definitely, but never him. “I’m sorry. I’m just stressed out right now, and I shouldn’t have snapped at you” you say, walking around your desk to stand in front of him. You think he’s mad when he moves away, but you realize he’s just shutting and locking the door.

“Baby, talk to me” he urges, and you cringe at the pet name. Not because he called you it, you’re used to that since you guys started sleeping together, it’s the name itself. Your breath feels like it’s caught in your throat. You’ve never been nervous around Joe, but this was different. Your lives are changing. You’re afraid of what might happen once you say something.

“Hey, hey, hey. Don’t cry. Come here” he pulls you into his arms, rubbing your back while you softly sob into his chest, getting mascara on his practice jersey. “It’s just me. You can tell me anything” he reminds you, planting a soft kiss on the top of your head.

Finally you pull away and look into his eye. Here we go.

“You might wanna sit down for this” you tell him, and he shakes his head. “I’m good right here”

“Joey…” you trail off, your voice cracking. His concern for you growing, and you can see it in his face. “I—I um…took a home pregnancy test this morning” you start, not looking up at him, but you can feel his body tense up. “It was positive” you say, letting out another sob.

“Joey, I’m pregnant.”

[i-love-fordsy]

Bill, say a swear word >:3

Fuck you

A

Arsehole

Asshat

Asshole

B

Bastard (slang)

Big black cock

Bitch (slang)

Bloody

Blowjob

Bollocks

Bugger

Bullshit

C

Chicken shit

Clusterfuck

Cock (slang)

Cocksucker

Coonass

Cornhole (slang)

Cox–Zucker machine

Cracker (term)

Cunt

D

Damn

Dick (slang)

E

Enshittification

F

Faggot

Feck

List of films that most frequently use the word fuck

Fuck

Fuck her right in the pussy

Fuck Joe Biden

Fuck, marry, kill

Fuckery

G

Grab 'em by the pussy

H

Healslut

J

Jesus fucking christ

K

Kike

M

Motherfucker

P

Paki (slur)

Poof

Poofter

Prick (slang)

Pussy

R

Ratfucking

Retard (pejorative)

Russian warship, go fuck yourself

S

Shit

Shit happens

Shithouse

Shitposting

Shitter

Shut the fuck up

Shut the hell up

Slut

Son of a bitch

Spic

T

Taking the piss

Twat

U

Unclefucker

W

Wanker

Whore

[galaxiasgreen]

🍺🖤This Hell We Create

Sebastian x F!Muggle!Reader with eventual smut, minor Garrinis [E-Rated, 4.9k words]

Bonny sidles along the bar with a tray of empty glasses. Her massive grin ekes a more genuine smile out of him, which makes your stomach flip unpleasantly. "Evenin'." "Looking good as always," she winks, "don't he, Miss?" His eyes meet yours, and they might as well be undressing you. "Well? Don't I always look good, bar girl?"

An incident occurs when Sebastian Sallow is having a drink.

[MASTERLIST][PREV][NEXT] [read on AO3, read on Wattpad]

TW: alcoholism, grief, swearing, non-explicit sexual assault (this is not committed between Sebastian and the bar girl; I've marked the beginning and end of the passage with /////, if you wish to skip. Please take care!)

2: universal constants

The freckled stranger, Sebastian Sallow, breaks his four-month streak the day after you learn the truth.

"Has he come in yet?" you ask Bonny, one of the newer serving girls with a big heart – and even bigger bosom. It makes her popular with the older men, though she lavishes the attention. "Is he sitting in the garden?"

"Ain't seen a wink of him, miss," she says blithely. "Trust me, I won't be missing that muscled chest of his anytime soon, woooooo wee."

"Control yourself, Bonny."

"Don't know how you do. If it was me he was ogling I'd be all over him like Jesus on a Christmas turkey after his fortieth day in the desert."

You furrow your brow. "What? Ogling?"

She lets out a squalling giggle. "You ain't noticed the way he looks at you? I tell you what! You got assets, miss, and oh Lord does he know."

You flush deeply, and when she heads away to wipe a table, you glance down at yourself. You don't have a lot to boast about, frankly – you don't have enough money for fine clothes and your hair is raggedy on a good day, often thrown into a haphazard bun. What Sebastian Sallow has to look at, you'll never know.

Not that it matters. You wouldn't care – don't care – either way. You're glad Sebastian is getting help for his drinking problem and not squandering his time, money and potential. Still you glance to the barstool, his barstool, and recognise a pang of sadness at his absence. He's good company when he tries. You don't miss his attitude and poor life choices, but you do miss those kernels of goodness, like when he tries to make you laugh, or when he's happily entertaining conversation to pass the night.

He just needs to embrace them.

Don't give him too much credit. So he had one day of realisation? Ultimately it means nothing without the work. And it's not too late for today – he might come in later.

You sweep yourself down, retie your hair, and use the brass tap as a mirror to thumb away the dirt on your cheeks. For prosperity.

He doesn't come.

The next day, the door opens at precisely eight o'clock. Your head swings up from cleaning a nearby table. The man who strolls inside isn't Sebastian, however, but someone else – a new stranger. His fine garb, lacquered cane and pristine gold band on his ring finger are so at odds to the humble surroundings that you think he must've got lost on his way to the bank, the courthouse, or hell, bloody Buckingham Palace itself.

"Welcome to Ye Olde Hen House," you call. "Want a drink?"

His head cants, and then he's weaving between tables and chairs and Squiffy Joe. The stranger is tall and commands presence, but not in the way Sebastian does – this man is slender and lean, with coiffed dark blonde hair and a scattering of moles on his face. It's his eyes that draw you in the most, though, like waxy opals. They never quite focus on you.

"Good evening. I'm looking to thank you, actually. My name is Ominis Gaunt."

That rings a bell. Sebastian mentioned him once. Best friend, he called him, along with some other chap named Garreth.

"Oh yeah, one of Sebastian's?"

His lips press into a line. "I'd rather not be referred to as one of Sebastian's, but yes, we are reluctantly acquainted."

"What's this about thanks, then? Haven't seen him in a coupla' days."

"Precisely." His smile is genuine, but practiced. "He's trying to turn over a new leaf with his drinking habits, and I'm lead to believe you were the catalyst."

You snort. "I told him to sod off, if that's what you mean."

"Oh, I do like you. Yes, I'm afraid his sister's death hit him hard, and despite encouragement, I've never been able to help him overcome the grief. But you... you did. Without trying, no less."

You shrug. "Just told him to pull himself together or take his shit elsewhere."

"And I believe those words, coming from a near stranger, were exactly what he needed to hear, so I am grateful."

It's good to hear that you helped pull him from the pits – though that pang rolls through you again. You try squash it, but it resolutely shrinks until it's in a corner of your heart you can't reach.

"Sure you can't be grateful by putting money in my till?" you say to distract yourself.

Ominis lets out an amused sniff. "Very well, you've earnt it. A pot of breakfast tea will do."

"... Breakfast tea."

"Yes."

"In a pub."

"Yes."

"At eight o'clock at night."

"Do you always question your patrons' beverage of choice?"

"Only the bizarre ones. Sit at the bar, tea coming up."

You pour it for him. He uses his fingers to discern the coin value of his payment, and when he puts his cane aside, feels for the teacup's handle too.

"Thank you." He takes a sip, and the steam glistens on his skin. "Very nice."

"Just a Twinings blend."

He purses his lips, but does not comment – a move so unlike Sebastian you struggle to see how they're friends at all. Sebastian is beer, muscle and opinions; Ominis Gaunt is tea with his pinkie out, slender hands that have never seen labour, and quaint contemplation in near-silence. His accent is clipped and precise, each syllable like a dagger strike.

"You've been friends a long time?" you ask, too curious about this undrawn curtain of Sebastian's life.

"He works with me in law enforcement," Ominis says. "We're detectives."

Your eyes go wide. Sebastian is a bloody policeman?

"I take it by your silence that you're surprised."

It would explain why he's so... distractingly muscular. "A drunk officer?"

"He's been on extended leave since Anne was— since her passing."

"I see." Extended leave this long? Is that where your taxes are going? To keep Sebastian watered? "I'm glad he's got work, but can't see him enforcing the law for toffee. If anything it seems like he'd break it."

Ominis smiles with dark amusement. "I can understand the sentiment, but he is excellent at his job, though I'll never admit it to his face."

"Been doing it a long time?"

"Since I finished school. Sebastian is a more recent acquisition and works under me. I helped him secure the job."

"Really? What was he doing before?"

"Now that," he says, bringing the cup to his lip, "is something you'll have to ask him yourself."

You leave Ominis to his tea, though steal the occasional glance to check up on him. He doesn't need it, never speaks, never acknowledges anything around him. Halfway through his pot Bonny asks whether he's lost his way to Mayfair and needs a carriage called, but Ominis politely, amusedly, declines, and thanks her for her kindness.

"Another?" you ask, when all that's left of his teabag is mushy dregs.

He stands to replace his coat and tugs his hands into leather gloves. "Thank you, but I must be going. If you would," he says, before you wish him farewell, "I'd like to ask for a favour."

Suspicion erodes your curiosity. "With?"

"Sebastian is haunted by many demons." His voice is monotone, but ironically it's those unusual eyes that give him away, tightening ever so slightly. "I have no doubt he's trying to give up his addiction—"

"Stop there, Mr Gaunt," you say quickly. "I ain't no doctor. I run a pub. I sell drink. I can't get Sebastian to quit."

"I wouldn't ask you to. I only ask that you monitor his habits in my stead." He takes something out of his pocket and slides it across the counter. "His welfare is important to me, and I would like to be kept informed if he ever... relapses."

It's not a business card, but a scrawl of a landline number on... parchment?

"Please telephone if there are any issues."

Ominis couldn't be any more different from Sebastian, looks, mannerisms, attitude, yet this one request speaks of how much he cares. You smile, endeared at their brotherly relationship, and idly wish there was someone in your life that would care about you as much.

You got assets, miss, and oh Lord does he know.

Shooing the thought away, you stuff the note down your apron. If Sebastian collapses on your turf, at least the responsibility is on Ominis' shoulders. You can be a messenger. It seems a fair deal.

"I'll keep an eye out."

Ominis bows his head slightly. "I appreciate it, madam. Thank you for your time." He half-turns, then adds wryly, "I would say I hope to hear from you... but I sincerely hope I don't."

Sebastian Sallow appears three days later.

You're bone-tired, fighting the yawns that sprawl across your face. Owing to your parents, you went to sleep late – but his arrival wakes you like a slap. He looks different: fresh and clean, colour to his skin, and groomed, with a beard that no longer threatens to overrun his face. He catches your eye and heads straight for you, and you can't help but feel like he sees you, and nothing, no one, else.

"Miss me?" he says with that velvet tone as he takes his usual spot.

"Eh," you say, shrugging. "I only missed your money."

"And I only missed your beer. Stout back?"

"New shipment came this yesterday. Pint?"

But he raises one of his hands.

"No. Half-pint... please."

You make a face and switch to a smaller glass. Despite the reduced size it near-vanishes down his throat, Adam's apple bobbing frantically, and relief collapses his brow like he's broken the surface after too long underwater. His knuckles are white, clenched so hard, and two protruding blue veins converge at his wrist.

"Can I—" He takes a deep, shaky breath. "Another half-pint, please?"

You think about Ominis, and the note in your apron.

"How about a break first?"

After a beat, he nods.

"Beer garden's open." You tilt your head to the back door, where Bonny is slaloming through a rowdy group of patrons. "Might be nice to distract yourself with fresh air."

"Nah. Then I can't bother you."

"What makes you think you're bothering me?"

"Two things are universal constants, bar girl." He rolls his shoulder, and the muscles in his forearm strain. "How much I like to win is one of them."

"Uh huh. What's the other?"

"A man doesn't kiss and tell."

"Shame. Might actually be relevant to your so-called 'winning'."

"On the contrary, the more I bother you, the less you'll be able to stop thinking about me." He tilts his head. "And I'd take that as a very big win."

You snort and flick a wet cloth at him as you go to leave – but his breathy laughter echoes.

His schedule becomes erratic, unpredictable. One week you see him daily, nursing his beer and doing his utmost to bother you (his words)... then the next week he won't appear at all, space taken by another annoying, but less charming, alcoholic. You're loath to admit you miss him on those days.

"Heard Ominis paid you a visit?"

Today he's trying – with emphasis – to nurse his half-pint slowly. His fingers circle around the rim.

"Yeah." You snort, squeezing a cloth into a glass. "Oddball, sorry to say."

Sebastian barks a laugh. "Don't be sorry, it's true. Posh git."

"Is he blind?" Shit, that sounded rude. "Er, hard of... sight?"

"Yeah, but he can still see bullshit a mile away. Never fell for any of my pranks at school."

It did make you wonder how Ominis could be so competent in his field. A drunk detective, fine, plenty of those on the force, but a blind detective? That was unheard of.

"Maybe you're just bad at pranks," you tease.

"I'll have you know, in first year I got him stuck in a tree when he was fast asleep. No one found him until next morning after he yelled his voice hoarse. Don't give me that look. He dunked me into the lake next day."

The lake. What sort of school did he go to?

"He told me you're a detective."

"Sort of."

"You're his assistant."

"That's what he said? Prick."

You cross your arms. "So it's not true?"

"He's above me in rank, but I sure as hell wasn't his assistant." His eyes trace you up and down, warming your cheeks. "What else did he tell you?"

The note weighs heavy in your apron. Should you say something? Ominis made no request of keeping it secret, but you don't want Sebastian to feel undermined, or worse, babied. He may be a drunk but he's still an adult man and capable of making his own decisions, no matter how stupid.

You wet your lips and decide, against your better judgement, to share. "He asked to give him a bell if something ever happened to you."

You wait for a twitch of his expression, betraying indignation or hurt, but Sebastian merely shrugs.

"Typical bore. He's been trying to get me to quit since I started. Surprised he deigned to come here himself and didn't send Garreth instead."

"I think," you say, feigning shock, "he might care about you."

"Can't have that. You say he gave you his telephone number?"

You roll your eyes. "I said you were bad at pranks, didn't know you were unoriginal too."

"He can't retaliate if I'm not there."

"'Ello, Mr Sallow!"

Bonny sidles along the bar with a tray of empty glasses. Her massive grin ekes a more genuine smile out of him, which makes your stomach flip unpleasantly.

"Evenin'."

"Looking good as always," she winks, "don't he, Miss?"

His eyes meet yours, and they might as well be undressing you.

"Well? Don't I always look good, bar girl?"

You blush. "I— you look— pale."

"Pale?" Bonny leans closer, then tuts. "Oh, your face is a bit peaky! You under the weather? Poor lamb. Get that drink down yous." She skips off with her next round. "You'll be right as rain in a jiffy!"

You clear your throat when she goes. "I'm sorry. She's new—"

"It's all right, she means well." He stares at his drink like he means to down it, but instead says, "Thank you."

"For what?"

"Looking out for me."

"I ain't done a thing, Sebastian."

His lips press to the rim of the glass, and it mists with his breath.

"Not yet."

/////

You're saved from answering by a high-pitched giggle. Bonny flutters a hand at a rowdy customer, a man in his fifties, belly so swollen with drink it flops out his shirt. He stands with his arms raised.

"Cor, you are a beaut, aren't you, Miss Bonny?"

She swipes the used glasses from his table. "You should drink more, ain't never been kinder!"

They laugh together. You shake your head, turn back to Sebastian. "Just don't fall asleep—"

The giggle turns into a shriek. Glass shatters. You spin back – Bonny has dropped the tray, shards glimmering all over the floor like granulated sugar. The patron raises his arms again, but this time she backs away, and this time there is fear in her eyes.

"N-No— don't touch—!"

"What're you on?" the patron bellows over her, all trace of comradery gone. "Clumsy girl, dropped your tray!"

You snatch a broom on the way over. "What's going on?"

But the man is angry now, pointing accusingly at her. "She dropped her tray! I tried to catch her! I did!"

You stand between them. "Happens all the time, no bother. Sit down, sir. Next drink on the house."

He backs down, satisfied.

You aren't.

Bonny's hands tremble when you turn to her, noting the way her face is drawn. It's like she sees the world in grey for the first time.

"You all right?"

"Y-Yes, Miss."

A piece of you breaks. "Sure?"

"R-Really, Miss, right as rain, I am." Her smile wobbles. "Just— I was silly, dropping them glasses—"

"Take a break." You don't touch her, but gesture to the stock room behind the bar. "Sit out back for a bit. I'll get Helene to stay with you, keep you company."

Tears fill her eyes. "A-Am I fired, Miss?"

"God above, no. Just... take deep breaths." You make sure you look her in the eye when you add, "It's not your fault."

But she moves sluggishly past you, eyes vacant.

"Isn't it?"

/////

Helene goes to her aid without complaint. You sweep the shards away and procure more drinks for the rowdy patrons, but your blood boils. You've been here eight years, you've seen the best of humanity... and you've seen the worst. Him, that pig – he's the product of a society that thinks their entitlement extends to taking what they want without ever accepting a no.

You bin the shards and almost collapse on the counter with exhaustion. Dealing with horrible customers is part of the job, but there's something especially vile about dealing with this sort.

The Pig laughs loudly with his friends – at the same time, only a wall away, Bonny is sobbing.

"I saw him."

You jolt at Sebastian's voice. God, you forgot he was there. His hands are shaking, but not from withdrawal – from anger.

"I saw him touch her." His voice is low and dark. "I should break his hand."

You wish he would. It would be but tiny retribution for what's owed, for how badly the Pig has irreparably altered Bonny's life. She's young, innocent – she doesn't deserve to fear the world because of it.

"It's our word against his," you murmur. "He won't face no justice."

Sebastian doesn't answer, just keeps staring at the man with hatred. Those kernals of goodness you know exist are now enveloped by black vines, poisoned by the desire for revenge, as dark and deeply-rooted as the stairs paved to hell.

"Don't do anything stupid," you warn.

"I wouldn't."

"You got that look in your eye."

"I always have this look in my eye."

Well, that's true at least. You lean towards him, voice crisp. "If you do anything in retaliation you will put Bonny in danger. And me too."

The loathing cracks. "You?"

"He's got a big group of friends! You think either of us will get off scot-free if their mate winds up in some alleyway with a black eye? Bonny won't talk, but they know I might – they'll know he got beat up because of me. You look like you can throw a punch, Sebastian, but you must not."

He hesitates. The black claw with its vice grip holds tighter. Then:

"I look like I can throw a punch?" He smirks, killing the moment. "Because I have muscled arms?"

Relief trickles through you. He understands. He's placated. He won't do anything – for Bonny... and for you.

"Don't get cocky about it," you sniff.

"You've been looking at my arms?"

They're hard to miss, especially with the sleeves rolled up, veins like cords, glistening with sweat and freckles and tattoos and good God you are blushing. It must be nice to be enveloped in those arms, in his protection. You turn away, clamping your jaw and feeling guilty about having such sordid thoughts after everything that's happened.

He takes the opportunity to flex them, and your traitorous eyes dip to them again, to the muscle contorting, straining against his skin.

"Don't do anything stupid," you snap again.

You put the conversation out of your head when you go into the back room.

When Sebastian comes that Saturday night, the pub heaving with customers, he brings a friend.

"This is Xander," he introduces, looking mightily pleased with himself. "Or should I say, Police Inspector Xander, Scotland Yard."

Panic bolts through you, and your gaze flickers to the stock room.

Xander ruffles, pretending to look put-out. "Off-duty, but yes. Hello, ma'am. Pleasure to make your acquaintance."

Off-duty or not, Sebastian has no idea what he's done bringing him here, no idea what he's risking. Play it cool. You shoot daggers his way, but they might as well be made of foam.

"Nice to meet you," you say through your teeth. "You know each other through work?"

Xander chortles. "Actually, Mr Sallow—"

"Please, you know I said to call me Sebastian."

"Quite! Sebastian and I met entirely by chance at the local farmer's market a few days ago. Turns out we both have a love of southern French cheeses! Say, did you try the Roquefort I suggested? Scoffed mine with my wife, I did."

Instantly you can tell this is all balderdash, because there's no way Sebastian Sallow, the drunken, tattooed stranger with more skeletons in his closet than freckles on his face, has any interest in cheese.

"I did," he panders. "I had some with those sourdough crackers from Harvey Nichols. Delicious."

Xander blusters. "Why, and I the exact same! How bizarre! Almost like you read my mind!"

"I've also," he brings out a round package made of... leaves? "brought some Banon cheese to try."

"Banon! Another favourite of mine!" He waggles a finger at Sebastian. "You know I never believed in fate and destiny, but I dare say some higher power has intervened to bring you into my life. God perhaps, or magic!"

"Magic?" Sebastian laughs. "As if."

There's certainly something rotten in the air, and it's not the Roquefort on Xander's breath.

Sebastian pledges to buy everything after Xander makes his order and finds a table. When he sidles to the counter, armed with a handful of coins, your faux smile drops into barely-restrained outrage.

"What the hell are you playing at, Sallow? Because I swear to God—"

"Sallow now? You remind me of one of my school teachers."

"Don't joke! The police cannot be here."

"Why not? You hiding something?"

"They just can't," you say quickly. "I know you've brought him because of that incident – he won't be able to do anything."

"He's off-duty." Sebastian is a lazy cat on a balmy summer's day. "Just here for a drink with me."

"He may have fallen for your French cheese nonsense—"

"I like rocky fort, thank you."

"— but I know you've got something up your sleeve."

"Staring at my arms again? You've got to stop that, bar girl. It's very perverse."

You grind your teeth together as you make the drinks. Sebastian is infuriating— no, infuriation, the very thing itself, rather than its pompous vessel.

"This isn't about your male ego," you snarl, when you hand both glasses to him. "It's about keeping Bonny safe."

His face changes instantly. "Is she all right? Is she here today?"

"No. I'm paying her some time off."

And good thing too, because the Pig has come every day since. He's over on the same table, laughing with the same group of friends, slurping at the same drink.

"If you get her hurt—"

"I won't." It's stony, hard truth. "On my word."

"Your word doesn't mean much to me."

He grins.

"It will."

After locking the stock room, you keep a close eye. He's left his barstool free to sit with Xander at the corner table, the two exchanging animated conversation over slices of Banon and sourdough crackers. All the hairs raise on your neck. Sebastian drinks and drinks, but it's easy to tell he's taking his time, doesn't indulge as much as he usually does. He's not trying to forget.

He trying to stay alert.

Whilst you're serving the local darts club, Sebastian stands, a swift movement you catch in your periphery. He mumbles something to Xander and heads towards the bar – but not to you, to Edith, one of the other barkeeps. You might've been hurt if not for the troublesome glint in his eye.

With too many customers you can't stop to chat, though you scrutinise Edith to see what he wants: five measures of straight vodka. A man trying to give up drinking does not order that many small glasses of pure alcohol... especially not when he and Xander, and the Pig and his friends, make five.

But you're too slow to stop him when he swiftly takes the tray from Edith's hands.

"You're busy, I'll carry it."

Sebastian turns his back to you – it's only for a second, but it's a second too long. Your trust whittles, you leave the darts club with half their orders and storm after him, catching his arm inches away from the table.

Muscle. You shouldn't notice, you're angry with him and he's about to do something reckless for God's sake, but his forearm is so hard and sturdy that a wild thrill runs up your spine. Imagine if he pulled you close, wrapped those sturdy arms around you, carding his fingers through your hair—

"Any excuse to touch my arms, bar girl."

You snatch away, blushing, irate. "Whatever you're about to do—"

"It's all in hand. On my word, remember?"

You trust Sebastian Sallow about as far as you can throw him.

... Yet you find yourself stepping away.

The Pig and his friends falter at first, but Sebastian is ignorant and cheery, almost like he's honoured to hand out the drinks.

"On me tonight, gentlemen," he announces. "Life is great, I got a promotion at work and I've finally scrounged up enough to finally propose to the bonny lass I've been seeing in secret. Achilles, you too, my friend!"

You end up hugging the wall close by as Xander and the men cheers to him. The Pig's friends are too drunk to notice Sebastian is a regular, too drunk to notice he was there last week. The Pig snorts as he raises his glass.

"Might do you better to leave it, boy. Women – ain't nothing good from them."

With a sinister smile, Sebastian downs his glass, and claps Xander on the back when he does the same.

"Well, gentlemen," Sebastian bows his head with a flourish, "my friend and I will leave you be. Do have a pleasant night!"

"I never have a pleasant night." The Pig hiccoughs. "Every time I go home, I wank myself off and cry because I can't get any woman to love me."

You go utterly still.

One of the Pig's friends chimes in with, "Me too."

"I use a sock," says the other.

"I just want a good fuck," the Pig mutters, though he turns red, like he's fully aware of what he's saying. "And not one I had to buy off the street. Bobbies are cracking down on my favourite spots, the bloody meaters."

Your gaze slides to Xander, whose face has turned iridescent with anger. You think the Pig and his friends will stop now – surely they can't embarrass himself anymore, surely they won't. But the truth spills out of them; they loudly confess their darkest, most humiliating secrets, crimes you never want to hear repeated, desires that make your stomach turn. The Pig declares to assaulting Bonny like it's nothing.

"And even she turned me down!" He sweats but doesn't stop. "The fucking audacity, after she flirted with me for so long!"

Xander marches forwards, brows cutting into his eyes, and produces his ID from his jacket pocket. "Police Inspector Achilles Xander of Scotland Yard. I think I've heard enough. All three of you will follow me to the station."

"What?" the Pig roars. "But I— we've done everything wrong!"

"I understand that perfectly well, sir!"

The Pig goes redder. "N-No, I— I buy prostitutes almost three times a week and avoid my taxes— fuck—"

"Really, sir! This is extremely inappropriate!" When the Pig flails, saying nothing, Xander harrumphs. "You'll all follow me outside as I call for backup! Sebastian, I apologise, we shall have to catch up another time."

The Pig and his friends hang their heads as they're escorted out the pub. Sebastian is more than contrite about cutting short the chat with his cheese companion – all an act – and when the door clatters shut, he reclaims his normal stool and finishes his beer in three long, languid gulps. His tongue flickers out, catching the froth at the corner of his mouth; it reminds you of the serpent in the Garden of Eden.

"What— how—" You swallow thickly, trying to keep your voice down. "How'd you get him to talk?"

"Don't know what you mean."

"Liar."

His smile is like an omen.

"Remember when I said I wasn't going to heaven? I meant it." He's quiet now, but exuding aggression in the way a lion's presence alone can subdue its pride. "Hell won't just welcome me with open arms — it will roll out the red fucking carpet."

But then his gaze softens, and you can almost believe all that anger, that power, those black vines steeped in vengeance... are a lie.

"You were right. Much as I wanted to drag him into an alleyway and beat him until his own mother wouldn't recognise his face, sometimes you have to work smarter, not harder. And I will never take kindly to sick bastards abusing innocent people." He takes a deep breath. "It's not much, but I hope Bonny finds some peace of mind now."

You're nearly speechless. "You did all that for Bonny?"

He seems to ponder the question.

"And someone else."

When he meets your eye, you're paralysed.

"If one universal constant is how much I like to win, then the other is how hard I'll fight for the people I care about." He says it gently, with a half-smile that makes your stomach flip. "I'll let you guess which one I live by more."

[MASTERLIST][PREV][NEXT]

thank you to my tag list: @okay-j-hannah @morelikeravenbore @vylaris. please let me know if you'd like to join/ be removed ❤️

[Divider credits]

[joes-sha-la-la-la-girl]

[cultofdixon]

Taking care of you

Daryl Dixon • She/Her Reader • The Claimers did a number on Daryl, but thank god you and Rick showed them not to fuck with their family. After witnessing you take care of Daryl and his injuries, Rick couldn’t keep the obvious to himself • ANGST/SFW • TW: Injuries / Canon Violence

Requested by: Anon

That was it

The last punch the unfortunate Claimer thrown at Daryl, was met with bullet and the ring of the gun was linked to the woman that the archer had claimed to keep the disgusting men from harming her.

Y/N.

“Someone get—-“ Joe was cut off by Rick taking him out with a harsh teeth driven bite into the throat and that gave Michonne her window.

The distraction of their leader and colleague meeting their fates, gave Michonne the window to take out the Claimer behind her and for Y/N to kick up Rick’s hatchet from the ground firmly grasping it in her hand. Before throwing it at another Claimer’s chest knocking him back.

It was a bloody mess. Rick and Michonne went for the Claimer that was harming Carl, then finishing the job to the leader and Michonne’s Claimer.

Leaving Y/N to help Daryl up to his feet before kicking down the approaching Claimer but as he went down, he grabbed her leg forcing her into an uncomfortable split. The archer weakly but gained enough strength to save her from his grasp by crushing the lights out of him.

The five were going through it.

Michonne comforts Carl as the two took up the car to sleep in and hopefully forget some of the horrors from just a few hours ago. Rick kept an eye on their surroundings while trying and struggling to calm his inner demons.

Which left the two to lick their wounds, or more so Y/N care for Daryl’s wounds with the supplies she had and have collected from the dead. She was about to use the last of her water to clean up the dried blood on his face but he stopped her and told her to continue to use the rag she currently had damp instead of wasting a useful resource.

Rick heard the small bickering from the two and turned to watch Y/N grab Daryl’s chin listening to the man grumble but cave. He let her clean up the blood on his face to check the wounds there after she had bandaged parts of his abdomen.

“Is Y/N injured?”

“I checked already” Daryl informs Rick as Y/N quickly glanced to him showing the small bandage on her cheek while she mainly suffered small cuts and bruises.

“I’m thinkin’ we should find shelter that can cover all of us under a roof. There’s a neighborhood near by”

“Sounds perfect. Gives time for Carl and Daryl to rest”

“I ain’t need any—-“ Daryl winced when he tried to get up as Y/N smacked him gently in the chest. “Fine.”

“You need help up?”

“I’ve got it. But if he needs help walking can…?” Y/N asks without asking to help support Daryl with her to this neighborhood and of course Rick agreed.

As the retired sheriff left the two to check and tell the others what’s to happen, Daryl gently turned her head toward him to check the bandage but more importantly the bruise that came with it.

“If we find a home with more supplies. Then I can try and stitch the gash in your leg” Y/N interrupted his thoughts as he was about to object but the worry in her eyes pierced right through his chest. How could he argue with her?

“As long as theirs alcohol to numb it”

“Never took you for a man that would need a little anesthesia” Y/N giggles a little at the thought, as Daryl admires her voice for a moment. “If we find it. You’ll—-“

“Drink it. Numb my brain from what yea doing”

“Ah, that’s what you meant” She giggled once more before getting up off the ground and picking up her belongings. “Maybe you’ll be in luck” she revealed the travel size bottle she had acquired from her time before Daryl found her while in the Claimer’s group.

When the two were in the claimer’s group for a day or two before running into Rick and the hell that followed after it, Daryl tried asking Y/N what happened to her in the time apart since he told her everything from his end. All she told him was “it wasn’t as bad as what happened to you” and left it at that.

As the group started to move to this neighborhood, Rick brought up. Rick helped Y/N help Daryl walk to the best still standing house so they wouldn’t have to barricade much. It was a one story with two bedrooms. But since someone had to take watch, Daryl opted to stay on the couch in the main area of the house that spilled into two rooms. Dining and Kitchen.

“You’re not going to be able to do anythin’ if you can barely walk” Rick comments once they had set the archer up on the couch.

“Least I can see a few entrances from where I’m set”

“I’ll stay out here and we’ll alternate throughout the night” Y/N states watching the tension in Rick’s stance relax.

“Alright. Well let’s barricade the door, then turn in for the night” Rick states pushing Daryl back down when he tried to get up and help as Y/N squeezes his shoulder on her way past the couch.

Once the main room doors were blocked with items they found closest to it. Dining room table for the kitchen’s door leading to the backyard, console for the front door in the living room. Then Y/N went to help Daryl lay down and elevate his leg while Rick got Carl situated in one of the rooms to sleep in with Michonne doing one last sweep of the place for items. She set all her findings on the coffee table in front of the two, leaving them to go through it while she also went to check on Carl before taking up the other room as Rick was going to stick with his son on the floor.

As Y/N found a sewing kit within the mix, she had Daryl roll up his pants to reveal the bandage had already seeped through the dressing. It definitely needed stitches.

“Gonna sterilize that needle?”

“Since when do you know what to do?” Y/N glanced over at him before returning her attention to getting her supplies prepped.

“I pay attention to when yea helped Hershel back at the prison, even the farm”

“Hm. You were a squirmer at the farm. Fish out of water”

“Oy. I got shot and impaled” Daryl scoffs. “What kind of bedside manner is this”

“You want me to be soft and gentle? When I’m about to pierce a needle through your skin?” She scoffs picking up the needle and getting a thread through it after pouring some of the alcohol from earlier on it.

“You promised”

“Okay yeah” Y/N rolls her eyes smiling as she handed the rest of the bottle to Daryl before not waiting another moment to stitch up his leg after cleaning it the best she could.

It was painful but he held on.

When the group finally turned in for the night and Daryl was taking on a shift, he mainly sat up watching the entrance/exits every now and then before looking down at the sleeping form on the floor right beside the couch.

Daryl watches her person sleep for a little while but the second he looked away, the mood changed. He fully sat up listening to her sob in her sleep.

What could she be thinking about? His worry got him as he moved his leg over wincing slightly and leaning over to nudge her awake. Which she did and quickly wiped away the tears. Like this has happened before.

“Sorry, was I snoring?”

“Nah…you’re just…” Daryl didn’t want to say it, if Y/N particularly didn’t want to.

All she did was look up at him with the sadness from whatever she dreamt written all over her face. She got up from the floor picking her jacket up along the way as she used it as a blanket.

“Lay down”

“Sorry?”

“Can you just” Y/N frowns gesturing for him to just do what she asked, he did and watched her move his injured leg over before climbing on top of him.

Her head instantly placed itself on his chest as the rest of her body relaxed and loosely drape over him as she had her legs between his to avoid his injured one. But to also not fall off the couch.

Her anxiety made her think that he would toss her off, and then she would know. But the archer brought his arms around her keeping her close as humanely possible.

“Get some sleep alright?” He whispers to her as she snuggled into him while he fixed her jacket to cover her.

The morning came and Rick found himself staring down at the two. He didn’t want to wake Carl and Michonne was rationing the food they found for breakfast that morning. So she was also there to notice the two laying on top of each other. He gave her a quick glance as she shook her head indicating to just let them sleep for now.

But when a few hours passed since that moment and the two were closer yet still being a bit awkward. The second Carl left with Michonne to check out the neighborhood, Rick shut the door harshly startling the two when Y/N was checking his wound.

“Y/N, you’ve got a minute?”

“Sure, just let me finish” Y/N gave him a puzzled look as to why he had to shut the door like such. “Don’t touch it, alright?”

“Doctor’s orders” Daryl shot her a smile before watching her leave with Rick, which brought his own confusion to his face.

As the two stepped out, Y/N assumed it was to do a perimeter check or to get Michonne and Carl wherever they may be within the neighborhood.

“So, where have you been before—-“

“You like Daryl yeah?”

The assumption made Y/N stop in her tracks giving him a deadpan look while he did his hands on the hips followed with the intense glare.

“Why are you—-“

“Why were yea sleeping together?”

“To keep fucking warm at night—-“

“Nah that ain’t it. If yea didn’t like the guy some sort of way you wouldn’t—-“

“I wouldn’t assume, Rick.” Y/N hissed. “You don’t get to know what happened last night because one part of it I’d like to forget…but none of the parts including Daryl. He was there for me when I needed it and I appreciated it”

“So…you’re just gonna deny the obvious”

“I DOUBT HE LOVES ME BACK” Y/N yells at her friend making his posture relax and take a step back. “I like what we have and I don’t want to go away like that—“ she snapped. “I love Daryl Dixon with all my heart…but I can’t lose him. I lost enough in this world. I don’t want to lose him”

Maybe he should’ve talked to Daryl first Rick thought watching her head back to the place they were holding up in.

Once the group regained a bit of their strength, they started to make their way toward this sanctuary that they’ve seen several signs for. Rick pulled Daryl to hang back, letting the three take the lead and ultimately pulling him away from Y/N who he was beside.

Y/N glanced back at the two watching them talk about something as she wishes she stuck back to listen but she wasn’t in any mood to talk to Rick at the moment.

“Want me to watch out ba—“

“You need to get your head out of your ass and tell her how you feel.”

Daryl felt lost in his own head in the sense that his thoughts were racing. Oh. It was obvious? Not. That obvious. She doesn’t know. Or does she? Why the FUCK is Rick bringing this up?

Rick felt as if the light in Daryl’s head went out as he instantly punched him in the arm to snap him back into reality.

“The hell am I supposed to even go about it?”

“I don’t know! But do something before you lose her”

Now that was a bit wrong of Rick. To implant the thought of losing her when she’s very much alive and right in front of him with a respectable distance. Doesn’t matter. She could be across the country or right in front of him and he’s fear of losing her every second. Rick stating such as if it were fact, made his anxiety get the best of him.

And that anxiety ate him when she suggested something stupid.

“Nah, you’re coming with us”

“It’s best to approach this at every angle and if they only see one coming through the front door? Then they won’t expect you four investigating the place further”

“I know you’re gonna hate me saying this, Daryl. But we’re going with Y/N’s plan” Rick states starting the walk to the other side of the place with Carl following shortly behind him as Michonne waited for Daryl.

The two shared an exchange without words as Y/N brought Daryl into her arms for a moment. He had gripped onto the back of her jacket with an unbreakable grip but it felt like a cue to separate when Rick whistled indicating he’s about to head in.

But the fear that came with watching her walk away…grew worse with time.

And the fear turned into anger and anxiety when the guy running the joint, Gareth, tossed a beaten up Y/N to the floor right in front of the feed trough that they learned the hard way was a blood collection for slaughtering animals. Daryl tried to break through his ropes to try and do something, while Rick was close to tearing everything apart the second he was set free.

The man did, to be clear. The second the distraction they really need, the explosion, took Gareth and his aimed gun at Y/N’s head away from the scene. She gave Rick a look and the second the wild man broke free, she lifted herself off the ground wincing in pain and taking the knife she had in her boot—a place no one looked—and threw it at one of the men’s throats as Rick instantly went for the other. Both going down and Rick went for Daryl first with releasing as the archer quickly removed his gag on his way over to Y/N latching onto her.

“I should’ve stuck with y’all” She weakly laughs as Daryl pulls away for a moment looking into her eyes seeing the confusion write itself on her face when he didn’t say a word.

Next thing she realized was Daryl pressing his lips firmly against hers. Y/N wanted desperately to keep the kiss going but they were both interrupted by Glenn yelling their names to get them off their asses and out of there.

Once collecting the rest of their family and meeting up with the one that gave their saving window, Carol, Daryl pulled away while Rick talks with Carol on their way over to wherever they were going to be beside Y/N.

“I’ve loved you since I first met you” Daryl whispers to Y/N as she turns to him smiling warmly trying her best not to let the overwhelming feelings get the best of her. But when the tears formed he gently took her wrist stopping the two. “Y/N…”

“I was just…so afraid of losing you” She silently sobbed as he carefully wiped away her tears before kissing her cheek and bringing her into his arms.

“You have me. You’ll always have me”

[noforkingclue]

Patching Up (River Cartwright x reader)

Summary: the last thing you were expecting was a beaten up Cartwright to turn up on your doorstep in the middle of the night. But here he was and you had no other choice but to patch him up and to talk

Everything tag list: @greenrevolutionary, @byebyebreezywrites spngingerbread21,  @layazul,  @lov3vivian, @simonsbluee

You groaned softly and turned over in bed, pulling the covers over your head. When you heard your buzzer ring again you knew it wasn’t just some cruel dream. Glancing at your phone you were temporarily blinded by its screen and cursed when you saw it was two in the morning.

Whoever was at your door was going to pay.

Unless it was Lamb in which case you would have to wake up pretty quickly.

“Yes?” you said sleepily as you answered your intercom, silently hoping that it was a prank

“L/n?”

“Cartwright?” you could feel the exhaustion being replaced by anger, “what the fuck do you want?”

“Can I come up?”

“No. Now piss off.”

“Wait! Please, L/n. I… just please.”

You bit your lip as you contemplated what to do next. In your six months at Slough House you didn’t have too much to do with the infamous River Cartwright. Maybe it was because nothing had ever really happened when you had joined. You had heard about their previous ‘adventures’. Roddy in particular was keen to big up his role in them. Lamb had commented that now you had joined everything would go back to the way things should be. His joes back luck charm, if things were to continue how they should.

“Fine,” you said eventually, “but you fucking owe me one.”

You pressed the buzzer to let him in and waited for Cartwright by your open door. You pulled your dressing gown tightly around you and hoped that your angry expression would mask any sort of curiosity. That didn’t last long when you saw Cartwright slowly come up the stairs.

“Fucking hell River,” you said as you ushered him into your flat, “what the fuck happened to you?”

“Guess.”

“Either The Dogs or Lamb.”

“The first one.”

“Fuck.”

Any form of potential violence against him had disappeared at the sight of his bruised and bloodied face. He gave you a small smile and quickly winced as you, gently, pushed him into your kitchen. Once you were sure that your flat was safely locked up (how safe it would be if The Dogs came to get you, you didn’t know) you turned your attention back to your patient.

“I have questions.” you said

“Not surprised.”

“Firstly, what did you do to piss off Duffy this time? Or was it just your general existence that annoyed him.”

River grunted in response so you assumed the latter. You grabbed an ice pack from your freezer and wrapped it in a towel.

“For your black eye,” you said, “hold this against it for about ten or twenty minutes. Should reduce the swelling.”

“I know how to deal with a black eye.”

“Why doesn’t that surprise me? Now, my other questions.”

“Do we have to do this now?”

“Yes,” you grabbed a bowl of warm water and some paper towels, “out of everyone in Slough House, why me? Like I understand not Lamb or Roddy. But you’ve known Lousia and Catherine for longer than me. Marcus, well, I’m sure he’d patch you up but I doubt his wife and kids would appreciate a bloodied spook turning up on their doorstep. As for Shirley…”

You trailed off and shrugged.

“I’d say 50-50 on whether she’d help or just laugh.”

“Thanks.” River said dryly

“You’re welcome.”

River hissed slightly when you wiped at his nose a little harsher than necessary. You gave him a pointed look as you leant against your kitchen table. You tilted his head back and said,

“I don’t think your nose is broken.”

“It’s not.”

“And you should know.”

“Repeating a ‘joke’ from earlier. Running out of material?”

“Not when you’re right in front of me. You provide me with an endless source.”

You frowned when you saw him holding his ribs.

“And your ribs? Are they broken?”

“Don’t think so.”

“You should probably get that checked out.”

River let out a grunt of acknowledgement and you rolled your eyes. That was River for ‘I know you’re right but I’m not going to do that’.

“You still haven’t answered my question.” you said as you continued to clear him up

“Which was?”

“Why did you come to me?”

River bit his lip and looked away. You grimaced when you saw that expression and you knew that getting River to answer that question was going to be a struggle. You tossed a bloodied tissue into the bowl of now pinkish water and sighed.

“Well it’s late,” you said, “so you can crash here tonight. Your shirt is going to need to be chucked in the wash to get the blood out. Sooner rather than later so the blood doesn’t set in but I guess you knew that already.”

You were expecting some quip about you wanting to see him shirtless but none came. You pursed your lips and started to move away when River’s hand shot out and grabbed your wrist. He wasn’t looking at you and he absentmindedly rubbed circles against it.

“I came to you,” he said slowly, “because I trust you.”

Trust.

Trust in your line of work was a dangerous word. You couldn’t help but be surprised at this admission. Trust was something that could be exploited by the wrong people. You weren’t expecting this admission of weakness from River.

“You trust me.”

River glanced up at you and gave you a small smile.

“Yeah, I do.”

“Well, it’s a good thing that I… trust you too. I’ll grab a spare pillow and blanket and you can have the sofa.”

You had almost left the room when River called,

“Oh, and y/n-”

You could practically hear the smirk in his voice and you called back,

“Say what I think you’re going to say and I’ll kick you out!”

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

Bill Bramhall, New York Daily News

* * * * *

LETTERS FROM AN AMERICAN

September 7, 2024

Heather Cox Richardson

Sep 08, 2024

By rights, tonight’s post should be a picture, but Trump’s behavior today merits a marker because it feels like a dramatic escalation of the themes we’ve seen for years. Please feel free to ignore—as I often say, I am trying to leave notes for a graduate student in 150 years, and you can consider this one for her if you want a break from the recent onslaught of news.

Yesterday, Trump ranted at the press, furious that the American legal system had resulted in two jury decisions that he had defamed and sexually abused writer E. Jean Carroll. He was so angry that, with his lawyers standing awkwardly behind him, he told reporters: “I’m disappointed in my legal talent, I’ll be honest with you.”

Today, Trump held a rally in Mosinee, Wisconsin, a small city in the center of the state, where he addressed about 7,000 people. A number of us who have been watching him closely have been saying for a while that when voters actually saw him in this campaign, they would be shocked at how he has deteriorated, and that seems to be true: his meandering and self-indulgent speeches have had attendees leaving early, some of them bewildered. In today’s speech, Trump slurred a number of words, referring to Elon Musk as “Leon,” for example, and forgetting the name of North Dakota governor Doug Burgum, who was on his short list for a vice presidential pick.

But today’s speech struck me as different from his past performances, distinguished for what sounded like desperation. Trump has always invented his stories from whole cloth, but there used to be some way to tie them to reality. Today that seemed to be gone. He was in a fantasy world, and his rhetoric was apocalyptic. It was also bloody in ways that raise huge red flags for scholars of fascism.

Trump told the audience that when he took office in 2017, military officers told him the U.S. had given all the military’s ammunition away to allies. Then he went on a rant against our allies, saying that they’re only our allies when they need something and that they would never come to our aid if we needed them. This echoes the talking points put out by Russian operatives and flies in the face of the fact that the one time the North Atlantic Treaty Organization invoked the mutual defense pact in that agreement was after the attacks of September 11, 2001, in support of the U.S. 

He embraced Project 2025’s promise to eliminate the Department of Education and send education back to the states so that right-wing figures like Wisconsin’s Senator Ron Johnson can run it. He reiterated the MAGA claim that mothers are executing their babies after birth—this is completely bonkers—and again echoed Russian talking points when he said these executions are happening—they are not—but “nobody talks about it.” He went on: “We did a great thing when we got Roe v. Wade out of the federal government.” 

He reiterated the complete fantasy that schools are performing gender-affirming surgery on children. “Can you imagine you're a parent and your son leaves the house and you say, Jimmy, I love you so much, go have a good day at school, and your son comes back with a brutal operation. Can you even imagine this? What the hell is wrong with our country?” Trump’s suggestion that schools are performing surgery on students is bananas. This is simply not a thing that happens. 

And then he went full-blown apocalyptic, attacking immigrants and claiming that crime, which in reality has dropped dramatically since President Joe Biden and Vice President Kamala Harris took office after a spike during his own term, has made the U.S. uninhabitable. He said that “If I don’t win Colorado, it will be taken over by migrants and the governor will be sent fleeing.” "Migrants and crime are here in our country at levels never thought possible before…. You're not safe even sitting here, to be honest with you. I'm the only one that's going to get it done. Everybody is saying that." He urged people to protest “because you’re being overrun by criminals.” 

He assured attendees that "If you think you have a nice house, have a migrant enjoy your house, because a migrant will take it over. A migrant will take it over. It will be Venezuela on steroids." He reiterated his plan to get rid of migrants. “And you know,” he said, “getting them out will be a bloody story.” 

He went on to try to rev up supporters in words very similar to those he used on January 6th, 2021, but focused on this election. “Every citizen who’s sick and tired of the parasitic political class in Washington that sucks our country of its blood and treasure, November fifth will be your liberation day. November fifth, this year, will be the most important day in the history of our country because we’re not going to have a country anymore if we don’t win.” 

He promised: “I will prevent World War III, and I am the only one that can do it. I will prevent World War III. And if I don’t win this election,... Israel is doomed…. Israel will be gone…. I’d better win.” 

"I better win or you're gonna have problems like we've never had. We may have no country left. This may be our last election. You want to know the truth? People have said that. This may be our last election…. It’ll all be over, and you gotta remember…. Trump is always right. I hate to be right. I’m always right.” 

Trump's hellscape is only in his mind: crime is sharply down in the U.S. since he left office, migrant crossings have plunged, and the economy is the strongest in the world.

Then, tonight, Trump posted on his social media site a rant asserting that he will win the 2024 election but that he expects Democrats to cheat, and “WHEN I WIN, those people that CHEATED will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the Law, which will include long term prison sentences so that this Depravity of Justice does not happen again. We cannot let our Country further devolve into a Third World Nation, AND WE WON’T! Please beware that this legal exposure extends to Lawyers, Political Operatives, Donors, Illegal Voters, & Corrupt Election Officials. Those involved in unscrupulous behavior will be sought out, caught, and prosecuted at levels, unfortunately, never seen before in our Country.” 

Is it the Justice Department indictments that showed Russia is working to get him reelected? Is it the rising popularity of Democratic nominees Kamala Harris and Tim Walz? Is it fury at the new grand jury’s indicting him for his attempt to overturn the results of the 2020 election and install himself in power? Is it fear of Tuesday’s debate with Harris? Is it a declining ability to grapple with reality?

Whatever has caused it, Trump seems utterly off his pins, embracing wild conspiracy theories and, as his hopes of winning the election appear to be crumbling, threatening vengeance with a dogged fury that he used to be able to hide. 

LETTERS FROM AN AMERICAN

HEATHER COX RICHARDSON

[moviesludge]

@syzygyhenosis replied to your post “I was only able to catch a little bit of Joe Bob...”:

Bloody muscle body builder in hell? "The Japanese evil dead" they call it

​Good call. I actually giffed this one last year

[thlayli-ra]

Stray (part 8)

Characters - CM Punk, Drew McIntyre, Larry, Samoa Joe, Ludwig Kaiser, Giovanni Vinci, Gunther

Pairing - CM Punk/Drew McIntyre, CM Punk/Samoa Joe (past)

AU - Stray AU

Rating - Mature

Warnings - Graphic depictions of violence and torture, blood

Words - ~4,700 words

Summary - Punk gets in over his head

(To celebrate bloodied CM Punk, here is some... bloodied CM Punk! 😁)

'PHIL! PHIIIIL!!!!'

Joe yelled into the blackness of the night but Punk was gone. His feet felt like they were stuck in quick-drying cement, trapping him in place while his mind whirred with what to do. Call the cops, it was screaming at him. If he won't do it then you do it. Call the damn cops!

They're all I have.

Joe hitched a breath at Punk's voice filtering through his thoughts. Words he had said to him just moments before. They're all I have.

Suddenly it made sense. Why he wouldn't get the police involved. A quick search would be all it took to find out that Drew was in the country illegally and they would pack him off home. Punk couldn't let that happen. He wanted to keep him. 'You selfish, selfish prick,' Joe muttered under his breath.

Just... watch them for me, ok? ..then I'll never ask for anything else again.

'Fine,' Joe acquiesced the phantom voice in his head. 'I'll watch them, but you'd better come back soon or else.'

Heading back inside, Joe started at the sight of Drew in the sitting room, looking around him in alarm. He circled his palms out in front of him then did the figure of eight on his chest. Where's Punk? Joe didn't answer straight away, instead closing the door behind him and locking it tight. Drew tried again, with more urgency this time.

'He's gone out, I'm not sure where exactly but-'

Drew barged past Joe towards the door and tried to haul it open. Panic gave him unspeakable power and he almost yanked the entire thing off its hinges in his desperation to follow Punk outside.

'Hey, woah, woah,' Joe tried to calm the frantic behemoth he had been tasked with babysitting, lost at how to soothe it. 'He's coming back. He said he'll be right back.'

But Drew wasn't buying it any more than Joe had. He shook his head and began banging the side of his palm against his temple, like he was a broken toy soldier wildly saluting his commander.

'I... I don't understand.'

Drew grabbed at his collar, practically choking himself as he displayed it to Joe then went back to saluting. Yet still, Joe wasn't catching on, all his usual logic blinded by the whole bizarre, frightening situation he found himself in.

'Just... come back in, Drew,' he tried to steady the ship, allow himself a chance to think straight. 'Sit down and we'll wait for him together and-'

Drew grabbed him, iron grips on his upper arms that even made a man-mountain like Joe wince. Their eyes locked, faces close as Drew furrowed his brows in deep concentration.

And his mouth began to move!

'D... d....'

'Holy shit...' Joe hushed out as Drew forced his neglected lips to try and form the word he needed.

'D...d-d-d....'

Joe knew. Knew what he was trying to say because the same word was blaring in his own ear like an air raid siren.

Danger!

Punk's apartment was dark. Carefully, he stepped over the mess at his feet, trying not to disturb anything with his cautious tread. The whole time ignoring the voice berating him at the back of his head, a voice that sounded exactly like Joe's. What are you doing? Are you crazy? What the hell are you doing?

They had to come back. He knew it in his gut. That's what they always did, come back to the scene of the crime. Everybody knew that. But looking around, he found no sign of change or disturbance, everything was still.

He passed by his kitchenette, purposefully ignored the dining table to his left with its gruesome shrine upon it. He thought he could hear the blood still drip, drip, dripping off the edge onto the floor but that might have just been his overactive imagination, high on adrenaline. It had been a lot of blood. He wondered who or what had donated it.

Thnnk!

Punk crouched down low. It had come from upstairs. He stalled his breathing to listen. No doubt about it, there was footsteps coming from the floor above.

He was right!

They were here!

The wraps around his hands creaked as he balled his fingers up into tight fists, holding them in front of him like a shield. He passed by his sofa-bed where Drew had slept peacefully the night before, passed the coffee table where Drew had kindly left him his last muffin towards the staircase. Deliberately lowering each sole down silently as he twisted his way up and up.

It had clicked back in Joe's garden. The house had never been Drew's sanctuary - it was Punk himself! He had been his fingers that had freed him from the muzzle, his arms that had held him close when he'd been afraid and now his fists would rid him of his captors forever.

Reaching the upper level, Punk followed the muffled sound of voices to his master bedroom. Inching his way towards the door, he suddenly wished he had a baseball bat or something to use as a weapon but it was too late. He had to make do with-

The door opened! And a man walked out!

The two of them jumped at the sight of each other but Punk recovered sooner and swung. His right. A savage hook. The man went down. Out cold. Muttering a curse under his breath, Punk shook out his arm, trying to ignore the slight ache that radiated from his recovering tricep. Still got it!

He looked over the intruder and immediately recognised him as one of the men who'd knocked on his door earlier. 'Knew you guys weren't fucking cops,' he muttered icily to the unresponsive blonde. That meant the other was around here somewhere.

'Ludwig?' The voice came from inside Punk's bedroom. Flattening himself against the wall, he listened as heavy footsteps lumbered towards the door. He had enough time to spit out the word 'merda' before Punk lunched, aiming another right hook. Horrific flashbacks to his championship loss came flooding back as the bald man ducked low, Punk's fist skating harmlessly over his head.

But Punk was wiser these days, knew what was coming next and changed his body position in an instant to defend against the tackle to his gut, thwarting the take-down. Snaring his opponent's head in a choke-hold, Punk rammed his elbows into the man's spine, trying to force him to his knees. Ground and pound, you know this routine, ground and pound.

Unfortunately, the man was no rookie to combat and managed to slam his own fist into Punk's gut. Doubling over, Punk tried to ignore the terrible cramps in his stomach as yet another blow pummelled his abdomen. When another caught him right on the diaphragm, winding him badly, he had no choice but to relinquish the hold and back off to regroup.

Too late, he realised that Joe had been right. Joe was always right. This wasn't a cage fight. There no rules, no relegations, no officials. And no respite. The bald man came charging for him again and Punk had no option but to meet him head-on despite the agony flooding his guts. Locking horns, the two men tussled, ramming one another into walls and doors, trying to dislodge the other.

Punk was forced back against the bannister, his foe's hand pushing down on his face and bending his spine painfully over the handrail. Out the corner of his eye he could see his living area far below, pooled in murky darkness like the mouth of the abyss itself. The hand drove down ruthlessly. Punk nearly lost his footing but caught hold of the wooden balusters to stop himself falling over and plummeting to the floor below.

The struggle continued, Punk's hope dwindling as the ache in his injured arm became unbearable. It was then he spotted their stances and saw his chance. Driving his leg up, he whacked his opponent square between his open legs. The man squealed, falling like a sack of bricks and Punk was freed from his peril.

With his foe on his knees, the cage-fighter attacked. Jabbing and punching until blood spilled freely down the bald man's face. Yet still he would not surrender. Fighting back with his own strikes, Punk was forced to retreat when the man successfully managed to wrap his arms around Punk's waist.

Quickly, Punk widened his stance to stop the take-down and both men wrestled for dominance. Fuck! This guy is strong! Punk cursed, aware that his own body was running out of adrenaline and starting to fail. You stupid, stupid old man!

Punk hammered his fist into the other man's kidneys, his blows becoming slow and sluggish, but he put what strength he could behind them. The fake cop responded by ramming his shoulder into Punk's gut, squishing it against the unforgiving surface of the wall. A pocket of something wet and metallic leapt up Punk's throat and began to drip from the corner of his mouth. At first he was convinced it was vomit but when he quickly wiped it with the back of his hand and saw the red smear on his wraps, his worst fears were confirmed.

That's not good!

His foe bulldozed into him again and Punk's knees gave out. His opponent wriggled free and without his support, Punk fell onto all fours, coughing up frothy bubbles of bloody saliva. Come on! Get up! GET UP!

He did. Wobbled up onto his feet like a drunk, swaying from side-to-side, blood pouring down his shirt. His opponent was enraged. Furious at Punk's defiance, he let out a roar and rushed for him. But Punk did not fight back. Instead, he ducked down out of harm's way. The man hit thin air and tripped over Punk, losing his balance.

Right at the top of the staircase!

Punk looked back and saw the panic in the man's eyes as he failed to right himself, feeling the momentum pulling him backwards into nothing. Reaching out, Punk tried to grab him but it was too late and the man fell. Sickening crunches tore throughout through the silent apartment as he tumbled the entire length to the bottom.

Punk ran to the banister and peered down below. He could see his foe, lying face-up on his sitting area floor. He wasn't moving.

'Sssssshit!' Punk cursed and rushed down the staircase, carefully stepping over the man's legs which were splayed on the bottom-most rungs. 'Shit! Shit! Are you alright?'

No answer fell from the man's lips. Hanging as loose as his eyelids, his pupils large and black as they stared up into the void. His chest still while a grisly pool of dark liquid spread out beneath him.

Punk grabbed his own hair by the roots, glanced back up at the spiralling grey structure of wood and steel. Joe had been right after all. 'Fucking death trap stairs!'

What did he do now? He'd just killed a man! Or at least, there was a dead man in his apartment. That he'd just killed. Or had he? He kinda killed himself. It was an accident, he'd been acting in self-defence but would anybody believe that? Did it matter? He couldn't just leave a dead guy on his sitting room floor. He had to do something, he had to call somebody, but... he couldn't call the cops because they'd ask why the intruders were here and then they'd find out about Drew and take him away and-

'Eh-hem!'

The sound of somebody loudly clearing their throat directly behind him made every drop of Punk's blood grind to a halt in his veins. Turning around, he faced down one of the largest men he'd ever seen. As wide and as thick as Joe but taller. Big! Too big!

The man sharply cried out in a foreign language, some kind of command and swiftly folded his hands behind his back. Punk blinked like a little minnow hypnotised by the anglerfish's lure.

He never even saw the strike coming. So quick was the blow to his head that he was knocked out long before his body collided with his own coffee table.

'Drew, I understand you're scared. I am too. But Punk said he would be right back.'

The Scot was refusing to back down, kept tapping his forehead over and over. 'D-d-d-d-d-d-' But he couldn't get the word out. Drew began smacking the butts of his palms against his forehead in frustration.

'Danger, I know!' Joe cut in, letting the taller man know he understood. 'Those men hunting you are dangerous, I get that, but Punk's only going to the convenience store.' Joe felt terrible using the same feeble lie that his ex had given him earlier. 'He's getting some supplies then he'll be back. He promised.'

Drew put down his hands, his large barrel chest heaving up and down with panicked breaths. He swallowed noisily before raising his right arm again. Making the figure of eight on his chest with his thumb, he followed it with the shape of an 'x' using his finger. Punk promised?

'Yeah,' Joe tried to mimic the two signs. 'He promised.' The tide was starting to turn, Drew was calming down. He was nearly there. 'Drew... do you trust him?' The Scotsman's blue eyes blinked, thick dark eyelashes fluttering as he glancing up sheepishly at Joe.

Cat paw.

'Do you believe him?' Another long, hard stare.

Cat paw.

It suddenly hit Joe how well he knew that look in Drew's face. The fear and anxiety that always seemed to go hand-in-hand with a certain tattooed cage-fighter. He found himself feeling a fresh pang of concern, something altogether more wicked in its nature.

Drew... do you... love him?

He didn't dare ask aloud. In case he got an answer he sorely did not want to hear.

'Come on then, come sit down,' Joe motioned back towards his sitting room. 'I'll make us some fresh coffee and we can wait for him to get back. He shouldn't be long.'

Now, he wasn't sure if he was trying to convince Drew or convince himself. After coaxing the large Scotsman down onto his couch, Joe disappeared into the sanctity of his kitchen. He went through his breathing exercises, old, familiar routines that had become second nature to him by now but at that moment, they weren't working. His hands were still shaking. His mind replaying that moment he'd seen Punk go down in the cage. Only when Joe rushed to his side, his eyes were still shut. His hair was short and speckled with greys, the wrinkles on his face more pronounced. And blood began flowing from his nose and mouth...

Joe rapidly made the coffees and returned to Drew. With someone else to take care of, he could occupy his anxiety. The pair sat quietly, the coffee turning cold in their untouched cups.

'I should have moved out of here months ago.'

Joe didn't know what prompted him to speak. Perhaps just a need to break the stifling silence before it suffocated him completely. 'Told myself it was only for a little while. A month or two. Just to make sure he was alright.'

Drew's blue eyes were on him, still large with worry. He couldn't bring himself to look at them. 'I just... never did. I'm still lingering on... still stuck. Like I was when we were together.

'We both agreed that when we got older, started to wind down, we'd retire and move back to SoCal. Punk was champion at the time but he told me that once he lost the belt, we'd talk again. He loses it. We don't talk. We spend two years together in semi-retirement, two amazing, blissful years... then he says he wants another shot. I'm disappointed but, I love him, I support him. So yes, go for it. I've got your back.

'He gets injured. I'm devastated for him but I'm also hoping, deep down, that maybe this time, we could look into new places. He says not now. His doctor is here, his surgeon is here, his PT is here. Fair enough, his foot was badly broken and I want him to heal so...

'He gets better. He says he had unfinished business. He needs to win his championship back. We fight. I give in and say ok. So he enters the cage. Tears his tricep. I say now, come on, this is a sign. You're over. You're done. He walks out. He's gone all night and I'm frantically calling the cops thinking he's done something stupid but he it turns out, he was just at Ace's and I'm so fucking angry with him. I call him a selfish motherfucker and every other curse under the sun. I get it all out of my system and I calm down. I tell him we'll stay until his tricep is healed. He says ok. And that's that.'

Joe sniffed loudly. He had no idea he'd been crying. Drew was looking at him with so much pity it hurts.

'Then he starts talking about one last chance. He just needs one last run and... it suddenly dawns on me. He was never gonna leave. Fighting is all he's ever cared about, it's all he's ever had. Nothing else will ever compare to it.' Joe took a deep gulp, wet tears spilling down his cheeks. 'Not even me.'

Drew dipped his head, levelled his eyes to the ground to give Joe some space to release his grief.

'So I left him. He didn't take it well. He was angry at first but when he realised I wasn't joking, he spiralled into this black hole. I've never seen him so bad. So I got this place, said I'd be around if he needed me, help him get back on his feet. And here I am, nearly eight months later and I'm still just sitting here in limbo. Still waiting... for him.'

Punk awoke to a world of groggy pain. His head felt like it was on the brink of bursting like a gory balloon, the swelling pushing into the back of his eyes. There was a ringing in his ear, a high pitched screech like the kind he'd have after seeing a local punk rock band play, the terrible noise adding fuel to his throbbing headache.

His vision was blurry but he recognised his sitting room, which was a small comfort, even if he was viewing it from a unfamiliar angle. However, the fear started up when he spied the stranger pacing in front of his large windows. Not the tall, dark-haired angel with the blue eyes that he'd scooped up off the street but one with a fierce grimace and a long, dark military coat that snapped every time he turned around.

He didn't seem to notice Punk in the room with him, so the cage-fighter took the opportunity to slink away but found to his horror that he was stuck fast. Looking up, he discovered both of his arms were tied firmly to the balusters of his staircase. A loud sting on his brow bellowed, making him wince against the stickiness of dried blood smearing his face from forehead to jaw.

His heart kicked up several notches, finally understanding the terrible danger he was in. A plight that only got worse when another figure entered his apartment - the blonde cop from earlier, now sporting an impressive black eye that Punk guessed was his own handiwork. The blonde began talking in a foreign language (it sounded European, German perhaps?) when the huge man cut him off.

'In English, Ludwig.' Then he looked directly at Punk. He wanted him to hear!

The blonde - Ludwig - cleared his throat and started over. 'I've wrapped Giovanni's body in the tarpaulin and stored it in the van, General. Thatcher is on his way to dispose of it.'

'Good,' the other man said, never taking his eyes off of Punk. The cage-fighter tugged weakly at his bonds, trying to break free but they had no give at all.

'Do not struggle,' the large man ordered, his voice punching right through Punk's aching skull. 'Do not fight, or you will join Giovanni at the bottom of the lake.' Punk stopped, but only because he could see it was useless. He would have to think of another way out of this predicament. 'Ludwig?'

The blonde took over, stepping smartly towards Punk with his hands behind his back and a smug air of superiority. 'You will answer my questions. Once you do, we will leave and you will never see us again.'

Yeah, right! Punk wasn't buying it.

'Where is the Scotsman?'

Punk glared back with gritted teeth and was punished with a brutal back-hand to his cheek. His head snapped to the side as Ludwig repeated the question again. 'Where is the Scotsman?'

'Don't know,' Punk said, running his tongue over his teeth to make sure they were all still there, well, except for the one that was already missing. 'Guy took one look at the mess you made in here and took off. Haven't seen him since.'

Another blow, a harsh slap to his other cheek. 'I know you are lying.'

'You don't know shit.'

A punch this time and fuck, that hurt! Almost knocked Punk's jaw right out of joint.

'No more to the face, Ludwig,' the larger man warned with a growl. The blonde replied with a 'yes, General' and continued his interrogation.

'We know you left together early this afternoon. Where is he now?'

Punk allowed himself a small glimmer of hope that they hadn't seen them going to Joe's place. 'I told ya already, I don't know,' Punk retorted.

Ludwig punched Punk right in the gut. The bruises from his earlier fight with Giovanni exploded like cluster bombs, spreading bursts of pain throughout his abdomen. With his arms pinned above him, Punk couldn't bend over to relieve the pressure and had to endure the horrific cramping in his gut, trying to breath through the agony in short, jagged pants.

'I expect the truth this time. Where is the Scotsman?'

'Fuck you,' Punk croaked. Another gut punch and Punk started coughing up blood again. That was the least of his worries. Ludwig had turned his attention to Punk's left hand. One-by-one, he tapped each of the cage-fighters inked digits, all of them turning blue from the tightness of the rope wrapped around his wrists.

'Ene mene miste,' Ludwig muttered under his breath. 'Es rippelt in der kiste, ene mene meck, und du bist weg.' He settled on Punk's pinkie finger and held it taut in his fist. Punk only managed to grab a breath before his finger was bent back fiercely, breaking the fragile joint with a loud snap! Punk screamed, his face twisted with the shock and pain while neither of his captors blinked an eye.

'Where is the Scotsman? Or I break another.'

'Ok, ok,' Punk hissed between his teeth. 'I get it. Look.' He motioned upwards with his head, Ludwig followed his gaze. 'You see this one?'

Punk stuck up his middle finger.

Unamused, Ludwig snagged it in his fist.

Snap!

'AAAAAAAGGGGGHHHHHHHH!'

'Where is the Scotsman?'

Punk spat at his captor in reply, hurling a large, wet glob of blood and spit that splattered across his face and dripped down his cheek. The smug, calm mask evaporated, a tight snarl took over and Ludwig grabbed Punk by the jugular, cutting off his air supply.

'I still have eight of your fingers left to break then I will move on to another piece of you and break it too. Now, tell me. Where is the Scotsman?'

Punk struggled to gasp in a breath, his face turning scarlet.

'Ludwig!'

The blonde stood down at the order and stepped away, keeping his cold, hard stare on Punk who coughed and spluttered, trying to heave some oxygen into his empty lungs. Clawing dread tore down his spine when the larger man stepped forward and he knew his dire situation was about to get far, far worse.

'I knew you would be a tough one to break,' the so-called 'General' said in his brash accent. He was holding something in his hands, large and shiny. Punk recognised his old championship belt in its glass case. 'You're a fighter? A champion. Me too, back home in Austria. I defended it all over Europe. Retired unbeaten.'

Before Punk could blink, the man rushed at him, glass case raised above his head like a club. Holding his breath, Punk braced himself for the blow, stuck fast as the titan thundered towards him. Punk yelped as the case smashed directly above his head and shards of glass fell like hail onto his bloodied face and shoulders, getting stuck in his hair.

But there was no pain. It hadn't touched him - just a ploy to scare him.

And it had worked!

Punk trembled from head to foot, creaking his eyes open again to find the General looming over him, blood dripping from the hand where the glass had sliced his skin. He didn't even seem to notice.

'Now tell me where my slave is?'

'Your... your what?'

The bloodied hand grabbed Punk by the chin, smearing fresh blood through his beard. 'The Scot. Where is he?'

Something about hearing that word being used to describe Drew, confirming the fears that Punk knew deep down but was loathe to admit, ignited the cage-fighter's rage and he stared down his tormentor with his brow furrowed and teeth bared.

'Fuck you, you son-of-a-bitch!'

The General stared back stoically, unmoved by Punk's outburst. His gruesome hand trickled down from Punk's jaw to the collar of his shirt and shredded the fabric, slicing it down the middle like he was gutting a wriggling fish. The painted skin of Punk's chest was exposed and examined expertly, the General placing his finger right on the centre between Punk's pecs.

Then he drew back his hand...

Every single muscle in Punk's body tensed up.

The blow sent him crashing against his own staircase, his spine colliding with the hard wood. Any air he had gulped back into his lungs were flushed out and Punk felt himself begin to suffocate. He was given no opportunity for respite, blow after blow pounding against his battered torso, cracking a new rib with each brutal strike.

By the time the onslaught finally came to an end, Punk hung like a mangled piece of meat from the butcher's hook, mouth drooping open as his shattered chest tried to catch air. Each raspy breath stung like a knife slicing between his ribs. His chin was grabbed again, fingers digging into his jawbone.

'How about now? Now, will you tell me where my slave is?'

Despite the fear, despite the pain, Punk laughed. A loud, obnoxious laugh. 'You empty-headed fucking dumb fuck!' he sneered in his tormentor's face. 'You really think this is working? You have no fucking idea. I'm from the cage. I know pain! I've broken my fucking fingers during a fight and kept on punching. Whatever you dish out, I can take.'

The General tilted his head back, narrowing his eyes.

'But the more you hurt me, the more you convince me...' a glob of blood dribbled from Punk's lips, sticky crimson staining his teeth, 'that I'm never gonna let your ugly ass take him again.' He paused to grab a strangled breath, letting his words sink in. 'So I guess, you're just gonna have to kill me, because I'm never gonna tell you where he is.'

The hold on his chin became unbearable and Punk tried to calm his stampeding heart, waiting for the end to come.

But then... his captor began to chuckle. 'You hear that Ludwig? He said to kill him. He makes the orders now.' The blonde gave a snide grin but nothing more. 'No, no, no, no,' the General shook his head. 'No, I am the one in charge here.' He pulled Punk in close, so close the cage-fighter could smell his foul breath. 'And I don't want to kill you. I actually quite like you. You're a lot of fun. I think we should have more fun together, do you agree?'

The General placed his thumb against Punk's lips, pressed them through and into his mouth. Punk could taste the acidy tang of the other man's blood on his tongue as the strange digit hooked itself around his bottom teeth.

'You won't tell me where I can find my slave? Fine! Then you will take his place.'

To be continued...

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[mariacallous]

A 32-year-old man in Pennsylvania posted a video on YouTube this week where he picked up a clear plastic bag containing the severed head of his father and held it in front of the camera.

“This is the head of Mike Mohn, a federal employee of over 20 years, and my father,” Justin Mohn said in the now-deleted video reviewed by WIRED. “He is now in hell for eternity as a traitor to his country.”

Over the course of the next 14 minutes, he ranted about a myriad of far-right talking points and conspiracies including Black Lives Matter, taxes, the LGBTQ community, and the Biden administration. He also urged viewers to kill all federal employees and seize federal offices, while railing against “far-left woke mobs.” He claimed to be the head of an American militia network known as Mohn’s Militia. “I am now officially the acting president of America under martial law,” he said.

But there was one issue that he focused on more than any other: migrants along the southern US border.

“The federal government of America has declared war on the American citizens and the American states,” the man says. “America will be less protected when the fifth column of illegal immigrants strikes Americans on our own soil.”

He also made demands that the US close its borders to immigrants and for “the mass deportation of the millions of illegal immigrants who have entered the country under the Biden regime, which has put Americans in direct harm.”

Over the past few weeks, right-wing rhetoric around a so-called migrant invasion reached new heights as the standoff between Texas governor Greg Abbott and President Joe Biden’s administration over the removal of razor wire on the Texas-Mexico border has continued. A convoy of far-right extremists is driving to the border and Republican politicians around the country have come out in support of Abbott.

Multiple researchers tell WIRED that the events and rhetoric surrounding the Texas-Mexico border could be linked to the violent video Mohn posted this week. This border controversy and the incendiary rhetoric surrounding it appeared to be something that deeply angered Mohn, highlighted by his YouTube video and the rest of his extensive online footprint of books, pamphlets, music and social media posts, many of which are steeped in far-right conspiracies. In a 2020 essay entitled “America’s Coming Bloody Revolution,” Mohn claims a violent revolution against the government is not only necessary but will succeed.

“For individuals in this conspiratorial mindset who have been subjected to countless hours of extremist narratives and grievances, every new flashpoint—from the Texas border crisis to the Israel/Hamas war to Taylor Swift—is evidence that their worldview is the reality,” Jon Lewis, a research fellow with the Program on Extremism at George Washington University, tells WIRED. “This act of violence represents the threat posed by mainstreaming hateful and dehumanizing rhetoric.”

“I listened to his diatribe about 20 times to write it all out and there is zero doubt in my mind that he was influenced by the recent events involving Texas,” Caroline Orr, a behavioral scientist and postdoctoral researcher at the University of Maryland who tracks extremism online, wrote on X. “This was expected and there will be others.”

Investigators have not mentioned a motive for the alleged decapitation, but Mohn was formally charged early Wednesday morning with first-degree murder, abuse of a corpse, and possession of an instrument of crime with intent. Police said in a statement posted to Facebook that they were alerted to the incident when Mohn’s mother called 911 and said she had come home to find her husband’s decapitated body on the floor of their bathroom. Mohn was arrested 100 miles away on Tuesday evening when he was discovered armed and wandering around a Pennsylvania National Guard training center at Fort Indiantown Gap, AP reported.

Multiple experts believe that extremism and conspiracy theories could still be at the root of what happened. “Some have been quick to write Mohn off as mentally unwell and while this may be accurate, this incident illustrates the threat of anti-government extremism and conspiracy theories, which have become all too common since the 2020 election,” Katherine Kenealy, the head of threat analysis at the Institute for Strategic Dialogue, tells WIRED. “He was so steeped in anti-government beliefs that he not only viewed his father as a ‘traitor’ because of his purported job, but selected him as a target because of it.”

Following the alleged murder, far-right figures immediately began boosting conspiracies about the beheading being a false flag in favor of the Democrats—something that has virtually become a reflex action among far-right figures following major news.

One of the main narratives shared was a claim that the Democrats were behind the incident as a way of boosting support for the Preventing Private Paramilitary Activity bill currently making its way through Congress. One of those pushing this narrative was Laura Loomer, a close ally of former president Donald Trump.

“Justin Mohn sure looks like the perfect Democrat Patsy for the sake of demonizing people who call out the invasion on the border, and for the sake of getting support to ban militia,” Loomer wrote on X, adding: “Just another ‘coincidence.’”

“False flag and ‘psyop’ conspiracy theories have rapidly spread online since the incident,” Kenealy tells WIRED. “These narratives detract from the severity of the incident and attempt to minimize the threat posed by anti-government ideologies.”

But despite a long history of Mohn expressing his disturbing views on platforms like Reddit, Facebook, Twitter, as well as publishing music on YouTube, Spotify, and Deezer, experts say that it would have been virtually impossible to identify him as a threat before his alleged beheading of this father this week.

“It’s more or less impossible to track this stuff in advance most of the time,” Orr tells WIRED. “We can make an educated guess about what will happen when politicians are putting out inflammatory rhetoric that has incited violence previously, but it’s extremely hard to identify who is going to be the one who responds to the ‘call.’”

As the convoy heads toward the border and rallies are organized in Eagle Pass, Texas, Republican lawmakers, including former president Donald Trump, continue to push violent rhetoric. These kinds of actions, experts say, could lead to potential violence.

“It's hard to determine when acts of violence like this will occur, but given the panic being spread about the border, it's highly likely that more will act on these narratives,” Samantha Kutner, an extremism researcher and CEO of counter-terrorism company GlitterPill, tells WIRED. “Not everyone who gets exposed to conspiratorial worldviews and beliefs and theories about the border wall engages in violence, but the proliferation of disinformation and conspiracy theories does impact certain subsets of the population who are perhaps more vulnerable to that messaging than others.”

[ina-shumelim]

Raging against the dying of the light: Chumbawamba don’t want to fade away

(Content note: HIV, suicide.)

I grew up with one Chumbawamba album that my mother had a self-burned copy of. It was not Tubthumper, but rather the calmer and much more melodious A Singsong and a Scrap (2005). Recorded by a much smaller Chumbawamba (Jude, Lou, Boff, and Neil) as half the band had left after the previous year’s Un to pursue their own projects, Singsong embraces a soft folk sound, foreshadowed already ten years prior on the Love-portion of Swingin’ with Raymond (1995). My favourite song on the album is By and By, an hommage to songwriter and labour activist Joe Hill (“don’t mourn, organise!”)—can you imagine a more beautiful epitaph?

Anyway, today yesterday I was listening to Fade Away (I Don’t Want to), on the same album. The title reminds me of Neil Young’s My My Hey Hey (Out of the Blue) (1979): “It’s better to burn out than to fade away”. In autumn 1980, John Lennon commented on this song as he understood it:

I hate it. It’s better to fade away like an old soldier than to burn out. If he was talking about burning out like Sid Vicious, forget it. I don't appreciate the worship of dead Sid Vicious or of dead James Dean or dead John Wayne. It’s the same thing. … If Neil Young admires that sentiment so much, why doesn’t he do it? Because he sure as hell faded away and came back many times, like all of us. No, thank you. I’ll take the living and the healthy.

This led Neil Young to clarify:

The rock’n’roll spirit is not survival. Of course the people who play rock’n’roll should survive. But the essence of the rock’n’roll spirit to me, is that it’s better to burn out really bright than to sort of decay off into infinity. Even though if you look at it in a mature way, you’ll think, “well, yes ... you should decay off into infinity, and keep going along”. Rock’n’roll doesn't look that far ahead. Rock’n’roll is right now.

When Kurt Cobain committed suicide in 1994, he left a note referencing this line: “I don’t have the passion anymore, and so remember, it’s better to burn out than to fade away.” I think it’s a line that reads very differently depending on what place you are in.

In 2005, Chumbawamba are in their forties. They’d tried to change the world with punk rock and had their time in the limelight, but to what avail? It must have been tiring:

It’s a mighty long way from my own front door To the world we were going to make We got bloodied and bruised for the old excuse That it’s hard just staying awake

It seems so easy to sit down in your rocking chair, remote control in hand, and turn to a Fine Career (The Boybands Have Won, 2008). And maybe that’s what their life looked like from the outside. In the liner notes to the song, they tell the story of meeting a 45-year old punk, like Chumbawamba at this point without spiky hair: “‘punk is here,’ (touches his heart) ‘I don’t need the clothes to prove it.’” This seems to have resonated with the band, now an uneasy listening folk act. But it is not the sound or the outward appearances that make the punk band: Chumbawamba have not surrendered their fight, they are still looking for a reason to kick and scream:

Wake me up if you catch me falling Gently into the Night Shine up my shoes ‘cos I can’t get used To the dying of the light

Dylan Thomas’s poem Do not go gentle into that good night (1951) describes the futile fight against death. Wise men, good men, wild men, grave men—when they feel death is near, they all “rage, rage against the dying of the light”. Even though for Chumbawamba the fight is not yet against death, the stakes are equally high: “Struggle! To struggle is to live, and the fiercer the struggle the intenser the life.” (Pyotr Kropotkin, Anarchist Morality, 1987).

I think it is worth noting that Do not go gentle inspired another of Chumbawamba’s songs: The closer of Anarchy (1994), Rage, is dedicated especially to the people behind Diseased Pariah News, a 1990s humorous zine by and for people who were HIV positive:

Hear the ghosts of everafter Yell of anger Ring of laughter Don’t go gently into the night Rage against the dying of the light.