#helps in cloudy with a chance of murder. sam is one of the only long running guest stars that i didnt know from psych bc she was from lost

[hazardsoflove]

my favorite thing in the world is watch a long running tv show and recognizing guest stars from when they guest starred on psych

[lilbabycee]

georgia // steve rogers ✈️

↳ summary: after a mission, the reader comes back with some serious injuries and steve doesn't know how to handle it.

↳ relationship: steve rogers x reader

↳ word count: 2.9k

↳ warnings: near death experiences, fluff and angst, hurt/comfort, another overused trope

↳ author’s note: more steve for you because i love this man - enjoy! <3

You’re curled on one of the sectionals in the common room, watching the sun peek out from a blanket of clouds not unlike the ones that you’re lying under right now. The sky is swathed in purples and yellows and oranges and you take the time to enjoy the unobstructed view from the floor-to-ceiling windows at the Avengers Compound. You can feel yourself sinking into the grey ocean that is the obnoxiously large sofa beneath you and you think that if you drown then this would be a hell of a way to die.

He isn’t speaking to you. He hasn’t even seen you in weeks, harboring a grudge so strong that you think the weight of it could crush even his super soldier body. Leaning the side of your head on the couch, you find yourself momentarily distracted by the picturesque scene in front of you, but then your eyelids droop and you are snapped back to the reality of your situation. You can’t sleep without him and he knows that. After all of these years you still don’t know exactly what it is - maybe a product of the Red Room, maybe years of murdering innocents coming back to haunt you, but you can’t sleep alone. You were used to it for years, not getting more than two hours of sleep - if you were lucky - most nights. But long gone are the days of sneaking into bed with Natasha, because once Steve came along, you didn’t need it any longer.

Steve. You sigh in frustration, one hand wiggling out from underneath the fluffy white blanket to rub at your eyes and run over your face. Maybe you’re being dramatic. After all, waxing poetic about your boyfriend wasn’t going to bring him back from wherever the fuck he was in France right now. Prior to a few years ago, you only had yourself to look out for and nobody else. You had become accustomed to it, doing whatever was best for you and not having to take anybody else into consideration because, ultimately, you worked alone. But then you joined the Avengers, became a part of a team, and then you realized that you were surrounded by people who valued your life more than you did.

It was jarring to say the least, but on top of that, you met Steve. It was instant, the connection that you two shared. There was always a sense of admiration that went both ways, and you brought each other a sense of normalcy in a world that was otherwise chaotic and often unbelievable. You love him more than you love yourself on most days, you find. But his Captain persona has a tendency to spark arguments with the intensity of a forest fire, igniting the fire within his belly but in contrast, you become cold and withdrawn and defensive.

It doesn’t happen often, but when you do fight, the entire compound knows about it and the team is forced to witness the tension between you two for days, weeks. This was especially painful for both Sam and Natasha, as they are both so close to the both of you and they always feel as if they had to pick sides.

You miss him, you realize, when rare tears prick at your eyelids and you close your eyes to try and ward them off. This time of the year is especially hard for you, having to watch families and children and happiness and beauty all around you. You can’t stand it. It just reminds you of all of the things that you decided that you couldn’t have, things that can’t fit into the lifestyle that you have so carefully perfected over the years. You’d been spiraling over the last couple of days, truly spiraling and the only person who had noticed was Natasha. There was so much of herself that she saw in you, having grown up the same way without love and affection and comfort.

Steve would comfort you. He’d tell you that your feelings are valid and that you have every right to feel sad and that you’re not alone in your emotions. He’d come cuddle you and call you baby or honey or doll and kiss you so hard that the whirring freight train of despair on a circular loop in your head would come to an abrupt stop and you’d forget about all of that, at least for some time. But he isn’t here so you’re stuck the way you are: sad and cold and tired and alone.

Your ears perk up and you can sense somebody standing behind you. It’s not Steve - you would know - and you peel your eyes open slowly, turning around regardless, curious as to who else could be up at 7:20 a.m on a Sunday and not training. Your eyes meet green ones and you exhale a laugh. Those verdant eyes are flooded with concern and what looks like a hint of… guilt?

“‘Tasha,” you greet slowly, raising an eyebrow skeptically. “You’re not training. Everything okay?”

“I feel like that’s what I should be asking you,” her voice is soft and filled with that same concern, unnoticeable to somebody who does not know her as well. “How’re you feeling?”

You bark out a laugh again, wincing when you feel the soreness of your throat and idly rub at the smattering of bruises that mar the skin on your neck. You become acutely aware of the deep cuts on your legs and your bandaged wrist, sighing when you remember how long you’ll have to spend in medbay with Dr. Cho to change all of them.

“I’ve been worse,” you shrug, slowly becoming increasingly aware of how every small movement comes with a sharp sting of pain. You were no super soldier: you still healed like a regular human being, although people often seemed to treat you like you weren’t one as a result of your extensive spy training. It’d been weeks now and you still aren’t fully healed, something that frustrates you to no end as you were just about tired of sitting on your ass. “I’ll get over it eventually, but it’ll just take a couple more weeks. At least, that’s what Dr. Cho said.”

“You know that’s not what I was referring to,” Natasha gives you a deadpan look and you hold her gaze because you’re nothing if not stubborn.

You know who else is stubborn? St-

“-and Steve,” she continues. You snap out of your slight daze and focus on maintaining eye contact with her. “I spoke to him and told him to come speak to you - he doesn’t know how bad you’re doing.”

“You know that after Georgia he doesn’t wanna speak to me,” you’re surprised at how soft and resigned your tone is.

“He doesn’t wanna speak to you or you’re not giving him the chance to?”

“You know perfectly well that that’s not the case, Nat,” you shoot her a murderous glare and she smirks, walking around the sectional to sit next to you, lifting a corner of the blanket to sidle up next to you. You drop your head on her shoulder and close your eyes again, feeling a strong pounding sensation at the front of your head. A groan leaves your lips and you bury your face into the redhead’s shoulder.

“Steve is absolutely one of the most stubborn people I have ever met,” Natasha starts slowly. “But he also has one of the biggest hearts of anyone I’ve ever met. You and I both know that for a fact. You have to put yourself in his shoes. Imagine how he felt when he saw you like that, blood pouring out of your head and laying on a table on the quinjet, helpless. If that was him, you know how panicked you would have been.”

---

three weeks ago...

You’d thought that you’d taken all of them out, running next to Sam and turning the street corner back towards the quinjet. This part of the country had been virtually abandoned, a true ghost town. It had taken several hours to fly from New York just to do some recon, even in the quinjet.

Steve and Natasha were running several feet ahead of you, and they had disappeared out of sight, turning another corner, when it happened. It was supposed to be a quick and simple in-and-out, not meant to take any longer than a few hours, so the relief that it had all gone to plan was almost palpable in the air.

That was until a massive man rushed you with a dagger, obviously desperate and probably out of ammunition. He went for Sam first, a swift and split-second stab to the side - a wound which ended up being non-fatal, thank God - and continued to attack him when you jumped on him from behind. You knew that you were out-muscled - the man stood at over 6’5 and was built like a tree - but you managed to get him away from Sam. You were sure that you could overpower him with purely your agility and skill, but he fought dirty. After tackling you to the ground, he grabbed you by your neck in an attempt to asphyxiate you and damn he was strong. You struggled to pry his hand off of your neck, the intense pain making your vision cloudy and your head spin. Taking advantage of your temporarily incapacitated state, he stabbed you in the shoulder and then repeatedly in the legs, crushing your wrist by putting all of his weight on it. You came to the realization that he was trying to get you to lose as much blood as he possibly could, wanting to drag out the experience. You faintly heard Sam struggling to speak into the comms and hoped that Steve and Natasha were coming back.

The man, with a wicked grin on his face, proceeded to smash your head repeatedly against the concrete sidewalk. The last thing that you distinctly remember was hearing Steve’s heavy boots sprint over to where you were.

You were told that after that, Natasha took care of your attacker while Steve carried you back to the quinjet in a panic. Nat was able to help Sam limp there, surprisingly it really was more of a flesh wound and hit no vital organs. You had been in a medically induced coma for four days after your heart had stopped because of the gallons of blood that you had lost. They tried to restart your heart several times and when they finally succeeded, they wanted to make sure that you were healing in the way that you were supposed to be. When you woke up to Steve sleeping, slouched in a hospital chair beside your bed with your hand gripped tightly in his, you gave him a weak squeeze to wake up. He jumped up and immediately started crying while calling for the medical staff.

After you were left alone, Steve walks back in with a far sterner expression on his face than when he first came in. You try for a weak smile, but you are severely concussed and struggle to form coherent sentences so you are not in the mood to fight with your boyfriend. But it looks like he is in the mood to fight with you.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” he begins, standing at the head of your hospital bed with his arms crossed over his chest.

You roll your eyes and heave a sigh. “Steve, can we do this another time? I’m really not feeling up to-”

“No, Y/N,” he barks, effectively silencing you. His Captain voice has made an appearance and your frustrations start to arise. You know that this won’t be a quick scolding. “We’re a team. And you have to make decisions that are best for the team. What you did was unnecessarily put yourself at risk when Natasha and I were readily available to help you. Instead of communicating with us, you took on the task by yourself and look where that’s gotten you. I know that it’ll take a while for you to recover from these injuries but I don’t want you coming on missions for another month after your recovery. It’s-”

“Captain Rogers,” you interrupt him, your defensive walls up and your tone frosty. “With all due respect, sir, I did what I thought was best at that moment. I was protecting Sam. I don’t know what taking me off more missions will do for the team, or me, for that matter. I was trying to protect Sam from death-”

“You died, Y/N!” he shouts at you, voice cracking slightly, and your mouth snaps shut. “You died and I saw you die. Forgive me if I don’t want that to happen again.”

He clenches his jaw and his eyes dart around, a sign that he’s trying to avoid tearing up. Your expression has softened considerably and as you open your mouth to speak, he pins you with a glare so fierce that only air comes out.

“You’re off the missions. I’m not taking no for an answer.”

That’s all he says before swiftly turning on his heel and slamming the door behind his retreating figure.

---

Starting to speak, you look at Natasha’s side profile as she stares directly ahead of her: “I know. But he’s acting like Sam wouldn’t have died if I hadn’t helped him. It’s just that I’ve gotten over this. And I’m in pain, Nat. I’m tired. I’m exhausted and my throat hurts and I feel so weak but he’s not here.”

At the end of the sentence, your voice cracks and Natasha’s hand comes up to rub comfortingly at your back. Your body is too busy shaking with sobs for you to realize that Steve just walked in. He sees Nat and smiles at her before his eyes hone in on your fragile - a word that he’s never used to describe you before - body. His smile drops abruptly and he rushes to your side, his stubbornness be damned. Steve had no idea just how badly this had been affecting you, because he was too concerned with waiting for you to come and apologize to him.

“Baby,” he coos softly, gently caressing your cheek. Your head lifts and his heart sinks when he sees your bloodshot eyes and dark bags, coupled with your shaky hands and severe bruising. He hasn’t even seen you in the weeks since the hospital - he took a mission in France with Bucky almost immediately after - and he feels like crying himself when he sees how much the lack of communication has broken you. He’s always considered you the strongest person he knows, untouchable and tenacious. But this, this. It breaks his heart. “Hi, baby.”

You only sob harder as Natasha shoots him a look and stands up, presumably heading towards the kitchen to make herself some breakfast. Steve takes her place after mouthing a thank you - to which she responds with an eye roll - and takes care to wrap his strong arms around you without pressing on any of the more severe bruises.

“Honey, I’m so sorry,” he whispers. “I was bein’ hard-headed and selfish and I didn’t even think about how hard my best girl has it. But you shoulda seen yourself, babydoll. I thought I had died right along with you on that table…”

Fuck it, you think as you throw your arms around his neck. Sharp pain shoots through both of your arms but you don’t give a fuck because your Stevie’s here and he’s apologizing (?!!) and he’s so warm.

“Stevie,” you sniff, almost childlike in your need for affection. “I’m sorry. I wanted to help Sam and I thought I could take him.”

He chuckles, pressing a long kiss to your forehead. You close your eyes serenely as his lips linger and he starts caressing the side of your bruised neck with his thumb.

“That’s okay, doll,” he smiles. “You probably coulda taken him and I know it was a tough situation. I just want my baby to feel better. I’m sorry I haven’t been here; I needed to clear my head because I was just so damn scared. My worst fear is losin’ you and having that realized, living through that… I couldn’t bear it. But I’m here now and we can make sure that you rest up. You been sleepin’, sweetheart?”

You shake your head - too fast because the pounding in your head intensifies and you groan - and lean up to press a kiss on his cheek. His cheeks warm and you smile fondly at him, pleased that even after all this time you have an effect on your man.

“Well, we’ll have to fix that, won’t we honey?” he smirks as he easily lifts you up with your arms wound around his neck. He starts striding towards your shared quarters and lays you in the bed. “Cold, baby?”

You nod and make grabby hands at him, feeling especially needy - a side that you could never show to the rest of the Avengers because they would bully you for the rest of your life. He only laughs, whipping off his shirt and joining you in bed.

“Comfortable?” he asks, looking down at you. You snuggle up to his chest - fuck your broken wrist and crushed windpipe - and feel yourself drifting already. You come to realize that this is where you belong - wherever your super soldier is, whatever he does, you know that you’ll love him to the ends of the earth…

...or at least all the way to Georgia.

tagged: @literaturefeen​

[bapyess1r]

Sum’n Bitch: intro

“Of all the days,” I grunted softly, barricading Sam, Dean, and myself in the priest’s office. “my father’s funeral had to be the day for a demon to turn up.”

“Yeap. At least your family got away safely.” Sam said, placing a large hand on my shoulder.

“But…” I heard Dean say from behind. As I turned, he walked closer and closer to me, his brows furrowed. “Why is it after you? There somethin’ you not tellin’ us?” He asked, suddenly suspicious of me. I felt my stomach flip and I took a deep breath, straightening out my black dress.

“Just one….teeny thing. Literally it’s like…. not even a big deal!” My voice grew higher and higher as I spoke.

“Maya…” Dean spoke with warning. Personally, Dean scared the shit outta me when he wasn’t eating pie.

“I uh...may or may not have screwed over a very powerful woman…. a woman who is kinda like….. the Mother of the King of Hell?” I said, treading lightly with my words.

“Oh great.” Dean groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose before readying himself with a gun and knife.

“Wait Rowena? What business did you have with her?” Sam asked.

“Remember how I told you guys I got sorta like...expelled from my witch school? Yeah um….there is no actual building . I was her student…. Kinda… And what had happened for real was….I betrayed her when I decided to save your lives.” I confessed. I couldn’t word when I was nervous.

“Why did you save us that night?” Sam sat on the corner of a desk, his green eyes urging me to be honest. For once, I felt like I could be but there was a strong demon possessing my cousin’s body banging on the door hard enough to break the wood and we were running out of time. I groaned and walked over to him, placing a hand on his warm face.

“Can I tell you after this is taken care of?” I asked as he searched my eyes for dishonesty. “I promise I will tell you the truth… I’m not what you think….” I whispered, my head hanging in worry that he wouldn’t believe me. He hooked his hand around the back of my neck and brought my forehead to his as he stood, towering over me.

“I’ll listen.” He nodded as his lips hovered over mine.

I exhaled in relief as I reached behind him for the hefty sized bible as went to the stained glass window. I closed my eyes and gathered all my energy, steadying my breathe to align my chakra until the book levitated in front of me. With a strong grunt, I hurled it into the colorful glass until it shattered, revealing the cloudy, pale gray sky. “Let’s get outta here then, shall we?” I smirked as the cold winds blew into the room. Sam smiled at me when he stalked over to the window to climb it. Dean on the other hand, didn’t trust me much anymore. That was understandable. After he climbed through, I hoisted myself up to the window sill and leapt off, unexpectedly falling into Sam’s lengthy arms. I felt my face burn before he put me down.

“W-Whatddya got in the trunk?” I said, trying to play it cool.

“Same as last time.” He smiled brightly as I followed them to Baby.

“And the time before that.” Dean grumbled.

“Oh goodie…” I sighed. The stress of the day was wearing me down.

“Hey…” Sam said softly, placing a warm hand on my arm. “You ok?”

“Yeah, always.” I lied. I wasn’t prepared for this funeral at all. Now there’s a demon possessing my favorite cousin….and it’s my fault…

“It’s not your fault.” He said bending to meet my eyes. It was like he read my mind. I took a deep breath as a small tear fell from my eyes and I wiped it away as quickly as possible. Dean opened up the trunk to the impala and revealed several weapons of choice.

“Pick your poison.” He said in a deep voice. “Maya, I’m gonna give it to you straight. We’re not going to kill him, but he’s gonna get hurt…. A lot.”

“It won’t be permanent damage will it? He plays football…. he’s got a scholarship….” I teared up, trying my best to keep it together.

“We’ll do everything we can.” Sam told me, reassuring me of his safety. I looked around and noticed that I had family members trying to figure out what was going on. My grandma looked confused and my aunts praying and crying… cousins on their phones trying to get help. It was too much to handle and I started hyperventilating, causing the ground to shake.

“Sammy…” Dean roared. My family reacted and Dean held on to the Impala for dear life and that worried me even more-

“Hey, hey…” Sam said rushing to me, focusing my attention to his friendly green eyes. “Relax. Breathe with me.” He coached me through breathing until I felt better and the ground quit shaking.

“Sam, I don’t know what that was-.” I panicked.

“It’s fine. You’re fine, they’re fine, we’re fine.” He said, placing a hand on my head and pulling me into a hug.

“I’m sorry….” I apologized but he kept hugging me and shushing me as quickly as possible.

“Guys, if we’re gonna do this, then we gotta do this quickly.” Dean said cocking a gun. I stared at him incredulously and he just shrugged. “Just in case. Hopefully, I won’t have to use it. But you never know.”

Sam made a face as I frowned, grabbing the red spray paint from the trunk. I looked into the massive hoard that was my family to find my grandmother's eyes. She nodded knowing what I needed to do. I took a deep breath and turned to the boys.

“I’ll get started on the trap.” I said wrinkling my brows at Dean as I walked to the window I just hopped out of.

“I’ll come with you. Sammy, calm down the family. Let me know we’ll handle it. Quickly, please.” I heard Dean say behind me. We helped each other into the room, grabbed a chair for me to stand on, and began to paint the trap on the ceiling above the door. The demon was still banging on the door. ‘Damn… they must’ve sent a stupid one. Am I that unimportant? God, who is that?’ I thought to myself. I was going to taunt it but Dean spoke before I could open my mouth. “You know, we weren’t gonna come today.” He said. I looked down at him and sighed.

“So then why did you?” I asked in annoyance as I continued my work.

“Because you’ve got Sammy so whipped, he argued me down to be here. I don’t know what you think-”

“My father is dead, Dean!” I exclaimed sternly. “You more than anyone should know what the hell that feels like. Look, I get that you don’t trust me, but, dammit, I know what I’ve done wrong and my father is dead now because of it! I should’ve-.... I should’ve listened to you when you told me to stay outta the business….. I should’ve listened to dad when he told me not to go too deep into voodoo and reading crystals and playing with ouija boards…..” Tears fell down my face as I spoke and I choked on my words. Dean sighed, shaking his head.

“Maya-.”

“Don’t worry about it.” I interrupted, finishing the trap. I jumped down and wiped my tears away. Sam stealthily jumped into the room from the window with an arm full of iron chain. He handed some to Dean and held out some for me but I declined. “We won’t be needing those… Rowena taught me her spell that kills demons….” I reached into my crossbody purse and pulled out a hex bag, holding it between the three of us. “We just need to get him to hold it…. or sneak it on him somehow…. If we can do that….I can get him and Chandler goes unharmed.” Suddenly the door that held back the demon splintered. He was one hit away from breaking in.

“Give it to me. I’ll get it on him.” Sam said as Dean moved the chair from the door. The three of us stood a fair distance from the door as possible and the demon broke through the door. I winced seeing my cousins tall and wide body push through the door with ease. But then his eyes flashed to black and I suddenly remembered who I was dealing with.

“Hello, caterpillar.” The demon said with a smirk. My heart dropped. I knew who I was dealing with.

“Dantalion…” I sighed.

“Rowena says you’ve been….very naughty.” He growled.

“Not really in the mood to be kinky after you spent quite a bit of time scratching at a door, Dani.” I retorted.

“Oh come on. You got nowhere else to be. Nowhere else to go…. the only person who understood you is dead.” He said raising an eyebrow. He was toying with me.

“Let me guess, you killed him too?” I was shaking of anger and fear.

“Nah. I was too busy tracking you down. Valac handled that for me. But….who knew….that in killing your father, you’d come out of hiding?” He smirked.

“Sounds a whole lot like luck to me.” Dean spoke. Dantalion turned his head eerily slow to look at him.

“Deanie boy! My, my. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen you. Alastair misses you.” He said.

“Well, I’ll send him a postcard when I get a chance.” Dean replies in a snarky tone.

“And…. Satan’s prized pony. How you been Sammy?”

“Pretty great since I’m not in a cage with the Devil himself.” Sam replied.

“Yeah but you still can’t get rid of those memories can you? Luci seems to have made quite an impression on you…” I could just see his shit eating grin as he spoke.

“Luci? What- are you and the devil boyfriends now?” Dean joked. I chuckled at that a little bit.

“Maya, Maya, Maya…. I’m gonna need you to come with me.” He said moving forward suddenly stopping. He looked up at the trap and back at me. “Tsk, tsk, tsk…. you know better than that, my love.” He snarled. With that he grunted, causing a splinter in the ceiling and a crack along the trap. He lunged at Dean, holding him by the neck against the wall.

“What happened to not needing the iron?” Dean grumbled as he struggled against him. With very little effort, Dantalion threw him across the room and Sam took that as his cue to go in. With a slick swipe, Sam was on the floor. He charged after me with murderous intent but I wasn’t worried in the slightest. With all the anger I had rising in me, I could pinpoint my energy and adjust it any way I needed to. I narrowed my eyes and snarled before before speaking an incantation.

“Manetè…” My voice echoed. Just as he rose his hand to swipe at me, he became immobilized.

“Oh hell yeah…” Dean cheered, groaning in pain as he tried to sit up. He coughed holding his throat as he stumbled about for a few seconds.

“Maya!” Sam shouted, tossing me the hex bag. I caught it and walked towards him to place the bag in his pocket.

“It was fun while it lasted, Dani…”

“Ma….ya-” He croaked.

“Defigere et depurgare.” I spoke and a shiny blue light shone from his throat before a black liquid oozed out of his mouth. I flared my nostrils in anger as he choked, walking towards him to whisper in his ear. “I hope this is painful for you, you sum’n bitch…”

Chandler’s body dropped to its knees, black goo cascading onto the carpet until he passed out. Immediately, I ran to his body to check his pulse. I sighed in relief when I felt a small thump against my fingers. “Oh my god!” I exclaimed holding his large body.

[witchsisterxx-blog]

pluto ( sleeping at last) - bucky barnes

Summary - Bucky has a nightmare leading to a slightly upsetting conversation in which Bucky admits multiple things about himself to the reader, and somehow, this leads to Bucky listening closely to her heart beat.

Pairing - Bucky Barnes x Female!Reader.

Warnings - Nightmares, angst, lil’ bit of fluff, Bucky crying.

Extras - So, this is a mildly happy little world, in which after Civil War, everyone hugged and made up, living in The Compound together. Might be a bit far fetched, but it’s a beautiful dream in my mind. Also, song lyrics will be in bold italics. Also, this is my first time writing one of these, so don’t judge me too harshly. 

I woke up from the same dream: Falling backwards, falling backwards ’Til it turned me inside out. 

It happened whenever the dreams ended. Of course, he couldn’t just wake up like a regular person. Don’t get Bucky wrong, he woke up in a flurry of sweat and cries, and yet that stage of his nightmares seemed so far away. They were never what had happened, more so sick contortions of the truth. They could hold him down to that table, mouth piece muffling his screams, but then all he would do is fall. Tumble wildly through expanses of black and darkness, hearing voices loiter against his strained dreamscape. The voices were everything everyone would expect them to be. They were mixtures of commands, yelled at him in Russian, which always had him muttering replies in his sleep, all in the language they had taught him. Alongside the Russians, came cries, screams, innocents begging for nothing more than a second chance. All they had wanted was mercy. And still, mercy had never been a word in his vocabulary. Sometimes he feared it still wasn’t. The feeling of these nightmares did not only extend to his sense of hearing and sight. He could feel sickness creeping up one him, the feeling of little shocks against his skin, sparking, and maybe that was why he tossed and turned so much, as if he was unable to pick which way to face. For no matter which way, there was always another nightmare waiting to be seen. He could smell the blood, a metallic tinge that invaded his nostrils, and left the sickening taste of copper coins in his mouth.  And by the time the final scream had sounded, he was awake.

Now I live a waking life Of looking backwards, looking backwards; A model citizen of doubt. 

Naturally, he jolted upwards, as if the mattress was made of a million little pins, all digging into his back. Blue eyes dashed around every single inch of your shared room, searching every corner from where he sat, just waiting to see if anything else was lurking the shadows. His mind was stuck back in the Federal Savings Bank. The building he had been kept in, caged away from the world. Not like an animal, but like the monster he knew lurked within. Weighing up what was real, and what was not, his breaths came in ragged gasps, sweat causing his longer hair to stick to his forehead, metal hand shifting in the sheets. His other hand would not move for some reason, and he soon came to know why. His flesh palm was pressed against another, finger laced and locked into another pair of smaller ones, and yet these hands were just as scarred as his. They had seen just as much blood although the causes for each had been different. His first instinct had been to make sure no one else was in the room, his second, was to make sure that you were. Turning his head, he could see you in the darkness, the only sign of light being the alarm clock on your side of the bed, considering you were always up first. It read out 2:59 AM. This was hours before you would normally wake up, and yet, when he strained his eyes, he could see you breathing. Your breaths were not as calm as they were when you slept, which led the soldier to sigh. 

“I know you’re awake.” His voice was rough, scratched. And although he had not called out tonight, it was most likely to do with all the other nights before. With a short sigh of your own, he watched as you sat yourself up, leaning across with your free hand to switch on the desk lamp beside you. He squinted, raising his metal arm to shield his eyes as they adapted to the glares of the filament blub. “How long have you been up?” That was his first question, but you knew what it would translate to. How much did you see? 

“About half an hour,” you told him, voice calm and practised. 

Until one day I had enough Of this exercise of trust. I leaned in and let it hurt, And let my body feel the dirt. When I break pattern, I break ground. I rebuild when I break down. I wake up more awake than I’ve ever been before. 

Although he may have never admitted it to you, whom he had been with for a solid month at this point, that voice bugged him far too much. He had never thought to bring it up to you, not wanting you to feel as if all your efforts to help was for nothing. You had memorised ways to help him handle flashbacks, techniques for those with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, helped him develop the habit of doing things in order, a systematic approach to helping him through his days. All of this, he was grateful for. And yet, that voice was something that crawled under his skin. It was the way you talked to a child before you inserted the injection. The way you spoke during a procedure that would cause pain, as if you were trying to warn him about what was coming, when he knew already knew. 

“Don’t do that.” The words were not something you had been expecting, because Bucky didn’t tend to speak in such a brash way to you. Others like Sam, maybe. But to you? Never. Parting your lips to apologise, he stopped you. “And don’t say sorry.” You let out a sigh, using your hand to push your hair back from your own facial features. Neither of you had failed to notice, the way that despite all of this, your hands remained linked. You could’ve let go at any point in time, however it was his choice if that was to happen. An anchor to reality, he often refused to do so. Silence fell over the room. No one said anything, the only audible sound being Bucky’s breathing as he slowly got it to calm down. The light would flicker every now and again, as if it was daring one of you to speak. “I’m a mess,” he eventually choked out. He laughs, his tone sarcastic. “I am a god damn mess, Y/N.” His eyes were on yours once again, blue irises looking to you, and although you had seen him cry before, something about this was so calmative. Small tears beaded at his waterline, raising a hand you went to wipe them away, but he waved you off with his metal ligament. “Don’t you see it? It’s - it’s like your blind. I’m not the sort of person you want to be around.” None of this was new. Self - doubt was an old friend of yours, and of his. Your demons were never hidden. They forever lingered within the air around the two of you, never truly fading from the atmosphere around you. 

“Bucky, we’ve been through this,” was your starting statement, watching as your significant other shook his head repeatedly. The tears had fallen by now, slithering down his cheeks and any attempt you made at pushing them away was declined stubbornly. These were not crocodile tears, pitiful excuses. This was a silent tempest falling from those marine eyes, relentless and merciless. As if for once, he wanted to cry. He wanted to take that wall down. It never truly came down, it just because slightly more transparent when you were around. 

Still I’m pinned under the weight Of what I believed would keep me safe. So show me where my armour ends, Show me where my skin begins.

“Have we, Y/N?” he asked you, and you felt your eyebrows knit together in confusion. You wanted to know where this was all coming from. What dark part of himself had he unlocked and allowed to roam free? If he had any more monsters, you would find them eventually. “Where does he stop?” 

“Bucky, who’s he?” you asked him. And then, you hears a sniffle, before his left arm jerked slightly, and silently you got the message. He was suddenly the name of the man HYDRA had turned him into. Their Winter Solider. 

“He’s still in here, you know that. So, where does he end? And where does Bucky begin?” Speaking about himself in third person, you listened. Sometimes, that was all you could really do for him. You could always listen to him. “The things he did - the things I did. All those people I murdered. Their screams, it’s all I can hear. And -” His hesitation had you almost leaning forward slightly to egg him on. Your own training was enabling you to remain strong, your eyes cloudy, and yet no tears would fall. “And it hurts. It really, really hurts.” At a loss for words, you were not sure what to tell him. You had nothing worth saying. All words were worthless in this moment in time. You could talk all you wanted, and it was clear that he wouldn’t hear any of it. Leaning back, you switched off the lamp, and simply opened your arms. This was simple. Your tone could not offend him here, and your arms would never do such a thing. With hesitation, the large men crouched closer, until his left arm was slung loosely over your stomach, the chill seeping through your sleep shirt, which happened to be one of his own. His head comfortably settled against the left side of your chest, feeling his lingering tears dampen the fabric. 

Like a final puzzle piece It all makes perfect sense to me… The heaviness that I hold in my heart belongs to gravity. The heaviness that I hold in my heart’s been crushing me. 

There was no need for words here. As he led there, he could feel the warmth of your fingertips as they gently carded through his hair, eyelids growing heavy your touch, as it was settling the turbulent nature of his mind. Gently weaving your hands through his brunette locks, you resisted the urge to touch every inch of him, just to prove how inclusive you planned to be. 

I’ve been worried all my life, A nervous wreck most of the time. I’ve always been afraid of heights, Of falling backwards, falling backwards. I’ve been worried all my life.

Love was not a medicine. It could not heal the sick, whether they were mentally or physical harmed. This sudden wave of tranquillity was not going to last him forever. A few hours if he was lucky. And yet his worried could temporarily be sedated by you. More so, by you staying. Because that was what you did. You stayed. You stayed so damn close to him. Your arms would accept and hold the piercing, broken glass shards of him tightly together. You would stay when those shards cut into yours arms, leaving ugly, frightful scars. And you would continue to stay, holding the beautiful masterpiece of him together. 

[one-deranged-son]

In The Meantime, I’m Just Dreaming of Tearing You Apart

Written by Gossamere as John and Froggy as Ian Nashton.

Warning:

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

Honestly, I don’t really care about the grammar anymore because it’s been months since I write this so whatever.

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

Ian Nashton

Since the Revelator's attack, the 'memorial wall' has gotten so much more crowded. Ian was just his name or his friends' name didn't end up there.

Speaking of, he hadn't seen or hear about the arsonist at all. Aside from a certain phone call, Chicago has slowly gone back to its usual hustle and bustle.

Smart man, he was laying low. Ian's efforts has made it difficult for him to get around, probably.

It does make him uneasy, though. To know that man was still out there, somewhere. To know that it won't be long before he hurts someone else.

Ian let out a frustrated sigh. He wasn't used to working in the new station. He knew that it was only temporary, but he still preferred the old station, which was still being rebuilt.

"See you tomorrow, Ian!" A familiar voice snapped him out of his thoughts. When he looked up, his dark eyes met a pair of blues. The detective let a smile form on his face.

"You too, Sam. Goodnight."

Ian couldn't help from sighing as he watched his partner leave the station. His leg hadn't healed completely, but he no longer needed a wheelchair to get around. The doctor had permitted him to switch to a cane through the healing process.

About an hour later, Ian decided to leave his shift as well. It has been a long day, after all. He and his partner were in the middle of a murder case involving an ice pick. It wasn't a particularly baffling or challenging case, all they needed to do was figure out where their suspect was living and arrest them.

Ian put his jacket on and headed outside. This station was a little further away from Hyde Park, but he still refused to take the car. He's always preferred public transport, anyway. 

The night sky looked a little cloudy, but Ian could still see the full moon peeking from behind the clouds. It looked eerily beautiful against Chicago's skyscrapers.

ㅤㅤ

John

The night sky looked a little cloudy, and John hoped to God that it won’t rain.

Yesterday the fucking ceiling was leaking due to the heavy thunderstorm and everything, every fucking thing, was soaking wet.

John is so done.

He can't wait to move out. More importantly, he has to move out. After the ‘getting jailed and suddenly forming a cult’ incident, which made his cover as the goddamn Revelator blew out, John has no choice but to leave his shitty apartment into somewhere else.

Not that he minds, heck, he hated the place so damn much, but the thing he thinks about more is the goddamn kids. They’re young and John had forced ‘em to move out every three months and this is actually the longest place they ever had. Moving out again means taking what it seems to be called home for ‘em.

Did they ever think of it as home? He doesn’t know.

He doesn’t want to think about it any further. It’s a flaw already, a flaw in his goddamn personality to think about something—someone else—other than his own safety. John heaves a heavy sigh and rubs the bridge of his nose. He’s fucking doomed and he knows that one day this will be the death of him, but he can’t stop.

He has to make sure his kids are alright. At least, until they move out from this shitty hellhole into somewhere decent.

And that is why he’s now standing at the top of a building. A black mask covering half of his face and shut almost all smell from the outside air. He eyes his target attentively, just like a panther stalking their prey; jumping from buildings to the nearest roof with precise agility and just enough willpower to keep him steady.

Luckily, Ian Nashton, the fucking detective, was oblivious enough not to notice his presence. John is creeped enough by the fact this goddamn man knows he has someone living with him. He knows that John was living a double life. He fucking knows that just by fucking observing his goddamn living room and John knows he and his kids won’t ever, ever, ever be safe if the goddamn man is still around. Living. Breathing. And using his goddamn brain to poke his nose all over the goddamn place.

The Revelator has to fucking make sure his kids are alright, no matter the cost. So he hits Ian fucking Nashton in his goddamn head. Not strong enough to kill him, but strong enough to make him pass the fuck out. Because John doesn’t care.

No matter the goddamn cost.

ㅤㅤ

Ian Nashton

Although Chicago's nickname of 'Windy City' was meant to refer to the city's elite who are often called 'windbags', the fact is, the weather can be true to nickname.

On his walk to the bus station, the detective was whistling a song that had lately gotten stuck in his mind. High Hopes.

He had his hands shoved in his pockets to warm them up a little. It was so cold that Ian was able to see his own breath as if it was smoke.

As he walked, he couldn't help himself but to observe the people that walked past him. This was a skill he developed since he was very young. The tall gentleman that walked past him had loose soles and scuff marks on the ankle area. His shoes probably ended up that way because he's always in a hurry to remove them.

That lady dressed in all pink had a slight stumble as she walked. She wasn't used to wearing heels, but it wasn't part of a uniform, no. She was trying to impress someone or perhaps she had just came back from a date.

It all takes a glance. One glance can reveal so much about an individual if you're observant enough.

And apparently one hit to the back of the head was all that it took to bring the detective down.

His merry whistling suddenly stopped as he fell on the concrete.

Surely... someone would see this, right?

ㅤㅤ

John

Someone did not see that.

Nobody did.

John wasn't really a man of plan, he tends to improvise here and there 'cause nothing really ever works in his favor. However, he hopes that this one work. He really hopes for that. Thus why he was planning this out meticulously. There's a plan B for every plan A, then there's plan C, then D, then E, then it goes all the way until people need to start making up new alphabets. Ain't nothing screwing this bitch up.

The barn he chooses was remote, and it obviously had seen better days. Years of getting fucked up by thunderstorms, blizzards, and baking summer heat had taken its toll. The once steady structure which once had sheltered animals and probably some horny teenagers back then had a bigger chance on killing 'em rather than doing it's actual job.

Walls of rotting wooden planks; mice scurrying underfoot amidst the loose straw that covers the concrete floor; it all seems like hell but it's the fucking smell that hits you first. The goddamn smell of shit and rotting bodies of dead mouse all around the place.

John sits still, aimlessly sharpening his blades with whatever shit he could find.

After a while he had given up on trying to wake the man's up, perhaps he hit him too hard to the point the man was in coma already. "Goddamit."

In an instant there was water splashing over his target's face. Detective Ian Nashton was tied up to a chair which can barely hold any shit. The rope he made ain't hurting anyone's wrist, but it was strong enough to leave a mark.

Heck, perhaps that hurts? Who knows.

ㅤㅤ

Ian Nashton

The sudden cold sensation on his face olted the detective awake with a sharp gasp. For a good couple of seconds, the man was confused. His glasses nearly slipped down his nose and was barely on his face.

Dark. Smelly. Quiet.

Wherever this is, it must be abandoned.

"You have got to be kidding." Ian hissed.

So they met again, but did it have to be this way? Or at least, did it have to be this soon? The detective tried to struggle against his bonds, but his efforts were useless. John seemed to be pretty handy with knots.

Well, at the very least, Ian didn't have his own handcuffs used against him. That would be a massive blow to one's ego.

Ian's eyes struggled to properly see the other man; mainly because his glasses were barely on its place, but also because of the dim lighting. Observing would be harder like this, surely. Maybe that's why John chose a place like this.

"What, a phone call not enough for you?" 

Ian was a clever man. He knew what was to come. He saw the glint of the blade in the darkness. It was inevitable, but he knew if he came out alive, he'd probably have new scars on his body.

If not... well, maybe his badge would go up on the wall after all. 

Despite the confusion and fear, Ian knew that the best way he can start planning possible escape plans was to stay calm. Which is precisely what the bespectacled man did. He focused on his own breaths as his eyes darted around, from one corner to another. And despite knowing deep down that struggling was virtually useless, Nashton did it anyway. To hell if it'll hurt or leave a mark.

He was a fighter, after all.

Suddenly, a dull ache plagued the back of his head, he figured that must have been where John had hit him. He couldn't stop himself from grimacing.

"Damn you."

ㅤㅤ

John

"Does it hurt, detective? Did I hurt you too much?"

John chimed as he drags his chair closer towards the man. The blade was cast aside somewhere along the way, but John couldn't care less. There are a bunch of ways to make this work and he knows he doesn't need to be very specific on the method.

Whatever, as long as it works.

"Your clothes are all wet. Do you want me to change it for you?" he asked quietly; his voice was barely above the whisper. John's expression change a little too slowly. The once subtle smirk spreads into a wide and open grin. In the crinkles of his eyes there were no laughter lines, and his eyes, the cold gray eyes, remained hollow despite everything.

His eyes lingered longer on the other's face. John was absolutely ecstatic! The rage fueled across the detective's face was just enough to proof that his plans are working.

And John ain't having anything or anyone ruining his plan. So upon noticing the quiet glances, John instantly reached for the other's glasses and wear it himself.

He cringed, and said, "God, this makes my head dizzy." Then he crushed it with his bare hands, tossing it away towards the corner of the room without caring too much.

ㅤㅤ

Ian Nashton

"What do you think, you bastard?! You try having your head hit." Ian spat out. The detective's stomach turned when he heard John's offer. He tried to lean away from the other man, but he knew if he did that too much, he'd topple backwards and hit his head again.

"Fuck off, John."

Ian doesn't believe in demons, but that expression John had made him think of one. But in situations like this, all he has is his wits and silver tongue. He doesn't want to show his anxiousness, especially not now.

Not to John.

The detective let out a startled gasp when his glasses were snatched off his face. Now the world seemed all blurry. Yet he was able to tell that John had put them on himself. 

"Have some damn decency and give them back—" The detective's words were cut off when he heard the faint sound of his glasses snapping and breaking. How the hell was John able to do that? With his bare hands, too.

Ian couldn't stop the look of despair from forming on his face. That was his best pair, and now it has quickly turned into a heap of junk. The detective clenched his fists and gritted his teeth as he narrowed his eyes at John. 

"I get it. You blind me so that I won't be able to make anymore deductions, huh? Oh, I must have shaken you to the core. The great, infamous Revelator, shaken by a four-eyed detective from Chicago." 

He may have had his sight impaired, but he still had four other senses.

"You want to send a message again, don't you? Why else would you take me here? You don't care about money. You wan't me out of your hair. Well played." Despite the unassuming nature of his words, they were laced with venom and hatred, and Ian ended his sentence with a scoff.

ㅤㅤ

John

"Hush... detective, please."

Catching the frantic movement of his subjected target, John brings his fingers to his lips. Gesturing the man to keep his mouth shut as he shook his head.

The Cheshire grins flatten out, and the expression he bore was nothing but pure agony.

"Hold still, you will only hurt yourself even more if you do that." The Revelator brought his hands towards his capture's head, pressing gentle fingers at the back of his head before he starts trailing down to the end of his hair. He smiled softly, oh so sweet, oh so full of adoration while he strokes the damp strands away from the detective's eyesight.

"Does it still hurt? I could bring you some meds if that’s what you want."

He didn't even bother to wait for the other's response. John quickly got up to his feet and started to walk towards the corner of the room, where the moss grows uncontrollably and the stench reeks out the worst. There was a table and a single dimly lit lamp on top of it.

Scattered on it, a scalpel and combat taggers. Rope tied neatly besides a handcuff, then rusty chains with splatters of blood. Talk about hygiene.

"Want a drink, detective?" he asked, his lips stretched into a smile but didn't quite reach his eyes.

John reached for a bottle of vodka before returning to his checkpoint; the seat in front of Ian Nashton.

ㅤㅤ

Ian Nashton

"Hm, yeah, how about no? You chose to keep me captive, you deal with me, my observation and my mouth. Any regrets, yet?"

Ian flinched slightly when he felt the other man's touch. Just like at the hospital, it was uncharacteristically gentle, and that's precisely what made it feel so unsettling. Ian tried to avoid the touch but he was unable to. He averted his gaze from the other and scoffed.

"What I want is what the rich need, the poor have, and if you eat it, you die."

Nothing. The answer was nothing. Of course, he wants to be let go, but he knew his captor wouldn't do that so easily.

His wrists began to feel sore, thus he stopped struggling for now. The uncertainty of what the Revelator was going to do next was quite unnerving, even for Ian himself.

"You seem to have some familiarity with this place. Tell me, how many people have met their end here?"

At this rate, he may just be another.

Ian squinted at the bottle in John's hand, then he shook his head. "I'll pass."

ㅤㅤ

John

The Revelator wasn't the type to have such a short fuse, but well, that's the Revelator.

John? John is a little bit impatient.

Perhaps, desperate, but who knows?

"Listen here," John whispered, the smile across his face didn't even falter away as he gripped the other's man throat in a harsh squeeze. His pupils shrunk to the point his eyes look like nothing but gray irises.

He took a shot straight from the bottle. Anger boiled deep within his system. Smoldering like a fire churned within, hungry for any goddamn release. John doesn't even understand why the simple word could make him feel so annoyed, but hell, man.

The fucking detective is an asshole, yes.

"I know you hate me, detective," he said, his lips tugged upwards yet his voice was as flat as ever.

The fingers on Nashton's throat squeezes even harder, slowly at first, yet surely it goes.

"I killed your motherfucking comrade, sir, I blow your fucking station up, but I ain't the type to drag some random asshole to a fucking outskirts just to kill 'em. Oh, boy, oh, no. You're the first one over here. You're my first."

"And I ain't killing you, sweetheart, I ain't doing that."

He leaned his face closer, the grip on the other's throat did not for one second ease away.

"I'm here for a simple talk, and I want this shit to work, detective, if you ain't cooperating then maybe I should try and destroy your pretty face."

ㅤㅤ

Ian Nashton

The detective let out a strangled gasp and his arms instinctively tugged at his bonds in an attempt to grab at John's wrists, but of course, they were tied securely in place, and all it did was cause more pain as the rough material dug into his skin.

At first, he tried to match the intensity of the other's gaze, but as seconds went on, his eyes became wider, more frantic. His mind wanted to be strong and fearless but at that moment his body couldn't lie. John could simply crush his windpipes at any moment and there was no Sam to save him this time.

When John's hand squeezed harder, Ian tried to take in a desperate breath. 

"Huh... you think——you think... I'm pretty?" His words were barely above a whisper, and he struggled to say them. You'd think he'd try to save his breath, but of course, of course he always has something witty to say. If he wasn't having his throat squeezed, maybe he'd even laugh.

"Then talk."

ㅤㅤ

John

John lets go. Slightly amused by the man's answer, but more by the tinge of desperation across his eyes. Peals of laughter burst from his throat, 'cause John was amused, fuck. He was fucking amused and everything is going so well. He kept his fingertips still at the detective's throat with a sinister glint of eyes, rubbing it gently to ease the pain in yet another surprising gentle manner.

"I just want you to fuck off, detective," he said, smile completely enveloping his face, "I want you to fuck off for real."

But if one might think he will keep his weak ass façade, then they might as well drop dead. 'Cause soon as he said that, John's smile disappears. "You've been super great at doing your job," John continued, his hand trailing back towards the detective nape, "but I can't have you going around looking for me and stop me from doing whatever I'm about to do, fuckstain. You think you're so good with your fucking observation skill, eh?"

John gripped the man's hair and yanked it back, his gaze was intense as it was locked towards the dark irises. The shortage of breath was the first sign, then it all continues as the Revelator's eyes narrowed ever so slightly. His skin flushed red as the anger began to take over his rationality.

In an instant his hands were gripping a dagger. The metal glints under the poorly lighted room, and the cold sharp surface pressed iddly against the other's thigh. It begins with a slow pace, at first. Not even enough to be considered as a tickle but as time went by, John pressed the blades even deeper, even stronger. Letting it rips through the trousers in the most torturing pace before it even reaches his muscle as John says, "I'm saying this as a friendly warning, detective."

"I just want you to stay the fuck away from my goddamn life or face the fucking dread. 'Cause let me tell you what, detective, I can be the fucking thing you dream about when you wake up screaming and can't remember why. I'm saying I'm that I'm the monster inside your closet you fear so much when you're a kid, I'm the fucking whispers you heard in the woods, and if you ever, ever, dare to fuck with me or my fucking kids then I will fucking drink your name, detective. I will grind up your brains and your bones and your blood, I will unmake you, and for sure, detective, I will make the earth forget you ever existed."

Then he presses the blade into the other's thigh with a harder intensity in a swift motion. When the knife met the thick muscles and made a satisfying sound, John pushes the tip even deeper. Twisting the grip on his hand as it sunk through layers of tissues and tissues.

ㅤㅤ

Ian Nashton

Ian immediately took in as deep a breath as he could once his throat was let go, he coughed and shuddered. The detective could feel his heart thumping against his rib cage, and his breath was still ragged. Yes, he was afraid. He knew John was a dangerous man, and he had the upper hand here. 

A gentle touch is supposed to bring comfort, but John's touch made the detective uncomfortable. He had his hands clenched so hard until he could feel his fingernails digging into his palms. 

His heart felt like it skipped a beat when John's expression suddenly changed. Those pair of eyes had an icy colour to them, yet they felt like they were boring holes into his own. Detective Nashton had never seen that kind of expression on the other man's face before. Frankly, it's terrifying. As if coming face to face with the devil himself.

The detective yelped when his har was yanked roughly, he wont be surprised  if some strands of his hair had fallen because of it. When his hair was let go, the detective groaned at the strain he felt on his neck.

So, this is John's 'bad guy speech'. Ian had his manners, he was going to let John finish his little speech before giving a rebuttal. His dark eyes darted from his captor's face to the blade and they watched helplessly as it glided across his dark trousers. He watched as the blade ripped through the fabric, slightly exposing the skin underneath.

At first, he felt the cold sensation, and it only made him shudder, granted, his thighs were sensitive. But then came a sharp, sudden pain. Like accidentally pricking yourself with a sewing needle, but a thousand times worse.

The detective screamed in agony, and he tried to jerk his leg away in a panic, but they too were tied securely to the chair. John kept going deeper, and deeper, without any mercy. It wasn't that he had never been stabbed before, but this was different. Perhaps the anticipation only made it feel worse, it didn't help that it was his thigh being stabbed.

The detective shuts his eyes as he tried to stop his whimpers from leaving his mouth.

Then they opened again, the detective tried his best to shoot John a determined look. Even through the pain and even through the tears that had formed on his face from said pain.

He didn't care that his voice came out shaky. He didn't care if John could hear the fear behind it.

"Maybe—the earth w-won't. But someone... s-someone will—" a sharp hiss cut him off mid-sentence, but he continued, "you can get rid of me. But then you'd—you'd have to deal with someone else. Someone who'd work even harder than I do." 

Perhaps it was the adrenaline, or perhaps he was just outright stupid (for a man oh so clever), but the detective spat in the other's face.

"I never really believed that t-there were monsters living in my closets——never did. Someone will always try to stop people like you. John."

ㅤㅤ

John

John eyes were wide open, his jaw clenched and his teeth gritted while he was trying so hard not to lose his composure. He ain't gonna lie, shit's hard since the son of a bitch still staring at him with those goddamn eyes ‘filled with determination’ and won't even try to just keep his fucking mouth shut for once.

John ain't having it today.

It all started with a open slap full across the face, but then again, such light ‘intimacy’ doesn't even give the Revelator a single hint of satisfaction. So John stood up from his chair, pushing it away with his feet while his gray irises remained unfazed from the stammering man.

He took a deep breath and give the detective a taste of his own medicine, a sharp round punch to the chin and another one on the other side. And if someone thinks he's satisfied with it, they should take a look of the fact that he blows it repeatedly. Each punch is harder than the other to the point the chair falls sideways, leaving a sound of something snapping, and shit, John hoped it was his goddamn nose.

It feels like his lunge was filled with water, as if there has been just less space in them for the air. John helped the man to sit again, maneuvering the chair into its original position with his right hand on the chair, and the other one wrapped around his neck, fingernails digging into his flesh.

"I know someone will always try to stop me, detective," said John, his voice was quiet as it was filled with rage. "But if you think I would ever stop on destroying each one of 'em, you're wrong."

ㅤㅤ

Ian Nashton

Ian was always one to speak his mind, and he knows this trait of his can be troublesome. 

The slap stung. His face felt like it was burning. He knew that wasn't the end of it. With each blow, he could only wince and grunt in response. The detective tugged at his bonds again, instinctively trying to cushion the fall. He heard the sound, too, but he wasn't sure what that is. He was still able to breathe through his nose, so that's not it. At least, not yet. 

His shoulder was the first to hit the ground. It may have gotten dislocated, considering the weight of his body and the chair wasn't properly distributed.

John had his hand around his throat again, but this time it felt tighter than ever before, he could feel those fingernails digging into his skin, perhaps enough to draw blood or at least leave some unsightly mark. In the back of his head, he could hear a little voice telling him to stand down, otherwise it'll be much worse.

Once again, however, Detective Nashton was always one to speak his mind. Even if he knew it will bring him all sorts of trouble.

"S-someday—someday they will g-get to you, John. If not f-from Chicago, then——then New York." The detective gasped for air, he refused to quit.

His voice was barely above a whisper, too. The sentence came out broken, with every few words, the detective tried to take in more desperate breaths. "FBI, CIA. S-someone will. And I can't say—if they'd be as nice as I am."

He was starting to feel a little lightheaded from the pressure around his throat, but his eyes were still often. A mix of fear and determination were apparent in his dark irises. Fear was only natural in a situation like this, it couldn't be helped. But despite the threat on his life, it only made the detective more determined to stop The Revelator.

If he made it out alive.

But he knew, even if he didn't, his friends would find out what had happened to him. If they weren't the ones continuing the work, they'd tell people about what had happened. Someone would surely act.

ㅤㅤ

John

John paused. His nose flares. He felt so high with rage or anxiety, he ain't sure which one is.

Detective Ian fucking Nashton was right. Someone, sooner or later, will eventually found him. Just like when the ‘previous’ Revelator got ambushed in the middle of nowhere by the goddamn CIA. He could even still hear the gunshots, the explosives, and the burning streets.

God-fucking-dammit. He shouldn't be remembering about it.

But he remembered it already, and it doesn't help any shit 'cause it only makes John clenched his jaw so hard, he thought it could snap it in half. The man feels his lungs and eyes burn, unsure what it means, but his breath come out sharp and ragged. He made a strangled noise as he saw the glare filled with hatred at the man's orbs, and he could feel himself mimicking the same fucking gesture.

'Cause John is now frustrated. He is. And he's not good with stress.

So he groaned, and punched again. This time there ain't any pleasure or satisfaction coming along with each blow 'cause John feels like he was being strangled himself. There are bruises on his knuckles and the pain keeps blazing every time his jaw connected to the man's jaw.

He couldn't hear his mind thinks as the only thing filled his ears are the sound of his ragged breath, the loud crunching sound, the curses spilled from his mouth which sound rather desperate than angry.

"Fucking hell!" His muscle tensed, then he landed the last blow, as hard as he could until the chair fell down sideways again, yet this time, John didn't even bother to fix the position up.

John heaved a heavy sigh and closed his eyes; taking a moment to ward the piercing headache away. He could feel the drip of blood at his knuckles, although he wasn't sure if it was his or the detective's.

He's fucked and he's fucked.

Both of them are.

"Listen here, you son of a bitch," John squatted, then leaned his face inches closer towards the man. He could still feel the stress burning through his blood vessel as he gripped the man's jaw.

"You did it to yourself."

John let go of the man jaw and proceeds to walk to the other way. He took another shot of his overly expensive vodka and settled the bottle roughly at the wooden table. The only good thing of not having to wear a mask in front of the detective was the fact he could actually smoke. As he place the cigarette between his lips and lit it up, John's eyes trailed gently towards the bottle of vodka again.

"Detective, are you thirsty?" he asked. Then John walked back towards the helpless man and, again, squatted so he could grip the man’s jaw again, aligning his face so it could face the Revelator directly. "You should drink."

Then he forces the bottle into the other's mouth, his expression runs flat until the very last drop.

ㅤㅤ

Ian Nashton

Jackpot. He may not have his glasses. But they were close. So close, and he could see. He could see the slight change of expression. Perhaps it was anger, but there was something else even the detective couldn't put his finger on. If he wasn't in so much pain right now, maybe he'd laugh.

John should have blindfolded him, really.

But this time, Ian made no mention of it. He stayed silent and stored the information in the back of his mind. He knew that if he were to make it out alive, he would make use of it. The only question was, which one triggered John's response? CIA or FBI? 

Ian figured that getting to the answer is as simple as a phone call. He knew he just scored himself another leverage, but he wasn't quite sure what it was.

Even as he was beaten down again and fell on that same shoulder, the detective forced out a chuckle. It was a singular chuckle of amusement.

"You think... I don't know that? I know. I know I should've——stayed quiet." The detective spat out the blood that had gathered in his mouth—no broken teeth, he hoped. But he hadn't felt anything... loose, yet.

"I just... chose not to." For the first time that night, Ian smiled. Genuinely, even. The corners of his eyes crinkled slightly as a sign. 

This must be what it means to 'laugh in the face of danger'. It hurts too much to laugh, so he'd settle for a smile. Most people would have cowered and begged for mercy by now, but not him. 

John may be a puzzle Ian can't yet solve. But Ian himself has been described as an 'enigma' by his friends. 

The bottle being rammed into his mouth was uncalled for, and he had an expression of shock. Some of the liquid poured down his throat, but most of it just spilled out of his mouth. It's not exactly easy to drink in that position. The liquid burned his tongue and throat, but it also brought with it a temporary sense of relief in his head.

Judging by the taste (and ignoring the coppery 'notes' from his blood), it must be high quality vodka.

Such a waste.

ㅤㅤ

John

"Feels better, ain't it?" he asked, tossing the bottle away before coming up to his full height again.

John walks back towards the table, dragging his cigarette occasionally before blowing the smoke in a rather slow pace. His eyes skimmed through his tools cautiously, picking up some knives and another as he took a mental note to sharpen it again, but later.

The Revelator eventually settled with a Gerber Mark II, with double serrated, black oxide coated blade. Flipping it from one hand towards another as if he was a child playing tricks with it. Then he glances back towards the detective's face, defendless, vulnerable, and so open.

John really has the upper hand here, he wonders how come this man wouldn't just shatter already.

"Sometimes when we don't have any anesthetic or morphine, we'll try to get ourselves drunk so we won't remember about the pain afterwards. It's a tough world we are living, eh?"

He walked back towards the man, but instead of squatting, John decided to sit in front of Nashton's immobile figure. This time, with a smile on his face.

"Let's see how it would work for you, yeah?"

Then in an instant his dagger was pressed to the man's right arm and John doesn't even bother on ripping his shirt off 'cause he thinks that was not very nice and he knows that his blade is sharp enough to slice through it.

He works his way through it, it wasn't even that deep, but blood has come rushing through it just after he starts to press even deeper. Carving his way through the muscles, destroying tissues, cells, and blood vessels around it.

He started to laugh, out of frustration and desperation. John just really wants this to be over with now that Ian Nashton had completely ruined the mood for him.

"Hey, guess the word," John asked as he begins to carve his own name to the detective's skin. The latter's clothes were already stained with blood.

ㅤㅤ

Ian Nashton

"I-I can't believe you got some expensive stuff just for..." The detective trailed off when he saw the glint of the knife. It was a different one, it was clean.

And that is one mean looking knife.

"Oh shit." He whispered to himself.

When John started to come closer, the detective tried to roll away, but unfortunately that damn chair was in the way. He probably wouldn't be able to stand up considering he has a still bleeding stab wound on his thigh.

How the hell hasn't he passed out yet?

His agonized scream broke the silence of thebarn, he knew no one would hear him, but there was still a little bit of hope in the detective's heart.

He couldn't see it, but he could feel his own blood seeping out from the wound, he could feel how his shirt was slowly becoming damp as the blood kept flowing.

The detective shuts his eyes tight once again and cried out in pain, he didn't even hear what John had said, all that he heard was his own screams.

He was starting to feel lightheaded. From the pain, and from the blood loss. If John doesn't kill him, the blood loss will. Ian Nashton opened those dark irises of his and looked John straight in the eyes. To hell with it. He was in pain and he was in a vulnerable position, but if he was to die, he wanted John to know that he's not someone who'd back down easily. All that pain and fear, Ian converted into anger and hatred. 

But the gaze only lasted so long, as his eyes fluttered shut with a soft little whimper as the detective lost consciousness.

ㅤㅤ

John

Second passes and the screams faded away. With each new split of his skin, crimson liquid pops and made its run down, soaking the once clean shirt in a beautiful red.

When John finished with writing his name, he glanced towards his captive's ashen face. Warm blood gushes out from the exposed wounds, flowing like a lazy river in thick beads down towards the hard concrete. Some had dried and caked his nose, lips, and the spreading purple blotches just made his face looking even more... fucked.

He just did this.

Looking back towards the engraved skin, John was somehow pleased that he managed to write all of it clearly.

Monsoon.

Not John, not the Revelator, but Monsoon. The name he had hidden for so long and would still be until someone actually found out about it. He thought it wouldn't ever happen, hell, he doesn't have any registered data anywhere.

He's either not real or that he is a living ghost.

Still, it was foolish to leave a clue, he knows. It wasn't obvious, but it was indeed, peculiar. Detective Ian Nashton wasn't a fool. Fucking hell, no. He's a straight up genius, although a complete clown to even try and stand up against the goddamn Revelator. John doesn't even know how someone could make an observation so accurate, and if there was someone that could crack all the code and questions about the Revelator, it would be him.

And John can't have that.

He can't.

So John stood up again. Moving towards the other end of the room to retrieve a medical kit, 'cause even though he wished he could just end the man's life, it's against his main objective.

John let the tie fall loose and immediately cover the open wounds in any clean fabric he could fine. Some came from ripping the other's man shirt or from taking his fancy tie.

Then he checks for other wounds or bruises, or anything, actually. Tending it carefully before eventually setting the man into the chair again. Of course he would still tie him, he ain't gonna let the man go so easily.

John lets the man recover for a moment as he takes another drag from his fourth cigarette. Then, in another swift motion, he threw a bucket of cold water towards his face.

"Rise and shine, detective."

ㅤㅤ

Ian Nashton

Ian jolted awake, again with a gasp. The first thing he noticed was that his tie was now wrapped around his thigh, where that first stab wound was. And he could feel that some fabric from his shirt has been ripped away. Presumably to be used as a makeshift bandage elsewhere.

It was a rare occasion for him to be confused, yet there he was. He glanced at his thigh, then at John.

"I.. I don't understand. You—?" The detective gestured at the now wrapped wound with his head. Of course, he was grateful for it, which was why he held off from spitting out curses right now. But he was, still, confused.

"Great. So—so you've dressed my wounds, now you're going to stab me again, right? Rinse——rinse and repeat, as they say?"

Ian groaned and kept his head low, he let out a small sigh and forced out a chuckle. The words coming out of Ian's mouth were barely above a hoarse whisper. But the short moment he was unconscious was like a little reset button for him and his mind. That powerhouse stored in his head began getting to work.

"I could only make out some of the letters you were carving out before I... passed out. M-O-N-S-O. But——by process of elimination, you spelled out 'monsoon'. Hm?"

A seasonal prevailing wind from South and Southeast Asia, but what significance did that word have to the Revelator? As far as Ian was concerned, John was the type of man that does everything for a reason. 

But that reason has to wait, because he just felt a throb on the back of his head which made the detective let out an reluctant whimper. 

ㅤㅤ

John

John expected a snarky comeback, so it was a relief to see the man stutters and get all confused by his antics. It made him feel much better, powerful. 'Cause battling with Ian Nashton was never about strength or muscle, it's more like a game of chess. You need to try and outsmart your rival in every move, you need to make them confused and unable to predict anything.

John was about to say something when suddenly a loud sound echoes around the room. It's a guitar, then someone is singing. Billie Joe Armstrong, to be exact. So he walked over to the source of the sound; the detective's phone he had stored away from the moment he drags him over to the shitty barn. Then he saw it.

Sam?

Oh, Sam.

John smiled, he picked it up then set it on loud speaker.

"Hey, did you sleep in or something? I can't believe I came to the station before you did!" John was chuckling, low and quiet. He didn't care if at this point if the detective will actually scream his way for help, he ain't giving a shit about it no more. Not that he has Sam on his grasp.

He said, "Hey, this is Ian's friend, Ian is kind of sick today so he can't make it to work. Maybe you want to come over and check him out? He's burning, officer. Literally."

John hung up, then he tossed the phone hard enough until it crash. The smile across his face grow wider as another idea flashed through his head. John giggles like a high school girl who just had their virginity stolen by the hottest jock at school, then he made his way towards where he keeps his bottle of vodka and also, gasoline.

John smiled even wider at the very thought.

The floor is filled with it without even taking too long, John had used to work swiftly when it comes to shit like this. His heart beating frantically against his chest, the adrenaline rushing through his veins. He's going to burn, he's going to burn!

He smiled so wide, his cheeks strained. Then the Revelator wears his mask back and stared at his captive for the last time.

"You should fear a Day when no soul will suffice for another soul at all, detective. And nocompensation will be accepted from it, nor will any intercession benefit it, nor will they be aided."

The flickering spark of a single match dropped to the ground. Then everything burns.

The Revelator made grand out of the barn.

ㅤㅤ

Ian Nashton

Well, he WAS going to give that snarky remark. But from the first beat of the song, he knew exactly who was calling him. 

No, no. Not now.

Sam's voice was so cheery. That same voice usually brought comfort and joy to Ian's heart, but hearing it now made his stomach drop and his blood run cold. If it was even possible, Ian was sure that he had become even paler by now. Has John really kept him here all night? He wasn't sure what time it was, but he figured the day had changed. He was supposed to come in for a morning shift today.

"SAM! SAM! IT'S HIM! PLEASE—LOOK FOR A BARN——" 

John suddenly hung up. Ian wasn't sure how much of that his partner managed to hear, or if he heard at all. The detective flinched when the phone was thrown to the ground. He was sure that in just a split second, the device had become cracked and unusable.

How cruel. Hope was dangled in front of the detective like a carrot, and now it's gone. 

Back at the station, Sam's cheery, warm expression soon changed as soon as the call ended. His hands began to tremble as he sets his phone down. 

"What's the matter?" An officer had noticed how the colour had drained from Sam's face.

"I-it's... it's Ian Nashton. H-he's—I think he's in trouble."

Ian started to struggle against his restraints again, but he felt as if they were even tighter now. Those giggles from John sent a terrible chill down his back. It was the kind of sound that would haunt someone for years to come. 

"You bastard, if I make it out alive I swear I will—" 

Oh, hell.

OH. SHIT.

Even if he couldn't see what it was, even if he was blindfolded; the smell of gasoline was unmistakable.

It doesn't take a genius to figure out where this was going. He was going to end up like Dick Foster.

"John, John! Listen to me, you don't want to do this! Y-you—you don't——" Ian suddenly yelled in despair and frustration. He didn't bother finishing his sentence because he knows John wouldn't stop now. The other man's compulsion to burn things could not be stopped now.

For all his courage, when faced with the threat of certain death like this—especially being burned to death—he can still be afraid.

And he WAS afraid. Not of John, but of dying. 

He was afraid to leave his friends and family behind. He was afraid of leaving his cat; if he died, who would take care of Monty? 

He doesn't want to imagine the faces of his friends and family when they hold a funeral for him. Ian was certain that both his mother and younger brother would be in tears with his mother becoming inconsolable. His father, on the other hand, would cry softly without making much noise at all.

Sam would most likely blame himself for not arriving fast enough. 

As a detective, he knew dying was one of the risks on the job. But he didn't think it'd end like this.

He doesn't want to die like this.

The thought of his own funeral (and the smell of gasoline) was what made the detective spill his tears in the end. He doesn't sob, or whimper. They just flowed down his cheeks. 

"JUST SHUT UP, JOHN." The detective yelled again, his voice trembled and towards the end it cracked just a little, but he didn't give a single damn about it. "He'll find me. He always does."

Ian gritted his teeth, and in one last act of defiance, he looked John straight in those icy blue eyes. 

"I should. But I don't want to. Even if my body and mind betrays me. I DON'T want to fear you."

The grounds around him immediately caught ablaze, and before his captor was out of sight, Ian yelled out one last time. He yelled out something that might as well be his famous last words.

"Someone will come to you eventually, you goddamned psychopath! YOU HEAR ME?!"

When John had finally left, Ian allowed himself to whimper desperately as the fire began to grow and grow. He couldn't even use his legs and hop around to escape. 

At this rate, he's as good as dead.

"I want every men and women check out all possible known barns within Chicago, now. We could still save him if we hurry up." Margaret barked her orders and all present officers and detectives scrambled on to their feet to get inside a car.

Sam had actually gone on his own as soon as the call ended. He may not be as observant as Ian was, but he knew the Revelator would pick a spot somewhere isolated. And through common sense, he knew that he wouldn't find an isolated barn in the heart of Chicago's concrete jungle. So he decided to drive around the outskirts of the city.

Still, though... Sam may have an encyclopedic knowledge of the city's streets, but if he doesn't have a specific location, that knowledge would be useless.

And he was having a race against time.

He was able to see smoke billowing in the distance, whether or not this was from a burning barn or a factory, he wasn't sure. Still, he stepped on the gas and turned the sirens on.

As he got closer, it became apparent that... yes, it was in fact a burning barn. 

"I think I found him. Just off of Avondale. Send an ambulance!" Sam hastily jumped out of his car and decided that he'd run in through the flames. Even if it meant getting burnt and hurting his leg again. 

"IAN!" Sam called out in desperation. He hoped to whatever deity is up there that his partner would still be alive. 

And... there he was. On the ground. Ian somehow had managed to knock himself down. It seemed that he had panicked and started to thrash around in an effort to free himself. Sam wasted no more time and freed his partner from his bonds. 

Detective Nashton was unconscious again, but he still had a pulse. If Sam had waited for the fire department or an ambulance, there was no doubt that Ian would have ended up dead.

With some difficulty, Sam managed to get his unconscious partner up from the ground. There were no explosives in sight, but Sam didn't want to hang around and double check. He slowly approached the exit and he fought back a wince with every step as his leg was starting to hurt again.

But he can't fall now. If he falls, that means both of them would die.

Fortunately for both detectives, they made it outside. Once they were a safe distance from the barn, Sam set Ian down on the ground, gentle as ever; and he himself dropped onto his knees.

The blonde man cradled Ian's body and he gently ran a hand through his partner's dark locks. He noticed how the other's once crisp, white shirt had become tattered and ripped and stained a dark crimson. His partner's once handsome face now was covered in an assortment blood and bruises. 

Most disheartening was that the strong and stern expression was no longer there. Ian looked frail and vulnerable. It was as if Sam was looking at someone else.

"My goodness... what has he done to you?" Sam's voice came out barely above a whisper, it was evident that tears threatened to fall from his eyes, too.

It wasn't long before Ian regained his consciousness, but both detectives knew this wouldn't last long. Ian had lost a lot of blood, and not to mention, he had probably inhaled some smoke again. And possibly carbon monoxide, too. 

Ian breathed a sigh of relief when the blue eyes that he saw belonged to none other than Sam Hooper. His partner and his best friend. Ian weakly gripped his partner's jacket and pulled himself even closer.

"Home——Sam. Let's—let's——go—"

"Shh, shh. Save your strength, Ian. It's okay now. I'm here and you're safe. The paramedics are on their way." 

Sam had actually never seen Ian this shaken before, but he knew that even the bravest of men would be shaken to a degree if they were in a situation like that. 

By the time the paramedics arrived, Ian had lost his consciousness again, and Sam swore his partner's pulse had gotten fainter. The paramedics began to hook Ian to all sorts of machines once he was put in the ambulance. Sam had no idea what any of those did except for the heart monitor.

Detective Hooper approached one of the paramedics. Daniel, was his name.

"I-is... is my friend going to be alright?"

Daniel smiled politely and nodded once, "we will do the best that we can. He's detective Nashton, right? He's a fighter, that one."

Sam couldn't agree more. If it was him in Ian's position, Sam was sure his spirits would have been broken within the first hour. He was allowed to go to the hospital via the ambulance. As for his car, Sam had trusted officer Cole with the keys.

Before the ambulance door closed, Sam could see how the old barn had began to crumble. Looks like he got to Ian just on time.

Sam was glad that he decided to gloat about coming in early. It might have just saved his partner's life.