[P] [M] Oh Father, tell me, do we get what we deserve?

WARNING: This thread contains material exceeding the general board rating of PG-13. It may contain very strong language, drug usage, graphic violence, or graphic sexual content. Reader discretion is advised.

Specifically, this thread is marked mature because of: suicide, language.
Ooc: lmao John you fucking suck, asshole

Waking from nightmares might just be the shittiest thing. His stupid, dead no-good heart beating frantically, as though it were being chased itself. What did it fucking matter, let the nightmare catch him. Wasn't like he was worth saving.

<"Get up."> Came the voice, lingering so close by his ear and his eyes popped open angrily to Pontifex's no-nonsense expression.

"Fuck off." He snarled, rolling to put his back to her.

A low, feminine growl rolled out close by. Good, he was wearing thin on her just as he was doing on Wayne, hopefully they'd forget their insane plot to keep him contained.

<"I zaid... get UP!">

John found himself tumbling through the air as the little bitch upended him from his bed onto the floor. Unceremoniously dumped from his toasty warm nest.

"Shit! Fuckin' hell." A torrent of profanity spewed from him, all aimed at the sunshine-eyed girl that towered over his slack body, the bed sheets and pillow clenched in her fists.

<"You are NOT ztaying in bed all day again."> John tried to tune her out, shifting onto his ass and grabbing at the bed furs she held. Pontifex held them up high, out of his reach. What was it with this fucking kid, thinking she could boss him about and butt her way into his life when he didn't ask for nothing no-how.

"Ah wish you'd up'n leave me th'fuck alone y'interferin' cow." John snapped, aiming to wound. He was vindicated when she gasped and enjoyed the tremulous quiver of her whiskers. The watery filling of her eyes. She stood firm though, her face hardening with ruthless determination.

<"You are going to do zomething with yourself today."> Her voice was hard, and she backed away as John dragged his rotting carcass from the ground. The sheets and pillow fell from her grasp and up came her hands, her body shifting to a ready stance to fight him. This was what he did, bullied and battered his sickening self hatred against his niece, poured it onto her until she faced him with a fearful agony.

Dimming her beautiful fire with each and every second she spent in his wretched company. He was utterly irredeemable.

He was losing his fucking mind here. Spinning in endless circles, faced constantly with daily reminders of his failures. Where was he, where had he gone. The man he'd been, who was this twisted, sick son of a bitch that spoke to a young girl with such violent hatred, who hit a woman with the intent to cause pain.

Back and forth and back and forth. Around and around they went. Snapping and seething, and he couldn't even recall half of what he said. But he knew the moment he had won, he drove her to swearing at him.

<"Oh! You are just 'orrible. Connard!>

"Hah!" Barking with bitter, tilting laughter, John reached for something, anything to smash, to break, and upended his shitty dining table, scattering the crappy, chipped cutlery and plate-wear to bounce across the floor.

"FUCKIN' LEAVE THEN." He roared loud enough to make his own ears ring.

<"NO!"> She shrieked back at him, tears rolling down her pretty, pale face. Shame was burning, somewhere in his throat, behind his ears, down deep in his guts; And still he couldn't stop himself.

"Just let m'fuckin' die then!! Y'selfish bitch! Keepin' m'alive just 'cause yer don't wanna face th'world." Breathing heavily, John realized he was shaking,

<"No!!"> Pontifex broke down sobbing, her head cradled in her hands.

His chest hurt. There was a pounding in his ears as his heart raced unevenly, skipping beats frantically.

All at once, the piss and vinegar was sucked clean out of him, and he pure collapsed as if the Lord had struck him then and there. Legs folding beneath him, he plonked his ass right there on the wooden floor. The only sound beyond the throbbing in his ears was the broken sounds of her weeping until the scrape of the door dragged his head dully to peer at it.

Before he could even say a word Pontifex was gathering her things and pushing out past Wayne,

<"I cannot... not today, 'Ee ies just.. zo.. zo terrible. Mon Dieu. I cannot, I am leaving. You look after 'im today. I just... non, non non..."> Then she was gone, leaving him in the trashed room with Wayne and the faint scent of flowers.

Ooc here
Sneaking paws had a little bit of spring in his step, but the more he neared the Winthrop's house, to which was effectively more of a prison, the more Wayne sobered.

High lifted knees put him closer and closer to the split-section bungalow, and with each pace taken, the light in his eyes from the mischievous night before drained from him. Fluid motions grew rigid and the impish expression that once often painted him fell down, into the snow at his feet, to be forgotten. The building loomed, a shadow in the night, with the flicker of light from within. With the hour, that meant someone was awake.

With any luck, it would only be Pontifex and there would be a smooth transitions between wardens. With the racket that was raising through the walls in the house, he squared his jaw. Today would be a rough one. Rather than taking his time any longer, the man burst into a jog that soon turned into a sprint with the shriek that he heard. That John was just about dumb enough to do anything right now, and Wayne would have it on his head if anything happened to that poor girl that just wanted to help.

Slick steps layered in ice had him stumbling to the door, his hand caught on the wall to top him from meeting the earth. One he reached the handle, he wasted no time in pulling the threshold open and letting in the cold.

Ponti didn't bother with Wayne, and she filled her hands with whatever she'd brought and made her way out the door. Brows lifted in concern found her, the wet trails on her face glittering in the dim light as she forced through him. He stepped to the side, having no desire to stop her as she spoke. It was a mistake to have left her for the night. That was on him, “I got'em. I got'em for a'long while,” He lifted his voice to her with compassion in his tone, so she could know that she could take as long as she needed, but fury wrinkled his features as he eyed the sorry shit heaped up on the floor.

The clap of the door sounded gently behind him. He wouldn't invite more of John's chaos.

Slow paces brought him across the room, his paws scraping against the floor as he did everything in his power to measure himself before a storm. His jaw pushed forward, the black of his chin jutting out as his mind rolled through the scenarios. John didn't have it in him to make sense of anything, so it was entirely up to Wayne to employ logic here. Logic where it likely wouldn't do any good. It hadn't yet. Why would it?

A foot brushed wooden ware out of his path, his limbs already working by a new instinct to keep anything he could out of John's reach. He wasn't about to beat the man to death. That was, of course, what he'd want. Alternatively, he'd be damned if he wouldn't defend Pontifex in a way that would have her safe. If she ever had the boldness to dare offer her help after this.

Crouching in front of the auburn man, piercing blue searched for the stale green of lifeless eyes. Knees peaked like mountains, he was bent over so far, and the cant of his head implied the overwhelming presence of an anger that even he might not be able to stifle, try as he might. Left, to right, his head tilted on his neck, trying to get a good angle of what had happened without asking. No luck. A leather gloved hand reached up to grab the maw of the death infatuated, crumpled cadaver. To look in those defeated eyes whether they looked back or not, and find truth where in the shame there stood, “You lay a'hand on her?”

Honesty, today, was very important. Wayne's expression said that quietly. He couldn't have claimed to know what happened this morning without him here, but there was screaming and crashing when he'd walked up to the door. He'd believe just about anything he heard from John's mouth, though he was inclined to believe it all might be a lie. Just so the Winthrop could get one step closer to a good excuse to find himself buried.

Words were short, curt, and quickly spoken. Wayne wouldn't doubt the bullshit that John might be willing to pull to get himself alone at the moment,. He'd already decided that if John dared to harm her with his hand, there were four solid lessons on Wayne's clenched fist that were bound to give John a reason to rethink his plan of action. Pontifex shouldn't have to take on this idiot in the ways John made her, but Wayne? Wayne could endure, and he would for all of eternity, if he could. His own personal hell, just for the sake of keeping this shit stain from smearing himself all over the lives of those around him, before he did any real damage.

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Ooc: lmao John you fucking suck, asshole

The sound of her footsteps crunching hurriedly away through the snow were the bells of shame ringing, ringing, ringing in his ears. He didn't need to look up to know the racing thoughts that Wayne paced to contain. John was the one with his fist smashed onto the 'asshole' button. Keeping his peepers down on the dirty floor, the dust motes floating in the air, dancing with a carefree lightness that he found himself jealous of. They didn't have to care about nothing.

It was an acid in his throat, burning away at anything he might have said. Every now and then he caught the flash of Wayne's toes as they paced by his periphery. Why did dying have to feel so rotten, why couldn't it be quick? Like Ronnie's own, no fuss, no muss, just a moment of pain and then nothing at all.

Sounded mighty fine to him.

Wayne grabbed hold of his chops, and John set up no resistance to the tugging of his face. Not even a wrinkling of lips or a flame of fiery anger to push forwards. The Texan had enough for the both of them. John's own bloodshot eyes were tired and dead, shame-filled in a dull, worthless sort of way, holding his friend's through no action of his own.

His head lay lax, no strength to hold himself upright at the neck if not for the holding hand. Whatever he said, he was a liar and a bastard. Had he laid a hand on her? Not today, not this time. But she'd bruises from his flailing fists, sore spots and scars on her heart from his bitter, terrible words.

A small burst of activity, John wrenched his jaw from the pale-fingered grasp, gathering up a sense of energy to set a growl rolling in his throat,

"An what if I did? Chu'gon do'bout it?" His nares flared, drawing in the scent of drink, and fresh pussy, and that of his fancy-dancy other niece. What a time was apparently had on Wayne's 'night of rest'. Wasn't his sister-in-law going to just shit herself at the idea of her primp and proper daughter bedding one of the fucking rangy-ass dirty buckaroos.

Johnathan laughed, all busted and hoarsely spat, "You fuckin' hypocrite."

Go on, hit me, keep on hitting, jackass.

He didn't even brace himself.


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