#hoodedhuntrcss

          no one will speak of today. no mind will speculate, and no hushed tones will carry rumors of what happened in this church. and certainly, no one will forget it: when the father, once fully immersed in a calm dissection of the book of job, fell to the ground of his own chapel. they will remember how he gasped and coughed; hands grasping for his chest, the nearest pew, the hands of the faithful; anything that may help to harbor him. the distant panic in his eyes will HAUNT them well past collapse—how they pleaded for life and death at once. and his voice...

                              ‘   —don’t,   ’     was all he could manage, and his mind screamed like a lost child, not her. not her. he could shout with it, argue  m o r t a l i t y  with god until his voice breaks and all that comes out is the raw taste of blood, but it will do no good.

          THE LORD GIVETH ;  it gave him something most can only dream about, something so pure and altogether holy that even the father felt unworthy at times. it gave him more than a man with his background deserved, more than he could hold steady, more than he could protect, and he felt the burn of that knowledge in a searing chill settled now between every joint. he would later find his hands bleeding from the forced curl of his fingers into his own palms, and his glasses crushed somewhere between his fall and that of someone’s shoe. these were nothing compared to what mortal sin stripped of his family.

          he saw it. with his forehead pressed to the floor of his sanctuary, he bore witness to the cruelest test of faith yet. he gasped with her in blinding, uneven breaths. he fought with her, as though he could do anything all these miles away. the almighty knew his own devoted could no more pull him from the floor than he could  p r o t e c t  her. and until his eyes refused to open, until his throat ached and his mouth could no longer articulate more than a quiet,     ‘   please,   ’     until he felt darkness lead her away to safety, he sobbed for her.

          radio chatter buzzed outside the doors, not from the guards outside, but a message for them. his breath came in heaves, even as he allowed himself to be pulled back to sit. the world was dark, made of no more than dim light and shapes. even when the doors finally opened, joseph’s comprehension of REALITY was as distant as her. still, though his chest ached with the weight of what would come next and the struggle to pull his soul back in, and his voice carried like a lead anchor, he told the first shadow in the disjointed daylight,

Are you…? sentence starters  @hoodedhuntrcss / @poorlittlejoseph

Dutch huffed as he stretched the new bowstring in his hands. Taut but perfect all at the same time. He had just gotten the new bow in from an old buddy and was pleasantly surprised that it’s still in one piece. Not that he doubted, but you can never be too careful. 

“Are you done?” The question came out a little gruff, even coming from his niece. It only made Dutch give a rare chuckle as he nodded and handed the new ‘toy’ to Jess. 

“Just be careful with that this. Don’t want ya smacking yer face with it.” A simple joke but it still kept the small smile in place on his face and the look she gave only solidified it for another moment. She was practically his only family left. He needed, in some way, to take care of her even if she was capable of doing that on her own. 

“Come back and visit soon kiddo, that deputy can’t keep all yer time can they?” He patted the top of her hooded head like she was still a little child playing robin hood. Though looking at her now she wasn’t that same little girl all muddied from playing outside. A soft almost sad smile paused itself on his face before transforming back into its usual resting line.

MEME.  MEME TAG.  INBOX.  ALWAYS ACCEPTING! @hoodedhuntrcss

                   "watch out—!“

the series of events that happen next are jagged, disconnected frames like his gpu’s struggling to render everything at once— one second, jess’ look shifts from bored irritation to panic, the next she’s reaching out for him, the next static explodes at the corners of his vision as his head hits the ground. and he almost, almost asks her what the fuck, but his head lolls disoriented to one side and his eyes come to rest on the bent shaft of an arrow, having apparently lost the battle of will against a brick wall. he knows in that gut-deep, knee-jerk way his instinct always knows that it sailed clean through the space his body occupied a fractional second before.

all of james’ previous brushes with death at someone else’s hands have been noisy things— guns explode with superheated air and bullets pop and whizz with supersonic speeds and when someone gets their hands around his neck, all there is is the roar of blood in his ears. he always figured death was supposed to be delivered at the end of a cacophonous roar of raw human struggle, or some poet bullshit like that. there are no silent knives in the night. even quietly slit throats gurgle with blood. people who die in their sleep, james imagines their dreams are burning. but death comes for james at the end of a bliss-tipped arrow and it doesn’t even have the courtesy to say hello. 

james realizes he’s been staring at that arrow while seconds ticking by without him noticing, like his brain’s still trying to boot up after a catastrophic failure. kernel panic — not syncing: attempted to kill init!

jess’ eyes dart around all the essential, easy-to-break bits of his body to make sure he hasn’t been shattered by the impact, like she’s worried that even this tiny fall could damage some part of his small frame. (she’s right to.) her sigh is more annoyance than relief.

                    “are you a fuckin’ idiot or something, park?”

he sits up, adjusting his glasses where they’ve been knocked askew by this act of (well-intentioned) violence. mouth process isn’t running yet; still booting up. still loading all the extra shit into the task bar.

Truly, the cut barely registered. But the blows to his face made him struggle. White lights dancing in his vision as he looked up to her. Jess Black. Jacob wanted her dead - so she was to die. No doubts, no questions asked. 

Wheaty could remember her - a few glimpses of his past life were still there. But Jacob had twisted them, changed them. And there only was hatred left. This woman was one of those who had lead him on, used him for their own advantages and didn’t give a damn about when he was gone. 

Now he had a new family - and he would do everything they asked of him, craving what they gave him in return. 

His hand snapped up, gripping her throat and tightening relentlessly. Wheaty’s face was darkened, his dark eyes intense, his other hand closing around the wrist of her hand holding the knife. He wouldn’t back down. He knew no weakness, no pain. He would break her fucking bones if need be. Knees pulled in to kick her into her stomach, as a whispered hiss of words that had been ingrained into his mind spilled from him.

this  is  the  last  thing  she  wanted  to  happen.  but zelda eliminates risks,  that’s what she does!  and this stranger?  whoever she is,  she’s been a god damn big one.  zelda crouches in front of the distressed woman and rests her arms on her knees,  eyes twitching,  flinching.  forehead creasing.  she wants to tell her that she isn’t going to harm her.  i won’t harm you.  simply,  disarm.  somehow,  someway.  all zelda knows is that this one’s from whitetail.  zelda hasn’t killed anyone.  ever!  but she can’t say she doesn’t feel each death done by faith or the other’s like it’s her own.  just, she won’t say it.  keeps it to herself,  even as the guilt takes its toll on her face.  has her gaunter,  sharper.  eyes keener.  her bones ache.  she takes every bit of abuse hurled at her by the woman she has in captivity,  her only response being a tired sigh,  low,  raspy.  

zelda hangs her head and pinches the bridge of her nose between two,  dirty fingers.  she hadn’t come away from the fight injury free either,  forearms scraped and bloody,  a crusty line of dried blood at one nostril.  and all the bruises not seen beneath her gear.  “ those traps you set off don’t kill anyone.  just knock you off your feet.  make you stumble,  throw you back.  ”  so she hopes.  “ they stop threats.  or they’re supposed to, anyway.  you just came charging on in down a safe path,  then took a wrong turning out. ”  she explains it so casually,  like she’s trying to justify something,  or at the very least trying to distract herself,  trying to give herself enough time to think.  “  they’re mine. ”  pushing herself up onto her feet,  she walks over to a bag,  opens it,  removes a bottle of water.  uncaps it.  

Big __ Energy // accepting

“Just because we all can’t see TINY little teeth of a bear trap sticking just BARELY out of some underbrush doesn’t mean I need glasses, Jess.” 

“Don’t make me DAD you.”