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ProtonConroy - The Attack It was a bright and sunny morning, like always, in Florida. Emile, also known as YouTuber Chuggaaconroy, was walking home from taking a walk around town. As he was nearing his home, he was abruptly yanked into an ally. Startled, he tried to shout for help, but the attacker covered his mouth.
"So, you're Chuggaaconroy, huh? I don't get why you're so popular, all you do is sit home all day playing games and talking to a camera. I bet you don't have any real friends, and they only talk to you out of pity. I bet you're gay too, you freak loser. No one will ever love you." The attacker said in a low raspy voice, bringing up past insecurities for Emile. He then started to beat Emile up, pushing him to the ground, punching his face, and kicking his stomach several times, finishing by pulling out a switchblade and stabbing him in the stomach, leaving Emile with a broken nose, bloody lip, several broken ribs, a stab wound in his stomach, and one broken arm, as well a
Last Night - JonXEmile (ProtonConroy)“Come on Jon, you can stay for one drink, can’t you?” Emile begged.
He had been trying to get Jon to relax since they arrived at PAX East, and now it was the last night, he wasn’t going to take no for an answer.
“You know I don’t drink-“ Jon began.
“I know but you’re going to just sneak off back to your hotel room and hide!” Emile interrupted. “It’s our last night here! Look, if you stay, and have a drink with me – it’s on me.”
“Okay, okay.” Jon said, giving in. “But I’m only staying for one.”
“Sure thing, buddy.” Emile grinned.
Jon eyed him uncertainly. He’d been careful not to let his guard down, quietly returning to his hotel room at the end of each day whilst Tim and Emile went out, probably to the bar. It was difficult enough to stop his thoughts from drifting to Emile when he was sober but his drunk self wouldn’t keep his secret for one m
The Panic Room (A Supernatural One-Shot)“Dean…? Dean?”
The name felt like lead on Sam’s tongue, so thick and heavy that he wasn’t sure if the syllable had actually made it past his lips.
The only reason he was aware of something cutting into his neck was the trail of red that was marking a small pathway against the stark fabric of his shirt. The dark suit and tie that usually accompanied the white-collared look were missing, but he couldn’t remember why.
His brother’s name seemed to drop soundlessly into the dark space before him. Everything felt heavy. Dull. Maybe he was dreaming.
But dreams shouldn’t smell of dust and abandonment. They shouldn’t be framed by cobwebs and wallpaper so aged that their floral design has faded into funeral bouquets. They shouldn’t have flickering candlelight and robed figures looking down on you.
No, dreams shouldn’t be like that.
But Winchesters don’t have dreams. They have nightmares. Sam smile
A Turning Point in the Clockwork WarA war of attrition
depends on supply and drawdown,
how much you have and how much you use up.
With personnel, the balance concerns
the influx of recruitment versus
the outflow of casualties, deserters, invalids.
There is only so much loss
that a fighting force can sustain
and still fight.
Pilot Claude Archer was the first
to challenge his invalid discharge.
"I don't need legs to fly," he said,
patting the healed stumps of his thighs.
"My Osprey runs on elbow grease."
The members of the discharge board
paused and looked at each other.
What he said was true.
The Osprey-class fighter jets
relied on hand controls,
and a sharp eye and iron nerve.
Fingers flicked through the stack
of discharge papers -- so many, many pages.
So many soldiers lost, never to fight again.
They could not afford to let slip even one
who might be retained, somehow,
to face the front line once more.
Far less could the war effort spare
one of its best pilots.
So they put Pilot Archer back on the roster,
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