#rabid sheep

[mtg-cards-hourly]

Flock of Rabid Sheep

And their bleating was like a wet salmon slapped upon the land—slap! slap! slap!

Artist: Anthony S. Waters TCG Player Link Scryfall Link EDHREC Link

[bloodtwin]

‘ there will be no pickled pucks. none. ’

[rutadales]

c!dream and foolish are both dog coded but ones a shelter mutt where a kind life was all he ever wanted but was broken into a guard dog and the other is a wolf beat down and hunted into a lap dog

[ghoulsaint]

…my Prince

[xxxairheadedangelxxx]

Momo learning self defense and yandere level stalking / "taking care of issues" skills from sakaki bc they both would burn down entire nations if anything ever happened to their wives

[swifty-fox]

Out my fuckin’ mind Goin’ for your throats like I’m a rabid canine I don’t fuck with many, I don’t like to play nice Call me Sub-Zero how I leave ‘em all on ice Lethal with the rifle 40/40 shoot precise Always feel like I’m the black sheep But don’t count me out 'cause I swear to god I’ll be the next thing You pussies always tryna jack the wave that’s popping Gotta stay one step ahead that’s why I’m re-inventing

[blockofbones]

So glad I’m no longer a try guys fan. For as much as they are driving the narrative that dream fans are toxic bigots who send death threats and attack....why am I only finding one side being boldly incorrect on here?

2/4 try guys being hypocrites, and fans that follow.

[maelialuv]

A Farmer's Friend. a Bridgerton fanfic <3

part one: A Chance Encounter

Summary: division brings unity. secrecy creates infatuation. a king's venture into the real world reveals desire.

Warnings: slow burn! strangers to friends to lovers! (Charlotte does not exist) smut! cold showers are on me.

Wordcount: 3.4K

The country side , to you, was heaven on earth. The far roaming hills, the deep valleys. The wide expanse of nothing but lush green fields. There was truly nothing more beautiful.

Your father's farm, to you, was the most beautiful of all. Located at the farthest edge of the county, miles and miles away from the city of London, it was a haven of tall grass, fruitful crops and rich orchards. That is where you spent most of your time, perched between the trunk and wide branches of a tall apple tree in the deepest part of your family's gardens. Far away from the bustling farm house, the uproar of live stock and the erratic, but loving, nature of your home.

From the moment the sun rose over the hills and danced across your face in the morning, to the moment it tucked itself into the valley at night, you were out in the fields. Tucked away indoors, you found yourself claustrophobic. Cased in, stir crazy and a tad hysterical. From a young age, your parents had to heard you inside at the end of a day much like the sheep dogs would heard the lambs back into their pens. It was no different, even as you approached adulthood.

You had your back to the trunk of a tree, a book clutched in one hand and an apple - freshly plucked from the branch above you- in the other, when you caught sight of one of the stable boys chasing after your father in the field ahead of you.

A man of great strength and pride, your father took his work in the fields very seriously. Even after the death of his own father, he was back shearing sheep after just two days. This is why it confused you ever so much , brows furrowed in a frown, to see your father drop his shears at once in front of the stable boy and clutch his chest. The pair raced down the field, sprinting in the direction of the house with the dogs trailing behind them in a flurry of brown and grey and white.

You took a pensive bite of the apple, crunching deliberately. 'Whatever is the matter?' you thought. 'What is the meaning of such fuss?' You tried desperately to get back to your book, the words of the author falling on distracted thoughts as your mind pondered such a reaction from your father. You snapped your book shut with a huff, annoyed and now positively rabid with curiosity.

John, an Orcher in his late fifties, was plucking apples from a tree just next to yours. You peered your head over to him. "John," you called, "have you any reason for father's fuss with the stable boy?"

John's face paled, almost frightfully white, at your question. He took his cap off with the type of remorse one shows with deep apology. "I'm terribly sorry, madam. I thought all the children were aware." You quirked a brow at his words, irritated that the farms people still saw you as one of the children despite being the eldest daughter in the house. His voice was gruff and gravely, years of shouting at yardsmen wearing on his vocal chords. "There is to be a royal visit, madam. Today."

Your eyebrows shot up so fast , you wondered for a moment if they were still on your face. "A royal visit? Here?" The Dowager Princess had not been out in the country since the passing of the late King. Your brows furrowed in deep confusion. "Whatever for?"

John shrugged his shoulders earnestly.

"Lord knows but I, madam. Some sort of review of the farmland, but that's between the King and his advisors."

"The King?" you squawked. You hiked your skirt up, throwing your legs over the branch and jumping down. You stalked to the bottom of the ladder John was standing on. "The King is coming here?"

In all your eighteen years, you'd only ever seen one monarch. Even so, it was a painting of His late Majesty. All you knew of the current King was that he made no visits to the towns, nor galas or balls. He had been labelled somewhat a recluse of a man. You wondered how that could be healthy for such an old person. At least, you assumed he was old. The previous king had died aged seventy and two, so this king must have been creeping into his late fifties now.

"Yes, madam." John said. "Your father has been called now, to prepare. He is due to arrive soon."

Your feet sprang into action, galloping down the aisle of the orchard at lightening speed as you raced toward the direction of the house. You never cared for pompous displays, or the royal family as a whole, very much at all. But today was different. The king himself was visiting your home. Your fields, your valleys and your hills. You felt oddly protective. As if this inspection was to be one with an insulting conclusion. You reassured yourself that they would see the beauty in your home. In the sway of the grassy hills in the wind.

Knowing your mother would not let you close enough to see even the Royal carriage make its way through the wooden gates of your home, you rounded the corner of the brown farm house and clambered your way up the large oak tree in the middle of the drive way. From high above in the branches, you would not be seen by your mother - as she so preferred. She yearned for a daughter more like the ones her sisters had. Lady like and proper and ones that smile at every pleasing farmer their mothers set them up with.

Your mother was disappointed in the lack of girlishness in you. She was displeased in your fascination with reading, and your taking to the outdoors. She was put off by the closeness between you and your father, finding it strange that the two of you could be friends as well as father and daughter. She found your desire to spend all day outdoors odd, and you found her desire to marry a farmer whilst hating farms to be odd in return.

You gripped on to the tallest branches, peering through leaves in the hopes of seeing the gleams of gold as the carriage approached. You saw your father and the farmer boys line up in front of the door below, and your mother and younger brothers waited just behind them. In the distance, you heard a low thrumming sound. It got louder, and seemingly closer, as more seconds ticked by. You realised, as you heard the clop clop clop noise, that it was the sound of horses' hooves on the dirt tracks as the carriage came into view.

The carriage halted in front of your door, and your father outstretched his hand to an older gentlemen in a plush blue suit. Though your fathers clothes- an old grey shirt and black trousers- were not as elegant, he looked just as regal as he shook hands with the stranger, who you assumed to be the King. He had greying hair, curled into ringlets by his side. There were several other men beside him, ranging from young to old to very old.

You craned your neck to hear their voices, a chorus of low hums and stiff lipped compliments from the old man you saw to be the king. Several minutes ticked by, boredom creeping in as you swung your legs back and forth over the branch, before the group of men finally split to tour the farm land with your father. You rejoiced, a grumble in your belly making any words they said inconsequential. You began your decent from the tree.

With scraped palms and knees, you made it to the ground with a thud. A successful spying , you thought as you wiped your hands on the skirt of your dress. Your monologing was interrupted by the stifled chuckle of a man behind you. You whipped round, narrowing your eyes at the man. Dressed in a simple white shirt and the same black field trousers as your father, he looked to be a fielder himself.

"Hello," he said, voice even and light. He stood with his hands behind his back, polite and effortlessly straight. He was young, younger than the rest of the group you assumed he had been standing with. He must have been no more than three years older than you, as his cheeks still had the faintest roundness to them.

"What are you doing?" he asked when you did not say anything.

You knew your eyes were wide, those of someone caught. There was no use in lying , nor excusing. This man had watched you climb down the tree, from where you had spied. You outstretched your hands, as if stating the obvious. "I was climbing down. From the tree."

"From the tree?"

"Yes, from the tree."

"From that tree?" the man asked, voice teasing and smile irritating as he pointed to the tall oak you had previously been perched in.

"Yes, that tree."

"Whatever for?" He placed his hands behind his back once more, slowly pacing around you in a circle.

"I was hungry, you see." You deadpanned.

"Ah," he affirmed, "and you did not bring food when you climbed up the tree." He was enjoying teasing you, as the smirk on his face grew larger at your squirming. "Or simply not enough."

"Well," you trailed off, waiting for the man to introduce himself to you.

"Forgive me," he said, outstretching a hand. "I am George."

"Well George," you continued. "Usually the trees I climb have some sort of fruit or such for me to eat while I climb, or lounge, or read. This is not my typical tree to climb." You explained.

"And I suppose you have a typical tree?" His face was oddly gleeful, as if this conversation with you - a stranger- was the best part of his day. His smile was wide, showing teeth.

"Yes, I do."

"Which is?" He asked, stepping closer toward you. His smirk was a teasing grin now.

"The apple tree," you stated, that protectiveness creeping back into your tone. "at the farthest end of the orchard."

"Now," he said, voice lilted with mock impress, "I must see this tree, that you so fondly and regularly climb." His voice was a stage whisper.

"Alas, I cannot." You teased back, some what enjoying the banter yourself. "I do not simply show my tree to strangers."

"Ah, but I am not a stranger," he said, closer again now. "I am just George." He stuck his hand out again, waiting for you to shake it. Hesitantly, you did. "I would be honoured to see your tree."

"Do you not have business to attend to?" You asked, gesturing in the direction the other men and the Royal herd had walked in. George shook his head, waving off your remark.

"They are fine themselves. They have no use for my agreements here and questions there." He said. "And even so, if I were to re-join them now," he took another small step closer to you, eyes searching in the distance, "my mind would think of nothing but this apple tree at the farthest end of the orchard."

You smiled at the man as he looked down at you, and felt the strangest urge to lead him by the hand to your sacred reading spot. Something about George made you trust him, utterly and completely, as if you'd known him your whole life. As if you'd run through the fields with him as children, and he knew where the tree was already.

"All right, just George."

A bright, down right contagious smile etched itself on to his face. You couldn't help but smile just as brightly.

The two of you strode side by side through the back field of the farm, chatting idly as you lead him to the orchard. George told you he was a keen farmer himself, but his family bound him to the city. "Why don't you just leave them?" you asked as you opened the large wooden field gate for him.

George paused, leaning on the gate with both arms crossed. "It is not that simple," he said, his face contort in a frown. "I am obliged to stay there. It is a duty, of sorts." He looked around at the tall grass, the wild flowers that bloomed in the field at his feet. "If it were up to me, I would spend all my time in the country."

You felt immensely sorry for him. The thought of being away from the country for more than a day put a nasty pit in your stomach. Gently, you placed your hand on his arm. He looked up at you with glum eyes. You gave him your best reassuring smile as you squeezed his arm lightly. He smiled back at you.

You fell back into stride with one another after that. George asked about your family, and you told him about your father and your three younger sisters. He asked where they were, and you let out a haughty laugh. "They cower at the sight of mud. They are cooped inside with my mother, embroidering or learning the pianoforte or some other nonsense."

"You see no value in these tasks, then?" George asked with a small smirk.

"I see no point, given where we live. What use have I for musical impress or intricate sewing when I spend my time outdoors?" You paused your walking, gesturing to the cows grazing near by. "Any man I encounter in these parts will be as impressed by my pianoforte as those cows."

"Ah, I see." George chuckled to himself. "You are to be a spinster then." You whipped round to face him, annoyance turning your brows into a tight v shape. George laughed again.

"For a stranger you are certainly bold."

"I do not hear a defence."

"No, I am not to be a spinster." You crossed your arms, uncrossing them when George cocked his head to the side slightly. You must have looked ridiculous, like an petulant, spoilt child. You huffed.

"I am not to be a spinster. At least not by intention." You both began walking again, rounding the corner to the long aisle of the orchard. "There," you said, pointing to your tree at the very end.

You turned when George remained silent. His mouth was agape slightly, brown eyes wide and almost honey in the mid day sun. "Beautiful," he sighed out.

It caught you off guard, the strange desire to lead him by the hand to your tree and show him the very best branches. The way he looked at your favourite spot with such awe made you near desperate to share it with him. You had to restrain yourself from reaching out and touching his hand that was inches from yours at your side. You shook your head slightly, as if a jitter would rid of of such peculiar feelings. "Come along, then."

George walked obediently at your side, keeping perfect pace with you. As you walked, he couldn't help but notice the sway of your hair in the light breeze, the way it framed your face so gently. Or the patches of freckles that spotted the bridge of your nose, or the subtle fullness of your bottom lip, how it was slightly larger than the top.

"You said you are not to be a spinster by choice," he began as you reached the foot of the tree. "Whatever do you mean?"

"What I mean is," you said as you reached up to a near branch, pulling yourself up with little struggle, "no man here is in need of a wife, and I am in no need for an elderly husband." You frowned when George laughed again. "You must stop that!" You cried.

"Stop what?" He smiled through his teeth again.

"Laughing at me!"

"I am not laughing at you, forgive me." He said, reaching up to the same branch and - just as you had- hauled him self up with ease. "I simply find it hard to believe no one here is in need of a wife."

"Everyone is already married, or too old, or far too young." You deadpanned. "I do not want to marry a frail old man."

"Let me rephrase," George began. He reached across you, and for a moment you thought he was going to touch your cheek. You sucked in a nervous breath. He plucked an apple that was hanging just above you ear. "I find it hard to believe no one here wants you for a wife."

You found it hard to form words, stuttering over a response. George bit into his apple , smugness radiating off of him in reams.

The two of you sat in peaceful silence for a moment, your backs leaning against the trunk of the tree while your legs stretched out next to each other. "Do you sit out here all day?" George asked softly, turning his head toward you. His breath fanned over your face slightly. You nodded.

"Most days," you sighed contently. "I am usually the one that goes into the towns if needed. Otherwise, I am left alone to sit here as I please." You looked out as the sheep roamed the field ahead of you.

George rested his head back against the trunk of the tree.

"I am envious of you, truly." He said, looking at you from the corner of his eye. You turned your head to face him. Your shoulders were brushing against each other with every breath.

"You are welcome to come here," you said, in an uncharacteristically soft voice. "You can bring a book, and you may sit here for as long as you like, whenever you please. Whenever your family allows you to be in the country."

This close to him, you noticed the flecks of gold in George's eyes. The small freckle above his eye brow. The rosiness of his cheeks. His words echoed in your head.

'I find it hard to believe no one wants you for a wife."

In the distance, you heard the ruckus of the men returning to the front of the house. George shot up. You shot up with him.

"I must go," he said hurriedly. He swung his legs over the branch and jumped off. As you moved to do the same, you saw him waiting on the ground with his hands outstretched. He was helping you down. You reached a hand out to him, and he pulled you down. Expecting a thud, you noticed he had steadied you with a hand on your waist. "I wish I could stay longer, I truly do. Alas, they will run like chickens without heads if I am not back soon."

You wished to find some poetic goodbye, but all you could muster was a soft sigh. "Will you be back?" His hand was still gripping yours.

George chuckled breathily.

"Of course," he said, as if it was obvious. "I must bring a book and see if this really is the best spot for reading."

The voices in the distance got louder, calling George's name now. He looked over his shoulder, then back to you. "I am back in the country in two weeks time. May I see you then?"

You smiled at his politeness, hoping your hasty nod came across as friendly and not desperate. "Of course."

"Splendid."

He brought your hand to his lips then, placing a gentle kiss on the top of your knuckles. "It has been a pleasure, madam." He said with a gentlemanly bow.

He turned to walk away then, and you felt as though the wind had been knocked right out of you. Your feet were glued to the ground, unable to move you from that same spot.

"Oh," George called from a distance. "The inspection went fantastically. Your farm shall have a wonderful review." He grinned, all boyish and joyful, before turning back and sprinting in the direction of the loud voices.

His words only sunk in after he'd rounded the corner gate, and you nearly collapsed onto a log.

Not only had you spent your afternoon with a total stranger, telling him your deepest thoughts and secrets, scandalously close should a gossiping eye see it.

You'd just spent your afternoon with the King of England.

[abyssal808]

S1 Soulmate Au prompt inspired by @subbaculture 's prompt wherein "Eddie learns Tengwar just to be special and so Steve's been kicking around with "What's Kickin', Sexy?" on his body

What Tommy Hagan hadn’t been blessed with in terms of intelligence. God - in his allegedly infinite wisdom - had seen fit to redistribute into shoulder width.

Tommy, in turn, swanned around Hawkin’s High shoulder-checking every freak, geek and nerd into nearby lockers; with the kind of wingspan better suited to weirdly proportioned monkeys.

Hellfire members were no stranger to it. Two weeks ago Hagan had run into Gareth hard enough to leave a bruise. A “bump” with enough force behind it that he’d bounced off the lockers and landed on the floor.

Which, fine, two could play at that game. Even if Hagan could barely get his hand off Carol’s tits to realize there were counter-moves to be made at all.

A grade A dick move, even if it was also incredibly boring and pedestrian. The kind of thing jocks who barely had two braincells to rub together saw as peak comedy. Giggling like a cross between a group of cavemen and a flock of pre-school girls whenever their ring-leader du jour started herding freaks like a neurotic border collie.

“Watch it, freak.” Hagan hissed, skirting around Eddie without bothering to shove him at all. Giving a wide berth to whatever zone of contagious freak cooties being Eddie Munson brought to the table.

Behind him, Gareth - blocked from the rest of the hall by Eddie’s leather jacket, in a way only freshies were short enough to pull off - buried a laugh in a cough, muffled into the heel of his hand. Not missing the way that even Hagan - the most infamous asshole of them all - looked ready to bolt as soon as Eddie waved him off in a jaunty salute.

Victory tasted sweet and electric. Fizzing under his skin the way Wayne’s Miller Lites would bubble in the back of his throat, whenever Eddie stole a sip from the half open cans in the back of their fridge. It made him stupid in a way those brief tastes of beer hadn’t managed to yet.

Being The Freak came with perks. An untouchable radius that left Eddie drunk with power. Riding the high of knowing that maybe Highschool didn’t have to suck all the time. That he could play at being a rabid guard dog for the lost little sheep of the world, rail against dickheads like Hagan and win.

Maybe he could use it to plead temporary insanity for what he did next. Riding the high into a really, spectacularly stupid idea.

Everyone had their words.

Eddie’s were tucked away, hidden along the curve of his rib. A curly chicken scratch that mixed print and cursive into a barely legible mess.

‘Is that like, yiddish?’

A weird-ass question, until Eddie had pulled an all nighter on a now infamous school night, falling in love with Middle earth. Head filled with nothing but the dark halls of Khazad-dûm, the sweeping boughs of Lothlórien.

Speak friend and enter.

Pedo mellon a minno.

He’d traced the words over and over. Thrilled by the lilt, the cadence, the beautiful rise and fall of consonants no one else would understand.

Setting his heart there and then on the dorkiest greeting anyone could have come up with. But hey, it was original, which was half the battle people went through when picking soulmate greetings.

He’d gone through several variations. Always in Sindarin, because why the hell not.

People usually saved them, tucked them far away from casual conversation. Bizarre phrases, always non-sequitour, brought out only for special occasions. That lightning strike of instant attraction. People you could see yourself connecting with. Hoping they would be a part of you as much as you were theirs.

He couldn’t see himself connecting with Tommy Hagan in a million years. Not even if they waited in that hallway until the heat death of the universe.

But that didn’t mean he couldn’t terrorize him with the possibility.

“What’s Kickin’ Sexy?”

He yelled after Hagan’s retreating back, with its fuck-off wide shoulders; elvish mangled, but passable. Enjoying the rictus of horror on his face, going from anger to fear and back again.

He shifted on his heel, pushing Gareth further behind him in case things got ugly. Herding him back towards Jeff with little bumps, as both of them tried to muscle down their cackling. Nerdy enough to piece together the gist of what Eddie had been hollering about. Even if Jeff was better at Quenya, because he was a weirdo and a purist about that kind of shit.

All in all, a job well done, assuming Hagan didn’t flip his shit and start throwing punches to assert dominance.

Or at least, it felt like it, until Harrington - trailing behind Hagan - sucked all the air out of the room. Hands on his hips, a furrow on his brow, blurting it out without even thinking about it.

“Is that like, Yiddish?”

You could have heard a pin drop.

Panic clamped around Eddie’s throat like a vice. The same way Gareth’s hand, tiny and tense - he had yet to hit his growth spurt - wrapped around the edge of Eddie’s leather jacket. Pushing past the waistband of his jeans to claw at skin.

The side that mattered, one they both knew had those words that wrapped around Eddie’s chest. Curving towards the sternum.

Whatever face he was making gave it away instantly.

Harrington’s face shuttered and fell. A whole host of micro expressions that passed through in a second before he scrubbed them away. A pair of shaking hands that rubbed at his eyes and dragged down his face. Peeking at Eddie through a gap in his fingers.

“Jesus Christ it’s you; isn’t it?”

Behind Eddie, Gareth tugged him half a step back, nails digging into his hip. Little half-moon crescents he barely felt now, but would find later.

“Steve?” The waver in Hagan’s voice would have been funny if it wasn’t nauseating.

Terrifying, when Steve waved him off and stepped towards Eddie. Jerky and halting, like a puppet with half it’s strings cut.

“I can’t fucking believe this Munson. You gotta tell me if it is.” Steve bit out, with a wobble that sounded too trembling and confused to be anger. Even if it would come later.

It was probably coming later.

Anger always got there in the end, with boys like Harrington. Sharp comebacks and sharper right hook always winning out, spurred on by that bone-deep, animal fear of losing your place in the social food chain.

King Steve didn’t seem worried it yet though. Adding to the bizarre hilarity of the situation as he undid his belt and untucked his shirt to the concerned shouts of everyone left in the hall, witnesses to this trainwreck.

If Eddie hadn’t been convinced he’d died and gone to purgatory a minute earlier. He would have been convinced there and then.

As Steve Harrington turned around, bunched his striped polo up high and his khaki’s down low. Stripping down to show the athletic curve of a hip. The dip of a waist that looked small next to his swimmer’s shoulders - almost wide enough to rival Hagan’s - a scattering of moles that dusted across his lower back, framing his mark.

There, on King Steve’s back, bracketed by dimples, low enough to count as a truly slutty tramp stamp sat Eddie’s words. The swooping curves of Tengwar branded into his skin.

“What’s kickin’, Sexy?”

[foursaints]

picture of the stigmata. medical gore. collection of antique muzzles and collars for rabid animals. flogging scars. an illuminated manuscript depicting christ’s side wound. the pillory. shibari bondage. someone’s cracked open rib cage being observed in a victorian surgical amphitheatre. the martyring of st sebastian. ball gag. louise glück poem. a google search for worst medieval execution methods. taxidermy. freudian psychoanalysis. a pdf of machiavelli’s “the art of war” accessible on jstor. a sheep dog’s barbed collar. gif of an erection.

all the tags: this happened to my good friend barty crouch jr

[astaraels]

Ruthless Devotion

they'll make a hundred men bleed raw for the chance to prove themselves. (on canine coded milkoviches.) (ao3)

Put your fucking guard dog on a leash.

Mickey's hands chase over Ian's sides, his teeth nipping at the soft and tender flesh of Ian's lips. There's a soft growl that starts in Mickey's throat and ends up in Ian's own, the two of them pressed as close together as it's possible to be. Heat sears through Ian's body, a delicious high that drugs can't ever seem to replicate. Just Mickey and the way his hands, his lips drive Ian up a wall. There's nothing like him.

Fuck, Ian, he hears Mickey say against his ear, his voice a breathy huff of laughter. Ian can hear the slightest whine in the sound. He'll never admit it, but Mickey likes when Ian makes him just a little bit desperate. There's a lot of things Mickey can't and won't admit to. Like when that guy outside the club told Ian to put your fucking guard dog on a goddamn leash and Ian saw Mickey's shoulders broaden, his whole chest expanding as Mickey inhaled, sharp and sudden.

His guard dog. Protective to a fault, snarling and chasing away anyone he deems unworthy. Mandy had been the same, snapping like a junkyard dog at girls who got too close to Ian in the halls; Ian had to fight the grin that always threatened to cross his face when they did things like that.

He loves fiercely, he knows, but Milkoviches love violently. They love with claws and teeth, loyalty a pale, weak word for what it truly means. Ian doesn't think his love compares, but Mickey and Mandy both stay by his side, refusing to leave. And maybe he had to hold a hand out, let them bite his fingers and draw blood before he gained their trust, but it was worth it. No matter what anyone thinks, they're worth the pain, worth the wounds. Where others see rabid dogs, Ian sees wounded, starving strays in need of protection themselves.

Of course he'd never say it. He'd never tell them that he knows what they are on their insides. Mandy calls herself a bitch, says it proud, dares others to turn it against her. Mickey says he's anything but, that he likes what he likes; the dark and knowing looks he gives to Ian sometimes say otherwise. Where Mandy's all claws, Mickey's all teeth, both of them desperate to dig in and claim territory that they'll defend to death.

Ian's become part of that territory; he's been snapped up by these Milkoviches even with the Gallagher blood in his veins. Like he's a lost fucking sheep they're trying to herd back to safety before the wolves outside can get him. And maybe Mickey's eyes darken when he sees those wolves stalking at Ian's door—Ian knows there's more gazes than Mickey's that linger on his shoulders and his hips, along the hard planes and soft lines of his body. Mickey's there every time he turns around, though, and Ian isn't afraid for himself as long as he has Mickey.

It's not that he's stupid, either; he knows they need protecting, too. They're both the type to leave themselves bleeding, ignore their jagged wounds in favor of his papercuts. So Ian has to look out for them—both of them, because as much as Mickey has clawed his way and made himself a den of Ian's insides, Mandy was always first. And she's always been more fragile. A dog can bite to defend itself, but beat it enough and it learns to keep its teeth in its mouth. That's what Ian's here for, though; he'll keep a knife ready to fight off any man who hurts her, and let her hide her beautiful bruised face in his shoulder so she doesn't show weakness.

And then there's Mickey—Mickey, who even now traces the lines of Ian's ribs, a little too easily seen against the pale skin of his torso. Mickey, who kisses hard like a punch to the jaw and yet sweet like spring rain. Mickey, who has eyes the color of Lake Michigan and just as impossibly deep. Mickey, who came into Ian's life like a car crash and who Ian never wants to let go. It's selfish, maybe; dangerous, certainly. They grin against one another's mouths and Ian traces his tongue over Mickey's teeth.

Mickey is a guard dog, fierce in devotion and determined to protect what's his. And maybe Ian shouldn't like the way that Mickey snaps and snarls, straining to be let off the leash and bring down violence on anyone who dares look at Ian like he's only there to be used up and spat back out. It doesn't matter that Mickey looks at Ian like a piece of rare meat, because from him there's a longing and a neediness that goes with it. There's a craving, a desire that goes beyond the surface—he knows that his body is only one of the many things Mickey wants, unlike those other men. Mickey will take anything Ian gives him, the pain and the pleasure mixing between their bodies.

It sends a perverse kind of lust through Ian when he sees Mickey's inked knuckles causing bruises to bloom on the jaws and eyes of nameless men with bad intentions. There's a delicious sort of dizziness, knowing how much Mickey enjoys it, too. And maybe Ian and Mickey have bad intentions with each other, too, but those are dark desires that they only share with each other. The way Ian nuzzles against Mickey's neck, smelling the heady, sharp scent of his cologne, and Mickey clutches at him with need. He wants, he wants, he wants…and he knows Mickey wants to give him everything.

Guard dogs off their leashes—that's what Mickey and Mandy are. Ian would never claim to know how to tame them, would never want to anyway, but they're both so beautiful in how dangerous they can be. It's different, the way he loves each of them, how they love each other, but the three of them have found a way to carve out some existence that fits them well. Ian knows what it feels like to cradle their jaws in his hands, to press his lips against the pale skin of their cheeks. They've let him in and let him see their vulnerability. Guard dogs who guard themselves fiercely. Mickey sleeps curled up by Ian's bed each night, putting himself between Ian and whatever threat might come.

And Ian knows it might be wrong. Hell, he sees the looks his family gives him, when Mandy would defend him a little too loud, when Mickey does anything for Ian without being asked. He knows what it looks like. But god, he doesn't care. That kind of devotion means everything coming from them. Coming from a Milkovich, it's a declaration of love.

Right now he's buried himself deep inside Mickey, the rough brick biting into Mickey's back as they move together. Ian bites down on perfect, smooth skin as Mickey growls Ian's name against his ear. The want and need, the pleasure and pain, it all comes together in this single unmatched moment. He hitches Mickey's leg up higher and tightens his grip in Mickey's hair, dull teeth sharp against Mickey's delicate neck.

He's not the only one with claws and fangs.

There's a pull and a groan, heat scorching through Ian's body as he moves; he feels Mickey's body pressed against his own, tight and tense like a live wire. There's a frenzied kiss, blood on their lips and it doesn't matter whose. The sounds of their breaths coming harsh and jagged break through the distant noises of the city. Ian doesn't fucking care about anything else in this moment, this white-hot moment where he can love Mickey Milkovich exactly as he deserves. Loyalty and devotion rewarded, as they should be. The only one who gets this from Ian, and it's all Mickey's alone. Those other men don't own Ian's heart, not even his body, despite what they may think.

Mickey's head nearly smacks against the brick as he comes apart, shuddering, unable to hold himself together. This is the part that Ian loves, that he always tries to watch if he can. Watching the moment where Mickey takes something for himself instead of giving it away so easily. And he still gives it to Ian—he gives his body to Ian so many times, every day and every way he can—but this, this moment where he breaks into pieces and pulls Ian's pleasure into himself. Like he'd devour Ian whole if he had the chance.

And Ian knows he'd let him. Would do it without a second thought. He knows he'll never find it again, this ruthless devotion that came to him with harsh, clear blue eyes and bruised, gentle knuckles that threaten violence at every moment. He buries himself inside Mickey—he doesn't want to come up for air, just wants to breathe him in until that scent is all he knows. It's the way Mickey sends him out of his head and yet grounds him unlike anything else. His guard dog, his leashed protector. Mickey would make the world bleed for Ian. Maybe it should scare him.

It only makes Ian love him more.

[live-laugh-legolas]

hiya hope you’re having a good day! Imma send you a writing request (no pressure ofc!)

Reader being best friends/close friends with the members of the fellowship

I’m a little more inclined towards platonic x readers so that’s why I’m requesting this!

have a nice day!

Absolutely! I don’t know if this is how you wanted this written or the context of the friendship (like on the journey or in general what they are like as friends so I kinda did both and it’s really pretty disorganized) so I apologize if it isn’t what you were hoping for

The Fellowship as reader’s BFF

Aragorn:

-Loyal friend that you don’t see much but always pick up where you left off

-Being a ranger kinda calls for that

-Unless you are friends from ranger work then I imagine you would go with him whether he liked it or not

-Probably gets frustrated at you for being reckless but it’s only because he can’t handle the idea of you getting hurt

-Doesn’t want you to join the fellowship, but if you do he would be secretly a glad to have a familiar face with him

Legolas:

-Cheeky bastard, can totally be flirty but it is totally platonic and just for fun

-Lives to sneak up on you and scare you

-Friendly banter, people can’t tell if you hate each other or love each other, but you guys are bffs and love that people are confused

-Would be glad to have you join the fellowship as he doesn’t really know anyone else yet

-Might be a little jealous if you make friends with the others, but you reassure him he is still your best friend and won’t lose that title

-Power trio with Gimli

Gimli:

-Sheep in a wolfs clothes

-A rabid and deadly sheep, but a sheep, but only you know this

-Competition for everything

-Very proud of his friendship and takes it very seriously

-He isn’t concerned if you join the fellowship because you can totally hand yourself

-Talks smack about elves to you, but he is fully aware Legolas can hear him

Boromir:

-Such a loyal friend

-I know he is outgoing and everything, but for some reason I don’t imagine him having many friends

-Or lots of friends, but not many that are actually people he will open up to

-So he holds your friendship so close to his heart

-Definitely asks your advice on how to talk to girls (doesn’t matter your gender)

-Big brother energy even if you are older than him

Frodo:

-The friend that you never ever get sick of

-He always matches your energy or at least understands where you are at mentally

-Like if you are having an off day and are a moody he totally understands and won’t be offended

-Will do his best to cheer you up but also understands sometimes you just need a day to brood

-Nervous if you join the fellowship but also relieved to have you there along with the other hobbits

Sam, Merry, & Pippin:

-I am grouping these guys together as I think their relationship with you would be very much like it is with Frodo

-Loyal beyond measure and always have your back

-Definitely will make jokes at your expense but it’s out of love

-Will call your bullshit and are brutally honest, Sam maybe less because he is scared to be mean

I’m sorry this really kinda sucks but I wasn’t really sure of what to write, but I wanted to get it out as I was so excited to have a request so thank you! I may update it if I get inspired for something to add :)

[christinesficrecs]

Hi, thank you for all the work you do 🫡 I was hoping you could help me find this fic I read forever ago. Stiles was working in this mine but he was sick and Derek was being forced to work in the mine too (cuz he was feral??). And stiles befriends him and they start to look out for each other and protect one other while working (like stiles brings him medicine for wolfsbane burns and Derek scares away stiles’ creepy boss). In the end they both escape the mine and run like a sheep farm or something. Thanks if you can find it!

Hey! I think this is the one.

Light at the end of the tunnel by Lesatha | 19.4K | Mature

“Careful, Stilinski. Don’t think you can go around telling me what to do, or coddling the werewolf.”

“What does it matter to you?”

“If the feral alpha kills you, it will be my fault, as your supervisor.”

Stiles’ head whipped towards the werewolf. He couldn’t see much of him apart from his red eyes, always following Stiles. Crazy as it might sound, it comforted him. The werewolf wasn’t the rabid animal Elis seemed to picture. He was just… hurt.

[supersonicanimates]

very dumb idea i have

what if puffball's family is just like... rabid puffballs that bite every living thing they see. also they have much bigger fluff like a sheep that doesn't get sheared.

imagine hearing autotuned growling at night and next thing you know you're being torn to shreds by a pack of evil fluffballs

[lululandd]

rabid; (iv.)

pairing: simon ‘ghost’ riley x gn!reader

word count: 1,671

warnings: comedy, unhinged topics, ghost has feelings

note: this is the last one i promise, thanks for reading and sticking around :3

summary: “We need your interrogation magic, LT. We don’t have a lot of time.”

part i. | part ii. | part iii.

“Ghost?” Soap nudged him.

The day was sickly humid, temperature rising by the minute as sweat beaded down his forehead. His mind was somewhere far away when Soap called him, “Yeah. Here.” He replied as he placed a gloved knuckle on his eye, getting rid of the sweat gathering on his lashes.

“We need your interrogation magic, LT. We don’t have a lot of time.”

Ghost sighed deeply at the situation they got themselves into. He looked around the makeshift interrogation room–if they can even call it that–as half of the wall was torn down and there was no roof above them. There could be a UAV coming to pinpoint their location any time now. Soap was right, they don’t have much time.

He stared at his men, all of them looking tired but otherwise alert. He checked his pockets for anything that can be used in an interrogation and took out two of his knives. Gaz and Soap picked up on what he was doing pretty quickly and they handed him pliers, a magnetic pickup tool, while Gromsko and Enzo handed him wire cutters and a swiss knife. To his surprise, Arthur produced a 45° double angle hook from the pocket near where Merlin dangled on his backside.

The man held onto the hook for a moment longer than necessary as Ghost took the item from him, subtly indicating he wanted the item back.

The unnamed Cordis Die member kneeling in front of them stayed silent as Ghost stood in front of him. The others had stayed a little bit away, either keeping watch or just giving them some space. He looked young, late twenties at most, Ghost couldn’t tell very well with all the muck and grime. He crouched down in front of the bound man, asking him in the nicest voice he could muster. When he refused to answer at all, Ghost weighed the items in his hands with vexation as he knows these aren’t the correct tools to make this man talk. His expression didn’t even change when he eyed them in his hands.

He would need to think of something else, and fast.

—

Simon had to hold in his laughter as he loaded his dishwasher, as you and your online friends were onto something wicked which had you laughing and giggling the whole time ever since you started. He heard something about a little celebration but he didn’t quite catch what it was for, but he knows you’re celebrating with a couple drinks.

As he got ready to wind down for the night and crawl into bed for another possibly sleepless night, he perked his ears up to listen in harder on your conversations as you’re getting quieter to probably not disturb him, your only neighbour. It’s cute that you think of him after the soap incident, lowering your voice if you’re going online later in the night. He sort of wishes you didn’t, because of the things he’s gonna miss. Just like tonight’s.

Oh how he would love to hear all the sides of the conversation.

“No, I don’t know what a sheep’s dick looks like. Why would I know what they look like?” A pause. “Nah, I was raised in the city.”

Another info he jolts down in his mind. “Okay. is it more fucked up looking than echidnas?” Simon realised he had no idea what an echidna looks like. He knows what Knuckles—Sonic’s friend—looks like, but not the actual animal. So he googled.

“Man, I really don’t wanna click that link.” He heard you say. He thinks echidnas are cute. They're like pet hedgehogs but with longer snouts and large mole-like paws. He was lost in his thoughts as he scrolled before hearing you squeal out, “No!! What is that! Why does it look…Like that..?” Imagining you wildly gesture at your monitor brought a smile to his face.

Self-restraint was second nature to him at this point, but bloody hell if it didn’t take all of his power to not google what sheep genitalia actually looks like, especially when you continued, “Are you sure you didn't just come across one that’s brok– Oh yeah I see them now. Holyshit they’re all look so fucking mangled.”

Swearing under his breath, Simon typed the words he didn’t want to type onto his search engine. Regret with a capital R hits him and he was too late to hold his voice in and lets out a disgusted noise that was louder than intended.

His notification bar popped up on his phone from you.

SORRY HAHA i was trying to be quieter DID YOU GOOGLE THEM

i did. guess im not sleepin tonight

thats what you get for listening in heheh >:3  maybe you can traumatise your friends with this newfound knowledge?

:)

—

Groaning, he racked his brain on how to word what he was going to say in the most atrocious, horrific, macabre way possible but also came off nonchalant.

He mulled over the thought and dug in the deepest crevice of his vest to produce his phone. Soap fidgeted in his peripherals.

“LT, what tae fuck.”

He heard the tied-up man snort.

Oh. He thinks the Lieutenant in the skull mask is an idiot for bringing his phone to the battlefield. This is a start.

“It’s all right, Sergeant. This is important.”

He powered his phone on, typing his password the moment the screen lit up. The battery showed 62%. It should be more than enough. The sim card was taken out and he had one of the IT staff tinker with it when it was brand new. Opening the gallery and scrolling a little bit, he found the picture he was looking for.

He puts the brightness up to max before talking to the man. “So. Do you know what a sheep’s dick looks like?” Not waiting for an answer, he showed him the picture on his phone. It doesn't look like anything but shredded meat. “Yours will look like this if you don’t tell us what we want.”

Flinching a little, the man tried so hard not to react but Ghost can see him breathing harder.

“I don’t have a picture for the second option, but you’ve heard of anal prolapse, right? It’s when the last bit of your large intestine drops out of your arse. Nasty thing. You can’t control your bowel movement, there’s blood and mucus comin’ out, all that shit.” He handed the tools he was holding over to Arthur, the closest one standing to him. “But did you know there’s a urethra prolapse? I can’t describe it very well because of all the blood but it looks like a lil’ purple doughnut on the tip of your dick. Magenta If I can be fancy with my words.”

Arthur tensed next to him, making the dog let out a distressed whine.

“There will be three choices for you today. One. You tell us the info we need. Two, I mangle your mediocre cock so bad you wish I’d cut it off, or three, I make two doughnuts. Back and front.” He pointed downwards, vaguely to where his crotch is.

“Ghost that's against the Geneva Convention.” Soap spoke up.

The man comically nods.

“Nah. If I start using him as a meat shield out there, then it's against humanitarian laws.” came his cold and calculated answer. “Does he look like he’s surrendered? He’s not even hors de combat. If we do this to him after he gives us good intel, then we'll get tried at the Hague. No. This guy fell into a paper shredder dick first you see. Pure accident.”

Gaz cleared his throat uneasily, realising what could have happened with the raccoons they collected a couple months back. “Ghost…”

He stood up, asking for the tools he handed over earlier. Tilting his head towards the man, he commanded, “Soap, take his pants off.” 

It was silent for what seemed like an eternity with no one daring to move before the unfortunate Cordis Die member gritted out the information they needed with what looked like hot tears in his eyes. Soap relayed the info to Laswell while they moved to a more secure place, preferably with a roof and all four walls intact.

Arthur spoke up for the first time as they checked their weapons and placed all their tools back in their respective pockets. He walked closer to the man, “Y’ Should learn about humanitarian laws, does a lot of good in these situations.”

“Oh come oan Arthur, why tae fuck are you teachin’ him tings?”

His face was completely hidden under his golden metallic mask but everyone could tell he’s frowning, “He’s young, maybe if more people taught him he would have known better than to join Cordis Die.”

Laswell had estimated their extraction would not be for another three hours so they all had a little time for themselves. Arthur had let Merlin out of what Soap called “the arse papoose” and the rest of the men had joined in giving the dog pats and bellyrubs. Merlin had been relieved off of work, and Ghost would be lying if he didn’t eye the pup with envy.

Soap approached him with the widest grin he has ever sported on his face while holding onto the top part of his vest and Ghost wishes he could disappear into thin air right now. He has seen the same gesture and expression coming from Price, so he knows he’s gonna get made.

“So… Urethras eh?”

“What, Johnny?” He glared at the Scot with all the leftover anger he could muster, which is barely any since their mission went well and he didn’t have to use excess force on another soldier.

His Sergeant didn’t even regard him seriously and continued, grin wider than ever. Man was practically beaming. “Was the raccoon their idea too, then?”

Soap couldn't see Ghost’s face, but he has been around Simon long enough—been in many dire situations together enough—to know just by looking at his eyes that the stupid Brit is smiling brightly.

[bluebird167]

Farm AU

Charlie - A sheep-goat hybrid, she is often bullied for being a mixed breed by the other animals, yet remains gentle and caring, showing concern for everyone on the farm. Though normally a peaceful animal, she will not hesitate to butt heads with anyone who threatens her home and family.

Vaggie - A pony, she’s Charlie’s best friend and one of the few who are not bothered by her hybrid D.N.A. She is young but surprisingly wise, faithful, and strong.

Alastor - A deer, he was orphaned as a fawn after wolves killed his mother but was adopted by sheep dogs. (Ignore the irony here). He is raised to become a protector of the farm but is not interested because he too is bullied by the other animals due to his background. Yet he cannot completely discard the idea because he is secretly in love with Charlie, the only animal other than his foster parents who treat him kindly.

Angel - A donkey, one of Charlie’s other friends, a lazy and cynical animal who doesn’t care for any work or commitment. Yet his intentions are always good and he cares deeply for his friends.

Husk - A cat, like Angel he is lazy and does not care for work but he’s smart enough not to let his slothful nature get the better him or forget his place in the scheme in things, so he does his part well in keeping away mice and rats for the farmer.

Niffty - A cow, she’s very sweet and is always willing to share her milk, but she has a bit of a mean streak.

Blitzo and Sir Pentious - Roosters, Blitzo is the farm’s trusted look out, but when he’s not watching for danger, he’s often cock-fighting with Sir Pentious over who rules the chicken coop.

Cherri Bomb - A hen, Angel’s sassy best friend, Sir Pentious’s mate, and the one who really rules the coop.

Stolas, Stella, and Octavia - Ducks from the farm next door. Stolas has an on again, off again relationship with Blitzo.

Moxxie and Millie - Sheepdogs, they protect the farm and take their role very seriously. Though loyal to the farmer, they were heartbroken when he sold their pups. However this wound is later healed when they save a young Alastor and take him in.

Lucifer - A ram, the head of the farm animals. He is Charlie’s father and has been fiercely protective of his daughter and the other animals ever since a rabid wild animal bit his mate Lilith and the farmer had to put her down. This tragedy also left him extremely bigoted toward all wild animals, especially Alastor and will often try to find an excuse to expel him from the farm.

Seras, Emily, and Peter - Sheep who only want the farm to be a safe and peaceful place, preferring to avoid any form of confrontation or violence.

Carmilla and her daughters - Horses who argue that all animals, not just the sheep dogs, should have the role of defending the farm.

Adam, Lute, and Fizzarolli - Pigs, Adam is boorish and cruel, secretly scheming to somehow overthrow Lucifer and takeover the farm. Lute is his loyal follower but Fizzarolli is against their plans and conspires with Blitzo to expose their true motive to the others.

Vox, Valentino, and Velvette - Wolves, sadistic, murderous, and needlessly cruel, unlike most predators, they kill for pleasure rather than for food. They stalk the farm every night, planning to slowly and brutally devour every last hoofed and feathered animal there. Only thing standing in their way are two sheep dogs and one noisy rooster. Or so they think.