#snare pole

[industrialfrottage]

Remembering the first time someone slipped a heavy choke chain around my throat in the middle of a scene...

[owlcomics101]

task force 141 x fox hybrid!Reader head cannons

Warnings: bit of blood, mentions of animal abuse/hunting (I do NOT condone), SFW (I am a minor), wholesome fox cuddles, reader is an Arctic fox hybrid

Context/backstory:

Soap was the one that found you originally. You were caught in a snare. A nose tied around your neck attached to a pole in the ground. Panting and running around in circles aimlessly. Blood drew from your poor already raw and red neck from the tight nose digging into your neck fur. Soap couldn’t just leave you there. He couldn’t leave you to become just another victim to a Man’s trap. Cut to the task force getting ready to leave in the chopper when they see Soap entering with you curled up in his arms. Trembling as you buried yourself as deep as you could into his chest in hopes of hiding away from the cruel world.

Soap:

Soap sometimes spooks you despite him being your savior, he can get very loud from time to time and it often causes you to go run and hide. It always breaks his heart seeing you run away from him. He tries his best to lower and soften his voice for you, but sometimes he forgets. You often only come to him for affection in private because that is when he is the calmest to your liking. You prefer to lay and sit right by Soap’s legs in his bunk. Not because you don’t trust him but…he tends to shift around a lot in his sleep…Soap tends to get a lot of nightmares about you. When he found you in the snare. Your frail and sickly face and body. His nightmares would alway consist of someone chasing your down and skinning you as some sick trophy. Soap would wake up in a cold sweat, always checking to see if you were by his legs or in anyone’s bunk. He would scoop you up and give you kisses as tears filled his eyes thinking of what could’ve happened to you if he’d had never found you. A lot of times he cried himself to sleep thinking about it, but whenever he cried you were there to give him kisses and cuddles.

Ghost:

Ghost took the longest to warm up to you, and you took the longest to warm up to him. His mask always frightened you and it didn’t help that he was always towering over you just to add more intimidation. His mask reminded you of the masked hunters you’d always face in the bitter tundra and all those near death experiences always left you with a bitter snarl when Ghost was in the same room as you. Price would have Ghost start feeding you so you would at least feel comfortable with him being in the same room as you, which worked. You would still watch his every move in case he tried to pull something when he fed you. And you would always check the food to see if it was safe to eat before eating it. One time, when you were busy eating Ghost was watching you out of the corner of your eye. Ghost looked around to check if anyone was around before slowly walking over to you and crouching next to you while you ate. He watched you for an awhile before putting his head out to stroke your head, he hesitated for a moment though. Thinking of how you would react but he had already had his hand on your head. He gently stroke your head while you ate and scratched behind your ears. When you finished eating you hadn’t even realized ghost was there and touching you. You immediately pulled away, tilting your head to the side at him before quickly running out of the room.

Gaz:

Gaz loves taking you for walks! Every time you see him get up your ears immediately perk up thinking he was about to take you on a walk. You couldn’t help but go berserk when he mentions going ‘outside’ or ‘walkies’. Whenever Gaz took you on a walk, you would always walk in front of him. When he manages to get in front of you, you would always race him to be in front. Because in your mind you’re walking him. Not the other way around. Sometimes when you walk by other soldiers or even military dogs you’d always run behind Gaz or want him to pick you up so you’d be out of the dog’s reach. Gaz didn’t mind, you weren’t that much of a hassle to carry. In the colder months, his favorite thing is to watch you go dive head first into the snow. It makes him laugh every time. Though one time…you came back to him with a dead mouse. Plopped it in front of him for him to see your work. You were so proud of yourself. Gaz was….disgusted a bit but still thought it was sweet when you brought stuff to him. (He does throw it away because it stinks up the base)

Price:

Price was your favorite. You always waited for him to come back every mission. Your tail would wag like crazy when you see him downstairs from the window. When you heard him walking close to the door you’d start running around the barracks excitedly as your ‘zoomies’ kick in. Cuddle time is EVERYTIME! It doesn’t matter what Price is doing, you will butt your head into whatever he is doing and made it a point to sit in his lap while he worked. You would snarl or bark at him whenever he tried getting up. And you would not let him wake up early in the mornings. Price didn’t want you at first. Telling Soap you should be at a shelter or back in the wild. Soldiers can’t have pets. Let alone a fox hybrid like you! But he quickly grew a soft spot for you. He made sure you got the best food and spoiled you when he could. Whenever Gaz took you on your walks Price would interrogate Gaz when he was out with you for too long. Even by a second too long. He was the one to always remind Soap to quiet down. Especially when you were sleeping. He’d always give you kisses on the head and hold you whenever he could. Even during briefings or meetings you were always there in his arms or in his lap.

[bananafire11]

How Jax ripped his ear

Drabble below based off said drawings

Jax’s paws thumped across the tiles of the old Candy Castle, beelining it for the nearest window. The distorted growls of an abstracted bounced off the lengthy hallway and the fur at the nape of his neck stood on end.

He’d used one of these windows to enter the castle, so despite the medieval-esque bars covering them he knew how to get 'em open. The digital world wasn’t nearly as reliable as he could hope, but there were little things that came in his favor.

He skidded to a stop in front of said window, bag jostling against his hip. He hoped the trouble he went through for this ammo was worth it. He gripped the metal bars and yanked them up until he heard a click, locking the rusty bars into place.

His ear flicked at another grumble from across the hall, so he vaulted himself over the window seal. He pulled his palms away from the grimey surface, just registering a creaking groan and a sharp ching, before a searing pain cut through his left ear.

A strangled scream made it past his teeth before he could even think to stop it. His hand clenched over his lips and he tilted his chin, trying to see what had happened.

Despite his spotty vision he could just make out how those damned rusty bars had pierced his left ear, successfully trapping him to the window. His hands shook, reaching for the metal and clasping his dirty hands around the poles. Fuck, he was trembling.

Through the zinging pain a glitching roar called from within the building and Jax’s breath hitched. Of course it’d heard him. Of fucking course. Peering in, he saw the black mass of multi-colored eyes rounding the corner at the end of the hall, careening straight for him. Fuck.

His trembling arms shook the bars, yanking and yanking but they wouldn’t lift no matter how hard he tried. Shit, of all times, why now?

The abstracted was nearing closer with every passing second, and if he could just get his ear loose he’d be able to make it to the car he’d parked out back.

Another booming growl, and he realized he’d have to yank it out.

He grit his teeth and only took a moment to prepare, muscles tense, before he swung his head back. His vision blurred, black dots dancing along and his head pounded. Blood spurted to the ground and his hands hovered around his ear. His legs wobbled and involuntary tears breached his tear ducts.

He stumbled backward, only thankful that he wasn’t a rabbit caught in the snare anymore. The abstracted hurled itself toward him, clanging against the wall and shaking the metal, and so Jax swiveled toward the car. His legs carried him faster than he’d even realized because next thing he knew he was inside the vehicle.

He fumbled for the keys, shoving them into the engine and cranking them until the thing rumbled to life.

In a blur, his paw was on the pedal and he was racing for the gates.

[cuckoo-on-a-string]

Paper Pirates 2.

MDNI

2/3

An unconventional pirate on an unconventional crew, you struggle to solve the problem you created (and understand WTF your captain wants from you).

Shanks x f!reader (fairly gender neutral in this part)

Warnings: Violence, blood, death, broken bones, self-esteem issues, everyone's an idiot

It was supposed to be a two-shot.

A/N: Not thrilled with this chapter's quality, but whatever. PART THREE WILL BE UP THIS WEEKEND AS PART OF MY WINTER SOLSTICE EVENT. There will be smut. Just thought you should know. ;P

Rain patters over your umbrella.

The precipitation has driven the street vendors to shelter, and voices carry from crowded taverns and restaurants.

The downpour casts everything in a haze, but it isn't enough to hide the six hunters.

You shift your cover to your nondominant hand, resting the bamboo pole against your shoulder. Closing your eyes, just for a moment, you take a deep breath. The weather casts a chill over the island, just enough to fog your sigh.

Your keen eye catches more than numbers. And, anyway, you’ve been waiting for these fucks: bounty hunters with the grace and subtlety of green Marine recruits. They’d been asking around for you, making loud threats and boasting over drinks in pirate taverns about their plans to snare on of the Red Hair Pirates.

Calling them amateurs would be too kind.

And you’re in a mood.

“Put down your weapons and surrender!”

The man stands five feet away, leering out of an alley like a common mugger with a shitty little rapier leveled at your throat. He isn’t carrying a gun, so you face him, covering your back with umbrella.

In the time it takes him to blink, you’ve drawn your revolver and plugged his chest with lead. You drop to a crouch, and a musket ball pings harmlessly off your cover. Confused shouts echo over the street.

In the same breath, the woman waiting behind the crates ahead charges with a war cry.

You pull the trigger.

Her axe drops to the mud. Blood pools in the corners of her eyes, fixed on the clouds. The bullet hole in her forehead starts collecting rainwater.

A spearman rushes from behind, and you fling aside his attack with your umbrella, pushing your revolver under his chin. He doesn’t have much of a face left when he falls.

The next two move together, trying to flank. It’s better strategy than the others showed, but they still don’t seem to understand how you’re wielding your umbrella. One kills himself with a point blank shot that ricochets off your shield and through his throat. You bring down his friend with a shot through the eye.

Only one left.

A sniper on the far roof.

You brace to catch the slug with both hands on your umbrella’s pole, and it cuts through a blade of grass to your left. Before you can go after him, he yelps, and you raise your umbrella back over your head to watch the teenager, off-balanced by his rifle’s recoil, sliding off his perch.

He lands with a splash and a crack.

As he howls, clutching his broken leg, you prop the umbrella shaft under your elbow. The cylinder swings out of your revolver, and the casings bounce off the sparse gravel around your boots. You take your time, sliding a single cartridge into the chamber. The boy is screaming, trying to cradle his leg and crawl away.

Five steps, one for each of his dead comrades, brings you to his feet. You sit on your heels. Look him over.

“You need to be incredibly strong or exceptionally lucky to survive this kind of life.” The revolver rises between you. You hold the boy’s eyes as you spin the cylinder.

He’s shaking. Thick strings of snot resist the rain pouring down his face, and although the weather hides some his shame, his bloodshot eyes confirm he’s crying. Well. You cried the first time you broke a bone, too. And you didn’t have death perched by your ankles.

As your finger squeezes the trigger, you know what will happen. Another shot between the eyes and a sixth body in the streets. You smell the gun smoke and feel the recoil in your wrist as the puddle below the rookie turns ruddy.

You’re out of step with the present, reaching just a fingertip past the surface of the future, watching it ripple.

The barest flick of your wrist in the moment present and future meet sends the vision to pieces.

The bullet grazes the kid’s ear, diving harmlessly into the puddle. He takes a minute, staring, breathing, trying to figure out whether he’s alive or dead.

Mercy is for the strong, for people who are so secure in their power they can afford the risk – because it isn���t a risk at all. You aren’t that strong, and you killed to stay alive. Stay safe. Keep working.

But this boy isn’t a threat, and for the first time in a long time, you’re secure in your power.

Your bounty is new and ill-informed. Word hasn’t spread that you’re any kind of haki user, and every fool with a point to prove and a hole in his pocket thinks you’re much weaker than you are.

There’s space, here, as the rain fades and the gutters drip, for a little mercy.

“You aren’t strong. And you aren’t lucky.” You rise, towering over the prone bounty hunter. “Go home.”

He nods, blubbering, and drags himself away. You only watch until he’s cleared the first corner, clearly desperate to escape your sight.

You empty the cylinder again and load five new cartridges. It pays to be prepared, after all. This isn’t the first fight you’ve had in the last few months. Just as you finish your work with a click, a whistle shatters your reverie.

“Oi! Oi! Our nerd is scary!”

A chuckling chorus answers the cry, and you glance over your shoulder to find a herd of Red Hair Pirates watching at the end of the street. Lucky Roux grins, tearing into his latest hock of meat, delighted with himself. Bonk Punch, Monster, Hongo, and a gaggle of lower crewmembers block your way.

Spinning your umbrella to dispel the worst of the damp, you fold it up and rest it on your shoulder. Your revolver returns to its holster, and you smile politely, like these men hadn’t abandoned you for an entire year.

You’re happy to see them, so see so little – nothing really – has changed. It feels like needles in your heart.

“Get bored?” you ask, strolling to meet them. “Stop for the show?”

The corpses you pass don’t matter. Someone will loot them. Someone will bury them. Maybe their hobbled apprentice will claim their bodies.

You’re only half crew, but you’re all pirate these days.

Hongo lifts an eyebrow and lifts his chin so he can look down his nose at you. Unlike Lucky Roux, he’s all commander in the moment.

“You weren’t where we left you. Been following your trail for three weeks.”

You shrug, spreading your arms, playing it light. “Then you must know why I had to improvise.”

Monster screams from Bonk Punch’s shoulder, the monkey holding up one of your new bounty posters. It’s insultingly low, but it’s a clear picture. And it’s a problem.

Teeth grit, you try to smile again, tapping your umbrella against your shoulder.

Are you in trouble? You haven’t done anything wrong. You’ve betrayed no secrets. That’s why you have the fucking bounty in the first place.

“Well, I’d like to hear the story firsthand!”

The needles pierce deeper, and the crew parts for their captain. He swaggers up to you, all smiles and jokes as you roll the umbrella’s handle between your fingers. It isn’t a daydream. It isn’t a nightmare. It’s the same reality you keep telling yourself is fine, fine, fine, until you snap, snap, snap.

“What do you say to a drink?”

“I’ll meet you there.” You point the way you’d been traveling before the fight.  Practicality to the rescue. “The data’s in my lodgings.”

“Work can wait,” Shanks says. “This is a reunion!”

You don’t have anything to celebrate, and the idea of liquor makes you sick. Sitting with everyone like you were one of them when you know you’re not. The past year taught you that, no matter what the bounty poster said about your affiliation.

He can’t read minds, but Shanks must see something in your face, because he changes tac with a snap of his fingers. “Not a bad idea to get your stuff before we drink, though. We won’t remember a thing in the morning.”

His men laugh, you obligingly cringe a smile, and just as you turn to do as you said, a heavy arm falls over your shoulders. It yanks you fast to the captain’s side, and you stumble, off-balance, crashing into him.

He’s so terribly real. A physical obstacle with scars and a heartbeat. Even through his shirt and cloak, he runs warm.

He smells just the way you remember from the close quarters on the Red Force. Juniper, oak, and sake.

If you don’t get out of this soon, your plans won’t matter because your traitorous heart will explode and you’ll drop dead.

Ever since your drunken revelation, you’d wielded denial as an emotional tourniquet, but it does nothing in the Emperor’s overwhelming presence. He smiles, and you bleed internally.

He doesn’t let go, and you steer the pair of you to the shitty little loft over the local stable. Shanks lets you enter first, finally allowing you to duck out from under his arm to unlock the door and disable the basic trap you’d left for petty thieves. He peers around, taking in the spider webs between the high rafters and the drifts of straw left from the loft’s old storage days. You have a cot, your little travel chest, and a window overlooking the street.

Shanks sits on your bed, bouncing like a child. “You owe me a story.”

You grunt and kneel next to your trunk. You’ll take inventory as you regale him with shit he surely knows. No matter how this encounter ends, now that the crew’s been through, the island won’t be safe for you on your lonesome.

“Everything was fine for three months. Standard practice.” You lift out the portfolio you’ve crafted since you last stepped off the Red Force. Trade notes, harvest records, changes in municipal government and population. “Then a ship full of marines pulled into port and swarmed the office I’d rented.”

The bed creaks, and you glance back to see him leaning forward, arm over knee, frown bending his face.

“They insisted I was a good person who bad people used. Said they’d make me rich and safe if I spewed something juicy about you and the crew.” You pause, but you don’t look at your captain again. You listen, though. His breath is steady. Even. None of this phases him. “Of course I told them to go fuck themselves. Then I was a bad person doing bad things for worse people, and they said we’d continue the conversation in Impel Down.”

A flutter of haki shakes dust from the rafters, and you wonder how much angrier he’d be if you’d taken the easy out.

“There were fifty marines surrounding the building. I took out a few dozen and left before reinforcements could arrive.”

“Was that when you were shot?”

Of course he knew. He was just checking your story. Making sure you hadn’t turned rat. Did he get you alone so he could dispose of you without hurting morale if he wasn’t satisfied with your answers? It would be efficient. And Shanks was ruthless once crossed.

“No.” You check through your clothes, the few toiletries worth keeping on hand. Your Berries are where you left them. Enough to live off for half a decade if you had to. “That was at sea. Between islands. I was on a civilian ship and some rookies attacked. They were pretty shit, honestly, but there were a lot of them, and the civilians panicked. Not even sure who landed the hit.”

Your first aid supplies are safely stowed bellow your gun cleaning kit. The ointment for your scar is still half full. Traveling heavy is a bad plan, but you don’t want to lose mobility in your shoulder if you run out between ports. Maybe you should find a local apothecary to whip up a similar treatment. Just so you have some spare.

The glass bottle casts green sprites around the room as you study it. You meet Shank’s warped gaze in the bottle’s reflection and catch your breath.

One by one, your belongings return to the trunk. A tally of your life. A sad collection, frankly. You’d thought you were trading material comforts for a ship full of comrades, for a different kind of fulfillment. But you don’t have that, and you don’t have the trappings of a house, garden, and sleepy old dog to prove you’ve lived, either.

“It’s very difficult, you know,” you muse aloud, “being on your crew and off it at the same time.”

Shanks clicks his tongue, and you hear him lean back from that focused slouch. “You’ve never been off the crew!”

“Semantics.” His objections are so easy to wave off when you know he won’t be your captain for much longer. “My point is, shit like the little drama you saw earlier is becoming more common, and now that I have an actual bounty, it will get worse. When I was just someone who may or may not have been attached to the Red Hair Pirates, I could balance respect and disinterest with the locals.”

“Oh?” Fuck the grin you can hear in his voice. “Attached?”

You won’t be distracted. There are things that need to be said, and you’re happy to have this conversation away from the rest of the crew.

“Captain, I’m being serious. No one showboated for more than a week when I’d settle someplace new, and they were much less concerned with hiding anything underhanded. I could do my job the way I’m supposed to. But now…” The trunk claps shut. You turn the lock. “The situation has changed, so the process should change, too.”

“I’m listening.”

Finished with your work, you angle yourself around, sitting cross-legged on the filthy floor. “I think it’s time I distanced myself.”

You can watch his reaction this time. How he reels back, brow furrowed like you’d just called him ugly.

“What?”

You’ve had a lot of time to think over the past year, and while it’s a complex problem, you’re good at solving those. “I’d still work for you, but I’d train anyone you chose to do a better job with the books on the Red Force, and I could sink into the shadows, build a web of contacts and make myself less obvious. It would be smart to –”

“No.”

He isn’t being rational. And he isn’t being fair. You don’t know how long you can pretend your idea doesn’t sit like a piece of broken glass in your throat, and you have a night of socializing before you can even hope to escape.

“I’m trying to explain I can’t do my job. If Yasopp couldn’t shoot anymore, you’d figure out a different role for him, right? If Roux couldn’t cook. If Beckman couldn’t smoke…”

“Do you want to leave?” His voice is hard, and he’s looking at you so, so seriously.

You can’t help being honest. “No. But it makes sense.”

His restless fingers  tap the hilt of his sword. “No, it doesn’t.”

If he wasn’t so self-possessed, would he have leveled the stable by now? The block? The town?

And why does he care, anyway?

Because he thinks he should. It’s honorable, even it burns you.

“I don’t know what calculations you’re working from, sir, but I’m afraid I have to disagree.” When in doubt, humor works a treat in the world of the Red Hair Pirates. It’s a free pass everyone recognizes. It keeps people sane and keeps drama at a minimum. But Shanks won’t accept your white flag.

“If you can’t do your job like before, fine. But you’re trying to pull away. Why?”

The same reason you left me to fend for myself for a year.

“Because it’s the smart thing to do, and you know it.”

He laughs, but it doesn’t sound friendly. It’s dark, mocking. “Nothing smart about losing a talented crewmate to a case of ennui.”

Your nostrils flare and your spine goes rigid. “Excuse me?”

“If you want to leave, I won’t stop you,” he says. “But first, I want you to tell us both the truth. Just one more time. I’ll even get you liquored up with Beck if you want.”

“Don’t be an ass, Shanks.” You’re on your feet, hissing. He isn’t getting his way, whatever the fuck that is, and he’s lost all pretense of kindness. “I don’t need to humiliate myself twice. And you clearly know what I’m talking about.”

“Eh? Do I? You’re the clever one with your numbers. How about you explain it to me again?”

No. You can’t look him in the eye any longer. You stomp to the window, crossing your arms and scowling at the latest view you’ve hated for being dry, and still, and so much less than the open ocean.

It’s so quiet, you swear you can hear the spiders repairing their webs. Shanks lets it sit, and you know neither of you will leave this loft until he’s finished raking you over the coals for not making the system work the way he wants it to.

Fine. It can’t hurt more than it already does.

“I care about you.” You tell the street. The sun. The tailor shop and restaurant across the avenue. Everyone but Shanks. “Much more than a crewmember should care for their captain, and that always leads to trouble.”

“Care?” He’s crept close, and the question ruffles your hair. “Not the word I remember.”

You tear away from his space, ducking around his left side so he’ll have to work harder to grab you if he insists on being a bully.

“Fuck off. I get it, Shanks.” From a safe distance away, you face him. He wants the truth, so you’ll drown him in it. Let him see your fear and frustration so he’ll understand. “I’m not some starry-eyed civilian you have to entertain so it doesn’t hurt when you leave. I’ve watched the Red Force sail away dozens of times. I’ll live. My plan will work, I just need some den den mushi, and –”

“I’m not trying to leave you.”

You freeze. Hold his gaze. He’s looking at you like the shitty loft doesn’t exist, like he sees the plot of your life differently and is trying to explain the center of a foreign universe.

It’s soft. Nonsensically sad.

With a sigh, he looks at the floor, scoops your trunk under his arm, and heads for the door.

“Even if you don’t need a drink, I want to see how good the sake is around here.”

[tinyshyteacup]

Taglist: @kellynickelsgirl00 @i-doutt-it @beth-isnt-home @darylandbethfanforever9 @brianna-merlim @pumpkinkpieandtomato @smashleywow @imadisneyprincessiswear @clementineslawyer @pandaofsilentdeath @dixonsbridexx @imadisneyprincessiswear @staley83 @death-in-a-tar0t-card @straw--b3rry

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TW: cussing, Merle is well ... Merle, angst, walkers (Zombies), gaslighting, manipulation, boxing match, bleeding, vomit, alcohol consumption, violence, Woodbury, the Governor.

Part 10

Between Brothers - Part 11

The winter had settled over Woodbury like a heavy blanket, thick and unforgiving. The frost crunched under Merle's boots as he made his way to the pits, his breath forming white clouds in the frigid air. The cold bit through his jacket, but it was nothing compared to the bite of survival you'd known before Woodbury.

Damn glad the she's warm inside, he thought, adjusting his grip on the metal pole he used for walker wrangling. Curled up under them blankets in those thick winter pajamas, probably still sleepin' like an angel. Wonder if she's dreamin' about me... bet she is, deep down. Bet she's got her legs all tangled up in them sheets, that thick flannel riding up just enough to show off them pretty thighs.

The thought made him grin despite the cold, his body responding to the mental images. Living in the same apartment, sharing the same space - it was torture and paradise all rolled into one. You trusted him completely, padding around in those winter pajamas like he wasn't a man with needs.

But he was patient. Had to be. You were the kind of girlie who deserved better than a one-handed redneck with more scars than sense. Still didn't stop him from wanting to spread you out on that kitchen table and eat you like his last meal, make you come so hard you'd forget every other man who ever existed.

"Ah, Merle! Right on time," Milton called out from beside the walker pits, his breath visible in the cold air. He was bundled up in layers, looking like a scarecrow wrapped in blankets. "We've got quite the selection today. Three fresh specimens, minimal decay."

"Morning to you too, Milty," Merle drawled, eyeing the walkers shuffling around in the pit below. "You sure are cheerful for a man about to poke at dead folks."

Milton adjusted his glasses, seemingly immune to Merle's sarcasm. "Science waits for no one, not even winter. These cold temperatures are actually quite beneficial - slows decomposition, gives us better data on motor function in sub-zero conditions."

Merle lowered the noose-pole into the pit, expertly snaring the first walker around the neck. The thing snarled and clawed at the air, its movements sluggish from the cold. "You know what your problem is, Milty? You think too damn much. Sometimes a dead bastard is just a dead bastard."

"Perhaps, but understanding their behavioral patterns could be crucial for long-term survival strategies." Milton made notes on his clipboard as Merle hauled the walker up. "Speaking of behavioral patterns, how is your ... roommate?"

Merle's grip tightened on the pole, his jaw clenching. Last time Milton had gotten too friendly was at that community dinner, filling your head with theories about biters retaining consciousness. Merle had found you later, crying your eyes out over the possibility that every walker they'd killed might have been aware, might have been screaming inside their own heads. Took him the better part of two hours to calm you down, and even then you'd been shaky for days.

"Say what now?" Merle's voice carried a warning edge.

"Your friend Merle. I was simply wondering how is cohabitation with someone who isn't actually your romantic partner going for you ?." Milton said it so matter-of-factly, like he was discussing the weather. "It must create certain... moral issues."

The walker Merle was restraining suddenly seemed less important than the skinny scientist standing too close to subjects that weren't his business. "What the hell you getting at, Milty?"

"Nothing untoward, I assure you. It's just that from an anthropological standpoint, the dynamic is fascinating. Two unrelated adults sharing intimate living space, one clearly harboring romantic inclinations while the other remains unaw—"

"You finish that sentence and I'm gonna feed you to these biters piece by piece," Merle snarled, his voice dropping to something dangerous. The walker in his grip thrashed harder, as if sensing the tension. "And let me make something real clear to you, you piece of shit - I take care of that girl. Make sure she's safe, make sure nothing bad happens to her. She trusts me, and I damn well earned that trust."

His eyes blazed with fury at the implication. "You think I'd hurt her? You think I'd take something she didn't want to give? Boy, you don't know shit about me or what kind of man I am when it comes to her."

Milton shrank back further, realizing he'd stepped over a line he didn't even know existed.

"I protect my own," Merle continued, his voice low and deadly. "Don't you dare stand there and act like I'm some kind of animal who can't control himself around the girlie's."

Milton took a step back, his face pale. "I didn't mean to overstep—"

"Remember what happened last time you got a little too friendly with my girl?" Merle's eyes were cold as the winter air. "When you filled her head with all that bullshit about biters being conscious, made her cry thinking about all the people we might've killed? You remember how that ended for you?"

"Yes," Milton whispered, unconsciously touching his jaw where Merle had connected with his fist after finding you sobbing in the apartment.

"Good. 'Cause next time I catch you upsetting her with your sick theories or sniffing around, there won't be enough left of you for your precious experiments." Merle secured the walker to the restraining table with practiced efficiency. "She's got enough nightmares without you adding to 'em."

Milton nodded frantically, scurrying to the truck. The rest of their interaction was purely professional, the scientist having learned his lesson about boundaries.

Little doe don't need some four-eyed freak putting ideas in her head, Merle thought as he worked, his mind drifting back to filthier thoughts. She's confused enough as it is, bless her heart. Always asking me if I'm alright, if I need anything, bending over in those damn pajamas like she don't know what she does to me just by breathing.

The cold air did nothing to cool the heat building in his gut. Months of living with you, months of wanting what he couldn't have.

After delivering three walkers to Milton's makeshift laboratory, Merle was heading back through town when the Governor intercepted him.

"Merle! Just the man I wanted to see." The Governor's smile was warm despite the cold, like he had some secret that pleased him. "Walk with me. I have a proposition that might interest you."

They strolled through the quiet streets, past windows glowing with warm light and the promise of domestic tranquility. Merle found himself thinking about you again, probably awake by now, maybe making that coffee that always smelled better when you made it. Girl's got magic hands, he thought, remembering how you'd fixed his stump so gently, never once looking at him like he was broken.

"You know, Merle," the Governor said, his voice thoughtful, "I've been watching you these past few weeks. Impressive work on the supply runs, excellent instincts on patrol. But I can't help feeling like we're not utilizing your full potential."

Here we go, Merle thought, his radar pinging. Man wants something. Question is what.

"I need you to do something for me," the Governor said, breaking into his thoughts. "Something that requires your particular skill set."

"What kind of something?" Merle kept his voice neutral, but his eyes were already scanning for exits. Old habits.

The Governor led him to a secured building Merle had never been inside. When they entered, the smell hit him first - death and decay, but controlled, contained. There were several walkers chained to the walls, their movements restricted but not entirely eliminated. The setup was too organized, too deliberate to be just storage.

"I need you to remove their teeth and fingernails," the Governor said casually, like he was asking Merle to fix a leaky faucet.

Merle stared at the walkers, then at the Governor. "You want me to what now?"

"Teeth and fingernails. All of them. Make them safe but keep them... functional."

Safe but functional. What the hell does that mean? Merle's survival instincts were pinging like crazy. Nothing about this felt right. "Safe for what?"

The Governor smiled that politician's smile of his, the one that made promises without saying anything concrete. "Entertainment."

"Come again?"

"Picture this, Merle." The Governor gestured grandly, like he was painting a vision in the air. "An arena. Crowds cheering. Skilled fighters facing off against each other surrounded by defanged opponents in controlled combat. Give people something to cheer for, something to take their minds off the harshness of our reality."

An arena. With walkers. Merle's first instinct was to call the man crazy, but something in the Governor's tone made him pause. The man wasn't crazy - he was calculating. This wasn't some random idea, this was a plan.

"You want people fighting walkers for fun?" Merle asked slowly.

"Not just any people. Heroes. Men like you, Merle." The Governor's eyes gleamed with enthusiasm, or maybe something darker. "You've got the skills, the presence, the natural charisma that commands attention. People would see what I see - a warrior, a protector, someone willing to risk everything for their community."

Damn, when he puts it like that... Despite his better judgment, Merle found himself considering it. He'd done worse things for worse people, back when he was breaking legs for money. At least this had a purpose, gave him a chance to show off what he could do. Lord knows I got skills worth showin' off.

"Think about it," the Governor continued, his voice taking on that persuasive quality that had convinced Merle to stay in Woodbury in the first place. "Controlled environment. Declawed opponents. You'd be in complete control, showing off decades of survival experience to an appreciative audience."

The Governor began pacing, his hands animated as he painted the picture. "People are getting soft, Merle. Comfortable. They're forgetting what it takes to survive out there, forgetting to appreciate the men who keep them safe. This would remind them. This would make them remember that they need warriors like you."

Warriors like me. Usually, people called him a lot of things - redneck, asshole, liability - but never warrior. Never hero.

"You'd be the star of Woodbury," the Governor pressed, reading Merle's expression perfectly. "The man everyone looks up to. The champion they cheer for. And your girl..." He paused meaningfully. "She'd see you as the hero you really are. Women love a champion, Merle. Love a man who can provide not just safety, but excitement."

Hell, maybe he's right, Merle thought, his imagination running wild. He could picture it clearly - you in the crowd, watching him take down opponents with skill and showmanship. Your eyes wide with admiration instead of that careful wariness you sometimes got when you thought he wasn't looking. Lil doe's been cooped up all winter, probably bored out of her pretty little mind. Could use some excitement in her life.

"People need this," the Governor continued, his voice dropping to something almost conspiratorial. "They need to remember what it feels like to cheer for something, to feel alive. Winter's been hard on everyone. Morale is low. But give them a spectacle, give them a reason to feel proud of their community, their protectors..."

The Governor moved closer, his voice taking on that intimate quality that made you feel like you were sharing secrets. "You're exactly the kind of man who can give that to them, Merle. You've got that natural swagger, that confidence that makes people pay attention. And after everything you've survived, everything you've overcome..."

"You really think I could do this?" Merle asked, trying to sound casual even as his chest swelled with pride. Christ, when did I start needin' validation like some kind of puppy?

"I don't think, Merle. I know." The Governor's voice was full of conviction. "You're brutal when you need to be, smart when it counts, and you've got that natural charisma that makes people remember you. Plus, you've survived this long with that disability of yours. That's not just impressive - that's inspiring. That's the kind of story people need to hear."

Most people tiptoed around his missing hand like it was something shameful, something to be whispered about behind his back. The Governor made it sound like a badge of honor, proof of his toughness rather than evidence of his failures.

"Think about the message it sends," the Governor continued, warming to his theme. "Here's a man who lost his hand and kept fighting. Who adapted, who overcame, who didn't let anything stop him from protecting what matters. That's heroic, Merle. That's legendary."

The word hit Merle right in his ego. He'd spent his whole life being the redneck, the loose canon, the one who couldn't be trusted with anything important. Daryl was the tracker, the sensitive one, the only one capable of kindness ... Hell, thats why Daddy had spent years beating the breath out of them. Merle was just the muscle, the wild card who caused more problems than he solved.

But here was the Governor, looking at him like he saw something worth respecting. Like he saw potential that went beyond just being good at hurting people.

"Ain't like I got much else goin' for me. Might as well put on a show if people want to see one."

"Don't sell yourself short," the Governor said smoothly. "You've got more going for you than you realize. Your girl certainly seems to think so."

My girl. The possessive warmth that spread through Merle's chest at those words was stronger than whiskey. You weren't his girl, not really, but the way the Governor said it made it sound like a fact rather than wishful thinking.

"She's been through a lot," Merle found himself saying. "Deserves to feel safe, to have something good to look forward to. Maybe even feel proud of the man who's been lookin' out for her."

"Exactly." The Governor's smile was triumphant, like Merle had just proved his point. "She'll get to see you for what you really are - not just a survivor, but a champion. The kind of man who doesn't just endure, but conquers."

The praise settled into Merle's chest like warm whiskey, filling up spaces he hadn't even realized were empty. When was the last time someone had called him a champion? When had anyone ever seen potential in a Dixon beyond there capacity for violence?

"'Course," Merle said, his voice carefully casual, "if I'm gonna do this, I want guarantees about safety protocols. And I want to make sure my girl's taken care of if something goes wrong."

"Of course," the Governor said immediately, like he'd been expecting this concern. "Your girl will have the best seat in the house, right beside me in the where she'll be completely safe."

The image was seductive - you dressed up nice, sitting in a place of honor, watching him perform like the warrior he'd always known he could be.

"She'll get to watch her man become a legend," the Governor continued, his voice full of certainty. "Watch him become the hero this town needs. And trust me, Merle - there's nothing more attractive to a woman than watching her man succeed."

Her man. There it was again, that possessive warmth. The Governor kept saying it like it was true, like you belonged to him in some way.

"Alright," Merle said finally, his decision crystallizing. "I'll do it."

"Wonderful" The Governor extended his hand, and Merle shook it with his good one.

As they walked back through town, Merle found himself standing a little straighter, his chest a little more puffed out. For the first time in longer than he could remember, someone was counting on him for something other than just raw violence. Someone saw him as more than just a useful psychopath.

The first night of the arena fights, the cold seemed less biting somehow, warmed by the excitement of sixty-eight people gathered around a makeshift ring. They'd constructed it out the back of the old warehouse, with bleacher seating and flood lights that made everything seem theatrical, larger than life.

You sat beside the Governor, bundled up in every warm piece of clothing you owned, your breath visible in small puffs despite the heaters they'd brought in. He pressed a warm mug into your hands - mulled wine that smelled of cinnamon and cloves, a luxury you hadn't tasted since before the world ended.

"Drink up," he said with a paternal smile. "It'll help with the cold."

The wine was sweet and warming, spreading heat through your chest as you sipped it. The crowd was buzzing with anticipation, voices raised in excited chatter and bets being placed, but you felt sick to your stomach despite the alcohol's mellowing effect.

"Magnificent turnout," the Governor said, his voice warm with satisfaction. "Look at their faces - they're alive again. This is what community looks like."

You nodded absently, your eyes searching the crowd for familiar faces, trying to gauge how many people were actually excited versus how many were just going along with it. The energy was infectious, you had to admit, but something about it felt wrong.

"I'm not sure about this," you said quietly, your accent making the words sound smaller somehow. The wine was making you feel floaty, less sharp around the edges. "What if someone gets hurt? What if—"

"That's exactly the point," the Governor interrupted gently, refilling your mug before his hand found yours and squeezed reassuringly. "The possibility of danger, the thrill of survival - it reminds us what we're living for. What we're fighting to protect."

You took another sip of the mulled wine, the warmth spreading through your limbs and making the harsh lights seem softer, more forgiving.

The crowd suddenly roared, and you looked up to see Merle strutting into the ring like he owned it, his knife-hand gone leaving only the metal prosthetic glinting under the lights, his grin wide and confident. He was shirtless despite the cold, his chest puffed out with masculine bravado, scars and tattoos telling the story of a life lived hard.

"WOODBURY!" he bellowed, raising his arms to the crowd. "Y'all ready to see some real entertainment?"

The response was deafening. People were on their feet, screaming his name, and you could see him feeding off their energy, puffing up with pride and showmanship like he was born for this moment.

He looks so... happy, you thought, confused by the mixture of pride and terror warring in your chest. You'd never seen him like this - completely in his element, beloved by a crowd, the center of attention in the best possible way.

A younger man entered the ring, lean and wiry with the compact build of someone who'd learned to fight out of necessity rather than choice. He looked nervous but determined, his eyes finding someone in the crowd - a woman with worry etched across her face.

"Oh God," you whispered, realizing this wasn't just entertainment. These were real people with real relationships, real stakes. "His girlfriend's watching."

"Wife, actually," the Governor said conversationally. "Just married last month. Sweet ceremony. She's worried, of course, but Crowley insisted. Pride, you know how it is."

Your stomach dropped. This wasn't just a show - it was two men risking everything for the approval of people they barely knew. You took a larger gulp of wine, trying to steady your nerves, but it only made the lights seem brighter, the crowd's energy more intoxicating.

Then they released the walkers - three of them, stumbling and reaching but somehow less threatening than usual. It took you a moment to realize why, no teeth, no fingernails, just grasping hands and empty mouths that couldn't tear flesh.

"Brilliant, isn't it?" the Governor said, leaning closer so you could hear him over the crowd. "All the excitement, none of the real danger. Though don't tell the audience that - they need to believe there's genuine risk. The fear has to feel real, even if it isn't."

You watched in horrified fascination as both men began to move, circling each other while keeping one eye on the declawed walkers. Merle was in his element, trash-talking and showboating, but Crowley was all business - focused, methodical, treating this like the life-or-death struggle it appeared to be.

"Come on, boy!" Merle called out, his voice carrying that familiar mix of condescension and amusement. "You gonna dance with me or you gonna let them dead bastards do all the work?"

Crowley didn't respond, just kept moving, and you realized he was smart - letting Merle wear himself out with the theatrics while conserving his own energy. But the crowd was eating up Merle's performance, cheering every taunt, every swagger.

The first real exchange came when one of the walkers got too close to Crowley. Merle used the distraction to rush in, throwing a wild haymaker that Crowley barely ducked. The younger man came up with an uppercut that caught Merle in the jaw, drawing a grunt and an approving roar from the crowd.

"Now we're talkin'!" Merle laughed, wiping a trickle of blood from his lip. "Got some fight in you after all!"

They circled each other again, both men breathing hard now, sweat gleaming under the harsh lights despite the cold. You found yourself leaning forward, caught up despite yourself in the brutal ballet playing out before you. The wine had loosened something in your chest, made you feel more present and yet somehow detached from the violence.

"Another?" the Governor asked quietly, already refilling your mug. The gesture seemed so normal, so civilized, that it made the brutality in the ring feel almost surreal.

Merle threw a combination - left hook, right cross - but Crowley slipped both punches and countered with a body shot that doubled Merle over. The crowd's roar shifted, some cheering for the underdog now, others yelling for Merle to get up and fight back.

"This is what they need," the Governor said in your ear, his voice almost reverent. "Look at them - they're unified, focused on something other than their fears. This brings them together."

But you were focused on Merle, who was straightening up with that familiar stubborn set to his jaw that meant someone was about to pay dearly for underestimating him. His eyes had gone cold, calculating, and you recognized the shift from showman to predator. The wine made everything seem slightly dreamlike, softening the edges of your worry into something more manageable.

"Alright, college boy," he growled, his prosthetic catching the light as he raised his hands. "Playtime's over."

What followed was a masterclass in brutal efficiency. Merle might be older, might be missing a hand, but he'd been fighting longer than Crowley had been alive. He used every dirty trick in the book - an elbow to the temple, a knee to the solar plexus, even using one of the chained walkers as a shield when Crowley tried to tackle him.

The crowd was going wild, on their feet screaming, but you found yourself gripping the Governor's arm without realizing it, your movements slightly unsteady from the wine. This was too real, too visceral. You could see the fear in Crowley's eyes as he realized he was outmatched, could hear his wife screaming from the stands.

"Stop it," you whispered, but your voice was lost in the roar of the crowd. The alcohol made your tongue feel thick, your protests less sharp than they should have been.

Merle had Crowley backed against the chain-link now, landing punch after punch while the younger man tried desperately to cover up. Blood was streaming from Crowley's nose, his left eye already swelling shut.

"That's enough!" you found yourself on your feet, shouting. "Stop the fight!"

But no one could hear you over the crowd, or if they could, they weren't listening. This was what they'd come to see - raw, primal combat that reminded them they were still alive.

Merle stepped back suddenly, his chest heaving, and for a moment you thought he was going to show mercy. Instead, he turned to the crowd, arms raised, drinking in their adoration.

"Y'all want more?" he bellowed, and the answering roar shook the walls.

That moment of showboating nearly cost him. Crowley, summoning reserves he didn't know he had, launched himself off the fence in a desperate tackle that sent both men crashing to the ground. They rolled, grappling, each trying to gain the dominant position while the walkers strained against their chains just feet away.

Crowley ended up on top, raining down punches, but Merle's experience showed. He bucked his hips, rolled, and suddenly Crowley was on his back with Merle's prosthetic pressed against his throat.

"Give up pretty boy," Merle snarled, not loud enough for the crowd to hear but clear enough for you to read his lips.

Crowley's face was turning red, his hands clawing at the metal cutting off his air supply. His wife was screaming from the stands, and you found yourself half-standing again, torn between horror and fascination.

Finally, desperately, Crowley tapped out.

Merle held the position for just a moment longer - before releasing his hold and standing up. Crowley gasped and rolled onto his side, alive but thoroughly beaten.

Merle basked in it, arms raised, bloody and victorious, looking like some ancient gladiator who'd just conquered Rome. His eyes found yours in the crowd, and the grin he gave you was pure predatory satisfaction.

When it was over, when the crowd had finally dispersed and the fighters had been helped away, you sat in the sudden quiet feeling hollowed out and strangely exhilarated. The wine had left you with more then a pleasant buzz that made everything seem slightly unreal, like you'd watched a particularly vivid dream rather than actual violence.

Through the haze of alcohol, you could see Merle making his way through the dispersing crowd, sweat still gleaming on his chest, blood spattered across his knuckles, the metal cap catching the flickering light like a blade.

"Is Crowley... will he be alright?, " you said, your accent thick with drink and emotion. The brutality you'd witnessed had shaken you more than you cared to admit.

The Governor's smile didn't waver, but something cold flickered in his eyes. "Crowley knew what he was getting into. Sometimes a man has to pay the price for challenging his betters."

Before you could ask what he meant, Merle was there, still breathing hard from the fight, his good hand reaching for you.

"Hey sugar" Merle said, his voice rough with adrenaline. His eyes were still bright with the violence he'd just unleashed, and when he looked at you, there was something predatory in his gaze that you'd never seen before.

"Well, Merle, she's all yours now," the Governor said, his words carrying weight that made your skin crawl even through your intoxicated state. "Been asking for you all evening, haven't you, sweetheart? Couldn't take her eyes off you during the fight."

The dismissal was clear, as you were being guided away from the arena, Merle's hand firm on your back as he steered you through the cooling night air toward your shared apartment.

Everything felt strange, like you were floating slightly outside your own body. "The way you fought... your strong... but Merle, you didn't have to be so rough with Crowley. He's just—"

"Crowley's fine," Merle cut you off, his voice sharp with leftover aggression. "Man wanted to test himself against me, he got what he asked for. That's how it works in the real world, lil-doe. Strong survive, weak learn their place."

His casual dismissal of the other man's pain echoed the Governor's words in a way that made your stomach churn. This wasn't like Merle - or maybe it was exactly like him, and you'd just never seen this side before.

It wasn't until he got you inside your apartment, closing the door behind you both with a finality that seemed to echo in the small space, that Merle really looked at you. His expression shifted from satisfied to concerned as he took in your flushed cheeks, glassy eyes, and the way you swayed slightly even standing still.

"Sugar... how much hooch did you have ?"

"Not much," you protested, though the words came out slightly slurred. "The Governor kept... he said it would help with the cold, and I didn't want to be rude... kept bringing me more..."

Understanding dawned in Merle's eyes, followed quickly by anger. "Aw, hell. That son of a bitch." His jaw clenched as pieces clicked into place. "You ain't used to drinkin', are you, lil' doe?"

Before you could answer, your stomach lurched violently. You clapped a hand over your mouth and rushed toward the bathroom, barely making it before the evening's wine came back up. The retching was violent and embarrassing, your body rejecting the alcohol with prejudice as your system tried to purge itself of the unfamiliar poison.

Merle was there immediately, his good hand holding your hair back, his voice surprisingly gentle despite the rage you could feel radiating from him. "Easy now, darlin'. Get it all out."

When the worst of it passed, you slumped against the bathroom wall. Your head was spinning, and the brutality of the fight kept flashing behind your eyelids - the sound of fists hitting flesh, the crowd's bloodthirsty cheers, the way Merle had looked standing over Crowley's fallen form.

"I'm sorry," you whispered. "I didn't mean to... I'm not used to... and the fight, it was so violent, I—"

"Ain't nothing to apologize for." There was anger in his voice, but not directed at you. "Governor should've known better than to keep pourin' drinks into a little thing like you. Should've been lookin' out for you, not..." He trailed off, his expression darkening as he processed what had really happened.

He helped you to your feet, sitting you on the edge of the bed and knelt to untie your boots, his movements efficient but charged with an energy that made your skin prickle.

"Arms up, darlin'," he said softly, reaching for the hem of your sweater.

The rational part of his mind - the part that wasn't clouded by adrenaline and months of the Governor's carefully planted suggestions - knew this was dangerous territory. You were vulnerable, trusting, barely conscious, and the way you'd looked at him after the fight... made him feel like he was some kind of hero instead of the violent man he really was.

The devil on his shoulder however was working overtime, fueled by months of the Governor's poison about what women really wanted, what men were entitled to after proving their strength.

She's yours for the taking. All soft and doopey, she won't even remember it clearly ... go on, she'd probably thank you after.

These weren't thoughts he'd ever had before Woodbury, before the Governor's subtle comments about conquest.

Merle might've been a bastard, but he'd never been the kind to take advantage of a helpless girl. That was a line he'd never crossed. Not when she can't really choose. Not when she trusts you this much and you'd be betraying every bit of that trust.

You'd seen what he really was in that ring, seen the violence he was capable of, and it had scared you. The realization hit him like a physical blow.

"There we go, sugar," he said, his voice rougher than he intended as he fought his own demons. "Let's get you tucked in."

He guided you under the covers of your own bed - your bed, not his - and pulled the blanket up to your chin. You stirred slightly, and when he moved to gently sweep the hair from your forehead, you flinched. The reaction was small but unmistakable, and it hit him like a slap.

"Jesus," he said quietly, his voice rough with emotion. He caught your chin gently, turning your face so you could see him clearly despite your unfocused gaze. "Look at me, I would never put hands on you. Never. You hear me, lil' doe ?"

Your eyes searched his face, some of the fear fading as you saw the sincerity there. He waited until you nodded, until some of the tension left your shoulders, before he stood.

"Get some rest, sugar. I'll be right next door if you need anything."

Merle made his way to his own bedroom, closing the door behind him with barely controlled restraint. Once alone, he scrubbed his hand down his face, the weight of what had almost happened - what he'd almost let the Governor manipulate him into doing - crashing over him like a wave.

With a frustrated growl, he grabbed the empty whiskey bottle from his nightstand and hurled it against the wall. It shattered with a satisfying crash, but it did nothing to quiet the storm of self-loathing and anger churning in his gut.

[nimblermortal]

I want a Most Dangerous Game retelling but the rich dude doesn't get like a famous trapper, he gets a dude who's read a few adventure novels

and the rest of the story is him bemusedly following along behind a guy, trying to stay far enough back to see what he'll do next while still applying pressure to see what will happen next

featuring scenes like:

-okay I think he went into the water so the hounds couldn't smell his tracks but we're like thirty seconds behind him and he tromped through the muddy section so there is literally a billowing jet trail in the water indicating his direction

-okay cool he went across the rocks nice leave no tracks or broken grass would have been better if he'd tried it any place other than immediately after the water

-What is this? Sir, we're losing ground It'll be fine, he's an idiot. Just. He spent half an hour on this. What is it? It appears to be a pole shoved in the ground. With a vine wrapped around it. Was he trying to make a bow? A snare? A pit trap? All three? Sir, he's getting away. I MUST KNOW

[who-knew-a-sheep-can-write]

Feel So Numb: Werewolf!Leon S. Kennedy x Reader

Ask and you shall receive

Contains: Hella blood and gore, werewolf attack, gunshot wounds

It wasn’t like him to be radio silent, especially for this long. After he had reported over the intercom to Hunnigan about the villagers all being hostile while searching for the president’s daughter, the line went dead from Leon’s end. All Hunnigan reported to you over your own earpiece was that Ashley Graham was possibly taken to some sort of church and now it was your job to find both her and Leon and to report to Hunnigan your findings immediately.

You arrived at the last place your fiance was pin-pointed; On some rural stretch of long-forgotten road. The cobblestone had been neglected, some dug up by winding roots while the rest had been caked in mud and dead leaves. You pulled up behind what used to be a police car. The driver side door had been ripped off its hinges and not a soul was left behind, only a splatter of blood on the inside and a dropped police badge from the local station. 

You eyed the obvious break in the foliage and narrowed your sight before you followed the beaten path knowing that you were walking right into danger. You drew your gun from its holster that had been strapped to your thigh and carefully watched your step. It was starting to grow dark out, the sun finally starting to set beyond the horizon.

You followed along the path until you came to a very run-down cabin where Leon had reported his first hostile villager. You saw his corpse laying across the floor and you couldn’t help but scrunch your nose at the smell the entire cabin gave off. You wanted to vomit. You swallowed the saliva that had pooled under your tongue and continued on, making your way out of the cabin and down the small flight of stairs littered with bloodied bones. You rounded the corner and stopped in your tracks at the sight of one of the police officers bloodied before you, his corpse had started to rot away.

Leon wasn’t kidding when he said something was horribly wrong.

Following the winding path out of the cabin and back into the woods, you had to step over and avoid more dead bodies until you finally came up to an animal corpse this time. It had been so decayed that no flesh remained, only bones and a little bit of muscle left. It looked to be a wolf and one of its legs had been snared in a rusted bear trap.

Now you had to worry about hidden bear traps and hostile villagers?

You don’t know how long you kept walking in the darkening woods, but you followed right on Leon’s trail until you made it to the village Leon must have been talking about. From what you last heard on the call log between Leon and Hunnigan, she mentioned something about a large windmill and a lake. You peeked around the village, bringing up your flashlight as you looked around. The looming stone church before you towered over everything around, cutting off the light of the drifting sun and casting you in near darkness. As you looked around, you nearly jumped at the sight of a burnt body tied up on a pole. The poor person was charred to a blackened crisp, no identifying features could be made out. Was this the second officer that was supposed to help Leon?

A shrill, faint noise sounded off in the distance, echoing through the woods. It rattled your bones, freezing your blood, making the hair across your body stand up on their ends. You raised your gun in the direction that the noise came from with your eyes wide and flashlight beaming into the dark. It sounded like some sort of fucked up scream; From an animal or a man, you couldn’t make out.

It took you a minute to finally uncurl from your position, quietly cursing to yourself before you trekked on.

“Gotta get the fuck out of here,” you whispered to yourself.

You kept following Leon’s distinct path. What locked doors had been opened, what path was made the most clear, what gate he had to force open with probably a good kick. You walked under a risen metal gate, eyeing it in case it slipped before you spotted an oddly placed crate to your right. There was an out-of-place torch post right next to it, barely any smoke furled out from the top. It had been extinguished recently, maybe an hour or so ago. Peeking up at the torch, you noticed that the embers were an odd purple color.

Where was Leon?

If connection had been cut out maybe less than an hour into his trek inside this fucked up rabbit hole, how far could he have gone? It had only been two days, really, he could be on the opposite side of Europe by now if he wanted to.

The scream echoed once again. It sounded closer this time. Your eyes bore into the wilderness that separated you from whatever the fuck was making that noise. It sounded like a monster crying out in pain.

Your feet carried you forward despite your brain wanting to sit tight and radio in help. A part of you was terrified to take another step into this twisted village while the rest wanted to barge through guns blazing to rescue your fiance and Ashley.

You quickly came upon the lake Hunnigan must have talking about. The water was choppy, the dock creaked eerily, there was no boat at the end of it. To your left was some sort of cobbled house, it had been worn for at least a decade by the looks of it. The door was broken open, the top half having been smashed into, the rotting wood now missing. You stepped inside of the place, gun in front of you with your finger on the trigger as you swept through the entire room, your eyes landing on Leon’s jacket and gun thrown to the ground in front of you.

You holstered your gun and bent down, picking up his jacket only showed that it was tattered. It looked like an animal had tore into it. The seams around the arms were split open, stitches were popped, there were odd lines scratched down the back of his jacket before you looked back down at the gun. Leon’s SG-09R laid splattered in mud, barely visible. You were only able to see in from the faint light of the full moon overhead. You couldn’t help but pick it up, the weight foreign yet familiar. It was empty, bullets absent. What was even more of a shock was that it almost looked like it had been crushed, especially at the wooden embedded handle. The metal was all bent out of shape and the wood was splintered. Whatever got ahold of it has to have been something big and nasty.

You swallowed thickly. Before you could press a finger to your earpiece to radio Hunnigan, you heard a chilling snap of iron close to you followed by a snarl that cut through the night.

You dropped the gun and Leon’s jacket and snatched up your own, barging outside with your finger on the trigger. You followed the sound the noise came from, flashlight clicked on only to see a bear trap ripped in half in front of you. It had been snapped at the hinges. Blood covered the rusted teeth, the pressure plate had been smashed, the chain had been yanked up from the soggy earth.

Whatever was making those horrible noises had just gotten out.

You swallowed thickly, raising your flashlight to follow the trail whatever it was made for you. There were odd marks in the mud and leaves, almost like a giant wolf had tore through the woods.

You heard someone shouting not too far away, gargled Spanish bellowing out before he was horribly cut off with a vicious snarl. You ran towards the noise before you stopped dead in your tracks at what your flashlight illuminated.

It was a monster. A real fucking monster. Not a zombie or some B.O.W. you’ve seen from the B.S.A.A.’s reports. It looked like something straight out of a nightmare. Your heart dropped to your chest as you stumbled back, your gun trembling in your hand. It was big, way bigger than any human you’ve ever seen. It was bulky and hairy and horrible. It was hunched over, tearing into the villager with clawed hands and a maw full of sharp teeth. It was wearing clothes, or whatever remained clinging to its lanky body. They almost looked… familiar?

Black cargo pants torn up way past the knees, a leg holster that was barely hanging on from the strap around its hip, and a shredded black t-shirt just like Leon-

It felt like someone had just pushed you off a cliff and let you plummet into an icy river below. You went into shock, shoulders dropping as the beast before you suddenly locked eyes with you. They were big, furious, slitted pupils drowning in a sea of sapphire blue as he looked at you with a feral hunger that could only be sated by killing.

“Leon?” you called out in disbelief.

No, it couldn’t be! He couldn’t be a werewolf. This was some sick ploy. It had to be.

He dropped the villager and stalked towards you, wolfen ears flattened against his skull, his lips curled back to reveal his bloodied canines, his clawed fingers flexing. He snapped his jaws, saliva and blood flying out as a horrid snarl clicked out from his throat.

You couldn’t let him kill you, but could you put him down?

You hesitated for a moment before you cocked your gun and pulled the trigger.

He woke up to his skull throbbing.

He winced and hissed, a groan emitting from his chest as he brought his hands up to his face. The light burned his eyes wherever it was coming from, the sound of his heart beating in his ears made his temples pound even harder. He felt like he had been ran over, thrown off a building, maybe even getting the shit beat out of him by that freak years ago in Raccoon City.

But it was always like this when he would turn.

His entire body was stiff, muscles screaming as he forced himself to move. He only managed to roll over onto his side before he had to stop. It felt like someone had just stabbed him right in the kidney, a choked shout cutting his breathing off. He braced his head against the dusty stone floor as he panted. He brought a trembling hand up to his hip where he could feel the tender skin as well as two divots in his trim waist. His skin flinched at his own touch, Leon grit his teeth and propped himself up on his other arm and finally opened his eyes.

He was in some kind of cellar, it didn’t look to be well taken care of. There were cobwebs caking the ceilings and the floor was covered in a blanket of dust and dirt. There were kegs in the cellar, some were leaking fortified wine from how long they had been aging.

Leon looked down at his hip to see he was healing. The gunpowder still sweetly caressed his nose from where he had been shot. Looking at his body, he noticed he had been shot in the shoulder he was propping himself up on and one in the calf right above his ankle. He was healing, at least, the skin closed up and slowly stitching itself back together.

“Shit,” he cursed to himself softly.

He quickly noticed that his uninjured leg had been shackled, a rusty iron chain was clamped around his shin, keeping him attached to the stone wall.

What the hell happened, anyway?

He could briefly hear the call of the wild ringing bells in the back of his mind. He could feel the beast inside of him clawing at his guts, baying to be let out again. His memory was fuzzy, no pun intended, as he tried to piece together what all had happened and why he suddenly lost control.

He rubbed at his pounding temples, brushing the sticky hair out of his face when he noticed it. Pulling his hand away, his eyes widened frantically at the sight of dried blood dusting his fingertips and crusting up under his nails. Bile suddenly bubbled wickedly in his stomach as he felt saliva pool in the back of his throat. Did he attack someone? All could remember were those fucking crazed villagers and-

You.

Leon sat straight up, wincing at the pull in his back before he locked his hands around the chain and yanked, trying to release himself. His heart pounded so loudly in his ears that he almost didn’t hear the cocking of a gun behind him.

Almost.

Leon whipped around, standing and then suddenly freezing. You were standing at the opposite of the small cellar, panting softly with your gun raised with both hands. His eyes zeroed in on the makeshift bandage on your bicep that was still bleeding from the looks of it. He felt dread clawing its icy way up his spine. 

“(Y/n)-”

“Shut up,” you grit your teeth, nudging your gun forward. “What the actual fuck was that, Leon?”

He attacked you. He lost control of himself and attacked you when you were sent here to save his sorry ass. Did he bite too? Did he turn you? There were other bandages around you, one particular one was wrapped around your thigh. The fabric was different than the rest, it almost looked like the scarf Ashley was wearing when Leon saw her last. He could smell her faint perfume.

“Where’s Ashley-?”

“Don’t change the fucking subject; She’s here with me.” You took a step forward and Leon raised his hands in surrender. “Now what the actual fuck was that you turned into?”

[spacenutspod]

The moment one galaxy spears another with a powerful beam of radiation shooting from its central black hole has been spotted in a distant galactic collision.It's the first time we've seen this kind of interaction in an ongoing galactic merger, and the effects on the 'wounded' galaxy are pretty devastating, suppressing star formation as the beam of radiation clears the clouds from which baby stars are born. The team of researchers that discovered the system has named it the 'cosmic joust'. "Here we see for the first time the effect of a quasar's radiation directly on the internal structure of the gas in an otherwise regular galaxy," says astronomer Sergei Balashev of the Ioffe Institute in Russia, who co-led the research with Pasquier Noterdaeme of the Institut d'Astrophysique de Paris in France.Throughout the Universe, nearly as far back as our telescopes can see, astronomers have found and studied galactic collisions. The Universe is not a random, disconnected hodgepodge of galaxies, but is connected by a vast, invisible web of dark matter that gravitationally channels galaxies into clusters, where they often collide and merge to form bigger galaxies. This activity is thought to play a major role in galactic growth and evolution, and the growth of the supermassive black holes at their cores. It's a long, slow process on human timescales, playing out over millions of years as galaxies move close enough to be snared by each other's gravity, swooping past each other repeatedly in ever-shrinking orbits until they finally come together to form one galaxy.The field of view around the cosmic joust, which is the tiny white dot inside the yellow circle in the middle of the image. (DESI Legacy Survey)The repeated swooping stage is where the cosmic joust is at now, but with one key difference: one of the galaxies is a quasar. That's what happens when the supermassive black hole at the center of a galaxy is feeding at a tremendous rate from a giant cloud of material swirling around it. The gravitational and frictional forces at play heat this cloud to temperatures of millions of degrees, causing it to blaze with light. But there's another effect too: some of the material swirling towards the black hole gets diverted and accelerated along the magnetic field lines around the outside of the event horizon to the poles, where it is launched into space at tremendous speeds approaching that of light. In the case of the cosmic joust, when the quasar swoops past the other galaxy at speeds of around 500 kilometers (310 miles) per second, its jets blast into its sparring partner. That disrupts the star-forming clouds of dust and gas therein, leaving very little behind and thereby suppressing star formation activity.Some of the wounded galaxy's gas also gets gravitationally purloined by the quasar galaxy. This gas makes its way to the galactic center to add fuel to the black hole's rampage. The quasar activity isn't exactly healthy for star formation in its own galaxy, either. As the black hole frenziedly guzzles down material, it blasts out powerful black hole winds in all directions. These high-speed outflows push away and clear the host galaxy's own star-forming material, a process known as quenching (because it quenches star formation). While both galaxies are undergoing some tribulations, their ongoing interaction offers hope for new life. When galaxies collide, their gas reservoirs also collide, with shocks between them creating regions of over-density, the gravitational collapse of which germinates the seeds of new stars. Sometimes, it takes a bit of disruption to ignite a new stage of life… even for galaxies in the infancy of the Universe.The team's research has been published in Nature.

[jumpywhumpywriter]

The Wolfen Shapeshifter - Whumper's Collection of Supernatural Beasts part 5

Warnings: captive Whumpee (in the form of a wolf shapeshifter), blood, bullet wounds, near-death, muzzled, chains

The next day was different. Caretaker entered the building to hear alarmed shouts and the barking of harsh orders filling the air. She rushed down to the collection room, where over a dozen armed guards were, surrounding a large metal crate at the end of the hall next to Raven's cage. Through the small crowd Caretaker could see something flailing and thrashing on the floor... and it had black fur. She ran forward and shoved her way through the group until she was at the front, where she stopped short.

There were five men with catch poles trying to wrangle Raven under control and force him into the metal transport crate. Even with all that manpower, they were struggling to hold on to their poles as Raven fought with everything he had to escape the wire snares encircling his neck, snarling viciously and blindly lashing out around him.

"Come on, get em' in already!" One man barked. "We don't have all day!"

Raven's paws slid on the slick floor as he tried to back up as the men holding the poles tried to drag him forward into the crate. His tail was tucked, eyes wild and terrified as they darted around in a panic -- and landed on Caretaker.

Caretaker--

"Just knock him out instead," a voice hollered, and Raven suddenly let out a sharp yelp as a tranquilizer dart hit his black pelt. With a loud growl, he threw himself to the side in a vain attempt to break free, dragging two of the men with poles along with him before a second dart hit him, and he staggered with a whimper, his movements slowing. He was panting hard, chest heaving as he struggled to stay standing, the strong sedatives setting in.

Caretaker... help... I need... help... the voice rang in Caretaker's head, full of panicked desperation, searching for a lifeline. But there was nothing she could do, not in front of so many witnesses.

Raven let out a choked cry of pain as a guard stepped in and kicked him hard in the ribs, knocking him off-balance as his hindquarters gave out. He tried to drag himself back up with his front legs, but they just wouldn't cooperate, and he collapsed to the floor with a broken wheeze, his eyes flitting back to Caretaker, even as his vision dimmed and grew hazy.

Fare... well... kind... human...

Then Raven let out one last whimper, before shuddering and going limp. One man came and nudged his head with a toe to make sure he was out, before gesturing to the others. "Load em' up!" He hollered.

⏪️ Back

Masterlist

@scoundrelwithboba @lumpofsand @isikedmyself878 @iamheretohurt @fleur-a-whump

@ay5ksal @otterfrost @sausages-things @i-don't-know-sal

[hippolotamus]

Tease Tidbit Tuesday

Thanks for the tags @jesuisici33 @disasterbuckdiaz @daffi-990 and anyone who tagged me for Sunday 🥰 It's not quite Tuesday yet, but I'm excited and not sure when I'll be able to post tomorrow.

IDK if anyone else remembers this WIP from... a while ago, but, uh, may I present pole dancer!Buck, with a hint of baby gay!Eddie. This was formed from one too many listens to T Swift's Mirrorball, which came up on the playlist tonight and demanded I work on this. Tomorrow it's back to a WIP I should be working on (she says as if logic is useful here).

From behind the sparkling, glittery curtain, designed to mimic a shimmering night sky, Buck extends one leg toward the stage. The warm, hazy spotlight envelops the exposed skin, from mid-calf to his toes, positioned in a perfect demi point. If only Maddie’s old ballet instructor could see him now. She always fussed that he was all leg and no balance. Take that Mrs. Lahn.   Cheers and whistles from the Saturday night crowd add to the warmth, reaching, caressing, pulling at him. The regulars and newcomers alike know what’s coming, what to expect. Buck has become somewhat of a local celebrity, drawing patrons – and business – away from other clubs on the nights he performs. He knows what they’re waiting for and his body hums with the anticipation of providing it, of pleasing and being worthy of their praise. The emcee finishes Buck’s introduction and the opening beat of his music begins to play. A rhythmic snare drum that momentarily slices through the floaty feeling already encasing him. The disruption lasts only as long as it takes to slip past the curtain and emerge on the stage. A switch flips in his head, reminding him he’s on. Any remaining traces of Buck fall away, left backstage in a heap just like his civilian clothes and makeup case in the dressing room. The only person left now is an alter ego who is fluid, confident, sensual. An unforgettable presence for the next five minutes and forty seven seconds. He’s barely reached the twenty second mark before he notices. Before he connects with dark eyes and a piercing stare. The same one that’s been growing more intense in the weeks since the man first took up residence at a high top table in the last row. Gradually shifting from hesitant but curious to devastatingly certain, as if something slotted into place.  Buck’s vision narrows to that single point of focus even though he should be periodically scanning the crowd. The dancers are never supposed to appear as if they’re playing favorites. Like they aren’t equally enthusiastic about each and every warm-bodied potential tip in the room. Even if they’re personally responsible for a spike in revenue, like Buck and one or two others. He figures he can save his charms for when he’s working the floor. It’ll be easier then to slip on the other mask that makes every lap dance feel exclusive, like he’s not doing the same for anyone else with enough cash.

no pressure tagging @shortsighted-owl @eddiebabygirldiaz @stereopticons @911onabc @apothecarose @barbiediaz @buckaroosheart @buddierights @chaosandwolves @elvensorceress @eowon @fionaswhvre @fortheloveofbuddie @gayedmundodiaz @giddyupbuck @heartshapedvows @honestlydarkprincess @hoodie-buck @indestructibleheart @jamespearce9-1-1 @ladydorian05 @lemonzestywrites @loserdiaz @messyhairdiaz @monsterrae1 @singlethread @spaceprincessem @spotsandsocks @statueinthestone @steadfastsaturnsrings @the-likesofus @thekristen999 @theplaceyoustillrememberdreaming @thewolvesof1998 @underwater-ninja-13 @watchyourbuck @weewootruck @wikiangela @wildlife4life @your-catfish-friend and anyone else who wants to share 😘

[mybeautifulchristianjourney]

The New Stone Tablets

1 The Lord said to Moses, “Chisel out two stone tablets like the first ones, and I will write on them the words that were on the first tablets, which you broke. 2 Be ready in the morning, and then come up on Mount Sinai. Present yourself to me there on top of the mountain. 3 No one is to come with you or be seen anywhere on the mountain; not even the flocks and herds may graze in front of the mountain.”

4 So Moses chiseled out two stone tablets like the first ones and went up Mount Sinai early in the morning, as the Lord had commanded him; and he carried the two stone tablets in his hands. 5 Then the Lord came down in the cloud and stood there with him and proclaimed his name, the Lord. 6 And he passed in front of Moses, proclaiming, “The Lord, the Lord, the compassionate and gracious God, slow to anger, abounding in love and faithfulness, 7 maintaining love to thousands, and forgiving wickedness, rebellion and sin. Yet he does not leave the guilty unpunished; he punishes the children and their children for the sin of the parents to the third and fourth generation.”

8 Moses bowed to the ground at once and worshiped. 9 “Lord,” he said, “if I have found favor in your eyes, then let the Lord go with us. Although this is a stiff-necked people, forgive our wickedness and our sin, and take us as your inheritance.”

10 Then the Lord said: “I am making a covenant with you. Before all your people I will do wonders never before done in any nation in all the world. The people you live among will see how awesome is the work that I, the Lord, will do for you. 11 Obey what I command you today. I will drive out before you the Amorites, Canaanites, Hittites, Perizzites, Hivites and Jebusites. 12 Be careful not to make a treaty with those who live in the land where you are going, or they will be a snare among you. 13 Break down their altars, smash their sacred stones and cut down their Asherah poles. 14 Do not worship any other god, for the Lord, whose name is Jealous, is a jealous God.

15 “Be careful not to make a treaty with those who live in the land; for when they prostitute themselves to their gods and sacrifice to them, they will invite you and you will eat their sacrifices. 16 And when you choose some of their daughters as wives for your sons and those daughters prostitute themselves to their gods, they will lead your sons to do the same.

17 “Do not make any idols.

18 “Celebrate the Festival of Unleavened Bread. For seven days eat bread made without yeast, as I commanded you. Do this at the appointed time in the month of Aviv, for in that month you came out of Egypt.

19 “The first offspring of every womb belongs to me, including all the firstborn males of your livestock, whether from herd or flock. 20 Redeem the firstborn donkey with a lamb, but if you do not redeem it, break its neck. Redeem all your firstborn sons.

“No one is to appear before me empty-handed.

21 “Six days you shall labor, but on the seventh day you shall rest; even during the plowing season and harvest you must rest.

22 “Celebrate the Festival of Weeks with the firstfruits of the wheat harvest, and the Festival of Ingathering at the turn of the year. 23 Three times a year all your men are to appear before the Sovereign Lord, the God of Israel. 24 I will drive out nations before you and enlarge your territory, and no one will covet your land when you go up three times each year to appear before the Lord your God.

25 “Do not offer the blood of a sacrifice to me along with anything containing yeast, and do not let any of the sacrifice from the Passover Festival remain until morning.

26 “Bring the best of the firstfruits of your soil to the house of the Lord your God.

“Do not cook a young goat in its mother’s milk.”

27 Then the Lord said to Moses, “Write down these words, for in accordance with these words I have made a covenant with you and with Israel.” 28 Moses was there with the Lord forty days and forty nights without eating bread or drinking water. And he wrote on the tablets the words of the covenant—the Ten Commandments.

The Radiant Face of Moses

29 When Moses came down from Mount Sinai with the two tablets of the covenant law in his hands, he was not aware that his face was radiant because he had spoken with the Lord. 30 When Aaron and all the Israelites saw Moses, his face was radiant, and they were afraid to come near him. 31 But Moses called to them; so Aaron and all the leaders of the community came back to him, and he spoke to them. 32 Afterward all the Israelites came near him, and he gave them all the commands the Lord had given him on Mount Sinai.

33 When Moses finished speaking to them, he put a veil over his face. 34 But whenever he entered the Lord’s presence to speak with him, he removed the veil until he came out. And when he came out and told the Israelites what he had been commanded, 35 they saw that his face was radiant. Then Moses would put the veil back over his face until he went in to speak with the Lord. — Exodus 34 | New International Version (NIV) Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV® Copyright ©1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.® All rights reserved worldwide. Cross References: Genesis 16:13; Genesis 22:5; Genesis 32:30; Exodus 3:1-2; Exodus 4:27; Exodus 6:23; Exodus 16:10; Exodus 17:10; Exodus 17:14-15; Exodus 18:12; Exodus 19:8-9; Exodus 19:22; Exodus 19:24; Exodus 21:1; Exodus 25:1; Exodus 28:1; Leviticus 9:6; Leviticus 10:1; Joshua 24:24; 1 Kings 19:8 Matthew 26:28; Mark 14:24; John 1:18; John 6:46; 1 Corinthians 11:25; 2 Corinthians 3:3; 2 Corinthians 3:7; Hebrews 8:9; Hebrews 9:19; Hebrews 12:29

Commentary on Exodus 34 by Matthew Henry

Key Passages in Exodus 34

1. The tablets are replaced 5. The name of the Lord proclaimed 8. Moses entreats God to go with them 10. God makes a covenant with them, repeating certain duties 28. Moses after forty days on the mount, comes down with the tablets 29. His face is radiant, and he covers it with a veil

[beeshoesometimesdraws]

💔 🛠️ ❓

Chains

(Werewolf au Solar)

TW: self-harming behavior (not graphic but still)

———————————————————————————

It itches like flea bites beneath his skin. Claws at his insides and howls in his head until his skull throbs with a fervent ache. It pulls and tugs like a dog snared by a catch pole, begging to be set loose.

He refuses to heed its pleas. Even when the itch turns into a burn that stings throughout his flesh as the bright moon rises, he refuses.

It is every bit apart of him as his skin or the beat of his heart, but he refuses it— fears it. He fears it like it is death itself— the reaper in the form of a lupine beast.

It is him, the beast. He knows it deep down that they are one in the same. However, it’s easier to pass the blame if he treats it like its own entity latching to him like a parasite. Easier to shut it away and excuse the torture he puts himself through by doing so— refusing his instincts, his own biology until it burns like white hot fire engulfing him.

He has done so much to keep it away, that part of himself beast. Even his own ‘human’ body he has mutilated in an attempt to make himself appear normal. Snipping the points of his ears to curve like a human’s, filing down the sharp points of his teeth to flat harmless stubs, cutting down past the quick of his clawed fingers and wearing gloves to minimize the pain of using his hands.

He can’t let it out— can’t let any of it out.

…There are days he feels a twinge of something deep down inside. When he watches Lunar and Moon, confident and happy as they are with their wolves. Even that bastard Eclipse had an acceptance of the beast inside that he could not begin to understand.

…he thinks it’s envy— that is what he’s feeling. What he feels every time they talk about, or when he hears them in the night, or when he sees them. Their wolves aren’t beasts— he’s seen them (as much as he tries to stay away when they turn). They are not savage, blood hungry monsters— just parts of themselves.

They’ve accepted themselves fully. Something Solar will never do. Not after what he did…

The beast he will stay chained until the day he goes to the grave.

———————————————————————————

[persnicketypomelo]

Yandere Pinhead

18+ since it's Hellraiser, obsession, mentions of gore, torture

When you had found the wooden cube at the antique store, you thought only of how beautiful it would be by your bedside table. It’s gold detailing caught, no, demanded your attention, and you knew you just had to bring it home with you. It was smooth and polished, as if new, and it seemed too beautiful to simply gather dust. One night when sleep evaded you, you took it in your hands only to find out it was a puzzle, 

You absentmindedly fiddled with the pieces, shifting them about until they clicked satisfyingly into place, unaware of the true repercussions of your simple curiosity. 

Upon the puzzle box’s completion, a sudden chill settled over the room, and before your eyes, your room distorts into…something else. 

Walls push and pull away leaking steam from the forming cracks. The lightbulbs around your room simultaneously burst, startling you out of your drowsiness. 

You could only sit in shock, wondering (or rather hoping) to have had a particularly bad nightmare, and for a moment you believed it. But, no matter how tightly you squeeze your eyes shut, you couldn’t ignore the sting of the glass exploding and tearing against your flesh, or the hot steam tickling your skin. 

A series of bright bursts of light fill the room, and upon each one, a grizzly monster appears. Garish injuries mar their hairless, lifeless looking flesh. They looked like people, but so horribly mutilated that they had turned into demonic entities, so devoid of their humanity. The horrible strangers in your room was all you needed to propel to your feet and attempt to leave.

Yet as you rushed to the doorknob, a chain snared around your wrist, prying you away from escape. More and more chains wound around your limbs, pulling you away from any possibility of escaping. You squirmed and cried out, but you could just feel that your screams didn’t reach anyone beyond the room.

"The box,” a voice thundered, low and resounding, a leather cloaked man entered into your vision, head terribly plastered with nails. “You opened it. We came.” 

"Who are you? What do you want from me?" you sobbed, twisting your wrists, contorting to ease the bite of the metal chains.

"We are explorers—adventurers in the sensory realms, seeking new heights of pleasure and pain.” The monster or man before you grasped the neatly carved box in his hands.

“You solved the box. You have summoned us; brought us to your world. And now, we will bring you to ours.”

Clinking chains catch your attention, and you glimpse something that makes you want to vomit on the spot. A pole has erected from behind the leader of these monsters, spinning slowly, with chains and hooks crudely mounted upon it. Worst of all, were the many stretched patches of skin, and faces, cut from their heads tacked to the pole like a memo board, frozen mid-scream. You could only meet the gazes of their eyes, as they glanced at you, still seeing. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about! I don’t want any part of this!” You shrieked, “Please leave me alone!” Your twisting and turning was sure to leave bruises, but that was a small price to pay in exchange to joining the numerous tortured souls they’ve collected.

“Oh, but we want to bring you with us—to show you our world—and with time, you will learn to enjoy our pleasures as well.” 

Tears welled and spilled over your face, both from the marks surely forming around your wrists,  and from the indescribable fright at possible abduction at the hands of grizzled, mangled people. You averted your gaze from the pin-headed man before you, and the gruesome monument of the pain they’ve caused.

“Please,” you begged with a soft voice, “please don’t do this. I didn’t mean to summon you. I’m sorry. You can find someone else who wants this, but please don’t do this to me.”

A cold, dead hand tilted your chin up, forcing your gaze to the terrible, black eyes. 

“No tears,” he mocked in his commanding, monotone voice, “it’s a waste of good suffering,”

“What if we prefer you?” A raspy voice spoke, a woman’s, or what once was a woman. Now her throat is torn, pulled apart by strings, “what if we find your suffering to be the most beautiful?”

You could feel the terror rising from your stomach, and it must’ve shown, as another one of the monsters, fleshy with horrid teeth and sunglasses, snickered at you.

“There is no use in trying to bargain with us. It is you who opened the box, and it is your suffering that we want. We will take you to our world to show you our pleasures and you shall show us how wonderfully you will suffer.” the pinhead announces. A portal or rift, too blindingly white to see clearly, opened behind him.

“Your soul is ours to claim, ours to torture, and ours to destroy.” 

Sharp hooks dug into your skin, not only drawing blood, but tugging it, eliciting your pained screams as you are dragged into the rift. And yet, somehow, you knew this was only a sample of the terrible things they will do to you. 

“After all, we have all of eternity to explore the depths of your suffering.”

[baddybaddyadardaddy]

Weird request. I want a comfort fic snippet specifically about zombie Adar. Subtle and poignant is fine. If you have it in you on this darkest of days.

okay @whenimaunicorn ask and ye shall receive (and thank you for successfully getting me to concentrate on something artistic and distracting on this darkest of days.)

so you asked for "zombie adar comfort fic" so i'm giving you... a missing scene from "sister golden hair" from Zombie Adar's POV where he is kinda heart-eyes over Mirdania and her hair, and tries his best to comfort her.

He's not super great at it, though. On account of he is, in fact, a Zombie.

Gold. That is what he follows. Golden hair, like afternoon sun. Streaming out behind her, lifted by wind, the same wind that he feels, icy cold upon his face. It steadies his step, having something to follow. But she is fast. She evades. Among the trees, it had been easy. There had been one clear path, and she had taken it. But now there are too many. Streets that intersect and curve. Tall buildings that obscure the way ahead. Dead bodies to step over. He loses her. He stumbles. Unsteady. Yet still he walks. Lumbers. Searches. He sniffs for traces of her scent. Light and sweet, like a glade of flowers. He had memorized it in the forest, when she had rested against him. He had been content to lie there, like a stone fringed by fragrant columbines. The forest had been quiet. Peaceful. Nothing to do but watch the fluttering leaves and the shifting sun. He could have stayed. Something tells him he was meant to stay. But she had gone. And he had followed. … He finds her scent near an open courtyard and follows it into one of the buildings. There are stairs that wind and he struggles. Lifting legs. Climbing up. Then there is a scream. It fills him with cold. It steals his breath—like stepping outside to snow and ice. His limbs remember a cold like that. The sound changes. It shatters into a cry. Many pieces. Many tears. He thinks of wetness on his neck. Mournful noises. Little phantom hands that had clawed, noses that had nuzzled against his chest. He remembers holding. Young ones. Sometimes older ones, too. After battles. After births. Always too many tears. He reaches the top of the stairs. He sees golden hair waiting, and something inside him lifts... ...then it falls, as she lets out another sob. The sound is a snare. It pulls him toward her. A word comes to him as he draws near. A word that means falling tears and shaking shoulders and quivering lips. Sad. She is sad. She cries out again, and he can feel the place in his own chest where his own sobs are stored. But he cannot make the sound himself. Instead, he reaches for her. To comfort. To help. He catches a few strands of her hair. It feels soft beneath his fingers. She sways and falls and he is not fast enough to stop her. … The cause of her sorrow is a body, riddled with arrows, raised high on a pole and pinned against a column. In its face, there is suffering. Death’s ugly stain. The familiarity of it stirs something inside him. His hands know what to do. How to handle the body. How to prepare it for burning. Flames, into darkness. … She cries out in her sleep. It jerks him from the stupor that had settled over his limbs. Another sad cry. Another pain sprearing his chest. As he moves toward her, he hears her teeth chatter. The curse of cold. He knows it well. He had wandered long in a frozen wasteland. Many had followed him. Their sharp teeth had rattled through the long, moonless nights, and there had been little to cover them. He searches. He finds. A cloth—soft and thick and warm. Something to shield her from the sting of cold. In the center of the darkened room, he kneels and drapes the covering over her. Beneath the moonlight, her hair is a different color. Until the first light of dawn, he lingers by her side, under the spell of its silvery sheen.

ANYWAY, I HOPE IF YOU'RE SAD, ZOMBIE ADAR COMES TO YOU AND COVERS YOU GENTLY WITH A WARM BLANKET.

also, bonus track that's just too perfect for Them:

[kuliak]

Squelchy kicks, more performance features, and fuller-case integration.

There's a dreaded part in the synth expansion cycle where more cables are needed, since you just aren't able to use all the modules. Fast forward a bit and I can bring the drums back in again, with even more added spice.

Something I've been doing, and intend to keep at a bit more, is running my drum mix through Ikarie - envelope follower on the signal inverted into frequency allows that great squelch whenever the kick hits. Snare is Taiko with an additional envelope from Maths, and Crucible covers hat duty.

Three body provides all the melodic voices here. Main osc is modulated by osc 3 with some envelopes from Just Friends, going through Waver, QPAS (4 pole/mono), Melotus, then Erbe-Verb to create the pulsing texture. Another out goes through Magneto, ping-ponging the signal around to really create that space and enforcing the beat.

Osc 1 is going through Sinc Bucina, triggered by T1 or T3 of Pachinko in ratio mode (selected via Vice Virga to create different related phrases), then mixed in with the drums via Jumble Henge to give it a consistent place in the stereo field. Its pitch is set to a ratio of the main osc so it stays harmonically related as everything's moving around.

Main drum sequencing via Constellation, while velocity of the SB triggers is modulated with Maestro. Planar on QPAS cutoff duties to swirl everything around.

[featherquilt1988]

Delicious

(an Avatar: The Last Airbender fanfic by FeatherQuilt1988) Characters: Iroh, Zuko, Aang, and Katara (the other members of Team Avatar are also present here, but don't really get specific dialogue) Rating: G

Note: For readers new to my "Amber Dragon" fanfic series--Zuko and Iroh have started calling each other "Dad" and "Son" now.

~~~

It is a rare occasion when Lord Zuko has managed to get all of his friends from Team Avatar together at the same time, for an anniversary supper. The royal kitchen servants have outdone themselves. There are glazed bean-buns, crab dumplings, stuffed ash-bananas, vegetable and noodle hotpots, curried rice and eggs... and there at the center, a mangificent fruitcake, dripping with honey and filled with countless cherries and plums.

And yet Iroh will apparently not be able to try the latter at all!

"No one is chiding you about your weight, Dad," Zuko reassures his adoptive father, in almost the same tone as he would soothe an angry toddler. "It's not that at all. It's just the moose-pox, remember? The doctor said no desserts until you're over it."

"But Zuko, it looks so DELICIOUS!..." Iroh whines, placing an aggrieved hand over his bulging belly. *Grooo-oooooo!...* it gurgles pitifully, as if in agreement.

"He's right, you know, Iroh," Katara puts in for her friend. The young Water Tribe lady has been learning much as a healer, so even this mostly-Firebenders' ailment is not unknown to her. "Sugar makes moose-pox stay inflamed. If you eat right and stop touching the rash, it should be gone within a week," she encourages the old man gently.

"I don't care," Iroh scratches his chest stubbornly, reaching for the cake with the other hand. "Honeyed cherries are my absolute favorite!"

Zuko smacks his father figure's wrist. Everyone but the now-very-pouty Dragon of the West giggles.

The conversation resumes to how Sokka and Suki are balancing their time between patrolling the South Pole and Kyoshi Island together. With Zuko now distracted, Iroh reaches for the fruitcake again, and snares a rich, plummy clump of it in his chopsticks. "MMMMMM!" he rumbles with pleasure around a bulging cheek; "I was right, it IS delicious!"

"All right, you asked for it!!" Zuko stands up then, incensed. He grabs a handful of extra chopsticks from a container on the table, and begins laying them out around the fruitcake-stand. The others watch curiously.

"Prince Iroh," the young monarch declares firmly, putting his finger down inside this "chopstick fence" and next to the cake; "by royal decree of your Fire Lord, you are hereby BANISHED from this square on the table!!"

A hush falls over the group. Iroh blinks. Then, calmly, he turns and smiles at a particular one of his and Zuko's friends. "Aang?" the old dragon calls out very sweetly. "Would you come over here for a moment, please?"

Though puzzled, the little monk gets up obediently, to stand at Iroh's side. It happens in a flash. Iroh has undone his kimono-sash, and he now loops it around Aang, arms and all, and ties it into a bow. Grinning from ear to ear, he puts one hand on Aang's shoulder, and gestures grandly with the other, bellowing, "I HAVE CAPTURED THE AVATAR AND RESTORED MY HONOR! --Now where's that fruitcake?!"

"DAA-AAD!!!" Zuko roars in return. Iroh, Aang, and everyone else at the table (with the exception of the young Fire Lord, and possibly Katara) is in hoots and shakes of laughter.