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weskin-time · 1 year

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may i request taking care of johnny (soap) after he gets injured and nagging him the whole time about being safer bc you’re always worried about him but he’s not listening and just gazing at you with the most lovestruck eyes <3

Injured!Soap x GN!Medic!Reader

CW- death (reader kills a few guys), graphic depictions of wounds, blood, needles, heavy drug mention (soap is high on morphine), medical treatment, guns if i missed any please let me know

i’m sorry i’m american so i’m basing this off the US army <3

“Soaps been hit, requesting medical in the restaurant east building first floor.” Ghosts voice was calm over the radio, a contrast to the sound of gunshots echoing off the walls.

Fucking hell Soap.

“Copy Lieutenant, on my way.” You tried to sound just as calm trying to ignore the unease bubbling in your throat and settling on your esophagus like a hand around your neck.

You were in the middle of an active war zone, a small town surrounded a small military like base. Makarov’s goons pushing your location while you and the rest of 141 returned fire, it seemed his men had no regards for the Geneva conventions as they shot at you, a combat medic. They must have good information in this base of theirs if they’re holding down fire this hard.

You checked from your cover to see if the coast was clear, sending a glance to Gaz who nodded back at you telling you he was going to cover you. There was 4 men on the other side of the clearing, two behind cover and the others moving up to pressure you and the sergeant. You had to make this quick for Soaps sake. Bringing up your M4 you aimed at one man on the opposite side of you pushing his way to Gaz, bracing for recoil you pulled the trigger. Rounds exploded out of the barrel and the man dropped to nothing but dead weight. Sweeping your gun to a man behind cover you saw Gaz do the same to the Russian on your side, seeing him drop dead. The man behind cover poked his torso out to aim at you but you were already waiting on him to show himself, as soon as his gun was up he jerked back and fell limp on the ground thanks to a headshot. The last goon soon followed the rest of his friends.

“Reloading.” You called out to Gaz and moved out of cover as you dropped and replaced the magazine in your assault rifle. “You good out here?”

“Yea I’ll be fine by myself, get to Soap, go!” He shooed you away and you turned tail to run into the building on your right. Gunshots rang out behind you.

As soon as you entered into the main lobby of what used to be a restaurant you spotted Ghost standing guard in the door way to the kitchen. He nodded at you and you nodded back as he turned around and lead you into the stainless steel kitchen.

Soap was lying on the ground, back leaned up against an oven, his combat vest off lying on the floor next to him and his left arm resting against his torso with his palm against his ribs.

The first thing you noticed was the blood.

You practically threw yourself onto the ground and tried to gauge his wounds.

“Well if it isn’t my knight in shining armor.” A wheeze of a chuckle came out of the scot before you, he sounded like he was in pain which was a dumb observation because he was very much in pain.

“Shush it dumb nuts, where’re you hit?” you pulled your medical backpack off and set it next to you as you sat on your claves, gingerly placing your M4 next to you as you turned the safety on.

He grunted, “Two in my thigh and stabbed in my side.”

You turned your head to Ghost who just stood there, “Ghost I’m good here, go help Gaz and crew.” Jerking your head in the direction of the main door you opened up the pack to take out a few items.

After a heart beat of silence you glanced up at the tall skull masked man who seemed to be hesitant in moving. Locking eyes with his brown ones you sent him a reassuring nod.

“Be careful.” Was all he said as he disappeared out the kitchen door.

For a stone cold guy he did care a lot about the people he did trust.

You turned your attention back to Soap and examined the blood leaking out of his thigh. Dark red stained his pants and made a very small pool under his leg.

“You’re lucky, you didn’t hit an artery.” Some relief washed over you but the worry still stained your brain. You cared about Soap, probably much more than you should, and you didn’t like seeing him hurt like this. You examined his face and saw it was a little bit paler than normal but not white. “How bad does it hurt?”

“Hells fuckin bells,” he whispered under his breath, “Like I got shot and stabbed. How can ya tell I didn’t get hit in an artery?”

You snorted at his response and pulled out a long blue elastic band and another shorter one. “Your blood would be way lighter than this dark color here. Hold still, I have to cut your pants off.” You grabbed your knife from your shoulder holster.

“Buy me dinner first sweetheart, damn.”

“Shut it dork, just trying to get a better view of the wounds.” You felt a heat creep up your neck and settle on your cheeks as you began to cut a square around the two wounds. You did appreciate the fact he was still cracking a joke even under this stress, made you know he wasn’t loopy from blood loss.

Two holes leaked blood from them, they were about the size of your fingernail and a few inches apart from each other. It didn’t look as bad as you thought it would have. You had to stop the bleeding before you even worried about pain relief. You clasped your knife back in place.

“Move your leg up.” You patted a non bloody part of the outside of his thigh and helped him bend his knee with a whimper of pain from him. “Sorry. You’re gonna be fine, don’t worry John.” You tried to comfort him as you wrapped the blue elastic tourniquet a few inches above the first wound and tied it as tight as you could to stop the blood flow, he winced in pain at the uncomfortable string around his thigh. Setting his leg back straight you grabbed his left arm and pulled it to you.

“How much do you weigh?” You asked as you rummaged in your bag, “Keep your arm out for me.” Setting a sealed syringe on your lap you wrapped the smaller elastic around his bicep and poked his inner elbow for his vein.

You opened a syringe from it’s sterile packaging and grabbed the small bottle of morphine as he told you his weight, and got the proper amount of pain relief in the syringe that would work best for him. Finding a vein was easy and you noticed he turned his head and took in a breath as you poked him, sticking the needle into a blue vein and pressed the plunger.

“You’re going to be in lala land in no time Soap, no more pain for you.” You removed the band from his arm, gave him a little comforting pat on his forearm and smiled at him.

“Good movie. Bloody jesus that shite works fast.” His head lulled back against the glass of the oven as he watched you put away the morphine and toss the syringe across the room into the corner where it couldn’t poke anyone or break. Not the best way to dispose of it but hey what can you do in this moment.

You wanted to tease him on him seeing Lala Land but you held off. “Soap can you lift your shirt to show me where you were stabbed?” You spoke clearly and like how a parent talks to a child to make your words crawl through his ears and reach his foggy drugged brain.

“Doc how copy?” Ghosts voice cut through the air over the radio.

Reaching up you pressed the button to talk, “Soaps out of commission, he’s drugged on morphine and hurt pretty bad. Two shots to the thigh and stabbed in the side. Applying first aid now. How’s it out there?”

“Almost in the main base. At the front door now. No more injuries you need to see to, get soap to safety.”

“Affirmative Lieutenant.” You took in a deep breath, “Captain, requesting medical evac. Soap should be stable enough to wait.”

“Granted.” Price’s voice cut through the radio. “Evac will be ready and out in 5.”

“Thanks cap.” Releasing the button you looked at Soap. “John move your shirt.”

He lifted his arms like they were heavy and moved his black shirt, untucking it from his pants and lifting it up to expose his stomach and rib cage. Your eyes instantly focused on the ripped flesh of the stab wound. The knife caught him just above his hip. It wasn’t deep from what you could tell, must have been a dull blade.

“Hold still.” You went into your backpack again to find a pair of gloves, opening the packaging and putting them on. You shifted to lean closer to him, your finger tips touched his warm skin and he twitched at the contact. You pulled on the flesh to see inside him, and just as you thought it wasn’t deep at all, mostly just looked nastier than it really was with the ripped flesh.

As you grabbed some liquid bandaid and a alcohol wipe from your bag your eyes began to wander over Soaps exposed abdomen. He was toned, the body matching his work, he had abs if he flexed but his body was strong and muscular. What really caught your eye was a small trail of hair running from his belly button down his stomach and disappearing under his belt. Just looking at his happy trail made your mind fumble for a second like you were a school child seeing your crush shirtless for the first time. You’ve seen John shirtless before, being the medic in the unit you were in charge of all physicals, but this was different, he was bloody and he was so close to you. The heat from before made its home on your face once again.

“Like what ya see?” Slurred words came off his tongue like they were heavy. He saw you checking him out. Strike you where you sit your heart couldn’t deal with Soap when he wasn’t hopped up on opioids, now he must not have a filter.

Your hand gave a meek slap to his stomach and he chuckled. You couldn’t ignore the warmth that started to grow in your chest.

You cleaned the area of his stab wound and put the liquid bandage on, making sure the adhesive held and his skin was tight together. Getting gauze you unwrapped the beginning and began to tightly wrap it around his torso, arm going behind his back making you get very close in his personal space which you instantly noticed how close the two of you were now. Your other hand around his front seemed to not grab from the hand wrapped around the small of his back as your head tilted up to look in his eyes. You were practically hugging him. There was something there in the ocean storm of his eyes, an emotion you couldn’t quite place, a softness danced in them, it sent a shiver up your spine. You were inches apart, your face so close to his own you could hear his breathing, it was a little fast. It must be the morphine in his system, that has to be it. You did take notice of how his eyes shifted down to glance at your lips.

“You-“ You started but your voice sounded weak and breathy so you cleared your throat and tried again. “You really need to be more careful sargent.” Speaking seemed to break your trance as you finished wrapping him up, your attention now turning to his gunshot wounds.

“Getting shot in the thigh could have some really bad consequences, there’s major arteries in this area, not to mention the muscle damage and physical therapy you might have to do.” You just began to rant but noticed as you were digging through your hemostat that he hasn’t moved his arms from holding his shirt. “John you can put your shirt down.”

His arms dropped the shirt but it didn’t slide down to cover him thanks to the bandage, meaning you could still see a bit of his stomach poking out and his happy trail.

“N-no exit wounds?” You looked up to meet his eyes.

A shock sparked your system. His eyes held that same emotion, they were glazed over but you’ve seen the way he was looking at you in movies before. The way Flynn Ryder looked at Rapunzel in Tangled at the boat scene, The way Gomez looks at Morticia, the look reserved for a lover. Soft and filled with love like it was bubbling over his heart, silent appreciation and warmth.

“You’ve got pretty eyes.”

Your face exploded with a heat, it tore apart your throat and clawed at your chest. Your heart felt like it stopped beating.

“You’re not getting more morphine MacTavish.”

He laughed. A good belly laugh that soon ended as the stab wound hurt him even through the pain killer.

Morphine. Thats all this is. You can chalk it all up to him being high off his ass right now, there’s no other reason he would look at you that way. No reason.

“Focus MacTavish, is there a hole on the other side of your thigh or not?” You were the one who needed to focus not him.

He shook his head no before he continued to lazily move his head from side to side, his eyes half lidded. Yea it was one hundred percent the morphine in his system this man was as high as a kite.

No exit wound was good and bad at the same time. With where the bullets were placed you didn’t think it would hit his bone, and it didn’t hit any arteries, still he would need a leg splint regardless after you patched him up. The bullets were still inside him. The bleeding had stopped thanks to the elastic and you wiped the blood cleaning the area with a alcohol wipe.

“Yer so kind to me sweetheart. So gentle and caring. Yer a hard ass but yer nice when ya can be.”

You tried to ignore the constant heat on your face as you poked the hemostat through his first wound, pushing through the hole making sure not to touch the meat or fat of the sides before clamping down on the bullet you felt, you must have gone past 12 inches into his muscle, with the size of the entry wound and the depth you guessed it was a 9mm bullet. Yanking it out helped you confirm your thoughts. You did the same for the other wound and dug out the brass from his bloody flesh.

It seems like hours since you first got into this kitchen but in reality only a couple minutes had passed, you worked fast and it was Soaps fault you took longer than normal. You didn’t have the proper tools to commit surgery on the battle field to fully take care of Soaps wounds so the best you could do was apply pressure and wrap his leg as tight as you could, if it was uncomfortable you know you did a good job.

“Evacs ready.” Prices voice cut through your concentration.

“Thanks Price, I’ll get Soap to the evac local.” You took off the bloody gloves and put them in a little red biohazard bag in your backpack.

“Soap you ready to head ou- stop looking at me like that.” He was looking at you with those sparkling eyes again.

“Like wha?”

“Like this is a Disney movie.”

“Can I be the princess then?”

You snorted. “Yes John you can be the princess, I’m gonna have to carry your ass like you are one.”

“Good cuz yer the knight who saved the princess.” He was still slurring his words as you zipped up your backpack and helped him back into his combat vest trying to be mindful of his wounds.

“Kinda sucks you won’t remember this when we get back to base. Wish I could record you calling yourself a princess.” You crouched down next to him after you put your backpack back on, shifting your left shoulder under his armpit and your arm securely holding him to help him get up.

He winced in pain that broke through the morphine as you helped him stand, his arm flew to grab your side to steady himself, weight pressing against you as he stumbled a bit to get used to walking high and on a shot leg.

“I won’t remember anythin?” He whispered.

“Probably not. It’ll be fuzzy and you’ll be in surgery before you could even think to remember.” Your M4 would just have to be left as you began to help John hobble to the door of the kitchen.

“Well, then.” He took in a deep breath. “I think yer pretty. Handsome? Beautiful? Yer attractive.” He tossed around each word like he didn’t know which one suited you better before settling on attractive with a nod of his head.

You couldn’t tell if your face was red from the effort of helping him move or if it was from his compliment. “I think I gave you too much morphine big guy.”

“Nah. Ask me when I ain’t in lala land and I’d say the same thing. I like ya. Yer good to me. I wanna take ya out to dinner after this, as thanks and also because yer-“

“Okay Soap okay, ask me again when you’re not drugged up and bleeding and I might say yes.” A smile crinkled your nose as you laughed at the shit coming out of his mouth.

“Will do.” He weakly patted your back as you began to take him to the helicopter waiting for you two.

#tezi post #ask!#i hope this is good idk :3 #soap mctavish #john soap mactavish x reader #soap x reader #mw x reader #cod mw #cod mw22 #call of duty modern warfare #call of duty imagine #modern warfare #johnny soap mactavish #mw ghost #cod x reader #mw2 x reader #cod imagine #mw imagine

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justplainwhump · 5 months

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Mac

A short character intro of some sort, for the character that has lurked in the background of Adrian and Blanca's story since their very first chapter. The sixth guard dog.

[Pet Safety Masterlist]; this piece is referencing [Favor].

Content / warnings: BBU, (indirect) dehumanisation, captivity, briefly referenced/implied noncon.

In the nights in his cell - or kennel, rather, he didn't know why but there was a difference and it made his stomach uneasy - Mac had a lot of time for thoughts. And he used it. He thought about fights, about technique and strategies, about his opponents and their strengths and weaknesses. He thought about winning, about the feeling of triumph, and how stale it was. Like the tasteless, grayish mass that came from a dispenser in the kennel wall, a viscous nutri-shake, that fell into a stainless steel bowl welded to the floor. Victories in his fights were just the same. Bland, insipid, and utterly necessary to survive.

Mac pulled down the lever and watched more of the nutri-shake fall into the bowl. Sometimes he thought about how long he'd have to hold it down until the room would be flooded. Sometimes he wondered, if the person he'd been before would've known how to calculate it. The pet he was now sure did not. He stared down at the food below him, let himself sink to his knees before he bowed down to eat it. He'd never been further from being a person.

He'd been allowed to eat at a table, real food, with taste and consistency, back at his owner's place. He'd had the others to talk to, Guards, like him. They hadn't been what people called *friends*, he wagered, at least he hadn't actually liked them, but they had existed together, shared a life and the dedication a common goal - to keep their master safe and satisfied. They hadn't been friends, but in lack of better terms, they'd been a pack.

Here, everyone like him was an adversary, who'd fight him to the death the next day or another. And those not like him were the ones who didn't care about if the others died, or Mac did.

It was exhausting. A feeling that wasn't going to bring him anywhere. That was why when Mac had time for thoughts, he didn't think too much about his pack.

He thought about his owner.

—

Jack Donnell took great pride in his belongings, and that had always included his WRU-trained Guards. Six of them, all of the same height, featuring the same dark hair, same broad shoulders, same mannerisms. He employed a retired WRU Guard handler for some hours a week to make sure the Guards worked like one. He also bought the consulting services of a WRU Romantic Trainer - not for the Guards to be involved directly, but to make them part of intricate designed "scenes" that Mac learned to hate.

Jack wanted to be a ruler, a conqueror, and every once in a while he loved to dress his Pets up in accurate costumes, only to make them submit to him in every scenario possible.

Mac had endured. He'd been a good pet. Until the day a new business partner of Jack's had shown up with his Romantic.

Blanca.

Blanca was petite, with the sort of auburn hair that could look dark brown in one moment and light up like fire in another, with a seductive sway to her hips, full lips that curved into a knowing smile and clothes so tight they left nothing about her curves to the imagination.

Hot, Mac knew he was supposed to think.

He didn't.

Please spare her from this, he'd thought instead and closed his eyes. Prayed, almost. As if he knew, how to.

As if there was a God who'd listen to a pet. No. Their only Gods were their owners.

And while her owner had all but fled the room and left his subject in the hand of another, Mac had stayed by the door, standing at attention, while he watched his master brutalize her.

It took hours.

And after Jack was done, he'd simply smiled to himself, sauntered towards Mac without another look at the broken figure of the Romantic behind him, and patted Mac's cheek. "Good boy," he'd said, and left.

That moment had been the first in Mac's conscious life, that he'd felt something a Pet was never supposed to feel.

He'd felt hatred. Plain, pure, seething hatred, for the one man he was supposed to love.

He'd felt it every day since.

tag list (let me know if you want to be added or removed): @gottawhump @flowersarefreetherapy @whumplr-reader @highwaywhump @tauntedoctopuses @pigeonwhumps @whumppsychology @labgrowndemon @whumpinggrounds @somewhumpyguy @whumpzone @tragedyinblue @theelvishcowgirl

#pet safety series #bbu #jack donnell #the sixth guard dog #mac the guard dog #blanca #whump #noncon implied #dehumanisation

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shaunlovesyou · 2 years

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Lets get you cleaned up ~ Bradley ‘Rooster’ Bradshaw

You hear three firm knocks against your front door, the familiar sound echos through the house. Looking up at the clocks bright green characters you take note of the time, 2:43 am. You lift the duvet off your body and your feet drift instinctively across the hardwood floors, following the same course of action they’ve grown so accustomed to. Despite taking longer than you usually would to open the door for a guest, the man waiting patiently behind the piece of wood guarding your home knows you’ll arrive to his aid eventually, you’ve never failed him before.

As you reach the door you hesitate, anticipating the mixed feelings of panic, dread, and worry. Your hand goes to unlock the door but you falter, bringing it back down by your side. The feeling of uneasiness in your stomach multiplies rapidly with every second that passes. You gather your hair away from your face and breathe in a deep breath, you hold it and think of what would happen if you were to let your feet guide you back up the stairs and into the safety of your bed.

You shakily let out the breath you’ve been holding for a few moments too long, you’re shoulders deflate but you don’t feel any more relaxed knowing whats waiting for you on your porch.

You open the door, your eyes squeezed tightly shut, drawing out the short amount of time you have to be blissfully ignorant. As your eyes flutter open you look up you see what you expected to, Bradley Bradshaw leaning against the concrete wall beside you with a solemn expression adorning his tired face. He looks guilty, guilty for waking you in the early hours of the morning, guilty for putting you through the stress of having to mend his bones and clean his wounds.

You quickly assess his injuries and make a mental note of what you’ll need to be able to fix his injuries.

“Lets get you cleaned up.” you say breaking the painful silence.

He winces at your monotone voice, knowing you’re fed up with this dynamic. You don’t wait to see if hes following you, knowing that he knows this routine. You hear the door shut quietly behind your retreating back and soft footsteps following you deeper into the house.

By the time hes reached the bathroom you already have your makeshift first aid kit resting on the granite counter top, you had no need for it until Bradley started showing up at your house to be mended after getting into random bar fights.

He hoists himself onto the counter and stares at you while you get the disinfectant and cotton swabs ready.

“I’m sorry, I really am.” he apologises, waiting for you to respond with your usual ‘it’s alright’.

“Yep.” you sigh and start to clean the gash placed on his temple, squinting due to the bright bathroom lights.

“Are you not going to hold my hand? Give me words of encouragement?” Bradley laughs through the pain coming from his forehead, trying to lighten the mood.

You stare at him blankly, annoyance radiating off of you. Your hands drop to your sides as if there are weights tied to your wrists. You toss the bloody cotton swab into the stainless steel dish to your left.

As you clean the rest of the scratches and scrapes adorning Bradley’s sun kissed skin he keeps his mouth shut, deciding he didn’t want to annoy you more after taking note of your furrowed brows, narrowed eyes, and tightly clenched jaw.

“Done.” you announce, not bothering to question how he’d gotten into the state he’s currently in, knowing it was probably something stupid.

You turn to your right and walk towards your bedroom, you throw an uninterested glance at the analogue clock perched on your bedside locker, 3:21 am. As you climb under the covers Bradley closes the bedroom door and strips himself from his clothes until hes left in his underwear. He throws the duvet over himself, trying to disturb you as little as possible.

After 10 minutes of twisting and turning he flips over to his left to face you, “Can you just lie and say you forgive me so I can fall asleep,” he begs, his voice laced with exasperation. “please.” he adds.

“No Bradley, I can’t because every week my sleep is interrupted because you’ve gotten into another idiotic fight,” you exclaim, almost yelling, not knowing where you got this sudden burst of energy from. “and I wouldn’t mind it so much if you addressed these stupid feelings between us!”

“Y/N” he says, his voice strained.

“No, we’re actually going to talk about this tonight because I’m sick of it!” you interrupt. “You can’t climb into my bed half naked and pretend to be my boyfriend for the night only for you to disappear when the sun comes up, my hearts being torn to shreds, thrown on the ground, and stomped on repeatedly!” you exclaim, now sitting up in the small bed.

“So what, you want me to be your boyfriend?” he asks disparagingly, sitting upright now as well.

“Yes!” you yell. “Is that too much to ask for?”

“What if I go up in the air and i don’t come back down alive? I’d leave you with nothing but a broken heart.”

“Do you not think I’ve not thought about that? I don’t care Bradley, I just want to know if you would have a serious relationship with me. My hearts broken enough as it is!” you cry, tears starting to form in your eyes. “Or am I someone you want to hide away? You crawl into bed with me at night, then go about your life during the day.”

“Y/N I’d do anything to be with you but you deserve so much more than I could ever give you. I’m not going to be selfish and hold you back when you’re capable of having a life beyond imagination without me.”

“I dont want that Bradley, I want to be with you, every single second of every single day.” you proclaim, using the last ounce of power in you to project your voice around the room. Tears stream down your face, falling from your eyes to your chin then onto the soft duvet covering both your bodies.

Tears are Bradley’s weakness, he instantly holds your face gently in his hands, using his thumbs to wipe the tears sprouting from your eyes. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” he mutters, trying to stop the flow of tears from gliding down your face.

“I love you. As scary as it is, it’s true. I love you Bradley Bradshaw.” you whisper, practically in his lap, enjoying the warmth of his body being so close to yours.

“I love you Y/N. God I love you. I have since the moment my eyes found yours. Since we had our first conversation, I’ve known, deep down inside of me that you’re the woman I want to spend the entirety of my life with.” he vows.

His face approaches yours slowly, your breath hitches and you lean in. Your lips meet in the middle and you share a long passionate kiss. It seems like you’ve waited an eternity for this to happen, but god was it worth the wait.

#top gun #top gun maverick #bradley bradshaw #bradley rooster bradshaw #bradley 'rooster' bradshaw #rooster #rooster top gun #rooster x reader #bradley bradshaw x reader #miles teller

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nightshadereaper66 · 2 months

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Ethanol and Mothballs

Word Count: 2.1k This short story is inspired by the museum collections that I visited during my January paleontology class. All of the pictures used are mine and were taken at the various museums we visited. I'm super excited to share this story with y'all, and hope you love it as much as I do!

The halls of the museum are quiet. The day has ended, night plunging the rooms into eerie darkness. Gone are the copious beams of sunlight flowing through the windows. They now show only the gray haze of the city's night sky, plunging the marble halls into obscurity. It's the end of the hustle and bustle of tourists, of the cheerful shouts and giggles of children, and more subdued conversations of adults. The darkness is broken only by the flashlight beams of security guards working the graveyard shift.

Occasionally, their light settles on the bones of long-dead animals resting peacefully in their wire armatures, casting odd, distorted shadows across the walls. The umbral forms of prehistoric fossils dance with the shadows of the guards, brought halfway to life only briefly by their light.

The silence is broken only by footsteps on carpet, the whirring of the climate systems, and the building's occasional creak and groan. All is still as it should be; quietly resting after the long day. It would seem that the museum dies at night.

I open my eyes, hearing the slosh of fluid around me as I shakily stretch, limbs hitting the hard edges of my tub. I groan, my voice gravelly from disuse. Finally, it's time to wake up. I sit up, my poorly adjusted eyes only seeing the occasional glint of light reflecting off the trails of ethanol crisscrossing the floor. My muscles are cramped; I barely see my pale limbs tremoring in front of me. I shake, struggling to find a grip on the sterile stainless steel until I manage to grab the edge of the tub. Slowly my eyes adjust to the welcoming darkness, a wonderful reprieve from bright fluorescent lights. The air is thick with the smell of ethanol. Always ethanol here, it clings to everything and everyone, a constant reminder of the place where we reside.

As my vision improves, I can make out the shapes of the shelves in the darkness. They stand in a puddle of ethanol, trails and prints radiating in all directions from it. My tremors slowly subside as my body fights the vestiges of the cold sleep.

I watch a snake slither out of its jar, landing in the ethanol puddle with a quiet plash. It's quickly followed by its jar-mates, then the frogs from the jar next door.

The soft sloshes are interrupted by a loud series of splashes and thrashes coming from a large tub on the far side of the wet lab. The smell of ethanol intensifies as the massive alligator snapping turtle inside sends liquid everywhere in his energetic bid for freedom. I climb out of my tub, walking off the stiffness and the last of the tremors before pulling the turtle out by the back of his shell.

“Happy wake-up, Troy,” I say as he starts to wander around the room, leaving behind a broad, messy ethanol trail. He opens his mouth wide, looking straight at me. I’m never sure if that's his version of a smile or a death threat.

The shelves are alive, undocumented insects trundling among their more well-known friends. One jar spews hundreds of tiny snails as they crawl over each other and to the ground, trailing ethanol instead of mucus. I twist off the lid to another snail jar; this one is always particularly stubborn. As I pull off the lid, a giant African land snail creeps out onto my arm.

“Yeah, alright buddy, we can go for a walk. Stretch your, er, foot.”

Snail crawls up my torso and onto my shoulder. I gently pat them between their eyestalks and scratch their shell.

“Just give me a second to let the fish out,” I say, unscrewing the lids of the fish jars and letting them swim out into my large tub, “Have fun, guys. It's not much, but it's better than being stuck like sardines in a can. Or a jar, I guess.”

Troy the snapping turtle shuffles over to watch them schooling.

“You can't eat anymore, remember? None of us can. Don't try it, Troy.”

He opens his mouth, giving me another smile/death threat.

“Thank you.”

I slide Dr. MacMorgan's I.D. out from under a dusty, overlooked jar of rhino beetles on the top shelf. I'm grateful for the museum's leniency in issuing him a second I.D. after this one went missing. He claimed he lost the thing, after all, his eyes “aren't what they used to be,” and his memory “is full of cotton wool these days.” I think the curator also helped to fast-track the process. She definitely didn't ask many questions.

Anyway, I had a garden snail steal the I.D. so that I could walk around collections. What can I say, I got tired of only exploring when the man forgot it in the piles of paperwork on his desk. Feelings and federal laws don’t matter much when you’re dead. Besides, now I can go check out the new research posters they put on the walls. It's nice to know that they're still using us for something.

I swipe the I.D. and step into the hall. The smell of ethanol fades as the door to the wet lab closes. Snail crawls onto my head for a better view as I step into the bathroom and look at our reflection. The light turns on automatically as I walk in, and I wince as my eyes struggle to adjust. I look at myself in the mirror; my cheeks are sallow, cloudy eyes sunk into yellowed skin. A little worse for wear, but not bad, I haven’t aged a day. I examine my arms, running my fingers over the relatively new needle-hole in one of them. It showed up a few months back, but it’ll never heal. Presumably, it was for a tissue sample; I wonder what they’re using it for. I have been dead and pickled in ethanol for a while, it was about time. Snail (who I seem to be wearing as a hat) looks a little better-preserved, but their body still has that yellowish color that all wet lab residents tend to get. My snail hat waves their eyestalks towards the door emphatically.

“Okay, okay, I’m going!” I say, stepping back out of the bathroom and into the darkness of the halls. “Where to now?”

They crawl down to my forehead, waving their left eye stalk in front of my eye.

“Alright, fossils it is. I know you like the shark teeth.” They do a move resembling a one-snail wave in appreciation. I smile, heading through the maze of nearly identical corridors. I see the light of a flashlight ahead and duck into an empty office, narrowly avoiding someone. It's probably just a grad student returning from the vending machine with their energy drink. I wait until the light is gone and slip back into the halls.

“Hey look! They extracted my DNA and used it to do some stuff. That explains the needle hole in my arm,” I say, pointing out a poster on the wall. I step close so that Snail can read it. At least, I think they can read. Their eyestalks scan over the lines of text and appear to understand as they pull back.

They settle back on my forehead and I set off once more, finally reaching the thick, heavy door to the fossil collections. I scan the I.D. and the light blinks green, letting me in beyond the large gray door. We are hit with the strong smell of mothballs and the crisp, strictly temperature and humidity-controlled air. The lights turn on automatically, illuminating the rows of open shelves and closed metal cabinets.

I walk down the aisles, waiting for Snail to stop me and gesture to whatever cabinet they find interesting. When they do, I open the door. All of the drawers are labeled “glyptodon,” so I pull out a random one. Snail crawls off of me and onto the cabinet, eye stalks investigating the giant armadillo fossils. Mostly osteoderms, the bony bits right under the skin, but some teeth and small bones. When they’re satisfied, I close the cabinet and open a nearby one.

We proceed in a similar fashion for a while, opening whatever cabinets strike our fancy and stopping to admire the fossils inside. Snail crawls back onto my head and we look at the skulls that rest on the open shelves. There are plenty of mammoths and mastodons, recognizable by their massive teeth. The mammoth teeth are more flat, while mastodons’ are more pointy unless they’ve been worn down a lot.

I run my hand along the glossier fossilized enamel, wondering what the fossils would get up to if they could move around at night. They’re just rock-ified bones (the fancy descriptor is permineralized), so they’d fall apart, assuming that they hadn’t already. The Earth is a blender, or so I hear.

Snail prefers the smaller fossils, so they’re content to stay on my head as I trace the contours of huge tusks, dino bones, and skulls. It’s crazy to think that some of this stuff is still closer in age to spaghetti than to the beginning of life. It sure seems like it’s been fossilized for ages. And then some paleontologist dug it up and encased it in plaster and a volunteer put in thousands of hours to clean it up.

“Having a nice wander?”

I jump, snapping abruptly out of my thoughts. The voice comes from behind me. Snail retreats into their shell, still on top of my head. Act like a normal person. One who hasn’t been dead and preserved in ethanol for fifty years.

“Hi! I uh, have a really bad skincare routine!”

She laughs. I turn around. It’s the museum curator. She’s wearing a headlamp; it’s still turned on. She raises a hand to turn it off since it’s not needed in the automatic lighting of the fossil collections.

“That tends to happen when you’re a wet lab specimen.”

“You know about that?” I ask as Snail peeks out of their shell, eyestalks fixed on her. The curator’s gaze tracks up at them, then back to my cloudy eyes.

“Yes. How do you think MacMorgan got a new I.D. so quickly?” Seeing my look of concern, she adds, “I don’t mind if you leave the wet lab, as long as you don’t make a mess.”

“Uhh… okay…” I say, still trying to process the new turn of events.

“Some people think that this building is haunted. I see why they would say that. I passed you in the hall earlier, you look very sinister,” she says, smiling.

“That was you, with the light? I thought it was a grad student! Dammit, I need to be more careful,” I reply, looking perturbed.

“You could, or you could keep letting the world believe that this building is haunted.” The curator seems to be enjoying this conversation. She reaches out a hand to pet Snail’s shell. After a few moments, she speaks again, “It can be our little secret.”

“You’re not scared by me? I’m literally dead and pickled, how are you fine with this?”

She laughs again. “I used to work in a wet lab, I’m quite accustomed to seeing preserved organisms. And if you want to have a little fun at night, I suppose I can continue to turn a blind eye.”

I nod awkwardly, surprised by her casual demeanor. The curator holds out her phone, the screen showing a clock that reads 4:13 a.m.

“For now, it’s time to go back to bed,” she says as the screen turns off. I stare into my reflection in the black glass.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’ll get back to wet lab,” I say, realizing that I’m starting to feel the sluggish feeling that heralds in the morning.

She smiles, turning her headlamp back on as we leave the fossil collections. The curator walks off, disappearing into the shadows of the halls as Snail and I hurry back home. I swipe the I.D. and duck inside, stopping for a moment as I’m hit with the strong smell of ethanol. I help Troy back into his tub, coax Snail into their jar, and gather up the fish swimming in my tub. We’re all much more sluggish as the morning starts to roll in, seeing the sky start to lighten through the window. At last, I collapse back into my tub, trying not to splash too much as I let the ethanol settle back around me.

I drift off into the long day, holding on to the memories of the night. My cloudy eyes don’t close as my muscles stiffen, ready to stay motionless for the next day in the bright lights of the lab. I could run these halls forever, reveling in the shadows of forgotten, forever preserved lives, permeated in the scent of ethanol and mothballs.

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trombonesolo · 10 months

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The Terrible Alfred Spožek exhibit of the Museum of Modern Hurt opened today. I took my wife and her children to see what all the fuss and bluster was about. A guard stopped us at the entrance and told us the exhibit was full and there would be an hour wait, then handed us a restaurant pager and showed us to an empty exhibit by one Giulia Bhoulârd. It was a series of crayon and lard paintings of naked men gripping their cock and balls in one hand and eating a variety of sandwiches in the other. Needless to say I didn't cover the kid's eyes, because I couldn't give a shit about the little bastards.

After about 20 minutes, our restaurant pager buzzed, so we shuffled back out into the main hall. The guard took our pager and led us into the exhibit, which was shielded by a pair of thick blackout curtains. When our eyes adjusted to the dark, we realized we were surrounded by hundreds of knives, and before we could turn around, the guard had already piled more people in behind us. We were about 40 adults and 10 children, and the room could hardly accomodate a party half that size. I was immediately separated from the kids, which provided a small sense of relief in the odd atmosphere.

Eventually, the curtains' rhythmic parting ceased and the room was full. The murmur of the crowd died to a chill hush as a spotlight shown above us. Mr. Spožek was sitting in an extremely high chair, much like the chair of a lifeguard, in the center of the room. He began to speak through the microphone clipped to his sweater vest.

" Ladies and gentlemen, today it is my great pleasure to present to you my latest piece, commissioned and sponsored by the museum's board of patrons. It is the sole piece in my exhibit, and I assure you all it is unforgettable. Without further ado, let's begin." Suddenly, I noticed the pair of construction-grade noise protection ear muffs on his head, and I instantly developed a very unpleasant sensation in my chest, much akin to the time I ate a vegetarian hoagie that gave me food poisoning. I never trusted a Subway™️ again.

With his rather vague introduction concluded, umělec a malíř Alfred Spožek snapped his fingers, and 100 trillion knives shot out of the walls and directly into every single person in the room. Not a single human being, save for the man in the high chair, could possibly escape the trajectory of the projectiles. We were trapped like hogs in a slaughterhouse pen, and the machines were hungry. I felt my muscles and sinew twist and rupture as the mass of my flesh was split and pushed aside by the cold stainless steel of the cutlery. The unceasing projectile fire of the wall-cannons shook the entire building.

My first, piercing thought upon feeling the sensation was of the time in high school I roasted marshmallows on the beach with the foreign language studies club to commemorate our exchange students' final day in the country. My best friend of 12 years, Alex Stewart, had just pierced my cheek with a red hot poker after trying to feed me his burnt marshmallow. After a drunken half-assed attempt to treat me with the first aid kit in his glove box, we made out for 40 minutes and I never saw him again. I saw my dumb wife's stupid face twist into shock as the knives struck her and all I could think about was Alex's dick and how much I had wanted to see it. Last I heard he was working for an Irish indie game studio or some shit like that. I couldn't believe I had missed out on that entire package just for this dumbass wife who didn't even know you have to keep the fridge closed or the milk will spoil, or her shitty kids who asked me over and over how an RC car works, even when I had already explained down to the excruciating detail how RF waves work and why I won't allow them in my household. I'm glad I was separated from them in this moment. They'd probably ask me how knives can fly.

After about 5 minutes of utter carnage, Alfred Spožek slowly climbed down from his wooden high chair, and rubbed his fingers over the slash and claw marks that had accumulated over the day. He sighed and waved at the guard. "That was the last batch for the day. Tell the waiting guests and notify the crew for me, would you please?" He turned on his heels and stepped directly onto my penis as he walked out.

I hope Alex never comes to this stupid fucking museum.

#By the way did I mention I like playing PlayStation?#writing

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kultofathena · 9 months

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United Cutlery – Lord Of The Rings – The Sword of Strider

The licensed and full size reproduction of Strider’s Sword as seen in New Line Cinema’s Lord of the Rings is ready to be mounted onto your wall as the centerpiece of your collection or home movie theatre. The blade is crafted from polished 420 stainless steel. The crossguard and pommel are crafted from stainless steel with an antiqued brushed satin finish and the grip is bound in smooth, faux green leather. Included with the sword is a wood display plaque (mounting hardware included) and a Certificate of Authenticity.

With over 100 million copies sold in over 40 languages, millions have grown up with The Lord of the Rings, the classic epic tale considered by millions to be the greatest fantasy-adventure story ever told. J.R.R. Tolkiens phenomenal epic trilogy chronicles the struggle between good and evil for possession of a magical ring. The book trilogy, named the most popular book of the 20th Century, has been presented in a series of feature films from New Line Cinema. Solid metal cross guard and pommel, antique metal finish. Genuine leather-wrapped grip.

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tonylessdigitalmarketing · 2 years

Link

When we talk about noise, we mean an undesirable sound that causes discomfort when it is heard. This impression and interpretation as undesirable or unpleasant are thus fully subjective, and what is noisy and what is not depends on the circumstances of each individual. for more info visit us: https://www.acromaxgt.com/Tile-Trims-and-Stairs-Nosing.html

#Stainless steel wall guard supplier in UAE #Fire Barrier installer UAE #Fabric Acoustic Panel

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tim-jackson · 1 month

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10 series rigger cable from the US border wall.

416 Stainless Steel guard and pommel.

Desert ironwood handle.

#bladesmith #knifemaking #knife community #damascus dagger #custom knifemaker #hand forged #blacksmithing #handmade #bladesmithing #knifestagram #art knife #knife #forge welded #weldeverydamnday

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dysthanasia-series · 9 months

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Apophenia 0.5 Pt. 4

Patreon | Ao3

Summary: Beware.

Words: 2598

Content Advisory: Supernatural horror, brief body horror, knife/blade violence, gun violence, threats of bodily harm/torture, pursuit, escape gone wrong

Isaac knew he should get up. Make a break for the door without looking back. Do something geared toward escape. The rest of his body disagreed. Hair trigger tension thrummed in his muscles, waiting for the predator sitting next to him to pounce.

But Dimas only smiled, leaning back on one hand and playfully swinging the ring of keys on a finger of the other. “Oh? Would you rather stay a little longer then? Enjoy some more hospitality?”

The anxious paralysis broke. A fangtip peeked out from between the bloodborn’s lips while he watched Isaac lurch to his feet, bowl still in hand, and back away. More teeth when he bumbled into the wall. By the time Isaac fumbled his way out the door, he was closing it on the sight of Dimas’ full-blown Cheshire grin.

Then…then he found himself alone in a dark hallway. The thud of his pulse in his ears was the only sound. Isaac’s eyes shifted to the right and left. Faint illumination from the latter. He counted to twenty. Not a peep from the opposite side of the door. He sidled away a step. Nothing. A creaking floorboard under his next one made him flinch, but it provoked no other reactions. Splitting his attention between watching his back and where he was going, Isaac made it to the end of the hall. Flipping the switches on the wall there flooded the area with light and his entire body with relief.

Through an arched doorway on one side, he saw the gleam of stainless-steel kitchen appliances. Could he find a knife or other weapon in the drawers? Doubtful. Best to keep moving. Straight ahead, the path opened into a cavernous living room devoid of any furniture or lurking horrors. No shelves, art, or traps decorated the adobe-tan walls, but the open shudders of the wide windows looked too silver and shiny to be wood. Metal, to guard against the sun and daylight intruders maybe. Isaac’s stomach bucked when he spotted a blue tarp rolled up in one corner with a pair of shovels resting on top. He quickly looked elsewhere and was rewarded with a more heartening discovery: his travel bag sitting next to what had to be the front door.

Isaac was done hesitating. He rushed across the polished hardwood floor, not caring how loudly his bare feet slapped against the floor. His bag was unzipped, everything jumbled after having been searched. Images of claw traps flashing in his mind, Isaac gingerly picked through his stuff until he found his tab. It still had plenty of charge when he turned it on, just no signal. Fine, he could contact Director Khang and the enforcers as soon as he escaped the house-turned-slaughter-pen. He had the foresight to pull on two pairs of socks. Then he stuffed the tab into his back pocket, fished his keys out, and slung the bag crossways over his shoulder to keep his hands free.

After some deliberation, Isaac grabbed one of the shovels from the corner. Caked dirt and what he prayed were just flakes of rust coated the blade, but its weight reassured him.

The front door unlocked and opened without a hitch. He stepped out onto a porch showing the first signs of age in its cracking white paint. The steps sagged and groaned under his weight but held. Goosebumps sprung up across Isaac’s skin on contact with the night air. He scanned the yard for any signs of impending death or dismemberment. Nothing except a few clustered colonies of cacti and succulents broke up the barren expanse of packed, sand-colored dirt. He couldn’t smell any sign of a dog or other guard animal. Beyond the post fence decorated with cow skulls that marked the property boundary, Isaac could see his humble yet reliable car waiting next to the bloodborn’s fancy model. Only the rocky hills and open dirt road waited for him after that.

Too easy. There had to be a nasty catch somewhere. Crosshairs from a rifle trained on him through a window. Landmines buried in the yard for all he knew. He’d been worried about being chomped, but someone as sadistic as Dimas would probably find killing him in a totally unexpected way even more thrilling. Which was why Isaac wound up tossing the shovel on the ground ahead of him every few paces before moving forward.

About fifteen feet from the fence, the bloodborn’s trap sprang.

A tiny shockwave rippled through the earth, making gravel jump. Isaac froze in his tracks, every sense alert. The grinning skulls hanging on the fence posts chattered their teeth, vibrating from some cause he couldn’t detect. He finally spotted the Beware sign nailed to the crossbars of the gate. A sign that would face anyone on their way out, not in. His heart froze over.

He had to try, though. If there was any hope of escape, no matter how slim, he needed to go for it. Isaac gazed back at the single-story ranch house. Empty, dull windows, no movement. Dimas could’ve set up cameras to watch remotely. Probably wouldn’t do much good to go looking and break them, not when the bloodborn could just come outside and grab him. Better to play along then.

Isaac faced the fence again. Gripping the shovel tight, he reached out to poke the nearest trembling skull with the tip before jumping away. No explosion. No poison darts. Nothing. Emboldened, he stepped forward and took a proper swipe. The skull tumbled from its perch, landing on its side with one curved horn stuck in the dust.

Movement in the corner of his eye. Water gushed up from around the bases of the gate post. No, something thicker, like gelatin, oozing from the cracks in the earth and forming a mounting pile. Shovel clutched to his chest, Isaac retreated as the thing reached waist height. Backed away a few more steps when the column of slime—towering over him by at least two feet now—reached down with a long tentacle to scoop the skull off the ground and place it on top of its mass. Thus crowned, the gel monster gave a little quiver but made no further move.

Well…shit. No field guides Isaac could remember had ever mentioned something quite so weird. He took a cautious step to the side, stare trained on the cow skull serving as the creature’s head. Could it see him? He started to sidle closer to the gate. A clatter brought him up short. The other skull had fallen from its mounting and goo bubbled from the parched ground to pick it up. Isaac pressed one sleeve to his nose when a breeze hit him with the reek of spoiled meat and damp, moldering leather. He glanced at further sections of fence along either side. More bones, about every ten yards or so.

He wasn’t turning back. Dimas could laugh all he wanted from wherever he was watching. But Isaac wasn’t going to give up—not with his car, with escape, so close. Magic wasn’t his wheelhouse, but he still knew a few basics. What did he have that might disrupt whatever had activated the pair of guardians? Salt? Not unless he went back to the house and searched the kitchen. Silver? Dimas had taken the pistol from his bag, of course, but what about…yes. Isaac found the handful of silver rifle rounds he was authorized to carry in one of the side zipper pockets. Holding one like a dart, he aimed a bit above center of the left jelly-mold horror’s undulating mass. A flick of the wrist and the bullet struck its target, sinking in halfway down the casing.

The creature twitched, then sucked the round into itself with a faint slurp. The bullet sat suspended in its gelatinous bulk but otherwise unaffected. So much for silver then. Iron? Isaac glanced at the end of the shovel. Steel probably wouldn’t pass muster. Anyway, the thing would likely yank his only weapon right out of his hands if he stabbed it. Time for another approach. How did the creatures sense him? Stomping provoked no reaction. Neither did waving or whistling. It wasn’t until he edged around to a neighboring section of fence and put his hands on the top rail that they took notice.

Both skulls snapped to face him, teeth clacking. The nearest guardian rushed him in a slithering charge. Isaac yelped and stumbled back as it reared up between him and freedom. The other wrapped itself around the fence like a python, head bobbing and weaving in agitation. Isaac continued to retreat from the first’s steady advance. The house. It was fucking herding him back toward the house and the bloodborn waiting for him inside.

Shoving his hand in his pocket, he fumbled for his keys. Hit the button to unlock his car. The responding chirp and flash from the headlights didn’t go unnoticed. Lunging, the guardian snapped its jaws inches from his face. Isaac gasped, hopped back, and swung the shovel with all his terror and desperation behind it. The skull went sailing. Its mandible detached on impact with the ground, horned cranium skipping and rolling across the dirt. Isaac didn’t wait to see if the creature would go after it. As soon as it recoiled, he sprinted for the gate. He tossed the shovel over the fence before jumping the rail, but didn’t stop to pick it back up. The driver’s door opened without a hitch and he threw his bag into the next seat. His first press of the ignition button lit up the dashboard.

Impact smashed in the back window just as Isaac threw the gear into reverse. Stinging bits of jagged safety glass pelted his neck and shoulder. He met a pair of glowing eyes in the rearview mirror. Not sea-blue but the dull, smoldering red of dying coals set deep in sunken sockets. A gruesome smile, teeth filed to points, cracked open across a pale, craggy face. Isaac had no idea what the creature crawling, spider-like, into the backseat was, but it terrified him more than anything outside the car. He stomped on the emergency brake and scrambled out.

The gaunt thing inside kicked open the rear passenger door. Isaac turned to sprint back to the yard, but skidded to a stop, his escape blocked by the two guardians. He decided to face the bigger threat stepping out of the car. In the evening light, the creature’s skin looked mottled, even its bare scalp. A patchwork of various tans, browns, and whites just like the cloak hanging on its tall frame was a mix of different hides and furs. A swell of nausea rolled through Isaac’s middle when he noticed dimpled scars from stitches outlining each individual patch on the thing’s body..

“What—” Isaac started.

Drawing a stained hunting knife from inside its cloak, the grinning creature closed the distance between them in a single leap. Isaac let out a strangled squawk and backpedaled. The blade still opened a horizontal gash in his shirt. Pressing an arm over his belly, Isaac tripped, his heel catching on something long. Falling on his ass saved his life—the creature brought the knife down in a wind-splitting arc right where his head had been half a second before.

Partway through scrabbling away, he spotted the shovel that had made him fall. Isaac didn’t think twice. He dove for it, angling the blade end up at the stitch-skin monster as it lunged. With its handle braced against the ground, the shovel bit in deep just below his attacker’s jutting ribs. The red eyes flared huge and bright, blazing at Isaac above a snarl while he crab-crawled away as fast as he could, tiny stones cutting into his palms.

“Annoying whelp.” The creature had a voice like dead leaves rasping along the abandoned streets of a ghost town. “I’ll peel you slow, starting from the soles of your feet. Let the ants go to work on you while you’re still alive.” Taking hold of the shovel handle, it yanked the blade from its torso. Not a trickle of blood fell from the smiling wound. Armed with two weapons, it took a step toward Isaac.

Rolling thunder broke over the desert. One side of the advancing creature’s head exploded. It reeled in the same direction, mouth hanging open in a silent scream. Or no. Not silent. Isaac just couldn’t hear anything over the ringing in his ears.

Movement to the left drew his eye. He watched Dimas, service pistol in hand, finish crossing the yard and open the gate. Gaze trained on the flailing creature, he said something Isaac didn’t catch. Same went for the small object the bloodborn threw into his lap. A key fob. He finally understood, at least enough. Snatching the key, Isaac got his feet under himself and made for the stylish black car. His hopes of taking off alone were crushed by Dimas slipping into the passenger seat.

“Go, go, go!” the bloodborn shouted in a distant, tinny voice.

Better the monster he knew than the one he didn’t. Maybe. Either way, Isaac figured he didn’t have much choice. He stomped on the accelerator and swung onto the narrow dirt track with as much speed as he dared.

It wasn’t enough. In the rearview dash display, the creature with quilted skin charged after them, mouth open in a howl and eyes blazing in the bloody glow of the taillights. It pulled its fur cloak around it like a cocoon and…changed. An unsettling ripple rolled through the garment, a patch expanding and crawling up, then over the creature’s wounded head. With a twisting leap, it became an enormous, mangy coyote bounding down the road. And gaining on them.

In no apparent hurry himself, Dimas rolled down his window and leaned halfway out of it. Isaac had the sense to shield at least one ear with a hand before the pistol went off. Once. Twice. Three times before the beast jerked and stumbled. It hit the ground face-first, tumbling end over end. Darkness swallowed it as they left it behind.

Dimas slid back down into his seat. He used the sun visor’s mirror and the hand not holding a gun to comb his wind-ruffled hair into place again.

“Slow down,” he said, voice muffled by Isaac’s damaged hearing. “We’re in the clear for the moment.”

No, actually. Nothing was clear. Though Isaac eased his foot off the accelerator, his heartrate didn’t drop along with the speedometer.

“What,” he panted, “the hell was that?”

Dimas slapped the sun visor closed. “You know, I thought I was a great liar. But your commitment is impressive. Fucking annoying, but impressive.”

Isaac hit the brake, bringing them to a complete stop. He found the pistol pointing at his chest when he looked over. The lenses of the bloodborn’s eyes caught the dashboard lights, shining almost the same cold, nocturnal shade of green.

“I’m not lying,” Isaac said.

“Oh? So, you weren’t sent out here to the edge of nowhere about the mermaids?”

His mouth snapped shut, ears burning. “How did you—”

A corner of Dimas’ mouth quirked up. “Same as you and that Ouroboros who almost added your hide to their collection. You’re welcome, by the way.”

“But—”

Sighing, the bloodborn turned his stare and weapon away. “Drive. We should reach the interstate in about twenty minutes. I don’t want to be ambushed out here a second time.”

“And then what?”

“Then…maybe you convince me saving your skin was worth it.”

#dysthanasia #urban fantasy #vampires #fantasy #writblr #I'm working on a beginning chapter that explains the mermaid thing a bit

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jaws-and-canines · 6 months

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The Birds: 1-1

Previous - Next

This whole series contains body horror and themes of mental illness, self harm and suicide.

Finally getting this started. Progress will be slow. Having trouble doing anything creative since I had the seizure but I'm giving it a go.

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The corridor is long, low and windowless. Every man held there is awaiting his own death. The walls are painted a particularly sickly shade of pink, more suited for a nursery than the condemned block.

The guards can be heard before they are seen. Their keys rattle on their chains. A woman carrying a folder under her arm walks a few steps ahead of two black-shirted men escorting a prisoner. The prisoner between them can barely walk. They have to drag him. His feet slide along the floor- cheap white trainers. Cuffed hands hang loose in front of him, bruised fingers with broken nails taped together, and the grey jumper barely grazes his wrists, several sizes too small for him. He has forgotten how to close his mouth- his tongue is pale but marked with angry red where he has bitten it. A thin string of saliva twists from his beard and drips onto the floor. His glasses, held together by tape at the hinges, seem to barely cling to his face.

With a moan, he tries to swallow his own spit and coughs and splutters. The woman reaches into the pocket on his trousers, taking out a balled-up tissue and wipes his mouth. He dribbles onto the tissue, and tries to focus on what’s in front of him, bloodshot eyes tinged a pallid pink flicking across the corridor. Briefly, he takes a few steps, before collapsing again under his own weight. They continue to drag him.

The woman stops in front of the grey doors and unlocks it with one of the keys from her belt. The cell smells of bleach, whitewashed walls and grey lino floor. There is nothing in it save for a stainless steel sink and toilet unit in the corner next to the door, and the bed in the far corner. There are no sheets on the bed, just the flat sheet over the mattress.

The man lifts his head a little to stare into the cell. The officers on either side of him take most of his weight. He pitches forwards, unaware of his own centre of gravity. He furrows his brow. “Where’sit,” he slurs, gesturing weakly with cuffed hands to the empty room.

“Where’s what?” she asks. “Your belongings?”

He grunts in agreement. “My pencils. Photographs, m’ books.” His worried eyes flick over the room as if he is expecting his belongings to suddenly jump out at him, to materialise in an empty corner. They don’t. Tears start to well up in the corners of his eyes.

She puts a hand on his shoulder, leans over and undoes his handcuffs. His wrists are marked, patterned like crumpled paper with indents from straining against much heavier restraints. “Shall we go and sit down on the bed?”

He ignores her for a moment. His hand goes straight to his neck, to the angry red and black bruises, before the heaviness of his own body becomes too much for him to bear, and the hand drops, fingers getting caught in the collar of his jumper on the way down. He tries to say something and it comes out as an incoherent groan. She puts a hand in the small of his back and tries to push him forwards a little. “Shall we go and sit down on the bed?” she asks again.

“Mmm.” He takes a step, supported by her, locking his knee and dragging his left leg. His hands go out to keep his balance, but he takes another, limping in the same way, and sits down on the edge of the bed. Still he does not shut his mouth, the trail of spit starting to drip from his beard again. He looks down and rubs the fabric of the flat sheet between his fingers, utterly absorbed in the way the fabric brushes against itself. He tugs it up a little more, and something beneath the mattress catches his eye. He tugs at it, once, twice, three times, until a little more of it comes loose. He studies the heavy fabric with holes punched through it for a moment, before he holds it up to her, that same anguish-tinged look of open-mouthed confusion on his face. He says nothing, just looks at her.

“Those are restraints, Anton.” She sits down beside him, putting a hand on his arm. “To keep you safe. But we don’t need those right now, do we?”

"Don't know." He wipes his mouth on the back of his hand.

She keeps her hand on his arm. "You're safe. You won't hurt yourself again. That's for your own good."

There is a pause as he turns it over in his mind. “I don't know anymore,” he breathes, and holds his own shoulders tightly. “I don’t want to do this anymore. I don’t want to BE this anymore.” He looks at her with eyes full of tears. “I want to go home,” he says, slurring his words. “I want to see my wife, my daughter, I want to go home,” he repeats, and a tear rolls down his cheek.

“That’s not possible right now. You sound very tired.” She takes the tissue from his pocket again and wipes his mouth, and then the salt-stains from his cheek. “Are you going to sleep?”

“Yeah,” he says, sniffing, and lies down, lifting his left leg up onto the bed with a hand underneath his knee. He pulls off his jumper and tucks it under his head as he rolls onto his side. He fumbles with his glasses with taped-together fingers to take them off, and hooks them over his lapel. She sits there for a few moments, watching the rise and fall of his chest. When he starts to snore she gets up with a hand on her keys to stop them rattling.

She locks the door behind her.

“Jesus Christ,” says one of the men, arms folded across his chest. “What a fucking mess.”

The woman tucks her hair behind her ear. “Some of them drool like that with the sedatives, some of them don’t.” Sifting through the folder under her arm, she pauses for a moment on the full audit record of his injuries. “He’s probably too sore to swallow that amount of saliva.”

The photographs were all taken with flash in the early morning. The motion is evident from them, someone having to pull his fist apart to straighten out his fingers, tension in his arm from tugging against the leather limb restraint around his wrist. The next few are of his bloodshot eyes under a pupil torch, three photos in quick succession, his face twisted into a picture of childish distress as someone gently opens his eyes with nitrile-gloved fingers despite him fighting to keep them shut. The rest are all of his neck. He is sat up for those, co-operating, turning his head this way and that, someone brushing back his mousey-brown hair from his neck to show the ligature marks around his throat, the deep red and black bruising. She wonders how the nursing team managed to get him to play along, and turns to the next page in the folder, her order form for an adapted diet. “I’ve signed off on a soft diet for the next week. Make sure he gets that or he won’t be able to eat. He’ll need a minder for a while.“

There’s a loud tut from the man in the black shirt. “That’s a member of staff I’ve got to waste on watching a single man who’s just tried to top himself.” He bristles, expression souring, rocking back and forth on his heels. “How long are we expected to do that?”

She smiles, knowing he can’t weasel his way out of the responsibility. “You can stop assigning a minder to him and watch him on the camera when he’s not doped-up enough that he might choke on his own spit in his sleep.” She turns another page in the folder and comes to the form she filled in giving them the option to keep him restrained for the maximum of six hours. “If he gets agitated you can use the Pinels under the mattress. I’ve signed off on them already for the grace period. If you can’t de-escalate enough to de-restrain him in the six hours, call me. I’ll get a court order to keep him restrained or I’ll send someone down to sedate him again.”

The officer shakes his head, arms still folded. He looks at the locked door, and then back to the woman. “I’m not happy about being lumped with your headcases, Marie. This is the condemned unit, not psych. My guys generally don’t try to speed things up when it comes to being dead.”

“Well then,” she says. “You better hope he agrees to testify, or you’ll be stuck with him until they take him out to shoot him in the back of the head.” She picks out a stapled booklet of papers from the folder and slots the papers into the clipboard beside the door.

The first is a blood-red sheet, bold capitals across it - ANTON ELLMENREICH VON FENNEC - SUICIDE RISK - MANDATORY 5-MINUTE CHECKS.

Beneath it, on a second clipboard, his photo stares into the hallway- dishevelled, confused, with cracked glasses. If you asked him, he’d say he couldn’t remember when it was taken. He forgot several months ago.

#cw suicide #the birds

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