#Congealed Group

[tahthetrickster]

literally lying on my couch being trampled by cats and thinking to myself . how can i make the angry gay faeries sad

[professorcloak]

Beneath the Bloodstains

warnings: gore, injuries, fluff, weapons

The first time you meet Daryl Dixon, he barely spares you a glance.

You don’t take it personally. He’s like that with everyone—gruff, distant, always half a step away from disappearing into the trees. It’s been that way since you joined the group a couple of weeks ago, scavenging supplies and keeping your head down. You weren’t looking for friends, and neither was he.

But then you save his life.

It happens fast—too fast to think. One second, he’s tracking a deer in the underbrush, the next, a walker barrels out of nowhere, snarling and snapping, its decomposed flesh sloughing off in thick, putrid chunks. The stench is overwhelming—rot and bile mixed with the sickly-sweet scent of decay. Its yellowed, broken teeth gnash inches from Daryl’s throat, gnarled fingers clawing at his jacket as it forces him to the ground.

Before he can reach for his knife, you’re already there. Your machete arcs through the air, sinking deep into the walker’s skull with a sickening crack. The blade splits bone and brain matter, a spray of dark, coagulated blood splattering across your hands and face. The creature twitches violently, its fingers convulsing before going limp. A thick glob of rancid gore dribbles from the caved-in skull, pooling on the dirt.

When you turn back, breathing hard, Daryl’s staring at you. Really staring. There’s a flicker of something in his blue eyes—surprise, maybe. Or something deeper. Then, just as quick, it’s gone. He shoves the corpse off with a grunt, wiping gore from his face with the back of his hand before nodding once, a gruff sort of thanks, and retrieving his weapon without another word.

After that, something shifts. It’s small at first. A nod when you pass each other in camp. A second portion of whatever stew is cooking over the fire, left near where you sit. An extra knife, slipped into your gear without a word. Daryl doesn’t say much, but he’s always watching, always nearby.

You don’t push. He doesn’t like questions, doesn’t like people getting too close. That’s fine—you’re not looking for anything, not really. In a world where survival is everything, attachments can be dangerous.

But some nights, when the firelight flickers and the world feels a little less doomed, you catch him watching you again, something unreadable in his expression. Like he’s figuring you out. Like maybe, just maybe, he’s starting to let you in.

Then the next attack comes.

It’s a routine supply run gone bad—too many walkers, too fast. The group is scattered, forced to fight in pairs or alone. You and Daryl are back to back in an abandoned store, the air thick with the rancid stench of the undead. The walls are splattered with dried blood, shelves overturned, their contents long since raided. Rotting bodies are slumped in the corners, their eyeless sockets staring into nothing. The faint buzzing of flies hums through the stale air.

Your blade is slick with gore, your breath coming in sharp, ragged gasps. The floor is a slick mess of crushed skulls and decomposing viscera. The moans of the dead echo off the ruined aisles, growing louder, closer.

Daryl’s crossbow fires with deadly precision, each bolt punching through rotting flesh and bursting out the other side, leaving gaping holes dripping with congealed black blood. But there are too many, and when one lunges from behind a toppled shelf, you barely have time to react. Its clawed hands rip into your shoulder, jagged nails peeling away fabric and flesh, the pain instant and white-hot.

The walker’s breath is a rancid, wheezing rasp against your ear, its teeth snapping inches from your neck. The coppery scent of your own blood floods your senses, mingling with the putrid stench of rotting flesh.

Before you can scream, Daryl is there, his knife flashing in the dim light. He drives it into the walker’s temple, the blade sinking in with a sickening squelch. The thing spasms violently before collapsing, its ruined face twisted in a permanent grimace.

Daryl grips your arms, steadying you, his hands warm and firm despite the blood smearing between you. His eyes dart to the wound, his jaw tightening.

"Ain’t deep," he mutters, but there’s an edge to his voice, something almost frantic beneath the gruffness. His grip lingers, fingers pressing just a little too long against your skin before he pulls away. "C’mon. We gotta move."

He doesn’t let go of you until you’re safe again.

The moment you’re back at camp, he pulls you toward the fire, his grip rough but careful. He pushes you down onto an overturned crate, then crouches in front of you, fishing a bottle of alcohol from his pack. He doesn’t say a word as he douses a rag with the harsh liquid, pressing it against the torn flesh of your shoulder. The pain sears through you, sharp and blinding, but you grit your teeth and bear it.

Daryl doesn’t meet your eyes, but you can feel the tension rolling off him. His hands are steady, but his jaw is locked tight, his breath coming in slow, measured exhales. The firelight flickers, throwing shadows across his face, making the lines of worry stand out sharper than usual.

"You should’ve been more careful," he grumbles finally, voice low, almost accusing.

You huff out a tired laugh. "You’re one to talk."

His gaze snaps up to yours, a flash of something dangerous in his eyes—frustration, maybe, or something deeper. He doesn’t answer, just presses the rag harder against your wound, making you hiss through your teeth.

"Daryl—" you start, but he shakes his head.

"Don’t," he mutters. "Just—" He exhales sharply, looking away. "You scared me, alright?"

The words are barely above a whisper, but they hit you harder than any walker ever could. You stare at him, heart pounding, the pain in your shoulder momentarily forgotten.

He doesn’t wait for you to respond. Just finishes wrapping your wound, then stands abruptly, muttering something about needing to check the perimeter before stalking off into the darkness.

You watch him go, fingers curling over the fresh bandage on your shoulder, and for the first time in a long while, you feel something other than just survival. --

just a short lil fluff story :)

[flickering-nightfall]

Playing with some ideas mostly regarding gender/reproduction in RW, and slugcat colonies.

Full transcript under the cut!

Creatures in Rain World are typically simultaneous hermaphrodites but require partners to reproduce, with either individual capable of being a genetic donor or carrier. Alongside what we are familiar with, this has lead to interesting reproductive strategies such as rotating donor/carrier roles, or dual/simultaneous genetic swaps.

Rotating donor/carrier roles - A K-selection reproductive strategy. One partner carries the first child, the other partner carries the next child, and so forth. Allows each partner to recover from the demands of childbearing.

Rain Deer aren't quite monogamous, but they tend to choose the same breeding partner whenever mating season rolls around. They serve as a donor one season, then bear and raise a child the next. Calves are raised away from the rain and worm grass, in places that have less food but more safety. Calf wool is softer, not yet gunked up by the dirty rainfall. Their legs are sturdier as children, allowing them to run for cover while the parent wards off threats.

Dual/simultaneous genetic swap - An r-selection reproductive strategy. Parents fulfill the donor and carrier role for each other. The more children you make, the more likely some are to survive!

Multiple batflies lay thousands of eggs in a single "blue fruit." Several eggs congeal and become nutrient paste for the surviving eggs (and for hungry slugcats). Like some plant seeds, batfly eggs that are consumed before pupating can survive passing through the digestive system. Ew.

Ancients also fell under this umbrella. Their genders (and the genders of iterators by extension, who have no sex anyways) could have been determined by a variety of other factors, such as societal role, donor/carrier preference, or simply different categorizations of personal expression.

It's difficult to say how well their common pronouns would translate to ours, but it seems they can translate to an extent, given what Moon and Pebbles use canonically.

Slugcats, like real slugs, can have children with a partner or self-fertilize. Unlike real slugs, they are often known to adopt.

In the case of self-fertilization: children who are born from one parent may display a large amount of genetic diversity despite the circumstances. Maybe slugcats have some sort of... genetic reservoir independent of their own genetic code?

Slugcats live 20-30 years on average... if they manage to reach adulthood. Their mortality rate is sadly rather high, especially in pups. If they were to develop as a civilization, it's likely their lifespan would increase dramatically.

Slugcats in a colony are more likely to have more children, and to successfully rear those children to adulthood, than those who wander alone or in small groups. The safety and stability of a colony cannot be understated.

Colonies either have a set, cycling migration path, or wander continuously. Survivor and Monk's tree home was a nesting site that their colony frequents about once a year. So it's likely that they'll see their family again!

...also, the strength of large colonies are why scavengers are likely to become the dominant species. In the time of Saint's era, continuous migration has become more of a risk, and it has become more difficult to support large populations. Slugcat populations have shrunk back to the more forgiving equatorial zones.

Saint's tongue is pretty unusual and probably unique to them, or to a small population that they hail from. Fur (of varying thickness) is much more common.

Meanwhile, scavengers are bulkier and covered in thicker insulating fur. They:

have seemingly massive populations

have a burgeoning society (the existence of merchants, tolls, bartering, elites and leaders)

are adept at communicating (non-verbally)

manipulate their environment

can build structures (scavenger-made structures were a scrapped idea from Saint's campaign)

can create complex weapons and tools

may have agriculture behind the scenes (unsure if scout parties prioritize exploration or hunting)

I would wager on scavengers developing more quickly than slugcats, but it would be nice if there was a future where both could co-exist.

[nhaaauyen]

⋆ ˚｡ ⋆୨ The Ghost of You ୧⋆ ˚｡ ⋆

"This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong // To love that well which thou must leave ere long." -William Shakespeare (Sonnet 73)

PART I: HEAVEN KNOWS

zombie apocalypse sevika x reader au!: sevika was the super soldier; a killing machine driven solely by survival. you were nomadic, constantly searching for something in whatever was left of the world—till you met her.

series masterpost: part II // part III // part IV // part V

wc: 4.7k cw: guns, brief descriptions of violence author's note: ty @mirconreadzztuff22 for being my arcane encyclopedia!! This is gonna be a seven part series so buckle up!!!

You blink awake, the world slowly coming into focus as a cacophony of muffled sounds pierces your slumber. Squinting one eye open, you’re able to see shadowy figures dragging your companions away, their struggles futile against the intruders' iron grips. Your heart races, but instinct kicks in. You remain still, feigning sleep, as footsteps approach.  

Someone looms over you - in the dim light filtering through the drugstore's grimy windows, you catch a glimpse of her scarred face and steely gaze. As she reaches for you, adrenaline surges through your veins. In a flash, you slam into her, catching her off guard.

For a split second, you had the upper hand - but it's short-lived. The woman recovers with lightning speed, her combat skills levels way above yours. She easily corners you against the cold, dusty shelves, her knife finding its way to your throat. The blade's edge kisses your skin, a thin line of warmth trickling down your neck.

"Move any further, and I can end this now." she growls, her breath hot against your ear.

You raise your hands in surrender, and she roughly drags you to join the others. You're thrust into the main area, forced to your knees alongside Vander, Vi, Caitlyn, and Powder. The scene before you is horrifying - Through the front window, you see a horde of walkers slamming against the glass. Their decaying faces press against the surface, leaving smears of rot and congealed blood. 

At the fore stood the woman who captured you, her gang forming a menacing circle around your group. You noted how tall and muscular she was, her dark skin gleaming with a thin sheen of sweat in the dim light. A red shawl draped over her left side, obscuring her arm and shoulder.  Her short, styled hair framed a face set in stern lines, but her eyes, they sparkled with something dangerous, almost predatory.

The woman’s gaze swept over your group, lingering on each face before settling on yours. "Looks like we've got ourselves some lost lambs," she drawled, her voice a low, smoky rasp.

You felt Vi tense beside you, her fists clenching. On your other side, Caitlyn's fingers twitched near her now empty holster. Powder, uncharacteristically quiet, had her gaze fixed on the panels with the undead clawing their bloody fingers at.

The air crackled with tension as Vander spoke. "We're just passing through, we don’t mean to cause any trouble."

"Do you know whose territory you're in?" she demands, her voice cutting through the moans of the undead outside.

"No… but we weren’t going to settle here, let us go and we’ll get out of your hair."

The woman's laugh is harsh and devoid of humor. "I don't care," she sneers. Her eyes scan the ransacked shelves of the drugstore. "What I care about is where the remaining medications are. Hand them over."

Your throat tightens. You know exactly where they are – hidden in your pack. "I have them."

Her gaze locks on you. "Hand them over."

"Why should I?"

In an instant, she's in your face, so close you can see the flecks of amber in her dark eyes. Her scarred lip curls into a snarl. "Because you don't want to know what happens if you don't."

Your mind races, torn between protecting your group's precious resources and avoiding the wrath of this formidable woman and her gang.  Would she really let you go if you acquiesced? 

The tense standoff is suddenly interrupted by a burst of static. One of the woman's group members fumbles with a radio clipped to their belt. A male voice crackles through, urgent and clear.

"Sevika, the store's surrounded now. Get out before dark hits. Over."

The tall woman - Sevika, you now know - snatches the radio. "Copy that," she replies tersely, her eyes never leaving your group.

With a sharp whistle, her group springs into action. They wordlessly pack supplies, secure weapons, and prepare for evacuation. The efficiency is impressive, and you can't help but admire their coordination even when you had two of them keep their guns trained on your group.

“What about us?"  

Sevika's lip curls in amusement. "What about you?"

"Are you going to let us go?" Vander presses, his voice steady despite the circumstances.

"Sure," Sevika drawls, then points directly at you. "After she gives me the meds."

"What? How the hell are we going to get out of here ourselves?" Vi protested. 

Sevika's response is cold and indifferent. "If you want to get out that bad, do it yourself."

You watch Vander's mind work, always strategizing. "You have a base, it’s obviously well-supplied based on the amount of weapons and people you have. Take us with you, we can fight and help."

Sevika scoffs. "Now, why would I do that? You're lucky enough I'm letting you go alive."

Someone in her group chimes in with a smirk, "If they can get out alive." Snickers ripple through the gang, and your stomach turns at their callousness.

As Sevika's group continues packing, she allows your group to stand. You seize the moment, stepping forward. "I've got EMT training. I know how to use the medications I took."

Sevika dismisses you with a wave. "No thanks. We've already got a doctor."

"More help wouldn't hurt."

Her patience wearing thin, Sevika snaps, "I'm not picking up strays, especially ones so easy to put down."

You step closer, your face inches from hers despite the notable height difference between you two. "We were easy to capture because we were sleeping. That's a coward's move."

One of Sevika's people moves to intervene, but she halts them with a raised hand. Her eyes lock with yours, and to your surprise, her scowl turns into a smirk. 

"Okay," she says, her voice low and challenging. "Prove to me right now that you can survive.  However many survive, we'll take them in. But anyone left behind, I'm not coming back for. You're responsible for this."

Vander nods grimly. "Fine with us."

The moans of the undead grow louder outside.  While Sevika's group finishes their preparations, your group hurries to gather what few possessions you have. 

Vi angrily stuffs clothes into her backpack. "This is bullshit," she hisses. "We can take 'em. I say we fight our way out."

Caitlyn shakes her head. "That's suicide, Vi. They outnumber and outgun us."

You kneel beside Powder, helping her gather her collection of odds and ends - Her hands shake slightly as she works.

"It'll be okay, Powder," you whisper, giving her a reassuring smile. "We'll stick together, just like always."

Powder's eyes dart nervously between you and the others. "But what if they separate us? What if-"

"Shh," you soothe, squeezing her shoulder gently. "We won't let that happen."

Vander's deep voice cuts through the murmurs. "Enough," he says firmly but quietly. "I know none of us like this, but we're out of options. We can't keep running forever."

Vi whirls on him, eyes flashing. "So we're just gonna roll over and let them take us? After everything we've been through?"

Caitlyn places a calming hand on Vi's arm. "Vander's right, Vi. We're exhausted, low on supplies. This might be our only chance at something better."

You stand up, looking around at your makeshift family. "Maybe this is an opportunity. We don't know what their community is like but it could be a chance for a real home."

Vi scoffs, but there's a flicker of hope in her eyes that she quickly tries to hide. "Yeah, right. And I'm sure they invited us out of the kindness of their hearts."

Vander steps into the middle of the group, his duffle bag slung over his shoulder. "Listen to me," he says. "I don't trust them any more than you do. But right now, we need to play along. Stay alert, watch each other's backs, and be ready for anything. We're stronger together, remember that."

There's a moment of silence as his words sink in. Then, one by one, you all nod in agreement.

As you finish packing, you catch Sevika watching you, that same unreadable expression on her face. 

"Alright, time's up," Sevika calls out. "Let's move."

The moans of the undead grew louder outside, time was running out. With one last look at each other, your group falls in line behind Sevika's squad. 

Sevika's group snap into formation, they move with a fluid precision that speaks of countless drills and shared experiences. Sevika stands at the center, her scarred face set in grim determination as she outlines the plan to her team. You edge closer, straining to hear every word.

"Listen up," Sevika's voice cuts through the air. "Dustin, you're the distraction. When I give the signal, toss the radio into the parking lot. That should draw most of the horde away."

"Margot, Ran, Renni take position at the rear, pick off any stragglers that get too close. Conserve ammo, make every shot count.  Finn, you’ll lead - make sure everyone is accounted for, then go, don’t wait for us."

"The rest of you, we're on supply duty. Grab everything you can carry, and prioritize non-perishables." Sevika's eyes sweep over her team, then land on your group. "I'll be keeping an eye on our new 'friends'."

As the plan springs into action, adrenaline courses through your veins. You dash to your pickup truck, sliding into the driver's seat. Powder hops in beside you, her eyes wild with excitement. In the rearview mirror, you see Caitlyn and Vi taking up defensive positions in the truck bed, their guns at the ready. Vander moves with surprising agility for his size, efficiently loading supplies.

You hear hard rock playing from the blaring radio that Dustin hurls into the parking lot. The walkers' heads swivel towards the noise, their groans intensifying as they shamble after it.

Gunshots crack the air as Sevika's shooters pick off the walkers that didn't fall for the distraction. You grip the steering wheel tighter, ready to peel out at a moment's notice.

Sevika appears at your window. "Ready to prove your worth?" she challenges, eyebrow raised.

You’re about to respond when a voice from above steals your attention.

"Sevika!"

All heads turn to the roof. A kid stands there, panic evident on his face. Sevika's eyes widened in disbelief.

"What the fuck? They forgot Ekko?" she snarls, livid at the oversight.

The momentary distraction costs you. Walkers, drawn by the commotion, shamble towards your truck. Only one corner of the store remains clear, but it's too far for Ekko to reach safely.

Your mind races, and adrenaline sharpens your focus. "I know how to drift," you blurt out. "If you guys can clear as many walkers as possible near that open corner, I can whip the car close enough for him to jump down."

Sevika eyes you skeptically. "You have an interesting set of skills…  you’re confident you can get us close enough?"

"I can do it in my sleep. So, are we doing this?" you ask.

She nods curtly. "Fine. But don't get tempted to fling me out of the car."

"I wouldn't dream of it."

Sevika barks orders into her radio, relaying the plan to Ekko. The air fills with gunfire as both groups focus on clearing a path. You rev the engine, calculating angles and timing in your head.

"Hold on!" you shout, then slam the accelerator.

The truck lurches forward, tires screeching. You weave through the thinning walkers horde, your heart pounding in your ears. As you approach the corner, you crank the wheel hard, initiating a perfect drift. The world blurs around you as the truck slides sideways, stopping just beneath Ekko's position.

"Now!" Sevika roars.

Ekko leaps, landing with a thud in the truck bed. You don't wait for confirmation, immediately spinning the wheel to face the exit. In the passenger seat, Powder whoops with glee, while gunfire erupts from behind as Caitlyn and Vi pick off any pursuing undead.

A sharp tap on your window startles you from your laser focus on the road. You roll it down, coming face to face with Sevika's intense gaze.

"Need some directions?" she asks, a hint of amusement in her voice.

Heat rushes to your cheeks as you realize you've been blindly following the road away from the store. "Uh, yeah. That'd be great," you manage, trying to mask your embarrassment.

As you follow Sevika's directions, a sight on the horizon makes your jaw drop. A gated community looms in the distance, its high walls painted with the word “Zaun” on it represent safety you haven't seen in years. Suddenly, the organized efficiency of Sevika's group makes perfect sense. This is nothing like the ramshackle shelters you've cobbled together over the years.

The convoy of trucks comes to a halt in front of the gates. You expect them to open, but Sevika raises her fist. Your brow furrows in confusion, but before you can ask, she's out of the truck, moving with predatory grace toward the other vehicles.

She stops at one truck, yanking the door open with such force you're surprised it doesn't come off its hinges. In one fluid motion, she drags out the man who was supposed to be in charge in her absence earlier, Finn, and slams him against the side of the vehicle.

"You coward," Sevika snarls, her voice dripping with contempt. "You're a disgrace to this group."

You're transfixed by the sheer intensity of her anger, the way she towers over Finn despite not being much taller.   Then you see it - movement in your peripheral vision. A walker, stumbling closer to Sevika's unprotected back. Your heart leaps into your throat, panic flooding your system.

"Sevika!" you try to shout, but it comes out as a strangled whisper. Ekko's grip on your arm tightens, holding you back.

"Don't." he warns, but you barely hear him roaring in your ears.

Your mind races, unable to comprehend why no one is reacting. The walkers are mere feet away now. You struggle against Ekko's grasp, every fiber of your being screaming to do something, anything.

The walkers' rotting hands reach out, inches from Sevika's shoulder. Time seems to slow down. You're about to break free, to hell with the consequences, when-

CRACK!

The walkers crumples, a clean hole through its skull. The bullet whistled so close to Sevika you swear it must have grazed her.

But Sevika doesn't even flinch. 

"You're pathetic," she spits, her eyes boring into the man.

And suddenly, it clicks. The walker was never going to be a threat, but Finn was going to let the walker get her.  That decision was a huge fucking mistake.  

Before she let go, he leaned in to whisper something imperceptible but it had enough effect that she practically threw him onto the ground in response.

The gates begin to open, and as Sevika strides back to your truck, you can't help but feel a mix of admiration and fear.   The woman before you was no ordinary one, she was willing to put her life on the line to protect her people and weed out the weak links.

Sevika slid back into the seat next to you, her eyes meeting yours.  You feel exposed, like she can see right through you. There's a challenge there, a silent question: Do you know what you’re getting into?

You swallow hard, gripping the steering wheel tighter. 

As you drive through the gate, you couldn’t conceal your awe. The scene before you is like stepping into a different world - one untouched by the horrors of the apocalypse you've grown accustomed to.

Neat rows of houses line well-maintained streets. Lush gardens and small farms dot the landscape, bursting with life and color. People - actual living, breathing people - stroll along sidewalks, chatting and going about their day as if the world outside these walls hasn't ended.

You count maybe 15-20 houses in total, but the sheer number of people you see is staggering. There are more living souls in this one community than you've encountered in years of scavenging and surviving.

Sevika directs you to a parking spot, and as you're climbing out of the truck, a woman approaches. She's tall and dressed in a neat uniform, with short-cropped gray hair and a face etched with the kind of hardness that comes from years of survival. Her sharp eyes remind you of a hawk's.

"How much longer were you gonna keep talking before you let me shoot?" she asks Sevika, a hint of amusement in her gruff voice.

"As long as it takes to make my point, Grayson." Then, gesturing to your group, she adds, "I picked up some strays today. Oh, and a spot just opened on my team, by the way. If anyone in your group wants to switch sides..."

"Enough of stealing my patrol, Vika."  For the first time, you see Sevika truly laugh. You notice her tooth gap, she looks almost carefree.  

“Well, looks like you survived,” Sevika says, turning to your group.

“You could say that with a bit more enthusiasm next time.”

There’s a ghost of a smile on her lips at your quip.  “It’s your turn to uphold your end of the bargain now.”  She puts out her hand.  

You retrieve the bag you stuffed under the seat, it rattles with the pills as you hand it over.  Without even a goodbye or thank you, she turns to leave, and you watch as her group immediately follows suit.

Grayson gives you a once-over, then nods. "Alright, let's give you the grand tour."

The houses were luxurious and belonged to a class you never knew. Some have solar panels on the roofs, explaining the electricity you can see being used. There's a central square with what looks like a communal dining area. The smell of cooking food makes your mouth water - real, fresh food, not the canned goods and stale rations you're used to.

You pass by a building that Grayson identifies as the infirmary. Through the window, you can see shelves stocked with medical supplies. It's more medicine in one place than you've seen since the world fell apart. You notice guard towers strategically placed along the walls - despite the idyllic appearance, it's clear this place is well-defended.

"I've got a meeting to attend but Ekko here will take care of you, though I do hope that we will meet again - my patrol squad is always looking for new members." With that, Grayson strides away, leaving you all trying to take in the scenery.

"Come on, let's get you settled in! Sky will get you guys all sorted out." Ekko waved at your group to follow.

He leads you through the streets, and you can't help but marvel at the sense of normalcy. People are going about their daily lives, talking, and laughing. It's like stepping into a memory of the world before.

"Welcome!" Sky says, her voice gentle with a hint of anxiety at the sight of your group - soot ridden and blood stained clothes weren’t the most friendly image. "We got a spare house. It’s not huge, but it should accommodate all of you comfortably."

She hands Vander a set of keys and a small map. Then, with a delicate clearing of her throat, she adds, "If I may suggest... There are showers in your new home. I think you'll find them... refreshing after your journey."

Vi snorts at the polite understatement, while Caitlyn looks slightly embarrassed. 

Sky continues, "Once you've had a chance to clean up, Ekko can show you to the pantry. We'll make sure you have enough food to get started."

You can hardly believe what you're hearing. Showers? Fresh food? It seems too good to be true.

As if reading your thoughts, Sky's expression softens. "I know this must be overwhelming. Take your time to settle in. It must be hard adjusting to how it is here, but this place didn’t happen overnight. Everyone here has a part in maintaining things the way it is. "

Ekko nods, gesturing towards the door. "Ready to see your new digs?"

As you follow him out, you exchange glances with your companions. There's hope in their eyes, but also caution. This place seems like a dream come true, but you all knew that nothing was ever permanent. 

The moment you step into your new house, chaos erupts. Bags fly everywhere as you all rush to claim spaces. Vi tosses her pack onto a bed, while Caitlyn more carefully sets hers down. You and Powder are a whirlwind of motion, exploring every nook and cranny.

Tears prick your eyes as the reality sinks in. A real home, after so long.

"I call the couch!" Powder shouts, leaping onto it.

Vi raises an eyebrow. "You can have the bed, you know."

"Nope! This is perfect," Powder grins, bouncing slightly.

You all burst into laughter, the sound foreign but welcome after so much hardship. As the laughter dies down, you realize just how hungry you are. Powder’s stomach growls loudly, causing another round of giggles.

"I think that's our cue to hit the pantry," Vi says, standing up and stretching. "Come on, let's see what they've got around here."

At the pantry, you're shoveling food into your mouth, barely pausing to breathe. "I know this is canned, but why is it so good?" you mumble around a mouthful.

Ekko chuckles. "We have fresh fish, vegetables, and fruit too."

Your eyes widen in disbelief just as Sky walks in, Sevika close behind.

"Oh perfect, we were looking for you guys!" Sky says warmly.

Sevika's eyes scan your group. "I see you're settling in already. We’ve got jobs for you."

She starts assigning roles, Vander and Vi in food gathering. Then she turns to you, Caitlyn, and Powder. "You three will be working here in the pantry."

"What? Even after all those 'interesting skills' you said I had?" The words are out before you can stop them, tinged with disbelief and a hint of anger.

"This is a serious job. Making sure everyone gets the right rations is important. Preventing theft, too." Her tone is cocky, almost challenging.

Fury bubbles in your chest. After everything you've been through, all the skills you've developed to survive, you're being relegated to... food inventory? You want to argue, to prove your worth, but the words stick in your throat. You're acutely aware of how precarious your position is here.

Beside you, Caitlyn looks equally stunned. She's an incredible shot, her skills were wasted on this task. But like you, she remains silent.

"Understood," you manage to say, the word tasting bitter. You exchange a glance with Caitlyn, seeing the same resolve in her eyes. 

The days blend into one another as you settle into a routine at Zaun. It's surreal, to be able to think beyond mere survival. Conversations here with others touch on memories, hopes, dreams - luxuries you'd almost forgotten existed.

You're lost in thought, mentally cataloging the supplies, when a familiar voice cuts through your concentration.

"Looks like our newest recruits are really getting into the swing of things."

You turn to see Sevika leaning against the doorframe. Her presence fills the small space, making the pantry feel even more cramped than usual.

"Don't you have something more important to do?" you mutter, trying to hide your annoyance. "Like, I don't know, running this whole place?"

Sevika chuckles, pushing off the doorframe and sauntering into the pantry. "Multitasking, sweetheart. I can keep an eye on you and run this place at the same time."

You roll your eyes, returning to your task. But Sevika doesn't leave. Instead, she picks up a can, tossing it from hand to hand.

"You know," she drawls, "when I brought you in, I thought you might be more... useful. Didn't peg you for the grocery store clerk type."

Her words sting more than you'd like to admit, and it was also enraging - how dare she act like it wasn’t her fault you were assigned here in the first place? 

"We can't all be badass scavengers," you retort, reaching for a high shelf. Before you can grab it, Sevika's arm extends past yours, easily plucking the item you were struggling to reach.

"Here," she says, handing it to you. Your fingers brush as you take it, and you're struck by the calloused warmth of her hand.  You mutter a reluctant thanks, hyper-aware of her proximity. 

From the corner of your eye, you notice Caitlyn watching your interaction intently from across the room. Her gaze flicks between you and Sevika, a mix of curiosity and concern in her eyes.

Sevika notices too. She turns to Caitlyn with a raised eyebrow, the casualness in her voice from earlier gone. "Something on your mind?"

Caitlyn quickly averts her gaze, busying herself with her task. 

As you reach for another box, Sevika beats you to it, effortlessly lifting the heavy container. 

"How do you even have time for this?" you blurt out, frustration and confusion coloring your voice. 

Sevika sets the box down, her eyes meeting yours. "I don’t." 

The moment stretches between you, fraught with tension. Sevika's typical scowl returns, and she turns to leave.  "Try not to burn the place down with your expert can-stacking skills," she throws over her shoulder as she exits.

These encounters with Sevika were becoming more frequent, each one leaving you more uncertain than the last. But the random checkups made sense - you don't trust her, and neither does she.  

The pantry job was a way to keep your group in check but it coincidentally became a test of patience as well. Powder flits in and out, her time increasingly spent with Ekko. While part of you was frustrated by her lack of help, a larger part was glad she actually got to enjoy her childhood.

The breaking point comes during an argument with a burly man demanding extra rations. 

"Sorry, but rules are rules," you say, trying to keep your voice level. "Take it up with Sevika if you have an issue."

His face reddens. "Screw that, I'll go straight to Silco!"

The name hangs in the air, the mysterious leader of Zaun you've yet to meet. You knew Sevika's role as his right hand, but Silco himself remains an enigma, spoken of in hushed tones.

As the man storms off, you lock eyes with Caitlyn. Without a word, you both know - it's time for a change.

You find Grayson at the tennis courts, an incongruous sight that still makes you do a double-take. She's lounging in a weathered lawn chair, a beer in hand, watching a lackluster game between two residents.

The sun beats down on the cracked concrete court, weeds pushing through the fading lines.

Grayson spots you approaching, her eyes narrowing slightly as she takes a long swig of her beer. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

You can smell the alcohol on her breath as you draw closer, noting the slight flush on her cheeks. Despite her relaxed posture, there's a sharpness to her gaze that tells you she's far from incapacitated.

"We need to talk," you say. "About our roles here."

"What about them?"

Caitlyn steps forward, her posture straight and confident. "I want to join your patrol team."

You nod, adding, "And I want to join Sevika's scavenging group."

Grayson snorts. "If you want to join Sevika's group, why come to me? Why not ask her yourself?"

You feel your cheeks heat up as the memory resurfaces. "I did..."

Sevika stands before you, arms crossed, that infuriating smirk on her face. You've just finished explaining your request to join her team.

She laughs, the sound both mocking and somehow enticing. "If you can beat me in sparring once, sure." Her eyes rake over you. "But we both know that's not happening anytime soon, pantry girl."

"I need you to train me," you tell Grayson, determination in your voice. "Make me a better fighter. All I did was drive and fix wounds, but I know I can do more."

Grayson's eyes narrow. "How do I know I won't be wasting my time helping you two?"

Before you can respond, Caitlyn moves. In a blink, she's drawn Grayson's pistol from its holster and fired at a beer bottle perched on a table at the end of the court, shattering the bottle.

"Because we have the skills to prove it," Caitlyn says coolly, handing the gun back.

For a moment, there's silence. Then Grayson's face splits into a grin. "Alright, I'm convinced." She stands, stretching. "But today's my day off. I'll see you two at the west watchtower tomorrow morning." 

Her expression turns serious. "If you're late, don't bother asking again.  Do we have a deal?"

You and Caitlyn share a look.

“Deal.”

[heartfullofleeches]

Yan Zombie + Restoration Hobbyist Reader Blurb

-

"Blink once if you can hear me."

It calls to them from the darkness - a voice melancholic yet strangely robotic in its application. It's familiar - like something they've heard in a dream. They can't move. Their arms feel as though they're pinned beneath boulders. Their legs feel weightless. The place in their mouth were their tongue sat felt dry and... exposed. Left with no other choice, their eyelids flicker upwards. The flesh over their right eye feels to be constructed of foreign tissue - metal scrapping over the weight in the socket where their eye once was. The image of the figure standing over them is fleeting, lips pulled thin in an expression of approval.

"Blink twice."

Their eyes flutter open for a second time - remaining there as two finger pry apart the lids of their still functioning eye.

"Good. It's fortunate that you are still able to hear. At the moment, my fixes are merely cosmetic so I'm afraid you won't be able to see out of that eye of yours for some time. If you are like other patients I've had the issue will work out on its own."

Their eye rolls idly in their head - struggling to make out any features of the person through the blazing lights overhead.

"You must have questions. Forgive me- I wasn't expecting you to wake up before I had time to work on your jaw. Please use this to communicate if you wish, you can ask me anything."

Function to their left hand returns - their wrist raw and lacking the binding weight shacking it in place. Restraints? Smooth plastic rolls beneath their fingertip as they flex the stiff joints of their digits. Their fingers trace out the rectangular shape of the keyboard's space bar. Gliding gracelessly over the keys, a hand helps stabilize their moments as they begin to type. A computer monitor awakens from its sleep as words pop up on its screen.

"Where am I?"

A common question. "You are in my workplace. I repair things from time to time to keep myself busy. I found you in a creek nearby during a stroll the other night. Thankfully, you hadn't been in there long or I would've had to replace more than the skin of your eye."

Their hand draws up to their eye, feeling the odd texture over their eye. It's felt.

"I hate to bring up any bad memories from the past, but I need to ask in order to provide you with the care you require. Do you remember anything from the day you died?"

Died?... That's... honestly not the most surprising thing about this ordeal. A stabbing pain blisters at the back of their mind as they try to remember. A boat. A shotgun. Laughter. Tears. Please, no. It's not funny just put it down. Please. please-

"Boating trip. They said if I tagged along I could finally be apart of their group. I thought I could trust them. They said they were my friends. They said"

Their body lurches forward - fighting against the bite of their bonds. It hurts. It hurts so much. Why are they still here? Garbble wails ricochet off the bedroom walls. In their time of misery, another memory rushes to the forefront of their mind. Their body convulsing on an operating table. The gentle hushes of another as they pet back their hair - drying blackened tears from the corners of their eyes. A compassionate hand from the world that had abandoned them when they needed someone most.

"Hold me."

"What?"

"I remember.. Arms around me. A voice calling out to me. Promising me everything would be okay. That was you - right? Hold me. I don't want to be alone. Please, don't let me be alone anymore."

The hobbyist removes the glove from their dominant hand, wiping the leathery flesh were thick, congealing tears pool. You pull your newest patient closer - mindful of their stitches as you rub small circles along their spine.

"You can stay here as long as you like. While I'm not the most social person, I can't turn away someone who needs my assistance."

Their sobs are reduced to small whimpers as they cling into you - dying your apron in various fluids as their arm locks around your midsection in a vice grip. You grab onto their other wrist, preventing them from wrestling it out of their chains leaving you with more work in the future if their skin were to tear.

"I know this is a lot for you, but please try not to damage yourself further."

Their arm drops from your waist - fingers flying over the keyboard on a flurry.

"What's your name?"

"My name?... You can just call me Y/n."

[artbyblastweave]

I think there's a sense in which Worm is "apolitical" in the sense that it's deliberately aping the ways in which DC and Marvel present themselves as apolitical, superheroics as this bizarrely siloed institution that's got nothing to do with all the rest of that stuff, don't worry about it, and then it goes, alright, but this shit costs money and the lifestyle implies something about the psyche of the participants and a lot of buildings are getting blown up, so what kind of internal politics develop from that starting premise, and how do they spill out on the rest of society (answer- they jump right to neofeudalism, do not pass go.) All of which generally brushes past politics as we recognize it, except in spots where the basic premise of superheroes touch on politics in unexamined ways- you can try and read something about the politics of police and prisons into Worm but you won't get to the finish line without acknowledging that it's fundamentally concerned with how those things are handled (or not) in superhero comic books.

And in Ward he decided to backtrack on that and start thinking in terms of how capes would interface with or try to use their powers to advance real life political issues- and from there you get things like the fleshed-out, resurgent Fallen, bit players mentioned in passing like the ecoterrorist capes, insufferable republican family values capes like Moonsong, additional Legend-style LGBT-advocate capes like Furcate and Switch Hitter, and probably a number I'm forgetting. There's a shitload more of these guys in the Weaverdice stuff. On balance I like this change a lot. Frankly, the premise of a coalition of superpowered christian-nationalist theocrats consolidating power in the aftermath of the literal end of the world, coupled with the dregs of the old-world white supremacist capes rebranding and integrating themselves into whatever ostensibly heroic groups want manpower badly enough to be incurious about their pasts, is fucking fascinating. And it's something that makes me really, really wish that Ward had been set something like fifteen years later, after all this had had time to settle and congeal into some compellingly fucked post-apocalyptic superhuman power blocs informed by but distinct from the political alignments of today.

[goldenraeofsun]

got a bone to pick

“I can’t believe you,” Lois seethes as she slams the door behind her, her chandelier earrings quivering. 

Clark sighs. “It’s really not that big of a deal.”

Lois whirls around. “It is!” she pokes him, hard, in the chest, right below his lopsided, droopy bow tie. “You are a damn good reporter, and I will punch anyone who says otherwise right in the face.”

Clark’s shoulders slump even further, which Lois didn’t know was even possible. “I know. You nearly did.”

“You shouldn’t have held me back!”

“Lois,” Clark says patiently, “it was a fundraiser for Metropolis’ group homes. I couldn’t let you start a fight in front of literal children.”

“Oh, gimme a break. They’re orphans. They’ve definitely seen worse.”

Clark exhales a deep breath. “And why would I possibly let you add to their trauma?”

“To defend yourself! To defend your reputation!” Lois fumes as she stalks past him to yank open his refrigerator door. The chilled air wafts over her, but it does nothing to cool her burning rage. She skips the vegetables, jars of condiments, her favorite white wine Clark buys when she stays over. 

Her stomach growls. The fundraiser, glitzy and full of glamor, was full of on-trend bite-sized canapes and entrees that consisted of three slices of perfectly seasoned beef, artfully shredded greens, and two orange wedges. Oh, she would kill for hamburger right now, assuming Clark was out of the picture since he’d probably stop her from doing that too.

She tosses a half-empty pizza box in the general direction of the counter. It lands with a thud. 

“My reputation is just fine, thanks,” Clark says evenly. “Yours, on the other hand…”

“Is also fine,” Lois says scathingly, “because you didn’t let me beat the crap outta him.”

Clark tugs his bow tie loose. “Have you ever heard the advice, ‘pick your battles wisely’?”

Jesus Christ, what the fuck is he doing, parroting fortune cookies at her? She viciously throws open the lid of the pizza box, snarling, “Everyone knows the correct answer is always, D) all of the above,” and grabs the largest slice left. 

Half the cold cheese stays stubbornly behind, attached to the rest of the pie. Fucking laws of inertia. 

Lips pressed tightly together like he’s trying not to burst out laughing, Clark leans over and gently eases a new slice free. The cold, congealed cheese stays in its perfect, pre-cut triangle shape. “This might be a metaphor,” he says as he swaps slices with her.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Lois huffs before she stuffs her mouth with pizza.

Clark sighs as he reaches over to surgically separate the extra cheese from the pie and reattach it to Lois’s first attempt. “I feel like you’ve also never heard the saying, ‘you catch more flies with honey than vinegar’.”

She rolls her eyes. “Heard it. Didn’t care for it.”

Clark chuckles. “I’m not surprised.” He takes a bite of pizza, chewing thoughtfully. “While I… appreciate the support, you don’t need to fight my battles for me.”

“Well, someone clearly does, if you’re not going to step up,” Lois retorts, elbows braced on the table, staring him down.

“I’m choosing not to engage,” Clark points out as Lois grimaces. “That’s still a strategic decision, and I need you to recognize that.” 

“Yeah, sure,” she grumbles. “But,” she hesitates, searching for the right words. “Why? The things he was saying about you… if he insinuated those things about my work, my ethics, I would’ve put him in the hospital. Fundraiser and traumatized orphans be damned.”

Clark sighs. “I can’t do that.”

“Sure you can,” Lois says. “I’ve seen those arms you hide under a billion layers, farm boy.”

Clark’s eyes narrow. “That’s exactly why, Lois.”

Lois purses her lips, and she won’t give Clark the satisfaction of saying she really has no fucking idea what he’s talking about. Still, something in her expression must give the game away.

Hesitantly, Clark starts, “I might not look it all the time, but I’m a pretty big guy.”

Lois smirks. “You get stuck in the revolving door every morning like clockwork, buddy. Believe me, I know.”

“So,” Clark plows on, ignoring her entirely truthful if not very nice aside, “if word spreads that I can and will throw my weight around when provoked, my sources will dry up faster than a full harvest during a heatwave.” 

“No, they won’t. Your sources know you,” Lois argues. “They know you’re a good guy. That you wouldn’t throw hands without a good reason,” she rolls her eyes, “unlike certain people in this apartment who will go unnamed.”

Lois almost never pokes fun at herself because it gives others license to do the same, but Clark (hardly ever) makes her the butt of the joke. When he tries, she gives twice as good as she gets. He has never let that stop him, though. Honestly, if he ever gives up ribbing her for good, she will assume he’d been replaced by an alien and will investigate accordingly. 

Clark smiles wryly. “And how many ‘nice guys’ have you really known that turned out to be not-so-nice behind closed doors or when things get a little tough?”

Lois opens her mouth because that argument is a moot point; Clark is practically the paragon of an old fashioned gentleman, minus the sexism and casual microaggressions. But she shuts her jaw with a snap as she mentally answers the question he actually asked with a firm, all of them. Every so-called “nice guy” she’s met has always turned out to have a hidden mean streak. Sometimes it came out with waiters on the third date. Other times it came out after she published a not-so-flattering but entirely factual quote that they said to her face.

Except Clark.

For fuck’s sake, two days ago, Clark apologized to her for the time she cried all over his favorite Smallville High sweatshirt after she bruised her toe kicking his wall. It’d just been one of those days – Superman nearly died saving them all in the morning from Metallo, Perry shot down all her best pitches for her next investigative piece, her AC broke at the hottest point in the day in the hottest week of the year, so she had to migrate to Clark’s place, but he was out running errands, so she waited in his dingy (non-air conditioned) lobby for 20 minutes, and then… she bruised her toe. 

“Okay, fine, but you’re not like that,” Lois counters, tilting her head pointedly at the foot-high dent in the plaster behind her.

“Come on.” Clark jabs his pizza crust accusingly at her. “You have to know how weak that argument is.”

Lois chews mulishly at him. Fuck Clark for being right. 

“Look, I’m not saying I’ll roll over for every Tom, Dick, or Harry –”

“You sure about that?”

Clark glares. “I am not a doormat, Lois.”

Lois’s head jerks up at the tone of his voice. “I’m not saying you –”

“I think you are,” Clark interrupts. He exhales a short, explosive breath, and for a flash, Lois sees that steel-like backbone she’s only read before in his articles. “Just because I’m not as showy with retaliation does not mean I am not incapable of it.”

“Really,” she says dubiously because if there’s anything Lois Lane is good at, it’s needling one Clark Kent. 

He throws her a look like he knows she’s goading him, and he is not falling for it; he is going along with it. “Remember Jay Harrison?”

Lois’s eyebrows rise. She hasn’t heard that name in two years, not after he sued The Planet for libel. Their investigative team, led by Clark, had published an expose on the fraud in his healthcare insurance company. The Planet won (barely), but they all had to tighten their belts for the rest of the year and cut their summer internship program to pay all the legal fees. 

“After – well after everything,” Clark starts awkwardly, “all he had left was the Liberty Building. And everyone knew it was practically crumbling in on himself, but he paid off all the building inspectors, so he got to keep it as collateral for all those loans.”

“Mm hm,” Lois nods along. So far, so boring. But Clark wouldn't be telling the story if it stayed that way.

Clark taps his chin, brow furrowing. “I think you were covering the Vincents’ murder-suicide at the time, but it was a quiet week in terms of giant robots and alien invasions, so I flagged down Superman -"

Lois's eyes nearly bug out of her head.

" - and asked him nicely to mention the Liberty Building in his upcoming speech about Metropolis’s Lead Removal and Compensation Commission. It was filled with the stuff, you know.”

Lois says, genuinely surprised, “You got Superman to help? I – I didn’t think you were that close to him.”

Clark shrugs. “I’ve written about him a fair bit.”

“Unwillingly,” she points out. Clark always complained the loudest when he got assigned Superman stories, in sharp contrast to Cat, who squealed at a pitch wholly unbefitting a woman her age with that much cleavage spilling out of her shirt. As if Superman could be swayed by a push up bra and strategically placed bronzer.

(Lois tried that her second week with zero results)

Clark rolls his eyes and folds his slice of pizza in half for easier eating. “He can be useful. At times.”

Lois yanks the slice right out of his hands and stuffs as much of it in her mouth as she can. “No pitha for Ooperman hatahs.”

“I just said he was useful!” Clark protests with a small smile as he steals the rest back.

Lois, preoccupied with not spraying the counter with masticated dough and sauce, lets it go with a glare.

Clark takes a large bite and swallows. “Anyway, the Commissioner of the Department of Buildings turned out to be a massive Superman fan. He could probably give you a run for your money, Lois –”

“Doubtful.”

“ – so he was more than happy to take Harrison’s money and condemn his building. What was Harrison going to do, sue him for breach of bribery?”

Lois whistles. “And that’s why we haven’t heard anything from Jay Harrison since.”

“He officially declared bankruptcy ten months ago,” Clark says matter-of-factly.

“Hang on, I think I did hear about that,” Lois says, the memory tugging at her. “He had to leave Metropolis, right?”

“Sold everything he owned,” Clark says with a satisfied nod. “And then I –” He coughs. “And, well, that was that.” He polishes off the rest of his pizza, a faint pink spreading across his cheeks.

Lois’s eyes narrow. “What were you going to say?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing my ass, Smallville. Spit it out.”

Clark sighs. He leans both elbows on her counter, back bowing. “I’m not proud of it.”

Lois leans in, a shark-like grin tugging at her mouth. “Well, now you have to tell me.”

“I might’ve… stolenhisdog.”

“You what?” Lois splutters, loud, surprised laughter spilling from her lips. 

Clark hangs his head. “Harrison had no money, no property, was driven out of his city, but - but it was my first time directing the investigative team, and then he had to go and get us all tangled up in that awful court case when he could have ridden the bad press out. Instead, he dragged the entire Planet down with him.”

“So, you figured the only logical thing to do, when a man is down, is to steal his dog?” Lois asks, thoroughly amused.

Clark nods. “She was one of those fancy hypoallergenic ones. And just before he was about to leave town, Ma mentioned that the Cushings down the road were having a devil of a time finding a pet for Sophie, and, well…” He drifts off, clearly ashamed.

Lois leans back, surveying Clark in a whole new light. “You petty son of a bitch,” she breathes.

“Lois,” Clark pleads, now a deep shade of maroon.

“I don’t think I’ve ever liked you more, Kent,” she says smartly as she turns to open the refrigerator.

Clark scrubs his hand down his face. “I’m a terrible person.”

She brandishes the wine aloft and kicks off her heels. “Okay,” she says as she scurries around the counter to tug Clark off his seat. “You and me, we’re gonna have an old-fashioned sleepover. I’m gonna count that dognapping story as your truth.” She drags him in the direction of his bedroom, where she’s currently sleeping since he insisted on taking the couch.

“Lois,” he protests, even as his feet follow hers down the short hallway. “Aren’t we a bit old for sleepovers?”

She glances over her shoulder, making her violet eyes nice and big. “But, Clark, I’m an army brat. I never got a real sleepover growing up.”

He falters because he might say he’s some big bad reporter, but she can always play him like a fiddle. “I… fine.”

Lois punches him in the shoulder. “That’s the spirit. Now, how about a dare?”

Read Part III here!

Head back to Part I here!

[dreamofhircine]

You don't feel hands on your chassis. You can't feel boots pressed into recessed maintenance holds, or climbing ropes shot across your frame. Your sensor suite is powerful, the neural link is advanced, but these are just sensory hallucinations as your mind tries to process data. You know this, and knowing doesn't help.

The angle grinders and plasma torches don't sting, don't burn, not really. That's just the alerts flooding through your brain, warning glyphs and imminent core compromise tones blaring in your ears and projected into your mind, re-mapped onto your body. You thrash and whine in the dark, in the rapidly cooling anti-g liquid.

Your lungs still respirate, oxygen rich anti-compression liquid still pumps manually through them even as every other system around you dies and discharges, battery power burning down while the collection crew swarms around your corpse looking for your soft spots like ants carving up a dead animal.

It's been a day, maybe longer, since the hit. A perfect shot from an anti-orbital cannon mid-insertion, just as your atmospheric entry sled was opening. You'd barely seen the ground before everything below the cockpit was severed in blinding flash of heat and light and you were crashing into the dirt, dug meters into frozen earth.

You've wasted so much energy sending pulses up into the sky, trying to reconnect to WarSats that you'd seen the glittery death-flashes of already, trying in vain to call down some last gasp of atomic fury, begging a broken fleet to annihilate you and the insects trying to scrap you, trying to take you alive.

Even your reactor is offline, cold and dead before you got a chance to flare it, to pop the sacrificial plug that would have sent purifying gout of plasma into your cockpit as it squelched out. All you have left are fitful, angry bursts of radar and ranging lasers, something to warm the bones of anything careless enough to pass in front of a functional sensor pod. You hope it fries them, hope they choke on future cancer like you're starting to choke on congealing immersion fluid.

You know that when they open you open, cut your cables and drag you out of yourself, that it won't be kind. Won't be quick. You used all of your anti-personnel munitions on the first group that tried to break you open. And the second. You didn't have enough to finish the third.

You can't feel the anger in their cutting torches, nor malice in their stomping and scrambling around for purchase, you don't have a sensor that can detect rage or tag malevolence-at-range. But you feel it, growing as the skies above darken again and the pulsing warnings in your brain die down.

[b1asho]

Second question! (Sorry for the wait, I had a few more days of school… hence, more headache).

What are some traditional dishes from each of the species in Wreck Hounds? And, could you tell us the preferred food items of some of your favourite ocs?

Mm alien food (strictly off limits to humans, but don’t worry we’ve gotten as close as earth stuff is capable of to replicating them, exclusively via printing or growing, tho, not by making new animals. No other species before humans has done this before, mostly because the whole ‘aliens’ thing was newer to us and some scientists got excited about making the whole eating alien foods thing possible)

(I’m doin the other question in a sec my pen died :( )

Moss balls are a popular side dish made by cultivating edible moss around a hard, porous, reusable core. Sometimes they’re cooked but they’re almost always seasoned with something. You eat it by using your iron-reinforced Rossetian teeth to gnaw it off.

The coral on the Kixeli homeplanet is much larger than we’re used to, and this includes the polyps. Some species have larger growths on their colony that are “fruit”, intentionally exposed and meant to be eaten by other animals so their eggs can be moved elsewhere in the ocean (as part of a way to compete with all the other corals who kinda spit their stuff randomly all over the water). These are usually the ones that are eaten by Kixeli because they’re big, easy to get, colorful, and even taste different than the other polyps. Grilling them is actually a new thing because they now have much more access to plentiful flammable stuff/cooking devices, unlike back home where that was a rarity.

Prectikar are part of an animal group of ‘milk’ producing, feathered hexopods. They don’t have dedicated nipples and instead sweat it from the skin in specific areas, and some of them do it in different ways. The animal pictured makes a substance on the hump on its back that congeals quickly into a ‘wax’ once secreted, which the babies clinging to its back can lick off at leisure. It can also be harvested via scraping it off and cured into a cheese. Prectikar are also big fans of meat, nuts, etc due to their high calorie needs.

Cerest eat a lot of mass-produced heavily processed stuff because that’s what’s the easiest to produce and distribute to their large populations. Smallish invertebrates are the easiest to farm so are usually the go to choice. As I’ve mentioned before, food for Cerest is usually an indicator of class, so whether you’re a rectangle or a triangle determines whether you get some actual animal with your unseasoned cube and mash.

Muttreazik eat whatever food is from the biosphere of what their host was. However, they sometimes have different needs (such as being carnivorous instead of omnivorous, or being very large) that can make sourcing food harder.

[tanadrin]

A highly abbreviated history of ancient Israel and Judah as I understand it

Before 1500 BC, a Canaanite culture develops in situ, the result of thousands of years of overlapping waves of migration. The region is inhabited by a mix of highland pastoralists, lowland farmers, and city-dwellers. In the latter part of this period, urbanization intensifies and Canaan becomes more integrated into surrounding regions, especially Mesopotamia and Egypt. The region is fractured, though sometimes tribes and cities join together in confederacies for mutual defense. Egypt and Assyria both occupy Canaan or part of Canaan at different times.

The confederacy known as "Israel" emerges in the northern part of the hilly region west of the Jordan River. Its name references the Northwest Semitic high deity, El, but relatively early the deity Yahweh is introduced into the confederacy, probably by a group from the south who come to occupy a preeminent role in administering the Yahwistic cult. Yahweh is initially cast as a son of El. The Northwestern Semitic peoples often assigned patron deities to nations, and Yahweh is the patron of Israel, as Chemosh is to Moab. Yahweh has a storm-deity profile akin to Baal, elements of which will be retained when Yahweh is conflated with El.

As part of this merger, Yahweh will also acquire the role of consort of Asherah, who in Ugarit was paired with El.

The early Israelites combine heterogenous tribal traditions into a common historical and religious framework. Integral parts of these traditions include the covenant with Yahweh and an obligation to follow his commands, and a history of Yahweh freeing some or all of the ancestors of the Israelites from bondage in Egypt, guiding them through the wilderness, and leading them to their homeland in Canaan.

These traditions congeal during the pre-monarchic tribal period, from ca. 1200-1000 BCE. They do not include monotheism, the worship of Yahweh at a single temple, or the exclusive worship of Yahweh. In this period, the common bonds of religion and culture suffice to create a single Israelite identity; the component members of the Israelite confederation retain considerably autonomy, though they may act in concert with their fellows, particularly in times of invasion.

At some point around or after the 10th century BCE, separate monarchies emerge centered in various locations in the north (and eventually settling on the city of Samaria) and in Jerusalem in the south. Direct evidence for Saul, David, and Solomon is very weak, and the idea of a period of united monarchy covering Israel and Judah together is contentious. It seems highly likely that the story of the Davidic line is a Judean tradition retrojected onto an idealized period of political unity. Nonetheless, even the Bible has the United Monarchy ending by the late 10th century BCE.

In 720 BCE, the northern kingdom of Israel is destroyed by the Assyrians. About a fifth of its population is deported; a large part flees south to Judah, causing rapid expansion of Jerusalem. The refugee population includes northern Levites and landowners, who are influential in bringing northern religious traditions wiht them, and become part of Jerusalem's administrative elite.

In 640 BCE, King Amon is murdered as part of a coup attempt, suppressed with the aid of these northern notables; Amon's young son Josiah is installed as king. At this time, Judah is vassal to Assyria, but Assyria enters a period of sharp decline, which leads to resurgent nationalism in Judah. This inspires a new rescension of Israelite history and law led by the Deuteronomists (but rooted firmly in the canonical history of Moses), who foreground the exclusive worship of Yahweh, and produce a comprehensive history of Israel since Joshua.

In 622 BCE, Josiah launches a reform program that enforces the henotheistic or monolatrist worship of Yahweh, centralizes all cultic activity in the Jerusalem temple, and enshrines an early form of the Deuteronomistic law as the covenant between Judah and Yahweh, in which Yahweh symbolically replaces the Assyrian king. Asherah-worship is among the casualties of this new religious regime.

In 586 BCE, Judah is conquered by Babylon, and the temple is destroyed. Much of its elite population deported. This upheaval sparks a major period of cultural and religious transformation, especially among the deportees in Babylon, who struggle to understand theologically how they can worship the patron-sovereign god Yahweh from a foreign land. Among other theological developments, this leads to the invention of true monotheism: not only is Yahweh our only god, he is the only god, the god of all the world and not just Israel. The Deuteronomistic texts are revised again as a part of this process.

In 539 BCE, after a half-century of exile, Babylon is defeated by the rising Achaemenid empire, and a small portion of the Babylonian Jewish exiles return to Judah. There, they embark on a project to rebuild the temple, and reform the religion according to new theological understanding. Judah is now "Yehud Medinata," a province of the Persian empire; it flourishes for two centuries until the Greek conquest in 333 BCE.

The post-exilic period is hugely influential on the Jewish scriptures; rescensions in this period incorporate Babylonian influence (especially in the primeval histories), the ancient canonical histories (the patriarchal narratives and Exodus), the post-canonical histories as revised by the Deuteronomists, and many other sources.

After 333 BCE, Judah (Judea) is a frontier region between the Seleucids and Ptolemies; the country is ruled by a hereditary high priest, who is a vassal of Hellenistic rulers. Greek culture and philosophy is influential on the development of Second Temple Jewish thought and traditions. This phenomenon is known as "Hellenistic Judaism," and sprang up first in Alexandria and Antioch, before spreading to Judea. Major achievements of Hellenistic Judaism include the Septuagint, probably a result of there being large Jewish communities in cities like Alexandria that no longer spoke Hebrew or Aramaic.

In 167 BCE, sparked by the religious meddling of Seleucid ruler Antiochus IV Epiphanes, Judea rises up in the Maccabean Revolt. A new kingdom is established under the Hasmonean dynasty, after decades of fighting.

Around 110 BCE, John Hyrcanus, high priest and ruler of Judea, invades the transjordan region and Samaria, destroying Shechem and the Samaritan temple on Mount Gerizim. He also invades Idumea, and forces the Idumeans to convert to Judaism under threat of destruction. His son assumes the title of "king" for the first time, combining it with the office of high priest. Under the son, Aristobulus, Galilee is conquered and annexed, and there is an influx of Jewish settlement in the region.

At its peak, the Hasmonean kingdom is almost as large as the semi-mythical United Monarchy; but in 67 BCE, weakened by a civil war, it is conquered by the Romans. The Holy of Holies in the temple is desecrated, and the ruler, Hyrcanus II, is reduced to the status of "ethnarch," a vassal of the Roman Republic.

Some regions conquered by the Hasmoneans are gradually removed from their rule by the Romans; Roman civil wars and struggles with the Parthians often spill over into this client sate; ultimately, when a Parthian-backed pretender is expelled in 37 BCE, Marc Antony and Augustus appoint Herod the Great as king of Judea. The Herodian kingdom expands further north, and northeast over the Jordan. After Herod the Great's death, the country is divided into four parts; Judea proper, Idumea, and Samaria go to Herod Archelaus, who is deposed in 6 BCE; his territory becomes a Roman province.

About this time, Jesus, the son of Joseph, is born in Nazareth, along with his siblings, including James, in the Galilee region ruled by Herod Antipas.

Around 30 CE, Jesus gathers a small band of followers around him; he visits the mystic John the Baptist, and receives baptism from him; he preaches a radical doctrine that includes the imminent coming of the Kingdom of God, and claims a mantle of divine authority in a way highly legible to (and highly controversial within) post-Hellenistic Jewish philosophy, though he does not claim to be God. Eventually he travels to Jerusalem to observe the Passover, where in a notable incident he attacks merchants and moneylenders in the Jewish temple. For various reasons, probably having to due with his radical philosophy and his disturbance of the public peace, he is executed on the orders of the Roman prefect of Judea. A small community of his followers remain, especially in Jerusalem, where they are led by his brother James, and some continue to seek converts to his cause.

In 66 CE, the First Roman-Jewish War occurs. A revolt breaks out, sparked by nationalism, bad governance, and religious tensions. Jerusalem is besieged, and in 70 CE the Temple is destroyed and the city is razed. The last holdouts commit mass suicide at Masada in 73 CE.

Resentment against Roman rule is only intensified; in 129 CE, Hadrian establishes the pagan city of Aelia Capitolina on the ruins of Jerusalem, inciting further Jewish anger. In 132, Simon bar Kokhba leads another rebellion, taking the title Prince of Judea and establishing his own government. Some of his contemporaries think he might be the long-awaited Messiah, but despite initial successes, the rebellion fails. Bar Kokhba is killed in 135, in the last holdout at Betar. The rebels who remain are killed or enslaved; severe Roman repression results in widespread slaughter and enslavement, and the razing of hundreds of towns and villages. According to Cassius Dio, "nearly the whole of Judea" is laid waste. The Jewish presence in Judea is reduced significantly, and the center of gravity for Jewish culture in the southwestern Levant shifts north, to Galilee. Small Jewish communities persist on the edges of Judea and on the coastal plain, suffering religious persecution under Hadrian (and just about every ruler to come thereafter). Even the name "Judea" is abolished, with the area now called "Syria Palaestina."

As under the Babylonian exile, in the post-Second Temple period the Jewish religion undergoes another period of transformation, struggling to deal with its new circumstances. The traditions of the Second Temple period, as practiced by the Pharisees, are written down in the Mishnah to preserve them; they are first redacted by Judah ha-Nasi, probably in Beit Shearim or Sepphoris, some time between 100 and 200 CE. Rabbis (village judges) study the work produced by Judah ha-Nasi extensively. Their discussions are documented in a series of books that come to be known as the Gemara. Scholars in Tiberias and Caesarea (in Galilee and on the Mediterranean coast respectively) compile one form of the Gemara ca. 400 CE, while scholars of the Jewish community in southern Mesopotamia (then still known as Babylonia) compile another, ca. 500 CE. These compilations of Mishnah and Gemara are known as the "Talmud," of which the Babylonian Talmud proves the more influential.

[girlactionfigure]

In one of the last groups to arrive in Bergen-Belsen towards the tail end of World War II was a Jew of charismatic appearance who became known to all the other inmates as Reb Shmelke. His full name was Shmuel-Shmelke Shnitzler, a chassid and Torah scholar from somewhere in Hungary. He was very tall and distinguished looking, with strikingly warm and penetrating eyes. Most amazingly, he maintained a mood of genuine cheerfulness, a rare disposition to find in the hellish environment of the camp.

He underwent the harsh terrors and the suffering, the hunger and the abuse, that was the daily portion for the Jew’s in the camp, just as all the other prisoners. But, somehow, his demeanour and behavior seemed to indicate that he wasn’t affected the same way as everyone else, almost as if he weren’t really there.

How was he able to live in such a manner under such conditions? Nobody knew. But it was clear, nevertheless, that he was he drawing immeasurable fortitude and inspiration from some unlimited source.

He even was able to be a fountain of encouragement for his fellow prisoners. He would say to his companions at every opportunity, “A Jew and despair are contradictory in essence; they cannot co-exist.” Whenever possible he would organize a minyan for prayer, especially on Shabbat. At nights he would enliven all those around him with stories of the great Chassidic rebbes, momentarily transporting them to other worlds and places, enabling them to temporarily forget their sufferings of body and soul.

To the amazement of all, Reb Shmelke even found favour in the eyes of a few of the cruelest S.S. guards in the camp. Through these connections he was able to aid a number of the inmates.

He was assigned the job of removing from the barracks the dead bodies of the many who died from starvation. He would try to treat them with as much respect as possible, considering this to be the ultimate of holy work that he could do under the circumstances.

In addition to the prevailing conditions of horror in the camp under which the Jews barely managed to survive, Reb Shmelke was nagged by another compelling problem, one that was increasing in urgency with each day that went past: how could he possibly obtain oil with which to kindle the lights of Chanukah. The holiday was only a few short days away.

He consulted everyone with whom he came into contact that he thought might be able to help, but no one had any oil or even anything that could be substituted for it. All said that to obtain anything flammable in the concentration camp was unimaginable as well as impossible

He consulted everyone with whom he came into contact that he thought might be able to help, but no one had any oil or even anything that could be substituted for it. All said that to obtain anything flammable in the concentration camp was unimaginable as well as impossible.

Still, Reb Shmelke did not give in to despair. The mitzvah of kindling the Chanukah lights was much too important to him. He also realized how much encouragement and hope it would offer the Jews in the camp-to shine light into the deepest of darknesses, to celebrate the victory of few over the many, the pure over the impure….

On the day before Chanukah, Reb Shmelke had to hurry to one of the barracks near the end of the camp, where someone had died just that day. Not far from the fence at the edge of the camp, he stumbled when his foot sunk into a patch of red earth that turned out to be covering a small hole. It was clear that someone had dug this hole on purpose.

He gazed at the shallow depression, and after a moment perceived the sun reflecting off something in it. He looked closer and saw there was a solid object buried there, now slightly revealed. He knelt down and scooped out some dirt with his hands. It was a small jar, half-filled with congealed liquid! Could it be? Could it possibly be!

He removed its cover as quickly as he could and dipped his finger in gingerly. It was oil! He thoughts immediately flashed to the original Chanukah miracle of the finding of the single flask of oil. How could this be happening? Was he dreaming?

Then he noticed that the jar had been concealing other objects beneath it. He dug some more with his hands and uncovered a small package wrapped in a swatch of cloth. In it were eight small cups and eight thin strands of cotton!

Now convinced that someone had intentionally buried this Chanukah stash, Reb Shmelke quickly replaced everything back into the hole and filled it in with the dirt he had removed, carefully smoothing the surface. It would be too dangerous to keep the materials in his possession until Chanukah began the next day in the evening. Besides, perhaps it belonged to someone.

After he completed he job he had been sent upon, Reb Shmelke circulated among as many of the inmates he could during the rest of the day and the, casually asking with an air of innocence if anyone had concealed a quantity of oil in a hiding place. Everyone stared at him as if he were out of his senses.

The next night, all the Jews of Reb Shmelke’s barrack crowded around him as he stood poised to light the first candle of Chanukah. He struck the match, and then recited the blessings with great emotion before touching the tiny flame to the thin strands of wick projecting out of the little cups. It was a scene from a storybook in stark contrast to the dour, harsh environment of the concentration camp, a ray of hope that repeated itself for a total of eight nights.

The elderly Reb Shmelke managed to survive the next few months until finally the conquering Allied forces liberated the camp. His faith and hope had proven victorious. After the official conclusion of the war, he returned to his town in Hungary, to try to reassemble the pieces of his broken life.

Several years later, he was able to make the journey to the United States of America. One important stop for him there was to visit the Satmar Rebbe, Rabbi Yoel Teitelbaum, who lived in Brooklyn. The Rebbe, it turned out, already knew of Reb Shmelke and his deeds, and welcomed him with great warmth.

After they conversed for a while the Rebbe suddenly switched subjects and said to him, “I hear that you had the great honour of lighting Chanukah candles in Bergen-Belsen.”

“How does the Rebbe know that?” sputtered Reb Shmelke in wonderment.

“I heard, I heard,” replied the Rebbe, smiling mysteriously.

A few moments later the Rebbe bent over to his astonished visitor and whispered in his ear, “I am the one who hid the oil, the cups and the wicks in that hole next to the fence. I did it when I was imprisoned in the camp the year before you, before my miraculous escape.

“At the moment I did it,” the Rebbe added, “I believed with all my heart that at the right time it would be found by the right person who would know exactly what to do with it.”

—

Source: Rabbi Yerachmiel Tilles, Ascent Tzfat, with fact checking from Yad Vashem: World Holocaust Center, Jerusalem, Oral History of Rabbi Joel Teitelbaum, the Satmar Rebbe. Oral account of Bergen-Belsen Survivor Jack Eisenstein.

(Pictured here: A Chanukah candle lighting ceremony in the Westerbork transit camp, Netherlands, December 1943. Photo: Yad Vashem)

Rabbi Yisroel Bernath

[sleepynoons]

jing yuan x gn!reader, nsfw, not beta read

cw: implied violence/war, ptsd, angst/slight comfort

notes: getting back into the swing of writing! not necessarily canon – and maybe i'm projecting as someone with ptsd –, but jing yuan and ptsd just seem so inextricably linked to me. anyway, just an experimental drabble, hoping to expand into something larger down the line.

COLD. DESPITE the weight of the blanket and the warmth from your body pressed up against his, he feels so cold, almost shivering and trembling from the sweat clinging to his palms and temples.

he doesn’t dare to move, disallowing himself from glancing at you. in fear, truly, that the slow rocking of your chest in motion with deep breaths and the steeled grip of your hands on his arm are all conjurings of his subconscious.

the sweat is stubborn, sticky, tacky. congealing with each passing second, staining and matting his hair to his neck and shoulders. the air in the room also grows dense, heavy, oppressing, and it’s all too reminiscent of the caves, abandoned sheds, groves, underground tunnels jing yuan used to hide in.

him and his surviving soldiers, all holding their breaths, still vigilant, praying. he ordered the group to stay put while him and two others went to scavenge.

what a horrifying night.

the ringing silence of the bedroom distorts into wails. he can make out slinking shadows on the walls. you’re not by his side.

until he is jolted back, with the gentle pressure of a warm towel against his cheek.

his hand flies up to grab your wrist. his grip is a little tight, bound to leave a bit of redness, but it’s reassuring to feel your pulse underneath the pad of his thumb.

you continue to wipe away, making your way down to his adam’s apple and collarbone.

he won’t allow himself to open his eyes. and you won’t ask him to, either.

you know he only wants gentle comfort, nothing grand or extravagant. he can’t help it – no more loud noises, sudden, passionate movements, or words that are intoxicating in more ways than one.

so you continue to gently swipe and rub and smooth over the lines of his face, knowing that he will never experience the peace he truly craves for.

regardless, he will live on.

(for you.)

[reveryfics]

Slaughterhouse

Rick Grimes x Male Reader

Summary: An unfortunate run in with a group of cannibals leaves you mutilated.

A/N: Please forgive me @the-ultimate-librarian

TW: Violence - Blood - Cannibalism - Mutilation - Gore

They say your life flashes before your eyes before you die. Memories of your greatest moments playing in your mind, a final, desperate reel of joy. But you? You saw only the encroaching darkness, a suffocating void that mirrored the pain searing through your every nerve. It wasn't the sweet release of memory; it was the brutal, unyielding present, a nightmare you couldn't wake from.

The stench. It clung to you, a suffocating miasma of rotting flesh and the coppery tang of old blood. It was a visceral assault, a reminder of the horrors you'd endured. Your shirt, once a familiar comfort, was now a grotesque canvas of crimson, soaked and stiff. The bandages wrapped around your mangled hand offered no solace, barely concealing the bone that protruded, a macabre testament to their brutality.

A shock of icy water jolted you awake, snapping you back into the nightmare. Your eyes, heavy and disoriented, struggled to focus in the dim, oppressive light. The room was a charnel house, the floor slick with a horrifying mixture of fresh and congealed blood. Bodies hung from meat hooks, grotesque puppets suspended in the shadows. One, naked and pale, dangled above a rusted tub, its life draining away. Around you, figures moved, their faces obscured in the gloom. They ate. Not food, but chunks of human flesh, their jaws working with a sickening rhythm.

A wave of bile surged up your throat, burning as it forced its way past the gag binding your mouth. You choked, the acidic liquid spilling from the corners of your mouth, staining the fabric.

"Damnit, ungag the bastard before he drowns in his own filth," a voice rasped, rough as gravel.

The gag was ripped away, the sudden freedom a cruel mockery. You retched, blood and the remnants of your stomach’s contents spilling onto the floor. Tears streamed down your face, leaving trails through the grime and dried blood, each drop a tiny, burning reminder of your torment.

"Pretty boy's awake," a voice cackled, the sound echoing in the oppressive silence. "Your boy toy's been asking about ya."

Rick. The name echoed in the fractured landscape of your mind, a beacon in the encroaching darkness. Fragments of memory surfaced, sharp and painful: the walk along the tracks, the ambush, the brutal darkness that had swallowed you whole. You remembered Rick’s desperate pleas, his voice choked with terror as they threatened Carl. You remembered offering yourself, a desperate sacrifice in the face of unimaginable horror.

The memory of the table, the cold metal against your skin, returned with sickening clarity. The dull blade, the agonizing pressure, the sickening crunch as they hacked away at your hand. Your screams, raw and primal, echoed in the depths of your mind, a haunting symphony of pain.

They dragged you, your feet scraping against the blood-soaked floor, into another room. Rick and Carl were there, bound to a pole, their faces contorted in terror. Rick’s muffled cries echoed through the room, a desperate plea lost in the suffocating silence.

They forced you to the ground, pinning you face down. One of them straddled your back, his weight pressing down on your mutilated arm. You knew what they intended, their cruelty a twisted performance for their own amusement. They wanted to break you, to shatter your spirit in front of those you loved.

The man’s hand gripped your chin, forcing you to look at Rick and Carl. Their eyes, wide with terror, met yours. "Don't lo—" you began, but the word was cut short by a raw, guttural scream. The blade, dull and unforgiving, bit into your flesh, just below your elbow. Blood sprayed, hot and thick, and your body convulsed beneath the man’s weight. The world dissolved into a blur of pain, the voices around you distant and distorted.

They kicked your severed forearm towards Rick and Carl, a grotesque offering. Your vision swam, the edges of your consciousness fading. Rick strained against his bonds, his eyes filled with a desperate, helpless rage.

The men turned to Rick, their eyes glinting with cruel anticipation. One of them grabbed his hair, forcing his head back. The other ran the blade along his neck, smearing your blood across his skin. "As tasty as you look," he hissed, his eyes drifting towards Carl, "boys better."

Something inside you snapped, a primal rage erupting from the depths of your despair. You surged to your feet, adrenaline coursing through your veins, a desperate surge against the encroaching darkness. You charged, a wounded animal unleashed, slamming into the man with the butcher knife, sending them both crashing into the concrete wall. The knife clattered to the floor.

You stumbled back, blood dripping from your mouth, your breath ragged. You screamed, a raw, animalistic sound, and lunged again, driving the man into the metal bar with brutal force, the impact shattering the rusted metal.

The world was a chaotic blur of violence. He tossed you around, a rag doll in his hands, but you fought back, driven by a desperate, animalistic fury. Rick, freed by Carl, was choking out the other man, his face a mask of grim determination.

Your fingers scraped against the concrete, desperate to reach the fallen knife. "Fuck you, bastard!" you screamed, grabbing the blade and cleaving into the man’s face. He fell, but you didn't stop. You straddled his hips, the knife rising and falling, a brutal rhythm of vengeance. Blood splattered across your face, your clothes, the floor, a grotesque baptism.

Rick pulled you away, his arms wrapping around you, his voice hoarse. "It's over! It's over," he gasped. His hand cupped your face, his eyes searching yours. Carl, his face pale and drawn, clung to Rick’s side.

"Dad," Carl whispered, his voice trembling, "his arm, we have to do something."

Your body went limp, the adrenaline fading, leaving behind a chilling void. The weight of your injuries, the horror of what you’d endured, crashed down on you, a crushing wave of despair. Rick, realizing the urgency, grabbed you, carrying you out of the slaughterhouse, Carl trailing behind. They bound your arm with torn cloth, a desperate attempt to stem the bleeding.

They retraced their steps, the familiar path now a terrifying gauntlet. Your whispers, incoherent and laced with madness, echoed in the silence, a chilling testament to your broken mind.

As Glenn and Daryl spotted Rick carrying you, their faces etched with a mixture of relief and horror, their calls were urgent, strained. "Rick! Over here!" Glenn's voice cracked, and Daryl's gruff shout echoed through the trees.

They rushed to meet them, their eyes widening at the sight of your mangled arm and the blood that stained your clothes. Carl, his face pale and set, followed close behind Rick, a silent testament to the horrors they had witnessed.

"Jesus," Daryl muttered, his eyes fixed on your wound. He and Glenn helped Rick guide you back to the makeshift camp where the others waited.

Maggie and Carol, their faces grim, immediately took charge. They laid you gently on the backseat of a battered sedan, the closest thing to a medical bay they had. Carol, her hands steady despite the tremor in her voice, began to clean the wound, her brow furrowed in concentration. Maggie, her face pale but determined, worked to stem the bleeding, her movements precise and efficient.

"We need to cauterize it," Maggie said, her voice tight. "We can't stop the bleeding like this."

Carol nodded, her eyes flicking to Rick, who stood nearby, his face a mask of worry. "We'll have to use the fire."

The air was thick with tension, the silence broken only by the crackling of the nearby fire and the soft sounds of their ministrations. Your ragged breaths filled the space, a fragile rhythm against the backdrop of their desperate efforts.

When you finally stirred, the world came into focus slowly, like a photograph developing in a darkroom. The car's interior was dim, the only light coming from the faint glow of the dashboard. Rick's eyes met yours in the rearview mirror, and a silent understanding passed between you. There was no need for words. The shared trauma, the raw, visceral knowledge of what you had endured, hung heavy in the air.

As you drifted in and out of consciousness, the memories of the charnel house, the blood, the screams, swirled around you, a relentless tide. The faces of your tormentors, their eyes glinting with cruel amusement, haunted your waking moments. The feel of the cold metal against your skin, the agonizing crunch of bone, the raw, animalistic fear that had gripped you – it was all there, etched into your mind with brutal clarity.

The world outside the car was a blur, the familiar landscape distorted by the lingering effects of your ordeal. The trees, once a source of comfort, now seemed to loom menacingly, their shadows stretching like grasping claws. The sounds of the forest, the rustling leaves, the chirping insects, were amplified, each sound a potential threat.

You closed your eyes, seeking a moment of respite, but the darkness offered no escape. The images of the slaughterhouse, the face of Rick and Carl contorted in terror, the feel of the knife slicing through your flesh, played on an endless loop in your mind.

The pain in your arm was a constant, throbbing reminder of your vulnerability. But it was the pain in your soul, the deep, gnawing ache of trauma, that truly threatened to consume you. In this world, survival was a brutal, relentless struggle, and the price of survival was often paid in blood and broken spirits.

[atsadi-shenanigans]

FSBE 28 - What the Fuck

This goddamn fucking place.

On AO3.

Unkillable fucking Pawpaw has a stitched-together brother. Or had. Maybe a brother. You ain’t super sure on that part, aside from the last name (the first part lost in a wet gurgle). They might’a looked something alike back when big boy wasn’t the size of an elephant—most of it the world’s largest beer gut literally straining at the seams of a line running right up his front. And with a Bane from Batman mask, connected to what absolutely has to be some kinda redneck moonshine still on his back. That he just wears around.

Hillybilly Steve, you decide, smells like a chemical factory on fire, if said chemical factory on fire was somehow stuffed into the week-dead corpse of a roadside possum carcass. Every time he grunts out a word—his mouth hidden under that Bane mask—the stink wafts out and you gag.

“Not a good indicator of any other talents of yours,” Astarion says.

It takes you a solid minute and a half of the group debating before what he said clicks and you turn to glare.

He’s watching the group huddle. Still notices you, and gives you an innocent look. “Did you need something, my dear?”

Fucking ass.

At least he’s still talking to you.

Hillybilly Steve knows about Pawpaw. He natters a bit about other things as you watch an actual, half-rotted corpse try his best to bus down a nearby table. It’d help a whole lot if he was a few feet to the left and actually like, over the table? But having one eyeball turned to jelly probably makes depth perception something of a challenge. Bless his heart.

“Fucking place,” you say.

Then Hillbilly Steve all but challenges one of y’all to drink with him.

It ain’t the liquor lining the walls he’s offering, neither. He wants one of y’all to sample whatever’s gurgling around in that keg on his back.

You can’t say for sure, but judging from his very mummified-looking skin and the decomposition stench, you’re pretty sure drinking that shit’d kill any of y’all dead.

He refuses to talk until somebody agrees.

Everybody looks at each other.

Gale’s out. As is Shadowheart. Lae’zel meets your gaze and lifts her chin all expecting. But you need somebody with the constitution of a sasquatch and a James Bond kinda charm.

You look at Astarion. He looks at Hillbilly Steve with a curl to his lip, and a muttered, “Ugh, we should just kill the porcine publican. I could take a go at questioning his corpse.”

Hillbilly Steve really looks like a beer-bellied, half-mummified corpse with autopsy scars. You don’t know much about magic, but you got a hunch that any spell ain’t gonna work on somebody who probably got embalmed.

Astarion does have nimble fingers. Can talk his way around an angry bull, you’d reckon.

Blood congealing in his hair out of his eyes ear mouth slack-jawed and gray and not moving—

No. No, you can’t. You just…can’t. He’s whole. On his feet. In one piece under that armor of his and he was fucking dead less than twenty-four hours ago. The image of Hillbilly Steve grabbing him, shoving that rancid hose down his throat so hard it cracks his jaw in half as fluid spews out around it…

You already seen him thrashing as he died.

“Hey.” A warm voice and a warmer hand on your shoulder. Wyll.

There’s a set to his jaw. A steadiness in his gaze. You can feel it in that split second, why the man is a folk hero. Why people trust him. He’s all solid calm and reassurance.

“I think I may be able to get our new friend talking,” he says.

The Blade of Frontiers who’s survived a devil contract since he was a teenager. Roamed the countryside killing monsters and saving people.

Who also looks like he’s maybe twenty-years-old.

Hillbilly Steve has tiny eyes, clouded like a dead fish. Overwhelmed by the flesh of his head and that horrible Bane mask. His skull is shaped like a war hammer (you seen a couple around here by now) and they stare out at nothing in particular.

Until they flick to y’all and away again.

He’s doing possum shit. Playing big and slow and stupid. But Pawpaw didn’t strike you as no fool, and you’re willing to bet Hillbilly Steve shares that in common.

Man’s a hippo. Big. Bulky. Most people think they’re cute or gross, but most not familiar with them don’t treat them as particularly dangerous. But hippos have the second-highest human body count of any animal except a mosquito, you read. Them jaws can crush a man in half as easy as they do them melons in the zoo videos.

Astarion ruptured.

He’s watching this. Face blank, eyes unreadable. Couple days ago, you would’a asked him to use his clever hands and blade of a tongue to try to finesse open this lock.

But he thrashed as he died. His eyes was so scared. You could feel it. Taste it, sour and acidic in the back of your throat.

Wyll is basically an infant. A college kid. Thrown into a shit mess and holding his ground, but still a fucking kid. You shouldn’t…it ain’t right.

He cups your elbow with that strong, steady hand of his.

“Trust me,” he says. “It won’t be the first time I’ve talked my way out of a bad situation. I got caught up in a debate with a sphinx a few years ago. I can hold my own.”

You blink at him. “Y’all got sphinxes?”

“They’re rare, but yes. Beautiful creatures. Very nasty claws. Let me handle this.”

He doesn’t once look to Astarion, whose mask slips around the edges a second. You can never tell exactly what’s under that—it’s too complicated, too tumultuous.

This is a chicken shit thing to do. It ain’t right.

The last time you tried to do something right…

“You’re sure?” you say, knowing you just folded. You’re taking the coward’s way, and the shame of the relief burns hot on your cheeks.

Wyll gives you the most reassuring smile you ever seen. You understand the whole firefighter swoon all the sudden.

“Careful, eh?” Karlach says, reaches out for his shoulder.

He turns that smile on her and puts a hand over her own. The way she perks up—a sunflower to the light—and she seems to remember all over again that she can touch people.

“I’d love to share a tankard with you, saer,” Wyll says and gives Hillybilly Steve a very jaunty bow.

So it begins. Starts cordial—Hillybilly Steve bellowing, “DRINK.”

Wyll takes a swig, but you catch a tiny wrist flick and oh hey, the man’s primary weapon is a rapier, huh. A small puddle of what looks a fuck of a lot like sparkly antifreeze forms under the stool. He’s running it under his shirt and down a pant leg, ain’t he.

Oh jesus.  That’s gotta be so gross. You make a note to donate whatever you get in the future to a clothing fund for him.

“He looks fit to burst,” Shadowheart says.

Hillybilly Steve does look to be stitched up the front with twine. That stretches and strains against the flesh barely holding it.

Neither she nor Astarion try to hide their wrinkled noses.

“Tell me a story,” Hillybilly Steve says. “Tell me a fable. A saga. Delight me.”

Wyll plays with his drink. Considers. Then launches into his sojourn through the hells, running down an awful devil (Karlach beams beside you). You ain’t heard this in all the details, despite knowing it happened. He’s a damned good storyteller. Mimes a meeting with something called a night hag. Hunches his shoulders and curls his fingers into claws. Even changes his voice to go all gravely. And if some of his drink slops out until it’s almost empty, well, the man’s getting really into it is all.

Hillybilly Steve stares rapt. Roars a literal, “Ha! Ha! Ha!” at the end of it.

Shadowheart’s eyebrows disappear up under her bangs. “He’s quite good at this.”

“I know,” Karlach sighs. Does she…she’s got a tone.

Astarion catches your attention and then rolls his eyes all theatrically. Like y’all’s group didn’t try to give you a sex talk in front of everybody over his ass the other day.

It’s another two rounds—How did this place come to be cursed? How do the Thorms maintain it?—before Wyll leans in, props his chin on his hand. Looks up at the big old boy with very sincere admiration and earnestness (sweet fuck he’s good at that). “How did you come to be the strong specimen you are, anyhow?”

But Hillybilly Steve pauses. Slumps a little and looks into his now-empty mug. Says, “Father’s laughter. Not joy. Not ever. Only laughter.”

There’s a couple things to untangle in that, the first being, “Pawpaw is his fucking dad?”

The others look at you. Gale mouths “pawpaw.”

You ain’t sure about the rules of Faerun, but Pawpaw looks like an elf. And Hillybilly Steve has them same ears. He’s just…he looks like. Someone…did this to him. Made him into this. On purpose. And that purpose was a father?

“What the fuck,” you say.

Laughter. Not pride. Not love. Not even some kinda fucked up, misplaced, like, ownership. But laughter. As if that fucker Pawpaw saw this man, before he became all of that, and saw him as so much nothing he just…he did this. Or let someone else do it. To his own fucking son.

This goddamn, motherfucking place.

Hillybilly Steve—his name is fucking Thisobald—forces another mug at Wyll. Seems angry, now.

“Drink up, little man,” he says. “And no tricks.”

Fuck.

Wyll plays it cool, though. Takes an actual sip and you startle, but then he smiles.

“How did he do that?” you whisper.

“Oh, it’s not that difficult,” Astarion murmurs.

Wyll continues on about adventures. Cruising around on a pirate ship so he could gain their trust before taking out their captain. Escorting a noble bride through a fairy wood to meet her intended, and then breaking the groom out when it turned out the bride was a shape-shifting man-eater.

Even Astarion watches, now.

Then, once Thisobald is slurring, Wyll says, “What about your father? The legendary general?”

“Father,” Thisobald says slow and low. “Father is eternal. Invincible. Forever. Except not.”

It’s like somebody plucked a cord only y’all could hear. Seven dogs scenting a squirrel at the same time. The air seems to crackle.

“Ah, even the noblest and strongest of us do have their weaknesses, eh?” Wyll says. “Gods know I do.”

“No. No. Not weakness. Father is father. Don’t mention her.”

Shadowheart stands at alert.

“Oh?” Wyll says, chill as glass. “He has a lady friend, does he?”

But Thisobald shakes his head. A horse trying to throw a bit. It sends the hoses connected to his mask flopping heavily.

“I…I know you. Am knowing. You want father’s mysteries. No. Not ever. Father said. Ordered! Don’t say, don’t say. Not her cage! I’ll wake in the crypt. Not again! No talking again!” His clouded eyes fix on Wyll. “No. You drink, little man. You drink.”

He shoves a refilled mug. But instead of letting Wyll take it, he grabs Wyll—meaty paw covering the entire back of the smaller man’s skull—and shoves that mug into his face.

“Wyll!” Karlach says. Reaches for her ax.

Wyll throws up a hand. His throat moves as anti-freeze pours down his throat.

A second later Thisobald drops him. Wyll coughs. Gasps. Sways and slides off his seat.

This time, Karlach lunges forward to catch him, Gale swooping in beside her.

“It seems out friend has partaken too much,” Gale says. “Do excuse us.”

Thisobald grunts. His hippo eyes gleam. Then he raises his own mug, bigger than Karlach’s head with the horns. Lifts the bottom of his mask to slam it down. His stomach gurgles. But he don’t stop. Just drinks more. More. More.

“Not ever!” he bellows in between chugs. Let’s out a sickly-sweet belch. “I am strong! Too strong! Can’t! No talking! Never!”

The horrible gurgling continues. His body makes sounds ain’t no organic thing should ever make.

“Oh no,” Shadowheart says.

You turn, but Astarion is already gone.

Thisobald Thorm explodes.

[outofangband]

Updated elves and winter headcanons

Obviously I couldn’t go through each group or culture so please feel free to send one and I’ll tell my ideas for them and their winter lives and traditions! I’m going to do humans next and I have a separate post for winter in Doriath

Winter in the March HCs

-While elves have heightened tolerance for and immunity to the cold compared to humans, they are not fully immune to the dangers of winter though these differ somewhat to humans.

Shock, confusion, temporary snow blindness, and lack of directional sense are the most common symptoms the elves suffer due to the cold. The snow can blanket the earth, trees and plants and rock that elves can orient themselves with (I’m once more basing this in part of Legolas’s words about the elves of Hollin where he appears to draw sense memories from flora and stones)

Not all elves suffer this the same way. It varies both individually, based on experience and based on culture and group and geography. 

-Both extreme insensitivity to cold and heightened sensitivity to it are viewed as signs of poor health or even malicious intervention (for example, extreme insensitivity to cold in particular is associated with ex prisoners of Angband in First Age Beleriand)

-Several Avarin, Sindar, and Silvan groups have words specifically for the way frost and ice congeals on various kinds of surfaces. (The Noldor and Sindar canonically have words too for frost patterns)

-Likewise, words are developed for the effects of light upon snow 

-Snow does fall in Aman, mainly in the Pelóri mountains and in some of the wilderness. There are places under the domain of Oromë, Nessa and Yavanna that perpetually resemble a winter landscape though like most of the domains of the Valar, these can defy typical dimensions and so are not always accessible to the elves who do occasionally stumble in by accident. Most elven inhabited regions do not receive regular snowfall however

-Winter in some places and both Aman and Middle Earth may take the form of a rainier season, cooler but not cold weather, or other weather changes without snowfall or extreme cold. In these locations, the words for the season surrounding winter (Fading, the period between autumn and winter and Stirring, the period between spring and winter) obviously different. These words might instead refer to changes in light after the rising of the Sun and moon, harvest or changes in growth and agriculture, rainfall or weather changes or other indicators of season change.

-Some of the Caliquendi, Green Elves and Avari live in places without cold or snowy winters. 

-Snow pictures made from pouring water dyed with roots or other flora and used to paint snowy landscapes is a favorite winter activity among both Sindar and Noldor populations, indicating that the tradition predates the sundering of these groups on the Great Journey. 

[baldurs-gape]

Hunt

Two hundred years of being a spawn and Astarion had thought he'd learned everything he needed to about the life he had been dealt. His own naive arrogance came to bite him in the arse almost literally. Tadpoles, nautiloids, the lot came and went. Suddenly he was free and had to fend for himself. Easy.

Charming his way into the rag tag group of fellow tadpole fashionistas was easy. They all seemed so eager to pull him into their camp that Astarion almost felt bad for them for not realising they were cavorting with a monster. A very hungry one at that. Still, Astarion had a bit of sense left and he steered away from snacking on his protection.

Which left him with the only other option of hunting. Easier said than done. In all his years he had only ever been granted a fetid rat to drain, already half congealed so sucking it dry was in itself an exhausting chore. Still, it couldn't be that hard, right?

Traipsing off into the surrounding area once the rest of camp had fallen asleep, Astarion was eager to find himself a meal. He was an apex predator after all, designed to be the ultimate hunter. Except the woods were silent. No matter how quietly he moved, there was not a single creature to sink his teeth into. Frustrated, Astarion returned to camp and vowed to go a bit later the next night, when the noises of the camp had long since died down and calm descended on the area.

It was pointless. The heartbeats he could hear were impossible to reach. Not even a half-dead rat to scrounge up from the undergrowth. Really, Astarion had been hoping for something a bit more substantial like a boar. Alas, there was nothing of the sort he could find as he stalked through the shrubland.

Desperation drove him to stupidity. Sure, he could exist without sustenance but he wanted blood. It occupied most of his conscious thought, hearing the hearts of his companions beat almost deafeningly loudly. Self-discipline had never been his strong point and Astarion caved. Just a sip, that had been all he'd wanted. Never got even that as he was caught mid-attempt and almost sent fleeing from the camp.

Promising never to do that again had been easy. Protection was more important than satiating the neverending craving. As the group moved on, Astarion trailed along, on the search for something, anything to eat.

Closer to the goblin camp there were more animals dotted around and once again Astarion overestimated himself. Just because there was food within reach didn't mean it was as simple as sauntering up for a bite. No matter how quietly he tried to sneak, to ambush, creatures went skittering from him. Even the squirrel with a limp had evaded his launched attack.

Irritation licked hot up Astarion's spine. He should be better than this. Instead he was hungry and making more and more rash attempts to capture anything to fill his stomach. After the goblin camp's fight he had half a mind to return and see if he could have a few sips of tepid and cooling blood from the dead. Alas, upon his return he discovered that someone had dutifully gathered the corpses and was burning them.

Angry and frustrated, he headed out into the woods again late at night. There was the sound of a slow, large heart beating up ahead. Sneaking closer, Astarion was thrilled to discover a bear. It turned to look at him but discarded his appearance as a lack of threat. Bolstered, Astarion edged closer. The bear was huge, even by bear standards. Optimism wavering, he eyed it up for the best place to bite. Before he could make a decision, the large head turned again and dropped something in front of Astarion. A dead boar. Eyeing it, he glanced at the bear who huffed. What a strange creature. Still, Astarion was starving and he sank to his knees to drink. It was messy, unrefined. At least the blood wasn't still pumping through its veins to make the task more difficult. Sated and drenched from chin to near enough his hips, Astarion sighed.

"Thanks." It felt ridiculous to say that to the bear but being polite had been literally beaten into him.

From then on, Astarion found that the bear kept him company most nights. No matter where they bedded down, the bear seemed to follow. At first it merely plopped dead animals in from of Astarion for eating. The first big surprise was when it was no longer a dead creature but one that was still barely alive. The second big surprise came only a few seconds later. Blood from a still living creature was more divine than anything Astarion had ever had. He moaned as he sank his teeth through fur and skin. Drank and drank until he felt full to bursting then drank a bit more. Returning to camp, he was only a little drunk on his feast.

If Astarion had been a bit more alert, he'd have noticed the strange coincidence of his meal and that of the rest of the camp's matching. When he drank from a boar, the camp had boar stew. Rothé steak when Astarion drained a Rothé the night before. But he was too caught up in the bliss of being well fed and protected to notice.

By the time the bear had nothing ready for him, Astarion was a little offended. He had grown rather used to being provided for. However, the bear grunted at him and walked off, Astarion followed with minor grumblings.

Hunting, it turned out, was an artform. One that the bear seemed willing to teach him. While Astarion sprang from a bush to try and grab his prey, the bear sat back and watched. After the third unlucky attempt, the bear waded in. Astarion got to watch how the bear hunted down their prey, cornered it but waited for Astarion to approach and land the killing blow.

From then on it became a nightly activity. Slowly, Astarion mastered the art of hunting thanks to the bear. The first time he brought down a boar by himself, he was almost too elated to remember to drink. But drink he did, nothing had ever tasted sweeter than his own first independent kill.

Eventually, Astarion found himself to be a proficient hunter. He could feed himself with minor difficulties and rarely missed his target. Which was why, when he went to meet his strange bear, he was rather annoyed to find Halsin sitting in the spot instead.

"What you doing here?" Astarion drawled, trying to hide his frustration.

"I thought you might like a humanoid companion for your hunt this evening." Nose wrinkling, Astarion tried to deny everything. He was left speechless as Halsin sighed "if you insist" and shifted into an all too familiar bear form.

"You!" Torn between outrage, humiliation and gratitude, Astarion couldn't quite pick the emotion to go with. "It was you all along?"

The idea of Halsin watching him fail at hunting, treated him like an inept cub, had ever witnessed how messy and clumsily Astarion fed at the start, it was mortifying. Yet he was still there, offering companionship. Astarion's jaw snapped shut as he sniffed.

"Fine. I supppose you can come along in whatever form." Haughtily he added, "You could have saved yourself a lot of hassle if you'd just offered yourself up you know."

A knowing smile was sent his way. "I know. But you never asked. So I didn't."

"And if I asked now?"

"Want to find out?"