#The bite

[balkanparamo]

The Bite, 1914: Edvard Munch

[hawkinslibrary]

Nancy Wheeler and Jonathan Byers Stranger Things 3 Chapter Seven: The Bite | 3.07

[cinematic-studies]

The Bite (Pedro Neves Marques, 2019)

*Cinematic Studies is also on Instagram. Follow @cinematicstudies

[smilesindustry]

redraw of one of my old drawings old one under cut

[allthedesiredusernamesaretaken]

The Bite

- Edvard Munch (1914)

[comicalwenger]

there really was just something different about that 2014 world cup. like fifa put crack in that tournament or something

[angelwings-crossbowstrings]

MarchWeres Day 3

Prompt: The Bite

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Tabby (oc)

Warnings: Blood and injury; werewolf bite

It wasn’t what he wanted. It wasn’t what she wanted, and that alone weighed heavier on his heart than the most solid stone. 

“The wound’ll hurt.” Daryl whispered. “I was just a boy, maybe ten, when Merle—when he bit me. Tore out a good chunk. Had to stitch it myself when I got home.” His chin wobbled, his eyes following the steady red stream that flowed from the bullet wound. What didn’t collect in her navel was soaked up by the denim at her waist. “I know ya don’t want this.” He dropped his head, shielding his unchecked tears from her spotty vision. “I just—I can’t lose ya. S’selfish, I know—but I don’t, I can’t—”

Tabby’s hand was shaking violently when her fingertips pressed against his mouth. After a moment, when he was silent, she slid them over his stubbled cheek and tucked some of his hair behind his ear. “I may not want this.” She felt herself slipping away, her voice distant to her own ears. “But I do want you. I want to be with you.” Her breath caught, growing more difficult to regain control. “If this is what it takes—bite me, Daryl.”

Daryl caught her hand as it fell away, kissing her wrist, his keen senses could pick up her faint pulse. She was hanging on but he needed to hurry. Ignoring the wound on his right leg, he stood and pulled her against his chest. There was a hole in the roof, the full moon’s light pouring in as if an invitation. It called out to its new daughter. 

He collapsed there, summoning the energy for a partial shift, his canines elongating to sharp points, the blue of his eyes spiderwebbed with inky black. Daryl wasted no time, pulling her in tight and sinking his teeth into her shoulder. The primal urge to hunt and to kill warred against love and protective instinct, the latter always victorious. He wouldn’t leave her with a gaping wound like Merle. The skin parted minutely, just enough for him to carve through it with the edge of his tongue. 

And then he pulled away, panting and licking her blood from his lips. The wound bled and bled but he didn’t cover it. It would heal, one of the moon’s gifts to soothe the souls of the cursed. 

Daryl was beginning to lose hope. Her pulse was so faint that he needed to hold his breath to hear it. He was going to lose her after all. 

Then it all reversed, the opened flesh of her shoulder knitted together, only a faint scar remained. The eternal proof he had cursed her. The bullet in her sternum was pushed out, hitting the floor with a stifled clink. He leaned over her, not caring to watch the wound heal. 

He needed to see her, yearning for that affection and acceptance in her altered eyes. 

When they opened, it was sudden. A deep gasping breath, the moon bearing witness to the whites of her eyes darkening and disappearing beneath the black. It mingled with her natural blue and Daryl was certain he’d never seen eyes so beautiful. 

Tabby breathed quickly, overwhelmed by the influx of strength and heightened senses. Her hand had absently already come to rest against Daryl’s cheek. He was leaning into the touch, nuzzling her palm, opening his eyes to see her staring back at him with a gentle smile. Her nails nicked his cheek as they shaped into claws. 

“The start of a new adventure, Lobo.”

[dtwof]

some of my favourites from the edvard munch museum

[my-au-worlds]

The bite.

[lets-ignore-that]

painting of the Bite based on Ivan the Terrible

[acre-of-wheat]

As they grow older still, and every brush of closeness with the princess takes on new painful and aching meaning for Jade, Kit's teeth terrify and torture and entice her.

Because for whatever reason, the princesses' jaw will lock down harder on her now, slide a little higher up her shoulder to the space where it meets her neck, and sometimes-- horrible perfection-- Jade can feel Kit's tongue against the bitten skin. Soft, wet, curious.

 And Kit starts leaving marks.

Tanthamore Fic: AO3 Link

[sammi-phoenix]

He had changed. His body no longer belonged to him and him alone. It was a shared thing, an ecosystem, something Scott had to learn to utilize. It was a weapon and a tool. A creature without control and yet still himself. Still sentient but with power Scott had never hard before. 15-year-olds shouldn't have this kind of power. 15-year-olds shouldn't worry about their fingernails cracking through their skin or their ears growing longer than humanly possible. 15-year-olds shouldn't be at war with the creature inside of them. They shouldn't have to worry about full moons or being shot by hunters. 15-year-olds shouldn't be subjected to this.

Sort of dark but I do think that the change of becoming something entirely new is very dark.

For Scottuary 2024 prompt The Bite

[mariocki]

Curse II: The Bite (The Bite, 1989)

"I just ran over about a hundred snakes back down the road here. I mean, they were all grouped together on the road, like some kind of mass exodus or something."

"Ain't God punishing the desert. It's people. Tearing up the heaven and the earth, testing bombs beneath our feet, poisoning the air and the water. Turning this place into one big dumping ground."

"Well, I guess before too long everything's gonna be extinct."

"Almost everything."

[cinematic-studies]

The Bite (Pedro Neves Marques, 2019)

*Cinematic Studies is also on Instagram. Follow @cinematicstudies

[asoiafreadthru]

A Game of Thrones, Bran III

He looked east, and saw a galley racing across the waters of the Bite.

He saw his mother sitting alone in a cabin, looking at a bloodstained knife on a table in front of her, as the rowers pulled at their oars and Ser Rodrik leaned across a rail, shaking and heaving.

A storm was gathering ahead of them, a vast dark roaring lashed by lightning, but somehow they could not see it.