#rangier

[vaguely-concerned]

the fandom overlap here may be non-existent but it still bears saying just for me if so. that every time I see helluva boss vortex, something in my brain immediately goes 'oh my good good friend agent zero hiii! :D but where is his vibrosword and helmet tho???'

(this is vortex for reference. the only real concrete overlap is 'genuinely cool guy furry with a fucked up eye' I suppose but it's about: the vibes)

[de01536]

#bahn #waggon #rangieren #rangierer #sw #colorkey #swfotografie (hier: Rheinberg) https://www.instagram.com/p/Co73LDfsiDq/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[thatwobblychair]

CoD Baddies as Bears!

What if the bad guys were also bears! Part 3

See part 2 and 1 for 141 and good guys as bears

Even more bear facts because bears are love, bears are life. 🐻🐻‍❄️🧬

Makarov: Ussuri Brown Bear "Russian Grizzly Bear"

Ursus arctos lasiotus

Also known as the Ezo Brown bear or Black Grizzly bear, this subspecies of Eurasian Brown Bear is one of the largest, with some individuals approaching the Kodiak Bear in size.

Similar to the Kamchatka Brown Bear, it differs with an elongated skull, longer nasal bones, elevated forehead and is darker in colour with some individuals being pure black.

Siberian (Amur) tigers and other bears are it's only natural predators, with documented tiger and bear interspecific competitions. Ussuri brown bears will often scavenge tiger kills and or kill smaller tigers, while Tigers are known to hunt young and sub-adult bears (bears making a significant portion of their diet).

Graves: Louisiana Black Bear

Ursus americanus luteolus

A subspecies* of the American Black Bear (U. a. americanus), the Louisiana Black Bear has been historically found in Louisiana, Mississippi, East Texas and Arkansas.

It is not substantially different from the American Black Bear, though it has a longer, flatter, narrower skull and larger molars in comparison. It's colouration is typically black, though some individuals have been known to be brown/red-brown cinnamon. It is Louisiana's official state mammal.

*The validity of this subspecies has been repeatedly debated.

Valeria: Sloth Bear "Indian Bear"

Melursus ursinus

A native species to the Indian Subcontinent, this medium sized bear feeds on ants, termites and fruit. It is also called the "labiated bear" due to its long lower lip and palate which is used to eat insects.

It's fur is pure black aside from the white "Y" or "V" patch on its chest though this can be absent in some individuals. They are similar in size with the Asian Black Bear though distinguished with it's shaggy mane, white 'sickle' claws, and rangier build.

This species is the most aggressive to humans with the largest number of recorded attacks due to a combination of close human cohabitation and a theorised predisposition to aggressive behaviour from constant attacks by tigers, leopards, rhinos and elephants.

Captain Williamson in his Oriental Field Sports (1819) wrote of how sloth bears rarely killed their human victims outright, but would suck and chew on their limbs till they were reduced to bloody pulps.

They are not known to be man eaters despite attacking humans. One individual in Mysore (Mysuru), India was recorded to have killed at least 12 people and mutilated 24 before it's death in 1957.

Shepherd: Koala "Koala Bear"**

Phascolarctos cinereus

**not a bear

An arboreal marsupial native to Australia that feeds primarily on Eucalyptus leaves. Koalas are asocial with bonding only taking place between mothers and dependant offspring. They are largely sedentary and will sleep upwards to 20 hours a day.

The word "koala" came from the Dharug word "gula" - no water. The 'u' sound was originally written phonetically as 'oo' and then became 'oa'. The three syllable pronunciation may be erroneous as a result.

White settlers adopted the 'koala' indigenous loan word in reference to the animal, where it was also referred to as, the "native bear", or the "koala bear" due to its supposed bear-ish resemblance.

+

Info from Wikipedia. Please let me know if I screwed up somewhere. 🐻

[magicalmanhattanproject]

oh god uhhhhh is he hunt or end??

i feel like two guesses per ask is kind of cheating but it lets me keep some suspense so, the story goes something like this.

Cellbit fights a war. Cellbit eats some people. Cellbit goes to prison. Cellbit eats more people. Cellbit tries to escape from prison. Take a wild guess how his relationship with people goes. For a student of Smirke, he would absolutely be on track to be an avatar of the Flesh.

He'd been on track for a lot of things at all sorts of points in his life. The track leads him to a deserted island with police helicopters closing in and a pistol with a single bullet. He has a choice. Prison again, likely without any more chances to escape, or the one obvious route out.

He takes it.

That night, he wakes up with a splitting headache, an empty gun, and the worst hunger he's ever felt in his life.

Flesh is a new fear, a young fear, a fear born of the Industrial Revolution and the commodification of the body and labor. It doesn't exactly have much to work with for a man alone on a deserted island. If entities were nice, neat, rigid boxes Cellbit would have starved to double death on that island without anything to feed on but himself (not that he wouldn't have tried). But fear is fear and hunger is hunger and the island is empty but there are fish in the water.

There are fears much older and deeper and more primal than Flesh. A fish has no reason to fear a slaughterhouse. But a fish will flee a predator. And Cellbit quickly learns that as long as he chases, it doesn't even matter if he catches or not. He still catches, of course. He still wants to fill his stomach. He still doesn't know what he is or how he's alive. But he wants to know. So he hunts his fish, and he catches his fish, and he eats and he eats and he gets stronger and stronger and one day he's so hungry and so caught up in the thrill of it all that he stays underwater for far too long and realizes that he no longer needs to come up for air as long as he has something to hunt.

So, he sets out for the mainland.

This is where the story gets fuzzy. We don't know quite how he got from a serial killer cannibal to buddies and pals with the people he tried to murder to escape. But he manages it. He subsumes his need to Hunt into a Hunt for answers. He learns what he is and how to manage it. Plays hide and seek regularly enough to strike terror into his friends' hearts. He's always on the scrawnier, rangier side of things, but with enough coffee he can keep himself going without returning to the monster he used to be before he ascended to true monsterhood.

And then he comes to Quesadilla Island and an unprepared, half hearted Hunter has to learn very very quickly how to survive as the Hunted.

[magdelanesingerin]

“Jaskier,” Geralt says, “you don’t have to lie.” His voice is smoother now, a bit higher. It’s easier to hear the desperation hidden under the gruffness.

“Of course I love you, you absolute horse’s ass," Jaskier shrills. "You’re my best friend! I’ve known you for decades. You’ve saved my life several times over, and I’ve saved you from a life of loneliness and silent misery.”

Geralt’s face softens in relief as he smirks, the familiar expression made new.

“Honestly. Just because you’ve traded in for a new face for some godsforsaken reason, I’m suddenly supposed to despise you?” Jaskier scoffs loudly and pushes past Geralt along the path. The Witcher is quite a bit taller than Jaskier now, which seems utterly unnecessary and may take some getting used to. Jaskier walks away, and after a moment he can hear Geralt’s near-silent tread over the packed dirt and rocks as the Witcher follows after him.

“Ridiculous,” he splutters to himself, then turns around to walk backward and continues talking animatedly. “It’s not even that unusual, really, you're not special. As a matter of fact, I know a woman in Novigrad—fabulously wealthy, a widow to three different rich husbands who all died mysteriously, wonderful taste in music—at any rate, she pays a mage to glamour her a new face every five years! You have to be very careful any time you attend one of her parties. You have to know what the hostess looks like this season lest you inadvertently insult her!"

A root catches his heel and Jaskier nearly tumbles over backward, but saves it after some flailing. Geralt snorts a laugh. His face is younger-looking, fewer sharp angles and hard edges. The overall effect is that he looks much less grim and aloof, though he still retains the same brilliant golden intensity to his gaze. Jaskier is nearly too distracted by the surprising openness of his amusement and the fond smile that seems to seep through his usual hard glower to yell at him.

Nearly.

“Ohhhh you! You saw that coming, and you didn’t do a thing to warn me. Bastard,” he accuses with a pointed finger and a hiss.

He’s still walking backward though, and this time when he trips he can’t stop his backward fall—Geralt can, of course. His sudden descent to the ground is arrested by a broad, strong hand wrapping around his bicep and hauling him back to his feet.

That unnerving speed and strength are the same too, as it turns out, though contained in a rangier frame.

Geralt steadies him with an arched eyebrow and laughs. Laughs out loud, like it’s a perfectly normal thing and not a sound so beautifully shocking that Jaskier flaps his mouth pointlessly until Geralt has moved past him on the path, and the bard has to scramble to catch up.

“Well, I can’t change it back, so you’re stuck with me looking like this from now on. Glad to hear it won’t be too upsetting for your delicate sensibilities,” Geralt says over his shoulder, still chuckling. “Come on, we have a lot of ground to cover before nightfall, bard.”

[theanticool]

The chase ends for Cindy Ngamba of the Refugee Olympic Team . She drops a split decision to Atheyna Bylon of Panama in the semi-finals at 75 kg to end her tournament chase.

Close fight. ugly fight in parts. The open guard match up means we ended up with a lot of holding as the two came together. Ngamba was the shorter fighter trying to come forward while Bylon was the rangier boxer punishing her as she came forward. Bylon by and large did a good job dictating range and maintaining initiative as Ngamba did not look comfortable trying to pressure. Had a better 2nd round, though that came off the strength of a handful of moments rather than constant control. The third was a mess, with Bylon having a point taken for holding. Fight ended a draw and the judges decided Bylon deserved the decision so she heads to the finals to face China's Li Qian for gold.

Hats off to Ngamba who gets a bronze medal without the full support of a country behind her. I hope her story getting out there and her success helps her get citizenship, though the UK being the UK doesn't inspire confidence.

God Mikaela Mayer is terrible on commentary. Gave Bylon no credit for the work she was doing at range early, where she was picking off Ngamba with her lead hand. Esp with that check right hook.

[3gremlins]

i do have questions about these secret powers the grey wardens are supposed to have like do weisshaupt grey wardens have a better ritual than "drink this mysterious juice and wait to see if you live or not"? XD

also do they get better powers than "can sense darkspawn and also will turn into one in ~10-15 years"? like functionally/gameplay-wise this time? do you get more exp or do more damage against darkspawn (i think they mentioned that certain factions will have damage buffs against certain enemies so that would track)?

but also i would like more weirder powers for grey wardens, like you have weird blight magic or the inverse, cleansing magic (but it'd have to be a brief cleanse since wardens are willingly tainted by the blight, so blight powers would make more narrative sense. and also be more fun)

tangent #1: but i'd like to see older grey wardens take on aspects of their respective race's darkspawn like warden elves get rangier and their ears get longer like the shrieks, dwarves get genlock-y, qunari get ogre-y etc. And maybe they get to use their new blighty darkspawn powers for a brief window before they have to go into the deep roads for their final battle tangent #2: do we think we'll ever see the "thinking" darkspawn like the architect again (the ones who are slightly separate from the hive mind)? I'd like to see that explored more but i kinda feel like the story has moved away from them a bit (maybe it'll circle around)

[skxrbrand]

The Seventh Host of Murder

Bloodthirsters of the Death of Decadence

Berserkers of Bloody Brass

As the primary rival of the Pleasure God Slaanesh, it comes as no surprise that the Blood God had seen fit to assemble a Group of Bloodthirsters specifically to do battle with his brother’s children, both in the Aethyr and the Realm of Mortals. One of Kharneth’s edicts is that Slaaneshi are to be slain wherever found; no host of daemons takes this decree more seriously the Bloody Brass Bloodthirsters. There is an emphasis on speed in this Host, so the Bloodthirsters here are rangier than what is typically seen in other regiments. Their chaos armor is light and they wield long-reaching Axes of Anhedon, which kills Slaaneshi daemon and denies them the pleasure of feeling anything at all when they die. They themselves are more inured against Slaaneshi corruption and magic than is typical. To gain rank in this Host, a prospective Bloodthirster must kill and claim the skull of a Keeper of Secrets, then bind it’s soul to his weapon.

The mortality in this regiment is the highest of the eight and it’s numbers constantly fluctuate. When full, it boasts 512 Bloodthirsters, each with a host of daemons dedicated to scourging the Slaaneshi wherever they are found. Attacking the Rings of Pleasure is a popular activity for these daemons, as the Ring-Lords are a fierce sort and an ample proving ground for Untried Deathbringers. As a consequence, most of the Woehounds found in the First Circle are these Deathbringers, captured and turned upon their brethren. 

Key: True Name / Use-Name

Known Leaders

I. Droka’ka’no’kkakha’n’okath / Z'ruhgl Ka'kadron'ath (banished)

II. Ak’sho’isthaho’slaarla’ishka’m / Zha'nn'ka'dat'ha Qh'sla'ayish'akham (deceased)

III. Chki’dhaaska’kiyyak’ch’kar/ Ki’yantha’nak (Current Leader)

[oathwilled]

@hildiadis inquired: “Better to look evil in the eye. Even if it be very small.” / bg3 companion banter

" If I ever run afoul of an evil hobbit, I’ll well remember the advice. " It’s in jest, and his gaze drops a breath later; he pulls the saddle and blanket both from his horse’s back, and the animal’s hide steams from the bite of the cooler air, but seems none the worse for wear. He’s a northern animal, rangier and thicker and slower than the lithe warhorses of Rohan, but has weathered the distance well.

He’s taking refuge here — a day, maybe three, and he's no particular stranger to these places, though he doesn't belong. Rumors of dark tidings have him on edge, to be certain. " You speak as one used to looking for them, " he says, finally, dropping the saddle 'pon the side of a stall and looking back to her, his brow creased. " Evils, that is. Has there been trouble here? "

[babyawacs]

.@db @dbschenker @bahn @bahnde @sncf @usrail strafing some truck report as manager i tis clear that ai managed logistics chains and ai fused sensors for automated driving will replace someof the drivers burdens at somepoint: but: you could instead : #keypo int each local railway station gets its trucklanes just ride on a wagon automatically in anhour or every 3hours it willride 200miles 500miles t h a t d i re c t i o n youca n rest during there on: a spinning rotation plate to easy drive on driveoff  balance weight along wagon flapup the sides and offyougo. how quickly can you do main wagon ch ains and shouldyou instead of small rangier trains that pull a truck or three likethat

.@db @dbschenker @bahn @bahnde @sncf @usrail strafing some truck report as manager itis clear that ai managed logistics chains and ai fused sensors for automated driving will replace someof the drivers burdens at somepoint: but: you could instead : #keypoint each local railway station gets its trucklanes just ride on a wagon automatically in anhour or every 3hours it willride 200miles 500miles t…

[cobrastrikes421]

Christmas countdown

Snowflake - a single ice crystal that has achieved a sufficient size, and may have amalgamated with others, which falls through the earth’s atmosphere as snow.

Reindeer - female reindeer grow their antlers in the winter well, the males don’t. Known as caribou in North America, are deer in the genus Rangier.

Santa Claus - also know as Father Christmas, Saint Nicholas, Kris Kringle, or simply Santa, is a legendary character originating in western Christian culture who is said bring children toys.

Holiday - a holiday is a day set aside by custom or by law on which normal activities, especially business or work including school, are suspended or reduced.

Sweater - they are named after James BrudeNell, 7th earl of cardigan, a British general during the Crimean war, who led the famous charge of the light brigade.

Holly - when all else in the winter wood appeared dead lifeless, holly remained green and full of berries, giving hope for new life in the spring.

Krampus - in Central Europe popular legend, a half-goat, half-demon monster that punishes misbehaving children at Christmas time.

New year - the first new year’s celebration dates back 4,000 years ago.

Gryla - she kidnaps the children and she her husband, leppalúdi, put them in large sack.

Light - are lights often used for decoration in celebration of Christmas, often on display throughout the Christmas season including advent and Christmastide.

Stocking - the Christmas stocking tradition started in Europe.

Sleigh - skid, sledge, or sleigh is a land vehicle that slides across a surface, usually of ice or snow.

The pink and purple cat my sister @brose1229

[stahlwerkde]

STAHLWERK WH-25 ST Wagenheber Aluminium mit Stahlkonstruktion hebt bis 3 Tonnen - maximale Hubhöhe 465 mm

Artikelnummer: 5750

GTIN: 4260294087507

Kategorie: Wagenheber

STAHLWERK Rangier-Wagenheber, hydraulischer Wagenheber bis 3 t, stufenlos regulierbar, Hubbereich 100 - 465 mm, rostfreie Aluminium- und Stahlkonstruktion mit Doppelhubkolben und 7 Jahren Garantie auf Zylinder.

Price: 209,99 €

inkl. 19% USt. , zzgl. Versand (Paketversand kostenlos in DE)

Funktionen

Stabiler, kompakter und leichter Rangierwagenheber für den Einsatz am KFZ, in Werkstätten und in der Landwirtschaft mit einer Hubkraft von ECHTEN 3 Tonnen.

Die rostfreie und verschleißfreie Aluminium-Stahl-Konstruktion gewährleistet eine einfache Handhabung und eignet sich auch für niedrige Fahrzeughöhen.

Der Wagenheber ist stufenlos regulierbar und besitzt eine Tragkraft von 3 t.

Mit nur 25,25 kg ideal für Arbeiten an jedem Ort.

Doppelhubkolben-Funktion für schnelles und geräuscharmes Heben und Senken des Hubarmes.

Das System arbeitet in einem Hubbereich von 100-465 mm.

Der Wagenheber kommt mit wechselbarer Gummiauflage. Es steht eine Dicke von 9 mm und eine Dicke von 16,3 mm zur Wahl.

Für die Langlebigkeit des Geräts sorgen zusätzlich Staubschutzschilde und Abstreiferdichtungen.

7 Jahre Garantie auf Zylinder

ADD TO CART

[cruger2984]

THE DESCRIPTION OF SAINT BRUNO OF COLOGNE The Founder of the Carthusians Feast Day: October 6

"For the devil may tempt the good, but he cannot find rest in them; for he is shaken violently, and upset, and driven out, now by their prayers, now by their tears of repentance, and now by their almsgiving and similar good works."

The founder of the Order of Carthusians (simply known as Carthusians), was born in Cologne circa 1030. According to tradition, he belonged to the family of Hartenfaust, or Hardebüst, one of the principal families of the city. Little is known of his early years, except that he studied theology in the present-day French city of Reims before returning to his native land. His education completed and he returned to his native Cologne, where he was most likely ordained a priest around 1055, and provided with a canonry at St. Cunibert's. Bruno effectively taught for 18 years (1057 to 1075) at the cathedral school of Reims, giving to the church eminent scholars. Among his students were Eudes of Châtillon, who will later becoming Pope Urban II, Rangier, Cardinal and Bishop of Reggio, Robert, Bishop of Langres, and a large number of prelates and abbots.

In 1075, Bruno was appointed chancellor of the Roman Catholic Archdiocese of Reims, which involved him in the daily administration of the diocese. Meanwhile, the pious Bishop Gervais de Château-du-Loir, a friend to Bruno, had been succeeded by Manasses de Gournai, a violent aristocrat with no real vocation for the Church. In 1077, at the urging of Bruno and the clergy at Reims, de Gournai was suspended at a council at Autun. Manasses responded, in typical eleventh century fashion, by having his retainers pull down the houses of his accusers. He confiscated their goods, sold their benefices, and even appealed to the pope. Bruno discreetly avoided the cathedral city until in 1080 a definite sentence, confirmed by popular riot, compelled Manasses to withdraw, and take refuge with the fierce opponent of Pope Gregory VII, the Holy Roman Emperor, Henry IV.

In order to escape the vanity and false ambitions of the world, Bruno retired to a hermitage at Sèche-Fontaine, near Molesme in the Roman Catholic Diocese of Langres, together with a band of other hermits, he led a life of penance and prayer.

Ten years later, they transferred to a mountainous and inaccessible forest called Chartreuse, located in the lower Alps of the Dauphiné and not far from Grenoble on August 15, 1084, where the so-called Order of Carthusians was born. There, Bruno and six companions (Landuin, Stephen of Bourg, Stephen of Die (canons of St. Rufus), Hugh the Chaplain and two laymen, Andrew and Guerin) built a hermitage, consisting of a few wooden cabins opening towards a gallery that allowed them access to the communal areas, the church, refectory, and chapter room without having to suffer too much from inclement conditions.

Women were forbidden to enter the lands. They were poor in everything, except for a silver chalice for the celebration of the Eucharist and a common library. Their chief work was to copy books, by which they became famous throughout Europe. And Bruno was in a constant cheerful mood.

Bruno resisted efforts to name him Archbishop of Reggio Calabria, deferring instead in favor of one of his former pupils nearby in a Benedictine abbey near Salerno. Instead Bruno begged to return again to his solitary life. His intention was to rejoin his brethren in Dauphiné, as a letter addressed to them makes clear. But the will of Urban II kept him in Italy, near the papal court, to which he could be called at need. Bruno did not attend the Council of Clermont, where Urban preached the First Crusade, but seems to have been present at the Council of Benevento.

Bruno died on October 6, 1101 in Serra San Bruno (a comune in Calabria region). The Carthusians is regarded by the Church as the most perfect model of contemplative life. Today, there are 23 charterhouses, 18 for monks and 5 for nuns. The alcoholic cordial Chartreuse has been produced by the monks of Grande Chartreuse since 1737, which gave rise to the name of the color, though the liqueur is in fact produced not only as green chartreuse, but also as yellow chartreuse.

Beatified in 1514 by Pope Leo X and canonized a saint by Pope Gregory XV, he is patron of possessed people, trademarks and monastic fraternities.

[deinheilpraktiker]

Rangierer (m|w|d)

Ort: Kitzingen, Bayern Job Beschreibung:Rangierer (m|w|d) Unser Kunde überzeugt durch punktgenaue Lieferzeiten sowie eine branchenübergreifende Reputation. Wir suchen Sie! Rangierer (m|w|d) Ab sofort, in Vollzeit für ein namhaftes Unternehmen aus der Logistikbranche in Kitzingen. Das bieten wir Ihnen: Anstellung in einem unbefristeten Arbeitsverhältnis Schneller und unkomplizierter…

[magpie-to-the-morning]

Insatiable - Part Two

Rating: Mature

Pairing: Santiago Garcia x Frankie Morales x OFC

Word count: 2.5k

Tags: Wolf shifter AU, Supernatural AU, Slow burn, Mating bond, Canon typical sex and violence, Attempted kidnapping, Blood, Injury, Hurt/comfort, Eventual smut

Summary: You’ve travelled the world looking for home, but what if it finds you?

Author’s Note: I promised more would be here soon. 😘 Thank you @acrossthesestars​ for the very necessary edits!

Missed part one? You can read it here. 

Moodboard by @acrossthesestars

“Looks like a mild concussion so you’ll need to take it easy for a few days. Ever had a migraine? Treat it like that.”

You nod, though the doctor’s words weave in and out of your still blurry focus. You’ve been conscious for a while, more or less - aware of the bright fluorescent lights, worn turquoise pleather, and tired white walls of the clinic, all bathed in that sickly, intense glow most medical centers seem to share. 

Grasping onto a single coherent thought with relief and a renewed sense of your own capabilities you ask “Can I sleep when I get home?”

The doctor (or nurse? You’re not quite sure) frowns. “I’m not comfortable releasing you on your own. Unless one of your friends is going home with you…?”

Her question startles you and it’s only now that you realize there are two men standing behind you, both vaguely familiar though otherwise strangers. They’re of age, dark haired and dark eyed with varying shades of light brown skin and you can’t help but pick up on a current running between them, a sense of kinship that makes you wonder if they might be related. But no, that’s not it. Looking closer, you can see the features that set them apart. 

The man closer to you is slightly shorter, his upright bearing and watchful eyes commanding. Standing straight in dark jeans and a black t-shirt that set off his compact, muscular frame, there’s something about him that gives off an air of quiet, steady competence. He’s not someone you’d want to mess with but he also seems… approachable, his quick eyes and generous mouth hinting at good humored intelligence.

His partner is taller, rangier. His shaggy brown hair is a little untidy and his facial hair is slightly patchy. He looks a bit softer around the edges, though no less capable than his friend. He’s not missing a beat either but he stands slightly to the side, his arms folded, looking somehow less at ease. 

Your gaze meets his and you feel a jolt, placing that concerned look. He’s the man who’d knelt to check on you while his partner ran to-

“Is she ok? The girl, I mean.” Your pulse kicks up, adrenaline surging through you once more as memories of the past hour come flooding back.

“She’s fine,” the taller man reassures you. “Found a cousin in the crowd- she said thank you, by the way.” His voice is soft and he moves to stand a bit closer, uncrossing his arms and jerking his chin towards his companion. “Santi got the guy to the authorities, you don’t need to worry about him, either.”

“Santi” shoots a look at his friend and mutters something you can’t catch about names.

“As I was saying,” the clinician says with a pointed look at her clipboard. You jerk back towards her with a guilty start, realizing she must have other patients to attend to.

“Right, sorry. So about going home?”

A sigh. 

“Do you have someone who can look after you?”

In your cheap vacation apartment in a city thousands of miles from anyone you know? You force your features into neutrality and away from the ironic eyebrow raise you can feel tugging at your stitches.

Stitches? Shit, another thing to think more about later.

Before either of the guys at your back can open their mouths to say they’ve never seen you before tonight and blow your cover, you nod. 

“Yup, my friends here can take me back to my place.” You cut them a significant glance, hoping they’ll play along. Your body is aching with bruises you know will flower overnight and you want nothing more than to go back to your own place and crawl into bed with a few bags of ice. 

“Uh, yeah. Yeah, we can do that.” The taller man shifts from one foot to another, pointedly not checking in with his partner, who rolls his eyes skyward. This time, you catch something about “picking up strays.” 

Pasting on a bright smile, you turn back to the clinician. “Great, that’s all sorted, then. Thanks for the patch up, I’ll be out of your hair now.”

Sent on your way with a few more instructions and a follow-up appointment, you make for the exit before anyone can change their mind.

Rushing out into the cool dark you breathe in, out, letting the fresh night air fill your lungs and carry away some of the tension still lingering in your body. Everything has happened so quickly and while you wait for the guys to catch up, you take stock.

Your head feels like it’s about to split open, though that’s not much worse than the headaches you sometimes get. Gingerly, you run a finger over the numb tightness above your eye. There’s a pad of gauze there, covering the stitches you’d guessed at earlier. One of the kicks must have split your brow, you realize with a wince. You have a few other minor hurts and abrasions but all things considered, you got off pretty lightly.

“Thank you,” you say when Santi and his partner reach you on the pavement outside the clinic. “For playing along back there and, well, you know. You’re off the hook though, I can get back to my place just fine.” 

“You sure that’s the best idea?” Santi reaches out to take your arm- pulling back when he sees you tense up. “Easy, I’m not gonna hurt you.” His voice is a little deeper than his friend’s, though you wonder if he’s pitched it that way to lend weight to his promise. He looks you over and you wince, knowing you’re not exactly the picture of world-traveling independence you normally present. Clearly coming to some decision, he continues “Let us walk you back to your place, at least. You really shouldn’t be on your own right now.”

“I can take care of myself,” you shoot back quickly, defensive and less convincing than you’d like. 

He cocks an eyebrow, a smile tugging at his lips that puts your back up but it’s his friend who answers first.

“Would it make you feel better if we showed you some IDs?”

Santi groans. “Fish-“

“What? We’re strangers- she’s just being cautious.”

“She,” you butt in with a significant glare at both of them, “is tired and just wants to go back to her place after a seriously weird day. But yeah, that’s not a bad idea, all things considered.” 

The three of you swap proper introductions at last, and the guys show you their IDs- Santi with a little more reluctance, though you don’t really blame him. His partner hands his over easily after thumbing it free from a well-worn wallet and when you see the name on his license, you tilt your head playfully.

“Francisco, huh? I was just starting to get used to Fish.”

He chuckles a little shyly, dodging a pointed look from Santi as he slips the card back into place. “It’s sort of a nickname, but you can call me Frankie, if you want. So what are you doing in Cartago, anyway?”

You let the quick, evasive change in subject slide. You’re not one for getting too personal too quickly either, so you share the pared down version of your own bio as the three of you head for your apartment.

“I’m a travel writer. Well, blogger technically. I started off this trip in San José but I wanted to see more of the country than just the capital, you know?”

You share a few anecdotes of your recent travels to pass the time, working in a few subtle questions about their own presence in Costa Rica. Judging by their accents, they’re Americans like yourself, at least some of the time, though all they’ll say is that they’re on vacation after a nearby job. They do open up a bit more after a couple blocks, trading a few of their own lighthearted travel stories along with some recommendations for local spots to check out, some of which you hadn’t heard of yet and note in your phone for another day.

By the time you reach your door, you’re feeling more at ease with Frankie and Santi, finding them surprisingly easy to talk to. As much as you love your job and the lifestyle that comes with it, getting to know some new people is… kind of nice, actually. 

Reaching the steps to your building along with a decision you hope isn’t entirely driven by your recent head trauma, you turn to them and ask “You guys want a drink or anything?” 

After having one of those silent conversations that only people who’ve known each for ages seem capable of, they nod and follow you up the stairs. You wonder again at the nature of their relationship. Are they friends? Lovers? There’s some undeniable bond between them that’s obvious even to an outsider and it tugs at you. What would it be like to know someone that deeply? That well?

You banish the thought as you fit your key into the lock of your rented apartment, it’s temporary nature reminding you that any connection you make is sure to be fleeting at best and shallow at worst. Most of the time, you don’t mind it, not really. It comes with the territory. Tonight though, part of you longs for something to cling to, to shelter in when you feel as vulnerable as you do after the day’s events.

The overhead light you switch on by recent habit is far from forgiving and you squeeze your eyes shut to ward against its harsh glare, waving a vague hand towards the kitchenette. “I don’t have much here, sorry, but there’s fruit juice and beer in the fridge.” 

“I’ll get it.” Santi vanishes into the kitchenette and you can hear him rattling through the fridge and cupboards. By this point his distant grumbling (likely directed at your near total lack of food, beverage, cup and utensil offerings) is almost reassuringly familIar.

Frankie follows you to the threadbare couch, hovering at your elbow in case you prove unsteady on your feet and you realize he’s kept close the whole way back, likely for the same reason. It’s sweet, if a little old-fashioned. 

Santi joins you as you’re lowering yourself onto the worn couch cushions, wordlessly placing a large glass of iced mango juice, already sweating in the closed up room’s stifling heat, and a bowl of crackers in front of you. Frankie moves to open the shutters, letting the night breeze waft in over a rickety balcony, and swaps the glaring, artificial light for the soft glow of the moon and the city lights while Santi ducks back into the kitchen, returning with a pair of beers for himself and his partner. It’s smooth, co-ordinated, and while ordinarily you’d bristle at strangers moving so confidently through your space, they manage it without being overbearing or condescending, their easy motions and casual care seeming natural, effortless, rather than forced.

It also gives you another moment to yourself to take a breath. You tip your head back against the couch while they talk amongst themselves for a moment. You lose track of time and the next thing you know, Frankie is laying a tentative hand on your shoulder. 

“I don’t think you should sleep just yet,” he tells you, almost apologetically. 

“Right. Concussion,” you say, as if you need the reminder. You look around the apartment, searching for something, anything, to keep you busy. By some miracle, there’s a dusty stack of board games tucked into the bottom of one shelf that you hadn’t noticed before, left behind by forgetful guests or a thoughtful host. 

“Who’s up for a game?”

The three of you settle on Trivial Pursuit after rejecting Uno for being too cutthroat and Monopoly for being too dull. It turns out to be a great choice, allowing you to unwind and laugh over bits of half forgotten knowledge. You discover that the three of you are evenly matched when it comes to geography, though the guys have you beat on any sport other than hockey. You trounce them in entertainment and literature, though Frankie is a dark horse when it comes to films, and Santi’s knowledge of music rivals your own. 

The sounds of the city waft through the open window, distant car horns and music a soothing backdrop to your game. As the moon rises, you settle into an easy groove of bantering and teasing, until even Santi is trading barbs and laughing at your jokes. Your glass never runs empty and when you groan about a third refill, they just remind you of your orders to hydrate. 

Once the game is over, you’d won, but barely, your eyes start to drift closed once more. You lean against Frankie, sitting on the couch beside you while Santi looks on from a nearby chair. He rouses you gently once more and, noting the pained expression on your face, asks if you have any painkillers he can get for you. 

“I ran out the other day,” you mumble, exhaustion weighing heavier on you. “Migraine.”

“I’ll go out and get some.” Santi heads for the door before you can tell him that he’s already done enough, both of them have. 

Frankie sits stock still, your head on his shoulder, as though afraid any movement will startle you. When a lock of your hair falls against your tired face, he tucks it gently behind your ear. “Keep talking, ok? It’ll keep you awake. How did you get into travel writing? Did you always want to see the world?” 

Fighting to keep your eyes open, you give him the sketched out version of your life: foster homes and bookworm binges, using stories as a way to escape- especially ones that took you far, far away. Maybe it’s the late hour, or the way your head is pounding, but your usual defenses are down, and you tell him about wanting more than the world you knew, to make a name for yourself, to blaze your own trail. He’s a good listener, quiet but interested, asking questions whenever you start to doze off. 

Eventually though, you can’t hold out anymore, too exhausted to stay awake any longer. It’s probably fine, you reason with the last bit of conscious thought you can muster. The doctor wouldn’t have let you leave if you were in any real danger, and they hadn’t actually said anything about not sleeping.

Before sleep pulls you under, your body softens against Frankie’s, and you mumble a sleepy “thanks for taking care of me” that he has to lean closer to make out. If he replies, you don’t register it, already slipping into a soft, welcoming darkness. 

____

When you wake in the morning, you’re laid on top of your bed in the next room, the covers folded over you and a bottle of water on the nearby nightstand. You fumble for it in the gray dawn, sunlight just beginning to filter through pulled shades. There’s a bottle of painkillers next to it and a note reading simply “Cuidate. Take care of yourself.”

They’ve both signed it, though there’s a postscript crammed into one corner that you have to turn the note to read. 

“Restocked your fridge. -S.”

You turn the note over, hoping for a phone number, an email address, any way to get in contact with them- if only to thank them properly. 

It’s blank. 

Next

[sayahs-corner]

Beauty in the Broken

Beauty in the Broken

an AU  stony wolf shifter fanfiction

Summary:

Tony Stark is a halfbreed Omega on the run. Notorious for being uncatchable and outwitting those who would try to tame him, Tony doesn’t stay in one place for very long. He doesn’t want to be tied down or beholden to any Alpha because in his experience they bring nothing but pain and terror.

Besides, Tony has not met a wolf he can’t outrun or outfox.

Until now.

Rating: Explicit

Excerpt:

...His panting breaths filled the sudden silence of the wood, making all the fine hairs on his nape and forearms stand on end. It was quiet, too quiet.

Tony wanted to scream with frustrated exhaustion.

The Alpha was near. He fucking knew it. How that bastard was able to track him… it was almost otherworldly. He tried to make himself push forward, but his body was so tired and uncoordinated. He forced one foot in front of the other, jogging drunkenly and careening into trees. He felt like a ping pong ball, or like a blonde chick in a bad horror movie the way he was tearing through the brush, darting fearful glances over his shoulder, the rough bark ripping at the skin of his arms as his shoulders stumbled into the trunks.

Unfortunately Tony had not had the foresight to pack an extra pair of shoes.

Which had him running barefoot through the woods, the sensitive soles of his feet punctured by twigs and barbs.  Exhaustion made him reckless. Gone was the quiet skulk of an animal hiding from pursuers, all that was left was a wounded beast intent on escape, crushing through the undergrowth and all but falling over himself in his attempt to get away.

Mindless with both fear and exhaustion, it was almost a relief when a shadowed form stepped out onto the path in front of him.

It was the Alpha. The wolf who had chased him across three state lines over the course of four days. His relentless, tireless, pursuer.

Broad shouldered, bigger than he had any right to be, the Alpha stood in his path. Strong arms corded with muscle crossed over his broad chest. His nemesis was dressed in a pair of faded jeans that did little to hide his tree trunk thighs, a little worn in on the knees, and a plain white t-shirt.  His skin was a swarthy golden hue, tanned from hours spent outdoors. Even from a distance he towered over Tony.

Panic had his throat going tight, and for the first time since he was a pup, a high pitched whine escaped him.

The Alpha didn’t move. Simply stood there. His face cast in the shadows of the forest. He was just waiting, Tony realized, completely relaxed and utterly unphased. As if he were saying “I can do this all day”.

A shudder worked its way down his spine.

Tony’s knees went out from under him.

He grunted as his right knee smashed into a half buried rock, the pain clearing his head of the overwhelming fear and sense of dread that had settled itself like a mantle across his shoulders.

Tony wasn't a crier, but he felt like one now. He hadn’t slept in days. He was running on fumes.

He hurt.  

His entire body felt like one big bruise but it was nothing compared to the bitter ache of disappointment that was boiling in his chest. He had finally been caught. And by the meanest, toughest, looking Alpha that he had ever had the misfortune to cross paths with.

A sob choked up in his throat, throttled down by clenched teeth and determination. He wouldn’t give this beast of an alpha the satisfaction.

He hould have chosen one of the weaker ones. The scrawnier, rangier, wolves that had come sniffing around during one of his heats.

Because that’s what this was all about. Tony was in the early stages of heat, and this wolf with his superior nose and senses must have caught it before Tony himself even knew.

This one looked like he could break him in half with just the snap of a wrist. He shouldn’t have thought himself capable of outwitting the shifters forever.

A smaller wolf… it wouldn’t hurt as much. The beatings. The rape. This guy? Tony clenched his jaws and closed his burning eyes.

This was going to hurt. A lot.

Tony’s shoulders slumped forward, hands falling to the forest floor as his fingers curled uselessly into the soil. He waited. Waited for judgment. For condemnation. For pain, because if there was one thing he learned about his dealings with fellow wolves was that there was always, always, pain.

It was several tense moments later when nothing happened that Tony was brave enough to flick his eyes upward. The Alpha hadn’t moved. Was watching him, he knew, because he could feel the burning weight of his stare on his skin like a brand.

Dread and humiliation coiled in his guts. He knew what the Alpha was waiting for and he fucking hated him for it.

Swallowing the tattered remains of his pride, Tony forced his aching body forward.

He crawled.

Crawled on his hands and knees across the forest floor, feeling every bite of stone and stick that dug into his tender flesh. He stopped, breathing heavy and fighting back tears, until he was kneeling in front of those jean clad thighs, his gaze directed down at scuffed leather boots.

Read the full story here :

https://archiveofourown.org/works/40573815/chapters/101651898