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@wolfdog-extraordinaire
Blog run by Alex, 29, he/it/they. Extra information available at the link in bio.
My Muses:
SAM RYAN:
original character| Welsh| 28| 5'9"| 165lb| queer
Just a regular guy who got regularly tangled into situations.
JOHN CONSTANTINE:
DC character| English| ?| ?| ?| queer
Exorcist, Demonologist and Master Petty Dabbler of the Dark Arts.
Affiliates: @niratias
blood spray is just another kind of cumshot
Keep salting the wound I'm close
sorry for displaying suicidal tendancies do you still think im hot
i wish there was a way to have an autopsy that didnt kill u. i think it would be so cathartic
my "TORTURE FETISH" tshirt is raising a lpt of questions already answered by the shirt
(voice of a person spiralling) its embarrassing but i still havent figured out if its ok for me to be alive
I am standing next to Gabe, he's fully decked out in designer clothes and cutting a very imposing figure as usual. By comparison I look scruffy and a good deal scrawnier than I actually am. I can see him looking in disbelief at the business we've been sent to. An ice cream parlour, a gimmick ice cream shop at that, themed around wrestling? That was hilarious.
"Yeeeeah...." I snort in response to Gabe's okay and that laugh. He has a peculiar laugh for a man his size, and especially for a man I know to be by all accounts able to commit immeasurable violence and who has the resources to get away with it.
The fact we were sent for a collection run had sounded bizarre, honestly, especially for Gabe's place in Mox's gang. But who am I to question assignments, I get the orders, I obey and if I do a good job it's all well and good, if I don't I know my days in Mox's orbit are numbered. But it seems like this isn't a pre-existing contract, it's a new deal, yeah that's definitely Gabe's field of experience. He is a persuasive bastard of an Englishman after all, could sell coal to Newcastle, or the Valleys.
"Wait, are you for real now you mad lad?" I question his proposal of trying out the shop's offering. "I would be down to but doesn't it seem kinda childish to have ice-cream when we're here for the reasons we're here?" I reply, staring at Gabe, his eyebrows are raised to a cartoonish degree but I can fairly assume my expression isn't much different.
In all honesty, I can't really talk about childishness when most of my life outside of working hours, in the safety of my private quarters wherever I find myself at the time, is spent on fantasy and science-fiction novels and wrestling merch from random Japanese and American deathmatch promotions and wrestlers.
"Make it both business and pleasure? We get some ice-cream and a job done well? You know what. I'm in." I say finally.
Gabe pulls his phone up and checks the place's reviews before holding the phone in Sam's direction with a shrug. 4.8 stars out of 5. That speaks for itself.
"Call it doing the job thoroughly," he says, then tucks the device away. "We try the product," he's talking about this like it's cocaine, "and if we like it we're friendly-like with the discussion. If we DON'T like it...well, we'll deal with that, then."
His plan makes absolutely no sense whatsoever, of which he's well aware. It's not even a real plan. Mox had to know there was some danger sending this particular loose canon to open discussions, but the Riders boss is generally pretty damn good at assigning the right people to the right job. Worst case, this is a bust, and Pac shakes them down later instead. Nobody EVER turns down Pac and lives to talk about it.
This is all quite dramatic for an ice cream parlor.
This is life with the Death Riders.
The interior is clean, bright, and decorated so intensely there is no empty wall space to be found. Memorabilia, belt replicas, and TVs playing old matches, signed prints, and more sell the space. More than that?
"The fucking flavor names...?" It's half question, half exaltation.
They're all fantastic, but he's floored by PEANUT PILEDRIVER, COFFEE KINGSTON, and END OF HEARTACHE, the last of which appearing to be bubblegum flavored with black candy hearts in it.
I follow Gabe into the parlour, the TV is playing a tape of early 2000s ROH matches, currently on the tail end of an Amazing Red vs Jay Briscoe match from 2002, it cuts to Low Ki wrestling Bryan Danielson and Christopher Daniels.
The names are an assortment of hilariously gimmicky references, and I am enjoying Gabe's exhilarated question over them. "I know, they are awesome, innit?"
I keep looking at the display freezer, filled with a multitude of flavours all sporting themed, occasionally mildly punny. There is a blackberry and lemon swirl ice-cream that sports the name GENERATION ZEST, which is calling my name, along with END OF HEARTAKE, and a strawberry sorbet with pop rocks type candy called CODE RED.
"I know what I am getting, and you babe?" I look at Gabe, hopefully he will catch my drift about playing the "couple on a date" card as we scout the place to get some extra info about the place. I do tend to lean a bit into folks I trust, mostly him, especially with my dodgy left ear leaving me more vulnerable on that side, it can read as a thing couples do to unassuming onlookers.
I am already doing a quick count on footfall into the parlour, looking at the signs about the shop being on various delivery apps for order and delivery, there are people sitting at a couple of the tables, the place is not dead but it's definitely not super busy. It must make most of their trade in deliveries, or maybe later in the day, it might be a front. Or a passion project of some silly rich fuck. Anyway, it would be an interesting addition to the businesses benefitting from the Death Riders' services.
Gabe seems sure about the fact they have previously rendered others fully mute, good to know they either want me quiet not silent, or it was a mistake and I fried my own voice screaming at some point. I nod weakly, my throat is feeling hoarse and every word is sand and gravel, maybe some water would help but I can't see a place to drink from in my cell.
I stare at Gabe as he looks pensive, maybe he dislikes the implication he is being cooperative with our jailers, maybe he dislikes the fact I assume he still has hope people outside are looking for him. I actually wish I could have that hope, however foolish that might be, but hoping for someone who cares for me is a privilege I haven't had even before I landed here.
"I haven't had anyone in my corner even before this, if I haven't crumbled so far I should be able to hold on for a while longer." I study Gabe's face, maybe I am reading too much but he seems to be haunted by the ghosts, of the people he saw in here maybe, of the people he left outside, maybe of them both.
I look at him jump away from the door of his cell and go quiet, I assume he hears something my ears couldn't catch. The cotton wool, underwater, muffled, muddled feeling hasn't left me yet, I think it might not leave again. I look around, down the corridor where I assume other cells are located and captives are held, to try and see if anyone is approaching us. Hopefully we're getting some reprieve from torture and experimenting for a while longer, but I doubt it for some reason.
Worst case scenario: it's the smaller orderly. The one who, on one particularly nasty occasion stuck a finger right in the wound he'd opened in Gabe's side just to hear his muffled scream. Just like that old Caravaggio painting of Jesus- just significantly more bloody. Was that the point, to turn pain into art, to punish a perceived transgression? Nothing else came of it but a scar, and a healthy fear of the very man he's now staring down, silent, still- predator facing predator, one wounded and caged.
Gabe dissociates. Blinks, occasionally, but he's not home behind those eyes.
"There's my mad dog," the orderly praises, amused. His left hand's at his side, thumb on the button of a remote. It doesn't take much guesswork to assume it's for a collar...but whose? "Did you like your present? Company. I know you've wanted that for a while."
Gabe has. Gabe has not. Gabe's thankful it's a stranger and horrified that he was so desperate to see one of his loved ones he fell for it. Should he be celebrating the damnation of someone else, though? Feels good. Feels terrible.
"Sure."
The remote's pressed, quickly. The hold is brief.
It's not for Gabe's collar.
The voltage isn't particularly high, but it being the first Sam's felt, it's doubtlessly startling all the same.
"I asked you if you liked your present. You should be more grateful."
Gabe's eyes flick to Sam's face. His upper lip curls. He can make this better. He can cave. Protect Sam. Prove he's willing to, show his neck, give up his advantage, give this orderly another weapon against him. Or he can fight, again. What will he choose?
"Don't need any gifts from you."
"Wrong answer."
The voltage is turned up. The press of the button is longer, this time...
It's the smaller orderly guy, light blue scrubs guy, he's the one whose eyes I remember glinting with elated joy at any mention of torture and harm being inflicted in my drugged haze. Big guy was dead stare, cold reptilian eyes, small guy was gleeful, childlike joy the whole time they worked on me.
I can see Gabe's eyes go blank, his stare vacant, it's a look I know, it's a look I have sported before. But I am currently there, present. The orderly is talking to Gabe, asking questions but he is so soft-spoken I can barely hear him, it's almost impossible for me to make out their words.
Something happens between the two, the orderly guy has a small remote in his hand and suddenly I feel my muscles tense, it's not the whole body but my upper body seizes up, I feel electricity run my nerves, my muscles contracting and releasing in uncontrolled spasms.
The orderly speaks again, but now it's not just my ears being muffled but also a loud buzzing sound.
Gabe looks at me, I try and convey I am fine and that he should hold strong and not cave to whatever the orderly wants for my sake, I am a stranger after all, the short conversation we've had barely moving us away from completely unknown. I think my face must convey the message. Gabe speaks, the orderly looks both disappointed and giddy somehow, like the answer was not what he wanted but as if it's still his victory. And then the sensation of current is there again, and stronger, longer, my muscles seize again this time hard enough I drop to the floor, my teeth clench to the point I hear them creaking and cracking, my vision whites out and the loud buzzing in my ears further intensifies. I am not gonna ask for mercy, I will not give into the torture and I will not be weak, I will not give them weapons. At some point I blackout. Merciful, blissful darkness embraces me and I feel nothing.
blood is romantic you guys are just cowards
It’s hard for Chris to stay away from brutality when it’s wagged in front of him. A friend of a friend tells him to come, get loose and have fun since he’s in town and only gets more interested by not only the concept of a inclusive nightclub but one that handles something he knows all to well. The ring is home and blood comes with it. This is more…different though. Tucked away and only for the special few as bets are drawn and peoples intentions here are to get hurt.
He ends up there eventually after dancing and drinking and he manages to get into the show with the connection. Otherwise he would be spat out. So he is able to see what all the fuzz is about, if it is all so bad as people make it out to be. The stench of iron probably should be a sign of something but Chris ignores it in favor of watching. Even more so when his eye catches someone when the next match he walked into takes place. It’s someone he knows—thinks he knows. A blur for him as he blinks trying to get his brain to maybe catch up and get the read picture but all he sees is a close friend in there.
That can’t be right and suddenly he cares more about what might go on, and he knows by the end of it he will be searching, no matter the case to see if he isn’t dreaming.
@wolfdog-extraordinaire
My dream had not been to fight in a dubiously legal underground fighting ring held in a club, but it was another way to make quick cash and it did suit my attitude for fighting and the club comes with a bunch of other perks, I might be bleeding there on three nights a week usually but at least it's not an office job.
Tonight my match will come at the end of the night, after a DJ set or some other music thing and a couple other matches from new blood in the fighting ring. As I get ready for my match, I sit in a spot where I am hidden from sight but can watch the crowd and judge the thirst for blood from the reactions to the "undercard", some folks are still off dancing in the other area of the club and will be there all night, some regulars will putter about the place dancing and trying to score (either substances or a warm body to come home with), some will move closer to the ring once it's time for the main attraction. Tonight's main event match is a regular thing, me against a local big guy who models himself after American Deathmatch wrestler JWM, to middling results, but it means the match will include weaponry.
As I watch the crowd who moved into the area where the violence and bets take place; a tall, lanky guy with a weird hairstyle catches my eye, he's tall and lanky yet looks built like he should be fighting and he stiffens in the way of someone used to the iron tang of blood, both your own and others', in the air. By the time I notice him, it's also my time to be in the ring, so I walk out of my hiding spot. I am barechested, my scars in full view of the crowd and I am mostly looking straight ahead to the "ring" (my eye gets caught at one point by the tall guy that I noticed earlier, he is looking at me like he thinks he knows me).
I am there, in the area that is designated as the ring, it's nothing more than a small cordoned off area at the centre of the floor. Most matches don't even stay in the "designated" area. The match goes in a blur, I am soaked in blood pretty fast. It's a mix of mine and my opponents, who decided that tonight was a night for glass in the ring. My eyes occasionally slip back to the tall guy, he seems entranced by the violence. I take a couple of nasty hits to the gut before slipping in a knee to my opponent's groin, which gives me enough time to catch my breath again. He thinks about doing the same to me, he always forgets that I am not gonna go down from that. I see an opening and just barely manage to throw my weight at him hard enough to knock him down where a swift kick to his head means he goes out like a light and I come out with a victory.
With my fight done, I slip by the bar to grab a couple of tinnies and the key for the "private area", it's just the owner's office with an attached bathroom we can use to clean ourselves up a bit after fights, but I try to catch the eye of the tall guy as I do that and give a quick gesture as if to say 'follow me', I hope the message comes across as I am curious to see why he looked at me as if he'd seen a ghost.
If I keep practicing I might even be a person soon
His name suits him, Gabe, it has a good ring to it and it seems to go quite well with the face it's paired with. I listen to him say they had promised a different neighbour for him, instead of me, the tone makes me think it was someone important to him, someone he wants to keep safe.
"Hey Gabe, look on the bright side, if I am here and he's not, then we can assume he's still safe and sound. Who knows maybe raising hell to get you back." I pause for a minute, clear my throat. "God knows they won't have that issue with me, no one out there to use to keep me in line means no one out there to look for me." I hope my tone doesn't come off as bleakly desperate for human connection as I know I am, but the most apt comparison for me might have always been that of a feral kicked stray that still hasn't given up on looking for an owner, Chaz would find it amusing to be proven right once again...
"So they have a type in who they pick as lab rats, violent blokes with dubiously stable brain chemistry... It tracks they would pick me then." With my history of fighting both for money and just cause I was provoked, and my history with the psych departments of various NHS trusts, I fit that description to a t, as seems to be the case for my fellow prisoner. My eyebrows skyrocket to my hairline when he mentions maybe getting clothes if I behave, as if I fucking care about clothes, but mostly cause he seems to think I will, willingly, be a good boy for someone who didn't earn that respect from me, the incentives must be more than a little less pain and a couple more clothes for me to get be good. "Do I look like a good boy to you?" I mutter, half to myself.
"Wait, big fella, looks more like he should be an extra in some horror movie about a cult of sadistic murderers? Weird eyes? Dark green scrubs?" I inquire, I can only remember two people apart from Gabe since I was apparently moved, a slight man, shifty but non-descript, light blue scrubs and a soft voice, disconcerting for what he was doing and saying in my hazy memories; and a behemoth of a man, with a peculiar neck tattoo and a cattle prod type thing, who never spoke, but his weird, almost reptilian eyes, seemed to always follow me no matter how he moved in the room, his scrubs had been a dark green, almost black, he had been around every time I can remember screaming myself hoarse, maybe I had sampled the treatment of trigger happy already... "Does them fucking with my vocal chords seem like something plausible to you?"
"Mmn." A nod of affirmation. That's the bastard. Hard to mistake him for anyone else, and hard to keep track of, too. For a man of his size, the orderly moves so quietly Gabe doesn't always have a handle on when and where he's going to strike until it's far too late. "Your voice? They've cut that completely for others, so..." A shrug. "At least they didn't finish the job, right?" He leaves out the part where he could suggest it's because certain things cause more screaming and those slated for them are best kept quieter- or silent- instead of allowing to fry themselves out in the process. Like those Antarctic explorers, getting preemptive appendectomies, right?
If Gabe resents any implication- that he buckled, that he's good- he doesn't show it. No doubt he is protecting someone- maybe multiple someones- and compliance is the best route he has to manage that in his current position.
"Fuck other people. Fuck anyone on the outside. You're alone now, and you'll either crumble for it...or you won't." He hasn't seen anyone last very long, and that's one of the worst parts- living in anticipation of them finally deciding he's outlived his usefulness. That smaller orderly- Blue Scrubs- has a penchant for vivisection...and not always fatal.
A door slams down the hall. Gabe takes a step back from his cell's door on instinct. It could be nothing. It could be Green Scrubs. It could be worse. They're not the only two rotting away here.
Gabe seems sure about the fact they have previously rendered others fully mute, good to know they either want me quiet not silent, or it was a mistake and I fried my own voice screaming at some point. I nod weakly, my throat is feeling hoarse and every word is sand and gravel, maybe some water would help but I can't see a place to drink from in my cell.
I stare at Gabe as he looks pensive, maybe he dislikes the implication he is being cooperative with our jailers, maybe he dislikes the fact I assume he still has hope people outside are looking for him. I actually wish I could have that hope, however foolish that might be, but hoping for someone who cares for me is a privilege I haven't had even before I landed here.
"I haven't had anyone in my corner even before this, if I haven't crumbled so far I should be able to hold on for a while longer." I study Gabe's face, maybe I am reading too much but he seems to be haunted by the ghosts, of the people he saw in here maybe, of the people he left outside, maybe of them both.
I look at him jump away from the door of his cell and go quiet, I assume he hears something my ears couldn't catch. The cotton wool, underwater, muffled, muddled feeling hasn't left me yet, I think it might not leave again. I look around, down the corridor where I assume other cells are located and captives are held, to try and see if anyone is approaching us. Hopefully we're getting some reprieve from torture and experimenting for a while longer, but I doubt it for some reason.
//for Sam
Elemental Hero Neos
Such an elusive creature. Said to hold mystic powers and will grant them to someone he finds worthy.
Charlotte hopes it her.
She had come a long way in search of the cave said to hold Neos. Maybe she’ll get more clues in the next town.
She enters the tavern and takes a seat at the bar.
I am sitting at the bar of the local pub, a dingy place with old, moth-eaten carpet and scuffed tables and chairs. Nursing a pint as I people watch. It's interesting to see how people are at the same time similar and very different around the world. This pub, with its crowd of bleary eyed regulars would fit in quite easily back at home, and yet I am half a world away.
My thoughts are interrupted by a woman sitting next to me
Charlotte quietly orders a whiskey and glances around, trying to seek someone sober enough to get information. She notices a man some seats away from her, deciding to scoot closer to him.
“Hey, I’m wondering if you can help me. I need information about a power entity said to be hidden somewhere in the world.“
Her accent is very stereotypically American, it goes well with her blonde hair and pretty princess looks.
"Can't say I have heard anything about that." I honestly never cared much about the more supernatural stuff people say happens around the world. "But I am more than willing to help you look if you want company."
I finish the last dregs of the pint I have been nursing for a while now, it's unpleasantly stale by this point but I don't really care.
"I am Sam." I say offering a handshake.
//for Sam
Elemental Hero Neos
Such an elusive creature. Said to hold mystic powers and will grant them to someone he finds worthy.
Charlotte hopes it her.
She had come a long way in search of the cave said to hold Neos. Maybe she’ll get more clues in the next town.
She enters the tavern and takes a seat at the bar.
I am sitting at the bar of the local pub, a dingy place with old, moth-eaten carpet and scuffed tables and chairs. Nursing a pint as I people watch. It's interesting to see how people are at the same time similar and very different around the world. This pub, with its crowd of bleary eyed regulars would fit in quite easily back at home, and yet I am half a world away.
My thoughts are interrupted by a woman sitting next to me
sticker design for pride this year! 💞🏳️⚧️
licensed from @morggo
