#if I’m the only one who struggled with finding these I am going to be humiliated

[hrrtshape]

anyways. i’m going to be so real because i am sick to death of people treating shifting/loa creators like personal therapists, servants, or human manifestation calculators. at what point does it click that we are actual people? not some floating concept meant to guide you through your entire existential crisis. not some customer service hotline for your shifting woes. you are not owed endless hand-holding and free labour just because you asked nicely (or, let’s be honest, didn’t).

and god, the entitlement of some people. no, it wasn’t funny when i was asked for explicit information about my dr boyfriend WHO IS SEVENTEEN AND A REAL PERSON. no, it wasn’t funny when someone asked if we have angry sex ?????. no, it wasn’t funny when someone literally told me to get r4p3d for being a ‘liar’ and then not even specifying exactly what i was lying about. or asking me to manifest that you die. or telling me that i'm your s/o. do you hear yourselves? do you see how deranged this is? i am a seventeen-year-old girl, i have said this multiple times, to go ahead and click on my profile, then on my little inbox box, proceed to type that, proceed to turn on anon, and proceed to send that is full on insanity.

i’m sick of it. i’m sick of babying you. and i can fully understand why some people turn into tough love creators, because you can discover everything by just going to my masterlist. i’m sick of explaining theory in dms, then in asks, then in comments, only for you to turn around and say, ‘but i still can’t shift, i still can’t manifest.’ i’m sick of posting an in-depth breakdown of why something isn’t working, only for you to ignore it and repeat the same complaint. if you don’t want to help yourself, i can’t help you. no one can help you. if you refuse to engage with the material, then that’s on you.

i am not a prophet. i am not your personal shifting coach. i am not your mother, your diary, or your emotional support system. i am someone who also doubts. who also struggles. who also has days where nothing works. i have over 580 asks right now, and do you know how many of them are just variations of the same question? how many of them are cruel, entitled, coy little jabs meant to bait me into giving some grand confession that shifting isn’t real? or trying to find some tiny detail to run me off the site? it’s exhausting. we are not required to keep going when you make this an unsafe space. the implication that we owe you proof, that we owe you our experiences, that we owe you some kind of public performance of shifting so you can sit there and scrutinise it for cracks. the entitlement is staggering.

shifting and loa creators are people. we cannot and will not manifest or shift for you. we are not responsible for your progress, and we are not responsible for giving you infinite, unpaid emotional labour while you refuse to actually put in effort yourself. stop being weird.

[comicaurora]

Hey, firstly I just wanted to say I’ve been consuming your content for years and thank you and Blue for being the only thing that kept my academic brain from turning to mush during online COVID middle school!

But I’m entering a new academic era, notably Junior year of my very rigorous collage prep program at my high school. I’ve always thought I would go to collage after high school but I’ve recently stumbled into some very interesting ways of making a living only perusing my creative passions (some very scary publishing opportunities). So I’ve been wondering if I actually want to go to collage or not, since going to collage just to be a published writer is an objective waste of money and I don’t want to spend the rest of high school breaking my neck earning collage credits I’m not going to use.

So I was wondering, if you had known you could make a living only perusing your creative passions, would you have spent the time, money and academic energy going to collage for something you didn’t end up doing professionally?

(I would ask my advisor but he’s too obviously pro collage and doesn’t have any experience making a living creatively).

(Sorry for the long ask)

No problem about the long ask! This is a very good question!

I'll start with the short answer, which is that nobody can make this decision but you, and if you decide not to go to college right now, that does not mean you are deciding to never go to college. Especially with Covid, plenty of people are taking gap years, and plenty of full-on adults go to college later in life, simply because the mood strikes them, or they now have income to burn, or they're interested in a career change, etc. This is not a coinflip that will decide the trajectory of the rest of your life.

For the longer answer, for me personally? Knowing I'd be able to earn a living doing art would have no bearing on my decision to go to college. Setting aside that a ton of the literary analysis my job is based on is skills I learned in college, I liked college because it gave me the opportunity to learn a wide swath of things, from anthropology courses to dinosaur science. I like learning new things! College was an opportunity to learn a ton of new things, and even if it was very challenging in places, I thrived in it. I didn't go to college with the goal of becoming qualified for a Real Job - because of who I am as a person I think I'd seriously struggle at most Real Jobs, and I knew that even back then. I was in college to learn, and to learn how to learn. I got my degree in mathematics, a thing I do not use in my Job, but the functionality of mathematics - to logically reason through problems, step by step, comparing it to known problems to map the way to solutions using operations that preserve truth - is an invaluable skill that I apply everywhere there are problems to solve, especially literary analysis. I learned a wide swath of tools with surprising applications, and I couldn't have known when I started how I might use them in the end.

However, there's a big caveat there. This was my personal experience of college as a playground where I could work towards a solid major and also branch out to take weird one-off electives and summer courses when anything struck my fancy. But I was in on a scholarship to cover a good chunk of my tuition, and one of my relatives very kindly paid for the rest. I got to do college without accruing any college debt, and that is an enormous factor. I can only share my personal take, but I'm not going to pretend that things would have been the same if I'd had to enter adulthood finding a way to quickly pay off a six-figure sum.

I've been extremely lucky to get to the point where I can navigate life in a way where money is very rarely something I need to worry about. It was certainly not always like that, and I do not miss those times, but it invariably shapes the way I see the world and the steps I took to get here. For me personally, I do not consider college in any way a waste of time; I think the opportunity to learn is one of the most exciting things out there. But my experience cannot be pretended to be universal.

This decision is yours, and it is also not final. Whatever choice you make, you can always choose again later. You have time.

[mommyownsmee]

8🙈

8: What are the rules you would give your little/sub/domme?

Rules - For my Submissive

You will address me as „Mommy/Daddy“ in private at all times and I‘ll always call you by a name of your choice [unless inappropriate]. You decided for „…“ in private and „…“ in public. We decided that you can call me „…“ in public.

You must always obey my orders [unless inappropriate]. If you can‘t you have to give me a reason for it, which I will respect at all times.

You must send me a selfie of you everyday [definitely], or a photo of what you wear [if you can].

You will take any punishment you may receive [without complaint]. Appropriate punishment will be given for breaking any of these rules- and you must give a proper apology: „I’m sorry for [what you did] Mommy/Daddy“. Rule breaking is only allowed under special circumstances [birthdays etc.]

We agreed on the Punishments together and added them to the app already.

You must always tell me when/where you consume any drugs/alcohol and who you are with- before doing so. I want you to be safe and have infos if there is an emergency.

You may not have another treat you as I do allow. I will not be happy and you will not be forgiven if I find out [and I will].

I may add/remove anything from these rules at any time [we can always talk about these rules].

Mommy/Daddy will always tell you if they‘re having a bad day [our dynamic will maybe have a certain timeout].

You will always say good morning and good night to mommy/daddy. You will always tell mommy/daddy when you have to leave and where you‘re going [except it‘s an emergency. In this case you can tell mommy/daddy later what happened].

You have to put on your online time and checkmarks for messages on your social media for mommy/daddy. I want to see if you‘ve read my messages and when you‘ve been online. Otherwise mommy/daddy will be very worried. This is a point that can‘t be discussed.

Bedtime is at midnight. Only exceptions are weekends [Friday and Saturday] or birthdays, etc.

You are mine. You belong to me alone.

I want you to tell me your location when you‘re not at home or at work.

You have to stay within 2 meters when we are walking in public, no walking away from mommy/daddy.

You have to inform mommy/daddy about your plans for the day [in the morning].

You have to ask mommy/daddy whenever you want to buy expensive (things that are not groceries/ drugstore articles/... Like electronic devices, clothes etc.)

No eye rolling, no sticking tongue out, both gets you -500 points OR one overstimulation punishment.

Rules - For my Domme

| I AM AUTISTIC |

Communicate clearly & directly – I sometimes struggle with subtle cues or unspoken expectations. Please be clear in your instructions, tone, and intentions so I can fully understand what you need from me.

Correct me, but with understanding – If I make a mistake or displease you, I accept discipline, but I also need to understand what I did wrong and how I can improve.

Acknowledge my efforts – I thrive on pleasing you, and knowing that I’m doing well fuels my devotion. A simple acknowledgment, whether praise or correction, means everything to me.

Give me the freedom to express myself – I need a space where I can express my thoughts, emotions, and concerns without fear of punishment or dismissal.

Establish routine & predictability when possible – I function best when I have structure. Please help me by keeping routines, rules, and expectations as consistent as possible, and letting me know in advance if things will change.

Encourage my growth – Submission is a journey, and I want to grow both as your submissive and as a person. Help guide me to be better, not just for you, but for myself as well.

Allow me to seek comfort in you – When I am vulnerable, uncertain, or struggling, let me turn to you without fear. Your dominance is my anchor, and your presence is my refuge.

Recognize when I need you the most – There will be times when I struggle to express my needs. Please be attentive to my unspoken signals and guide me when I cannot guide myself.

Give me time to process changes – Sudden changes in routine or expectations can overwhelm me. If something needs to shift, please let me know in advance when possible, so I have time to adjust.

Respect my sensory needs – Certain textures, sounds, or touches may overstimulate or distress me. Please be mindful of my sensory sensitivities, especially during play, discipline, or intimacy.

Allow me to use stimming or self-regulation methods – If I need to stim (rocking, tapping, fidgeting, etc.) or take a break to regulate myself, please allow me to do so without judgment. It helps me stay calm and present.

Be patient with my emotional processing – Sometimes I may struggle to express what I feel or need right away. Please give me the time and space to process my emotions and communicate them in my own way.

Understand my social exhaustion – Engaging with people can drain me faster than it does others. If I need quiet time or struggle with social interactions, please allow me the space to recover without guilt.

Rules - For my Little

Littlespace rules for public

Always hold hands with mommy (you can also hold onto mommy‘s arm if you need/want to)

Mommy will always open and close all doors for you

Mommy will talk for you in every situation

Please whisper into mommy’s ear if you want something or have the need to say something

Basic rules

You must always respect Mommy

You must always be be truthful and honest to Mommy

If you are sad Mommy prefers to know immediately.

You are allowed to eat snacks if you will eat a lot of healthy stuff (We will discuss this further).

You don’t have to do anything that you don‘t feel comfortable with.

You are always allowed to speak your mind without punishment given, but Mommy doesn‘t want you to use bad words.

„No“ is „No“. There is no „maybe“.

Evening rules

Your bedtime is 12-1 am (We can talk about a specific time).

You should always take care of your body (shower daily, brush teeth and take makup off etc).

You get Mommy-time daily before bed (read a book, talk or play something) in which Mommy will be there for you only. No distractions.

Morning rules

Your wake up time is 7am (We can talk about a specific time).

You have to brush your teeth in the morning.

You have to eat a healthy breakfast.

[strohller27]

.

[potato-on-your-head]

great additions from @scalp-book and @7micahs

truly do not understand how people just slip into relationships and jobs and opportunities and friend groups and lifestyles. to me there are a million obstacles to navigate in a single basic conversation

[sabertoothwalrus]

I am being so serious when I say: if you have the financial and time privilege to get a group of friends together and make an indie project, PLEASE do. Indie games, indie animations, indie comics etc etc

the art industries are kind of in the shitter. It’s not so much because of AI (though that doesn’t help) but because studios just aren’t hiring people and funding projects anymore. People who’ve been in the industry for decades are finding themselves struggling, and once you have a mortgage or kids it’s harder to do something as risky as making something on your own.

completing projects is hard. it takes a lot of time and effort, and most people can’t afford it. so if you CAN afford to make art, even at the risk of no financial gain, I strongly encourage you to be as resilient as you can. We’re at a point where these industries are not going to turn around by themselves, and waiting for jobs to open up again in order to get experience and portfolio work might not be realistic.

people have been making art and telling stories longgggg before we were getting paid for it, and people aren’t going to stop just because no one has hired them to do so.

for everyone else: support indie artists when you can!!!! That person who made that cool indie game or youtube animation or webcomic might be doing this full time! your support might be the only reason they’re able to keep doing it.

and if you have already started an indie project: you’re so brave and I’m very proud of you!!! in fact, drop a link to it in the reblogs if you want! 👇

[mosabsdr]

💙 Holding Onto Hope – Your Support Keeps Us Going 💙

Hello, my name is Mosab, and I live in Gaza with my family. Each day here is a battle for survival, and I’m sharing our story in the hope that you might help in any way you can.

The war has shattered our lives. We have lost 25 beloved family members, each one leaving behind an emptiness that can never be filled. Their laughter, love, and presence are gone, but their memory lives on in our hearts.

Our Reality Today

💔 No Stability: We’ve lost our home, our income, and the ability to provide for ourselves. 📚 Dreams Fading: Instead of planning for the future, we are struggling just to make it through each day.

How You Can Help

Even $10 can make a difference in helping my family survive. If you are unable to donate, sharing this post can help us reach others who might be able to support us. Every act of kindness matters. ❤️

Why This Matters

We are not asking for much—only a chance to survive, to hold on a little longer, and to find hope in a world that feels so dark right now. Your support, whether through a donation or simply spreading the word, means everything to us.

🙏 Please consider donating or sharing this message. Your kindness gives us strength and reminds us that we are not alone in this fight.

With all our gratitude, Mosab and Family ❤️

📌 Donate to Help Mosab Save Who’s Left of His Family

[exopelagic]

I HIT 50 PER CENT BAY BEEEEEEE

[not-neverland06]

Kid?

Logan Howlett x fem!mutant!reader A/N: I haven’t watched X-Men since I was a child, so I can’t promise this is going to be canon-compliant. I haven’t watched DP & W either, I’ve just been influenced by that one gif where Hugh Jackman shakes his head like a dog. I feel FERAL Also, I am not good at superhero names or coming up with creative powers. So you’re a mutant with matter manipulation and they call you Flux. I mean, superhero names are inherently ridiculous so I think this works. (Don’t judge me, I’m just here for the sexy man) Summary: You walk in on Logan and Jean in a compromising position and feel your heart break. You really thought he loved you, you were so wrong. (Or were you?)

It was your own fault, you should have knocked before you busted through the door. You only have yourself to blame as you struggle to catch your breath and swallow down the lump in your throat. The image of Logan standing between Jean’s bare legs is going to haunt you for a while. Their faces will keep you awake at night, cringing at yourself while you remember the humiliating moment. 

You rush towards the door, a stupidly giddy skip to your step. You were a mutant, a superhuman, and getting a chance to talk to your crush should not have you giggling like a schoolgirl. Still, you’re blind to all logic when it comes to Logan. 

You turn the corner, spotting the medbay and nearly ramming into the door you know he’s lurking behind. Charles had told you where to find him. Of course, you hadn’t paid attention to the odd tone of voice when he had very clearly warned you to knock. All you’d heard was Logan’s name and you’d zoned out for the rest of the conversation. 

And, of course, you don’t knock. You grab the door’s handle and bust in, “Hey!” Your eyes widen and your stomach plummets with a depressing plop to the floor. Your eyes nearly bug out of your head when you see the way Jean and Logan are entangled in each other. He’s leaning over her, the muscles and veins in his neck pulsing with strain. Normally, that sight would have you nearly drooling. 

Instead, all you can see is the flush on Jean’s cheeks and the way her pupils are dilated with want. Her nails are digging into his back, bare legs twined around his waist. There’s no way to misinterpret this. No way for you to later assure yourself that this was all just a misunderstanding. 

The words stumble out of your mouth in a disjointed mess that even you can’t decipher. You stand there, jaw opening and closing like a fish out of water before you finally get it together. “Charles,” you stutter out, his name sounding like a question. You wince and finally tear your gaze away from them. “Sorry,” you chuckle, trying to play off your hurt as humor. “Charles needs us all for a mission.”

You don’t give them a chance to respond, you slam the door closed, ignoring what you think might be someone calling your name. 

You shake off the mortifying memory and groan. Your head falls into your hands and you grip at your face until the pain distracts you from the embarrassment. It’s not too hard to push it all down, to pretend what happened didn’t make your heart crumble away into nothing.

Maybe it’s because you’re a mutant that you’re so used to rejection. You’re used to constantly being disappointed by people around you. Your childhood was nothing but cruelty, your crush not liking you back can’t compare to half of what you went through. 

That’s what you tell yourself, at least, to try and pretend it doesn’t hurt as much as it does. You shove it down until you think you can’t feel that dull ache anymore. And when Jean and Logan walk into the room, looking more put together, you smile at Logan like you always do. It doesn’t turn down at the corners, your eyes don’t water. You take in a deep breath and look utterly unaffected. 

He sits down beside you and leans towards you. “I can explain-”

You cut him off and shake your head. “Forget about it. I should have knocked.” You turn towards Charles who wheels himself to the front of the room. You dismiss Logan and ignore the way his stare burns into the side of your head. 

Charles looks to Jean and Logan, a smile starting. Then his gaze drifts towards you and your chest deflates when you see the look on his face. He knows, the old miser probably coasted over your thoughts and he knows. He sends you a sympathetic look that makes you feel like a little girl who just got told unicorns don’t exist. “Jean, Logan, glad that you’ve finally joined us.”

Logan nods and leans back in his chair. But his eyes remain fixed on you and it makes you wish you could stab a fork into them. You let out a short, irritated huff of air and frown at yourself. Maybe you were a little more angry than you would like to admit. 

You blame Logan for that. You never would have fallen so deep into infatuation if you hadn’t believed there was even a sliver of a chance with him. Always speaking so kindly with you when he would barely spare anyone a second glance. Constantly doing checkups on you after a particularly harsh training session with Charles. 

Your mind runs over all the small things with him, everything you’ve done together. And you’re hit with a sudden nauseating thought. Oh my god, what if he sees me paternally?

You force yourself not to physically react but inside your throwing up and fucking freaking out. You feel a sudden spark of alarm from Charles and quickly do your best to fortify your mind so he doesn’t see your major mental freakout. 

You’re not that much younger than him. Well, it’s not illegal, your crush on Logan. But what if this entire time, when you’ve been falling harder and harder for him, he’s just been platonically taking care of you? You’ve seen him do it plenty of times for the younger kids, as reluctant as he is to admit it. 

You’re spiraling further and further into panic. So much so that you have no idea what’s even being discussed or what’s going on. You get onto the jet and have to ask Storm what you’re doing. She gives you a confused look but tells you nonetheless. Just some recon on a potential mutant trafficking ring. Nothing out of the ordinary, as depressing as that is. There shouldn’t be much violence, which is why your group is particularly small today.

You nod your head, moving like you’re in a daze as you throw yourself onto a seat. Logan sits beside you, an alarmed look on his face. “You alright, kid?”

The nickname, which is used to make your stomach flutter, makes you want to throw up. How have you missed it for this long? It was laid out so plainly before you. Of course, he doesn’t want you. Not when he has perfect Jean. Bile rises in your throat with a vicious ferocity when you glare over at Jean. 

There’s a sudden petty, vindictive rage fueling you. The type you should have abandoned in high school, especially now that you’re grown. Instead, you feel like giving into Logan’s idea of what you are. You feel like reacting to all of this petulantly. 

You ignore Logan and instead catch Jean’s eyes. Slowly, and with as much intention as you can force into your gaze, you look from her to Logan and then Scott. Her eyes widen and Logan scoffs beside you. She shakes her head minutely, silently begging you not to say anything. You smile at her and stand up.

You take a step towards Scott and Logan calls out an irritated, “Kid.” You ignore him and Jean eyes you warily as you approach. She stands like she’s ready to fight you and take the jet down just to keep you quiet. You reach Scott and can hear the way Jean takes in a sharp breath. 

“Scott,” he looks up at you with his brows raised. There's a pause before you speak. Dragged on too long for Scott not to realize you’re planning something. 

Jean takes a step towards you and you grin, “Mind checking my cuffs?” Scott gives you an odd look and his confusion only gets worse as Jean slumps onto the seat beside him. She’s not even trying to hide her relief. Scott shakes his head and holds his hands out, fingers gently probing around the cuffs on your wrists. The ones that keep your powers in check. 

You’re still new to welding them. And they’re too entwined with your emotions for you to just have free range with them. If you hadn’t had the cuffs on this morning, you’re afraid you might have just turned everything around you into nothing but dust.

“They look fine, Flux.” His tone betrays his thoughts. He doesn’t know why you’d come to him for this when it’s Charles who usually deals with it. But this stupid, petty little display wasn’t for poor oblivious Scott. It was for the woman sitting next to him. The redhead whose still drilling holes into your skull. 

You’ve got leverage over her that you’ve never had before. Scott wouldn’t take her little foray with Logan very well. And all it would take is a flick of your wrist to give him a very clear image of exactly what you’d seen. Then, her picture-perfect relationship would be over in a matter of seconds. You’re sure Logan would be more than pleased. But he doesn’t seem to understand that Jean just wants to have fun with him, she’d never choose him over Scott. 

“Thanks,” there’s a bite to your tone that you’re not used to. You usually keep your emotions relatively in control. That way you won’t have to wear these cuffs one day. But you feel volatile today. You’re channeling your hurt and turning it into misguided anger. 

You drop your wrists to your sides and stalk toward the front, hovering behind Charle’s and Storm’s chairs so you don’t have to look at the others. It doesn’t take long for you to feel the floor trembling under heavy booted steps. 

Logan’s arms rest on the headrest of the chairs, bracketing you in between them so you can’t escape. He leans forward until his chest is pushed against yours and you can feel every ridge of his muscled torso pressing into you. You try not to suck in a breath, try not to play into the cliche of instantly forgetting why you’re angry when you’re faced with those muscles of his. It is hard, though, because he’s so handsome and so warm and you just want to melt into him. 

“Wanna explain what the hell that was?” His voice is so low, whispering against the shell of your ear so only you can hear. You feel the vibrations of it against your back, his tone more gravelly than it should be. 

You glance over your shoulder at him, face placid and blank. “What? Just needed some help.” Storm looks over at you both and rolls her eyes. 

Logan opens his mouth to say something but she cuts him off. “Put a pin in the lover’s spat, we’re landing.” Using just a bit of your power, you push Logan off of you and head towards the back of the jet. There’s a slight jolt as you land and then the ramp opens up and you’re practically running into the snowy forest. 

You don’t know where you are, mainly because you weren’t paying attention, you just know it's fucking freezing. The leather of your suit isn’t doing much to help fight against the chill. Charles stays on the jet and reminds you all that this is only meant to be recon. You’re partnered up with Logan, and as much as it irritates you, you’re not stupid enough to argue against it.

You have to put aside your personal grievances for this mission. You can’t risk the safety of mutants because the guy you like likes another girl. Logan seems pleased about it, stubbornly staying by your side even when you make it clear you want space. 

You both linger behind the other’s as Storm leads you through the forest. Jean is being more touchy with Scott than normal. Either to assuage her own guilt or to rub it in Logan’s face, you’re not sure which. You nearly gag as you watch them whisper to one another, you glance over at Logan to see if he notices. 

You’re startled when you see him already staring at you. His lips tick up into something mischievous when he catches your eye. That smug smirk on his face as he leans in towards you. “Wanna tell me what’s got you so pissed off?”

You roll your eyes and tamp down the rising tide of anger. “Nothing,” you bite out, jaw clenching the longer you stare at the back of Jean’s head. You’re surprised you haven’t chipped a tooth with how hard you’re grinding your teeth together. 

He scoffs, not believing you for a second. He doesn’t say anything, just gives you an expectant stare. You can taste the words forming on your tongue, an irritating urge to just spill your guts overcoming you. Before you can stop yourself you blurt out, “I’m a little surprised that’s all.”

“Oh yeah, ‘bout what?” You hate how amused he sounds, the chuckle just lying in wait under his words. Like your anger is funny to him, like he didn’t just break your stupid fucking heart. 

You stop walking, not feeling as intimidating as you want while you shiver and huddle into yourself. He seems perfectly at ease in his leather jacket and beater, still refusing to wear the uniform. He leans back and looks at you with a fondness that you can’t tell if you love or hate. “You and little Miss Perfect.” You spit the nickname with enough venom to make both of your eyes widen. 

Logan rolls his eyes and takes a step towards you, again, Storm interrupts you both. “Guys, really?” Everyone turns around to stare and you will the heat in your face away. “Not the time,” she scolds and you brush past Logan to catch up with the others. 

You come upon a warehouse, it’s nearly camouflaged under all the snow. You see two guards waiting outside the metal doors and you all disperse behind the trees. Storm glances towards Jean who focuses on the guards. They drop to the floor and you wave your hands, their guns melting into puddles of metal. 

Logan and Scott move forward, sliding the large metal doors open. You wince at the loud screeching as the rust flakes off the sides. There’s a collective quiet as you all hold your breath, waiting for them to give the all-clear. Once they run inside and run back out, you and the others quickly get to your feet and rush into the warehouse. Logan closes the doors again as you make it inside. 

“No one here?” Storm checks. Scott shakes his head and you frown. That doesn’t make any sense. Why would there be guards if there was nothing inside?

Your question is, unfortunately, answered a minute later. You find a pile of metal crates stacked on top of each other. A large beige tarp covers them. You tug at the corner, letting the fabric slide off. Your eyes flutter with disappointment, “Guys! Over here,” mutants sit inside the crates. Each of them stares at you with varying degrees of mistrust and fear. 

As awful as it is, you’ve gotten used to these quiet depressing missions. There aren’t usually many mutants in one place. They don’t like to keep the product in one spot for too long. There are only four kids here. The youngest is eleven and the oldest is seventeen. There’s nothing physically telling about their abilities so you assume it must be psychic powers. 

They don’t want to come with you until you all give them a demonstration of your powers. Proving that you’re not just trapping them and taking them somewhere worse. You’re nearly out the door when Charles's voice rings loudly through all of your minds. 

You wince at the volume, hands coming up to grip at your hair as he shouts, “Behind you!” A gunshot rings out, something hot rips across your wrist and you gasp in pain. There’s a clatter of metal as your cuff drops to the ground, the bullet having destroyed it. Without them both, they’re useless. One won’t work without the other. 

You glance up at Logan, a panicked look on your face. You can already feel the tidal wave of power thrashing and building in your chest. It’s been so long with the safety net that you forgot how bad it gets without the cuffs. 

“We need to get you out of here!” He shouts over the gunfire. He herds the group behind a cluster of metal shipment boxes. It provides enough cover for you all to try and figure out an escape plan. 

You listen to the other’s worried voices, each of them trying to console the kids. You don’t know their powers yet. Don’t know what might go wrong if they get too scared and can’t control their abilities. 

You can’t speak, breaths coming short and fast as you clutch your wrist to your chest. You know it’s delusional, hoping that if you keep a tight grip like the cuff you might be able to control yourself. You can already feel the energy leaking out of you, the ends of everyone’s hair stands on end. The wall in front of you warps and cracks like it can’t decide if it’s liquid or solid. 

You grit your teeth and look only at Storm. “You need to get out,” you force the words out. It causes physical pain to try and keep everything at bay. You can feel pressure building in your forehead, pushing out until you think you might explode. 

“We’re not leaving you,” Logan snaps. There’s shouting going on behind you, a pause as they all reload their guns. 

“Wasn’t a question,” you grit out. You look towards Jean and there’s a moment where you both put aside your differences. You both know how stubborn he is, how much he’ll fight against leaving you behind. Regenerative powers or not, it's dangerous to even be close to your gift now. You can see them all straining against the ebbing flow of your powers. Their skin shifts unnaturally like you’re already altering the atoms of their being. 

This is why you’re only allowed to train with Charles and Jean. They can get in your head, shut it down when you can’t. You’re not sure you’re going to survive yourself. Logan glances between the two of you and practically growls at Jean, “Don’t you fuckin’ dare-”

His words trail off into an unintelligible slur as he slumps forward, Jean having knocked him out with her powers. Scott grabs him and grunts under the weight of his body. “I’ll cover you,” you gasp the words out. Anything but focusing on your powers causes physical strain that makes you feel like you’re being tugged in a hundred different directions. “Just get them out,” you nod towards the kids. 

Storm nods and you slip out of cover. It isn’t hard to push your powers in one direction, to solidify the air in front of you so the bullets ricochet harmlessly off. You listen to the whine of the metal door and wait for the others to be gone. 

“They’re in the jet,” Charles's voice rings out. “Don’t do this,” he warns. You can’t think of a response, you’re not even sure what you would say. You never thought you would be able to approach death this calmly, or that this would be how you die. It feels almost pathetic, dying because you lost control on a recon mission. 

At least those kids are safe. It’s not a bad reason to die. Just not great. You glance down at the other cuff on your right hand, the air around it fluctuates until it melts off your wrist like liquid metal. With the last barely there tether off your powers, you close your eyes and release the tidal wave. 

It feels like a dam exploding. It doesn’t leak fluidly from you, it rips through you like a hailstorm of knives. Tears apart anything in its path and rewrites the molecular build of everything in its path. Screams echo through the air as men’s bones turn into brittle dust and their hearts morph into something inorganic. You’re blind to everything around you, vision clouded by the horrific release of energy. 

You can feel warmth leaking down your face. Blood still pours from the wound on your wrist, and fresh blood from other wounds you can’t even feel. You don’t know when the screams stop, or when you’re finally drained. But you feel like an empty husk as you drop to the floor, your head bouncing harshly against the cement as everything goes black. 

“I’m gonna kill you,” Logan says with a grin, glaring at Scott even though it’s Charles who is holding him back. He’s got a firm mental grasp on Logan, keeping him locked into place while he focuses on the warehouse. 

They’re waiting for the all-clear. The others know there’s always the possibility that they’re going to be collecting a body. But none of them are willing to say that, not with the look on Logan’s face. His muscles look ready to pop out of his skin with how much he’s fighting against Charles’s hold. 

Scott backs away from Logan with a scoff. He stands near Jean, but she can’t take her eyes off the restrained man. Nothing had happened this morning, Flux had seen to that. Interrupting them just as they’d started. Seeing the way he’s acting now, she’s starting to believe that nothing is ever going to happen. 

He’d looked like he was about to dismiss her when she started making a move. She can see the anger on his face, it seems he’s only ever pissed off. But underneath that, as much as he hides it, she can see the fear. He’s terrified that they're going to walk in there and you’re going to be dead. 

Jean can feel the fear of the others as well. They’ve only seen you lose control once and that had almost leveled the mansion. Charles had stopped you then, but the loss of the cuff had been so sudden Jean just barely had enough strength to keep the others blocked from your powers. She didn’t have enough time to shut you down. 

Jean, as much as she’s tried to deny it and dismiss her suspicions, can’t look Logan in the eye and ignore it anymore. It’s never been her that he’s wanted. The way he trails along beside you, always prodding and poking until you’re pissy and mouthing off. It’s not done because he finds antagonizing people fun, it's because he loves seeing you all worked up and passionate. He doesn’t view you through the same platonic lens he does the others. You’re something else to him, something she doesn’t want to name, afraid of the bitter taste it will leave on her tongue. 

Charles slumps back in his chair and Logan suddenly lunges forward. He looks a little surprised by the sudden freedom of movement, but before any of them can stop him he’s running out of the jet. “Logan,” Jean tries to call after him but he’s already a distant blur. 

Scott sighs and starts down the ramp. “Come on,” he mutters. He’s the last one who should be coming along. If anything is wrong with you, he’ll end up being Logan’s punching bag. Jean follows reluctantly, she’s not sure she wants to see what’s happened. 

Your powers are too similar in their volatile nature. The way they rule you and come so close to destroying you when you use them too much, is too familiar to Jean. She doesn’t want to see you lying dead on the floor and be reminded of her own mortality. But someone needs to make sure Logan is stuck on a leash. 

They reach where the warehouse should be. It’s nothing but a pile of rubble now. Throughout the wreckage, Jean can make out odd pools of liquid, some writhing, others still. She can only assume that these had been the men shooting at them. She doesn’t see your body, none of them do. But Logan isn’t giving up. 

He lifts different pieces of metal and tosses them off into the forest. Jean doesn’t sense your presence anywhere but she doesn’t have the heart to tell Logan to give up. After a few minutes of searching, she almost tells him to quit. But she can’t see him anymore. He’s disappeared somewhere behind a particularly large pile of roofing. A moment later, Logan stands up. His jacket is gone, wrapped around the body in his arms. None of them are close enough to see if you’re breathing. And he doesn’t say a word as he brushes past them, just keeps going back to the jet. Ororo, Scott, and Jean all share a silent look. None of them prepared for the potential fallout that’s going to happen after this. 

The first thing you feel is two familiar bands of metal around your wrists. The comforting feeling of the cuffs is enough to have you sinking further into the pillows surrounding you. Then you hear the beeping in your ear, feel the cool blow of AC, and become startlingly aware of the fact that you’re in a bed you don’t recognize. 

You groan, eyes peeling open painfully as your lashes get stuck on your skin. You reach up to rub at your face but your arms feel too weak to lift. You give up on the thought, instead staring up at the ceiling and waiting for your vision to refocus. 

A throat clears in front of you and you nearly jump out of your skin. Sitting at the end of your bed, arms crossed and a fierce glare on his face is Logan. His feet are propped up on the small table beside you. He quirks a brow and gives you a sardonic grin, “Finally awake, princess?”

Normally the name would have you up and doing somersaults, but there’s something distinctly negative and disappointed lacing his tone. It squashes any and all butterflies in your stomach. You grimace as you try and sit up. Logan is up in an instant, an annoyed look still on his face as he helps you up. 

You can’t help your dopey smile at how gentle his hands are on you. Even pissed off, he treats you so kindly. Maybe it’s the drugs relaxing you, or the fact that you almost died, but you can’t remember whatever made you mad at him. You can only feel the slide of his calloused hands against your arms, the way you shiver under his touch and crave more. 

He pulls the chair closer to you with a loud scratch of metal feet on the linoleum. You groan at the loud sound and he huffs, throwing himself down in the seat. “How do you feel?”

Your head sinks back against the wall and you finally realize you’re in the medbay. It’s why everything smells so sterile. “Like I got hit by a semi.”

He barely lets you finish your thought before he spits out, “What the fuck were you thinking?” He doesn’t ease you into this at all and you frown. You’re not sure why you would expect him to ever beat around the bush. That’s not his style, he’s always been blunt. Even when others wish he wouldn’t be. 

“What else was I supposed to do?” You ask, voice weak. Your throat feels like it’s been ripped apart. Idly, you wonder if you had been screaming in the warehouse or if this was just general strain from the whole ordeal. 

“Not put yourself at risk like that.” He leans forward, voice stern and bordering on shouting. You know he’s holding back. As much as he wants to lay into you right now, he’s stopping himself from going completely out of his mind. You appreciate it, but you almost wish he would just yell at you. You wish you had a reason to resent him, to finally get over him. “Not have Jean knock me out like that. You don’t get to make those decisions for me.”

It’s completely inappropriate and horrible timing, but you can’t help but scoff at the mention of Jean’s name. Can you not have one conversation that’s not tainted by the mention of the redhead?

Logan’s mouth snaps shut and he glares at you in disbelief. You squeeze your eyes shut, not willing to face him as embarrassment washes over you. No wonder he always calls you kid. You’re not exactly acting like an adult. You’re being a brat and for such a stupid reason too. 

Just because you like him doesn’t mean he has to reciprocate. You can’t just force your feelings on someone. “Logan,” you whisper his name, “Sorry. I’m sorry-”

He cuts you off before you can finish. Some of the anger, but not all, has ebbed from his expression. He almost looks like he’s smiling. “Jean? That’s what this is about? Jealous or something, sweetheart?”

You sputter, shocked little noises leaving you but no words. After a solid minute of restarting a sentence you don’t know how to end you finally land on a squeaky, “Who?” If you weren’t so mortified, you might have just thrown yourself out the window. Out of every cop-out you could have gone with you chose to just pretend you didn’t know who she was. Maybe you could make this work, like selective amnesia. 

Your shame only builds as Logan laughs. You cover your face and wish you could bury yourself six feet deep and never come up. You feel two rough hands wrap around your wrists, tugging your own away from your face. You don’t have the energy to fight back, so you keep your eyes on his chin. Too afraid to meet his gaze. 

“Come on,” he mutters, gently nudging your chin up until you’re forced to look at him. You're caught off guard by the look in his eyes. You recognize it, but you’d only ever seen it directed at Jean. It’s the same way you’ve always looked at him. Pure unguarded want and desire. 

The hand on your chin drifts back, fingers tangling in your hair and gently resting on your jaw. He tugs you forward until your lips are nearly touching, breaths mingling with every exhale. “Only ever wanted you, darlin'.’”

The kiss catches you off guard. It shouldn’t, deep down you knew it was coming, but the intensity behind it, the way you can practically taste how bad he wants this, wants you, catches you off guard. You lean into him, wrapping your arms around his neck and letting yourself melt into his hold. 

His free hand drifts to your waist and clutches the flimsy hospital gown until you hear it tear. You part your lips, deepening the kiss so you can finally taste him. It’s cigars and whiskey, something you should hate but is entirely intoxicating when he’s holding you so tightly. Fireworks are going off in your mind, sparks darting between your fingers as the cuffs struggle to contain all the energy suddenly pushing out of you. 

He can feel you holding back, squeezing you like it’s a promise he can take it. Take everything you throw at him. You let go as much as your cuffs will allow you. Let the energy blanket you both so you can’t hear your heart monitor going off like crazy. So you don’t feel anything other than each other. You think you’re going to devour each other like you’ll just keep kissing until neither of you can take it anymore. You don’t want to let go of him, don’t want to lose this moment. 

But you have to breathe. You don’t get to just keep living the way he does. You pull away from him slowly, every part of you dreading separating from him. His forehead drops against your own, his laughter playing along your lips as he finally hears the monitor going haywire. 

You groan, flicking your wrist and shutting it off so it can’t betray how flustered you are anymore. He gently nudges you aside so he can sit beside you on the bed. You don’t waste a second before you’re draping yourself across his chest and siphoning his warmth. He chuckles, arms coming up to wrap around you. 

“Can’t believe you were jealous of Jean.”

“Shut up,” you snipe. You look up at him and glare, “How else do you explain what you two were doing?”

He leans forward and gives you a smug grin. “She came onto me, sweetheart.” Your face screws up in distaste and jealousy. She’s going to need to learn to keep her hands to herself. He seems to feel the way you tense up, he huffs in amusement and rubs your back. “Relax, you’re gonna blow your fuse again.”

You glance down at your wrists and nuzzle further into him. You can’t believe you could have been laying on him this whole time. You never want to use a blanket again, not when you’ve got him. “I’ll be fine now that I’ve got my cuffs.”

His hand stills on your bicep. He squeezes it before his hand drifts up to your chin and he tilts your face up again. “I don’t ever want to see that again.” You’re a little surprised by the sudden shift in tone, but you knew this was coming. 

“I had to, Logan. I either took you all down with me or I went on my own.”

Logan frowns and takes in a deep breath. You place a hand on his arm, giving it a gentle squeeze. He smiles down at you, “Next time, take me with you. I’m not fucking dealing with Summers without you.”

You can’t help but chuckle. Your face grows warm and your chest expands with some odd gleeful feeling as he laces your fingers together. “Deal,” you whisper, still smiling at him. 

A/N: Okay, this might be shit, I’m not sure. I sort of rushed the ending because as I was writing this I had another idea for him. I guess I’m officially off my hiatus. 

end. — I do not own the characters or the comics/movies Wolverine/X-Men, but this writing is my own all rights reserved © not-neverland06 2024. do not copy, repost, translate & recommend elsewhere.

[wow-thisismylifeiguess]

Cryptid Bruce

Martha and Thomas Wayne struggled to have a child for years and Thomas meets a shady man who tells him that a child will come to them soon

Thomas just ‘??? okaaaaaay’s him but in a week, Martha bursts into his office looking frazzled

“We’re being haunted.”

“….”

“Don’t give me that look, Thomas Wayne. The Manor. It’s haunted. Alfred! Tell him we’re being haunted!”

And Alfred comes in, also looking frazzled but to a lesser degree.

The two explain that things are moving around the Manor without any kind of explanation, but Thomas doesn’t believe them. Until he notices things in his office also being moved. The weirdest event is when they start hearing a child’s giggles. No explanation. None.

Not until Thomas, sleep deprived after going over paperwork for one too many hours, pops into the kitchen and…there is a child. Sitting on the kitchen counter.

The child, a boy, turns. Grins. Waves.

“Hi, daddy.”

—

Bruce, they name him, can melt into shadows. He finds it hilarious. Martha thinks she’s going to go grey at her young age. She adores him. Thomas adores him. He’s their son now.

The Waynes have a mysterious child, but they keep their private lives very private, so maybe they just successfully hid a pregnancy? And then a child. For…three years. They think Bruce is three, at least.

Despite how odd of a child Bruce is, they love him dearly. He’s some kind of miracle. A…very weird, possibly magical(?) miracle.

—

Dick thinks his adoptive father is strange. Extremely strange. Bruce makes absolutely no noise when he moves. He doesn’t cast shadows but he seemingly is able to *blend into them*. His smile, whilst genuine, seems a little too sharp.

He thinks he’s a vampire.

Bruce laughs so hard, he doubles over.

“No, but I am the Batman, so I guess you’re not far off.”

“…is this a joke?”

“Nope.”

“A dream?”

Bruce pinches him and Dick yelps.

Bruce doesn’t explain to Dick what he is, because he doesn’t have a clue himself. He just…is.

—

But when Jason comes along, he has a million and one questions. Bruce blinks at him.

“How did you do that? You literally *melted* into the shadows!”

Bruce shrugs.

“No. *No*. Explain.”

“I…can’t.”

“You said no secrets, B!”

Bruce puts his hands up defensively. “It’s not a secret! I really don’t know! It just…kind of happens.”

Jason stares at him. Bruce stands there. He seems to flicker? The edges of his body go a bit transparent and Dick knows he only does that when he’s stressed.

“Leave him alone, Jay. He’s telling the truth. He’s just…like that. But he’s still Bruce.”

It takes Jason two months to accept it. By then, his questions are more from genuine intrigue and wonder. He hides under Batman’s cape and somehow it’s spacious? It can even fit Dick at the same time. No one (but Bruce) can even hear them when they’re under there.

And then one day, when he goes to take a nap under Bruce’s cape, someone else is there.

“….B?”

“…”

“You know what I’m going to ask.”

“…”

“*Bruce*.”

“No real names, Robin.”

“No one can hear me!”

“…I didn’t kidnap him.”

“What his name?”

“Timothy Drake.”

“FROM DRAKE INDUSTRIES?”

And Tim wakes up, rubbing his eyes. He looks exhausted and way too skinny, and all of a sudden, Jason understands why Dick has cooed at him the first night Bruce brought him home.

“Um…hi.”

“B, we’re keeping him.”

Jason doesn’t need to see Bruce’s face to know he’s smiling.

—

Damian just…appears. Bruce suddenly understands his parents’ reactions to his first appearance because nearly the same exact thing happens. Bruce wakes up from a nap. He doesn’t need to sleep very often, something Tim finds incredibly annoying, declaring it to be *unfair*. He wakes up, and curled against his chest is…a boy. Who looks a *lot* like him.

“Uh.”

The child wakes up, blinks at him w striking green eyes.

“Hello Father.”

What the fuck.

Dick slams his way into Bruce’s office, followed by Jason and Tim, who are bickering with each other.

“DAAAAAAAD, THEY WON’T SHU- oh. Steal another kid?”

“…he just appeared.”

“That’s the excuse you used for Jason.”

“No. Literally. I fell asleep. No kid. Woke up. Kid.”

“My name is Damian.”

“That’s no fair. You came pre-named?”

Damian is as odd as Bruce. Actually, he’s weirder. And stabby. Bruce finds him *delightful*. He adores him.

—

Dick is Nightwing, Jason is Red Hood (no death, he just thought it was a cool name), Tim is Red Robin, and Damian’s Robin.

Bruce is Batman. Despite being in his late 30s, he still looks like he’s in his mid 20s.

—

Batman stands in front of a bank robber who’s going on about their evil bank robbing plans. Nightwing pops his head out from beneath Batman’s cape.

“Can you get to the point?”

Red Hood pops out next.

“I’m getting bored.”

Red Robin follows.

“This is sad.”

Damian.

“Scum.”

Batman sighs.

“Why are all of you here?”

“Missed you.”

They all chime in.

The robber.

“How…how the *fuck-?*”

“Language. There are kids around.”

“B, I’m 23.”

“Says the boy taking a nap in my cape. And I was talking about Red Robin and Robin.”

“…’s comfy.”

“I’m eighteen???”

“F- Batman! I am not a child!”

There’s some shuffling sounds, no doubt Red Hood moving over to ruffle Robin’s hair.

“Whatever you say, Tiny Demon.”

And then Red Hood shrieks.

“No stabbing your brothers, Robin.”

“He called me small!”

“…you are.”

“This is insulting, F- Batman. I will grow to be as big as you. No. *Bigger*.”

The robber watches in confusion, mild amusement, and horror.

Batman sighs.

“We’ll talk about this later. Now, you were saying? Blowing up the bank, terrorizing the people.” Batman yawns. “Anything else?”

“Just take me to Arkham. I think I’m insane.”

[littlepuppers]

i really want to go camping. just a nice, solo camping trip to relax and have time to myself :)

I’d wake up and make breakfast, hike up to a different spot, start a fire and forage for a bit, draw or carve something, and setup camp for the night.

i have one pair of pjs with me and my sleeping bag for the night because i don’t have to worry about anyone judging what i wear or asking me for a spare blanket. So i packed just a pair of booty shorts and a smallish tank top. it’s just basic undergarments, nothing fancy, and i would be pretty embarrassed if anyone knew i wore these drabby clothes to sleep.

after i make a cup of sleepytime tea and wait for the fire to die out, i snuggle up in my sleeping bag. it’s a bit chillier tonight but i don’t have any other clothes to wear on top of this since i only brought my pjs and my stinky hiking clothes.

whatever. i drift off to sleep and dream of watching shooting stars falling around me, so pretty. as they crash onto the ground around me i feel the heat from them on my skin. it’s getting warmer, but i also really feel it on my cheeks. like i’m flushed or blushing. i watch the stars spark into flames and die out into embers.

animals start to surround me. deer, rabbits, foxes, and coyotes. they all come up around me and start sniffing my face and body. they start licking my face and neck, i giggle trying to push them away, it tickles. one of the coyotes that’s licking my stomach starts traveling down toward the hem of my shorts. woahhh haha, watch out buddy, i tell him.

Obviously not understanding english, he nudges his snout under the hem and takes a lick on my parts. i push his head away harshly and sit up. Immediately im pushed back down by the other animals and a huge buck comes and steps on my hair and arms so i can’t move.

i know this is a dream but how am i not waking up already???

a rabbit comes and starts pulling my shorts down, the coyote comes back and nudges his snout between my legs, i scream and try to close them but he turns and bites one. fuck, that felt real.

He goes back and starts licking, hesitant at first, just seeing how it tastes i guess. since foraging and meal prepping the smart and healthy way, ive only packed like fruit and stuff so obviously it probably tastes like really fucking good. at least that’s all i can assume from him diving in, licking deeper and deeper. fuck her tongue is fucking huge. it goes in and out fluidly. the slick sounds filling the air along with my whimpers and the other animals breathing and chirping and whining.

i feel it building up in my tummy, something molten. fuck, this is the weirdest wet dream i’ve ever had.

all of the sudden, his tongue dives insanely deep and curls into one of my spots. I wake up with a gasp and shaking through an orgasm. letting out a loud screaming moan, my eyes shoot open as i feel it curl inside me again.

WHAT THE FUCK

a tall dark figure is above me, my sleeping bag is unzipped and this persons hand is between my legs, his fingers curl inside me again. i scream, grabbing his arm and trying to push him away and get his fingers out. he plunges them deeper and uses his other hand to wrap around my neck and push it to the ground, holding it there.

i try to scream but can’t with my minimal airway, so i struggle and whimper, squeezing and trying to tear his arm away from my neck but it won’t budge. his fingers are still thrusting in and out of me, sometimes slowing down to explore and prod at my spots. i really cant help but shiver from the stimulation and orgasm from earlier. but who the fuck is the guy and how did he get in here and find me?!?

he finally speaks, moving his fingers to slip out a bit. “you weren’t this wet the whole time darlin’, my friend had to help you out to start, could barely get him off’a you. but i can’t blame him…” the dark figure takes his fingers out slowly with a shhlickkk sound, putting them up to his mouth, “…because you sure do taste fucking heavenly.” he leans to the side so i can see behind him something moves, a fucking dog. what the fuck. i thrash and whimper. “don’t fucking move. he bit you once, he’ll do it again.” I freeze, the bite, the dream, fuck it was all real.

the dog starts whining and tries to come up to me but the man pushes him back. he pushes his fingers back into me and starts moving them again, fuck i’m so overstimulated it almost hurts. “fuck, he’s eager. do u mind if he goes for a second course?” “fuck you,” i strain out. he opens my legs barely and the dog jumps over me sniffing and licking as deep inside as he was in the dream. fuckkk this is horrible i could get a disease or something, he needs to stop licking at my fucking spots it’s really too much.

the pressure starts building again. oh no, no no no no. please god i can fucking cum on a dogs tongue. opposing to my thoughts, my body gets closer and closer and- he stops. i freeze and tears start flowing from my eyes. from relief his contact from me is gone and because my body is so worn out now.

SHITT, something scrapes at my hips, the dogs paws, what the fuck is going on?? “sorry darling, he needs a little help, do you mind?” the man takes the pillow out from under my head and harshly lifts my hips, placing it underneath. he takes his hand off my throat finally, i gasp for air and can barely speak through my damaged vocal chords, “fuck you asshole.” “uhh yeahhhh i won’t, but he’s about to.” he nudges the dog forward. the man stuffs my shorts into my mouth so i can’t scream. how the fuck is this happening.

the dog immediately scratches at my hips again and starts rutting his hips toward me. FUCK NO. i thrash around but feel something poke my neck. it’s the man holding my wood carving knife i. his hand against my neck. “move, and I’ll fucking slit your throat.” tear start flowing from my eyes. how did i ever get in this position. i feel something scortching start to poke at my entrance, fuck please no please please please no…

the dog edges toward me more and suddenly plowing himself so deep inside me, how the fuck did i think doggy dicks were small??? this feels fucking huge, it fucking hurts. he’s thrusting in and out and an inhumane pace. his huge red doggy part pushes every single one of my spots and i can’t think anymore, i can’t even move. it’s like he’s going through me i can almost feel it in my stomach. he starts growling and i feel it get bigger. no way, this dog is not gonna knot me. please god. he can’t fit it in thank god.

“aw cmon buster, you can do better than that,” the mysterious man says before pushing the dogs backside against me and i feel it force inside me FUCK.

fuck that’s huge, i can’t fucking move because i think im gonna break. help please someone help me god…

i feel it. the flooding of molten liquid filling me. all i can do is whine through this soaked through fabric. i’m such an idiot for getting myself in this stupid situation, for not bringing a gun, im so stupid. there’s nothing i can do now except stay still while this dogs huge knot presses on my spot and his cum dumps into my cervix. i feel it dripping out. all over my sleeping bag and the floor of the tent. “how’d that feel hun? seems buster loved it, did you?” he takes his finger and wipes from the base of the dogs cock, bringing the liquid up to my mouth and smearing it all over my lips. i feel it leak down into my mouth and i’m utterly repulsed.

the dog breaks away with a POP and my legs and hips and whole body goes lax. the man chuckles and puts his hand down there again. oh no please don’t, and he doesn’t. instead, he scoops up the dogs cum and pushes it back into me. “good girl keep it in ok? the scent of it will help him track you down again.” i groan weakly and my vision begins to go blurry. the last thing i see is him throwing a stick outside the tent and the stupid dog running off after it to fetch.

fuck camping.

[nyrasvoid]

The Cost of Duty

Gwayne Hightower x Fem!Reader

Summary: Gwayne Hightower, is summoned in Kingslanding during his wife’s first pregnancy. After giving birth to their son without him, she struggles to forgive Gwayne upon his return.

Warnings: lots of angst because our girl is alone but a good ending i guess ?

A/N: no use of Y/N and also included Daeron in the fanfic, he’s 7 yrs old and raised by Gwayne and his wife

- Word count: ≈2.9k

Your hand rests on your growing belly, feeling the subtle movements of your child. The babe is still small, just five moons along, but every tiny kick, is a reminder of the life growing inside you, a life you created with Gwayne. Yet, as the days pass, it feels like you are experiencing this miracle alone.

The door creaks open, and Gwayne steps inside, his expression tired as he pulls off his gloves. His face is lined with the exhaustion of someone who has been carrying the weight of Oldtown on his shoulders.

You watch him as he moves around the room, setting his things aside without a word. A part of you wants to let it go, to simply accept that he is busy, that he is doing his duty. But another part aches for his attention, for the warmth and closeness you once shared.

"Gwayne," you say, your voice soft.

He looks up, his eyes briefly meeting yours before he looks away again. "Yes, my love?"

You hesitate, trying to find the right words. "You've been so distant lately," you begin, trying to keep a calm tone. "I understand that your duties are important, but... I miss you. I miss us."

He sighs, rubbing his temple as he moves closer to you. "I know, my love. I know it has been difficult. But there is so much that needs my attention. With Father in King’s Landing, everything falls to me."

"But what about me?" you ask, your voice rising slightly. "What about our child? I need you, Gwayne. We need you."

He looks at you, with guilt in his eyes. "I am here now, am I not? I’m doing the best I can. But Oldtown... it doesn’t run itself."

You stand, unable to keep your frustration to yourself. "And what about me? Do I run myself too? I sit here every single day, waiting for you, hoping for just a moment of your time. But when you finally come, it’s like you’re not really here.”

You pause.

“You do not even look at me unless I speak to you first."

Gwayne steps back, as if putting distance between you would solve your problems. "I do not have the privilege of simply putting things aside, my dear. You knew this when we married."

"I didn’t know it would mean being ignored!" you snap, your hands trembling as you grip the skirts of your dress tightly.

He takes a deep breath. "I’m doing this for us, for our future. The child’s future. Can you not see that?"

Tears threaten to fall out your eyes, but you refuse to cry. "I just want my husband back," you whisper.

Gwayne’s face softens, and he reaches out to touch your arm, but you pull away before he can touch you. “My love-"

"Don’t," you say, "Just... don’t."

He watches you for a moment, but he says nothing more, only turning and leaving the room, the sound of the door closing behind him, leaving you alone again.

Days pass, and the tension between you two only grows. Gwayne is present, but his mind is always on his duties. You feel as if you’re growing further and further away from him.

One evening, after a long day, Gwayne finally sits down beside you as you take your evening meal. You’ve been silent for most of the day, and now the sight of him so close yet so distant is almost unbearable.

He clears his throat, breaking the silence. "I have received a raven from King’s Landing today," he begins.

"And?" You replied unphased, not even looking at him.

"Father has summoned me," he says, "He needs my presence to sort out some political matters."

You place your spoon down. "King’s Landing?" you repeat, disbelief in your words. "That’s so far... and I’m already five moons along, Gwayne."

"I know," he says, his voice low. "But I will be returning as soon as I can. I won’t let anything keep me from being here for the birth."

You shake your head, unable to believe what you’re hearing. "You don’t know that. What if something happens? What if you don’t make it back in time?"

"I will," he insists, reaching for your hand, but you pull it back.

"You’re not listening to me!" you raise your voice at him, your frustration taking over. "You’re choosing to leave. You’re choosing your father over me. Over us."

He frowns. "It’s not a choice, my dearest. It is a duty. My father needs me."

"And I need you," you sob, your voice breaking. "I can’t do this alone, Gwayne. I shouldn’t have to. You are my husband before anything else."

He reaches out again, but this time you stand, moving away from him. "Please," he begins, but you shake your head.

"Don’t ask me to understand," you say, "Because I don’t."

After a long moment of silence, you hear him rise from his seat. "I’m leaving in three days time," he says quietly, his voice filled with regret. "Please, try to rest.”

You say nothing, you hear the door close behind him, and you break down crying, once again, you are left alone.

The night before he’s supposed to leave, Gwayne comes to your shared chambers, his expression softer than it’s been in weeks. He moves to sit beside you on the bed, his hand resting on your knee.

"I know you’re angry with me," he begins, his voice gentle. "But I don’t want to leave on bad terms. I love you. You must know that."

You turn to face him, your emotions a mix of anger, sadness, and love. "If you loved me, you wouldn’t be leaving."

He looks surprised, but he doesn’t argue. Instead, he leans in, pressing a soft kiss to your neck, his hand sliding up your nightgown. "Let me show you," he murmurs as he presses tender kisses down your collarbone.

But the anger and hurt are still too fresh. You place a hand on his chest, pushing him back firmly. "Not tonight, Gwayne."

He pulls back, surprise and hurt showing in his eyes. "My love..."

"I can’t," you say, "I’m still angry. I need...time."

He nods understandingly. "I am sorry," he whispers, pulling you into his arms despite your anger. "I am truly, so sorry."

You let him hold you, sobbing into his arms without saying a word.

Gwayne leaves at dawn, you watch from the window, your hand resting over your belly as he rides away. He turns once, looking back, but you don’t move. You don’t wave.

As the days turn into weeks, the loneliness only grows. Gwayne’s absence is a constant reminder of the growing distance between you. You try to busy yourself with tasks; embroidering blankets for the babe, reading, even taking long walks through the gardens. But nothing can fill the void he has left behind.

You spend time with Daeron, Gwayne’s youngest nephew, who has been staying in Oldtown under your and your husband’s care since he was born, and he had now seven years of age.

One afternoon, as the two of you sit beneath the shade of a large tree, Daeron looks up at you sadly.

You reach out, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead. “What’s on your mind, sweetling?”

Daeron glances up at you, his blue eyes filled with a sadness. “Auntie… will you and Uncle Gwayne forget about me when the babe is born?”

The question catches you off guard. You shift closer, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and pulling him into a gentle embrace. “Forget about you? Never, Daeron. Why would you think such a thing?”

He shrugs, trying to appear indifferent, but his voice trembles as he speaks. “Because the babe is your child. He’ll be important, and I’m just… I’m just your nephew.”

You tighten your hold on him, your heart breaking at the thought that he feels so insecure. “Daeron, listen to me,” you say softly. “You are not just our nephew. You’re as much a part of this family as the babe will be. Gwayne and I love you dearly, and nothing will ever change that.”

His eyes fill with tears. “But… he’ll be your real son. Won’t you love him more?”

You shake your head. “Of course not, sweetling. I will love both of you equally, just as if you were both my sons. I promise you that. You and the babe will grow up together, and I will raise you both as brothers. Nothing will change how much I care for you.”

Daeron’s lip trembles, and he finally allows himself to lean into your hug, resting his head against your shoulder. “You mean it? You won’t forget about me?”

You press a kiss to the top of his head. “I mean it, Daeron. You are very dear to me. The babe will be your little brother, and he will look up to you, just like you look up to Gwayne. I’m sure you’ll be the best big brother anyone could ask for.”

He sniffles but nods. “I will teach him all the things I know. How to ride a horse, and how to climb trees…”

“And how to be kind and brave, just like you,” you add with a smile.

Daeron smiles a little. “I’ll do my best. I promise.”

You hug him tighter. “I know you will, Daeron. And I’ll always be here for you, no matter what.”

He pulls back slightly, looking up at you with determination. “I’ll be the best big brother ever.”

You smile, ruffling his hair affectionately. “I’m sure you will be, my love. And the babe will be so lucky to have you as his brother.”

The boy’s expression softens as he looks at your belly. “Do you think he’ll be just like uncle Gwayne? Brave and strong?”

You hesitate for a moment, the thought of Gwayne filling your mind with sadness. “Perhaps,” you say gently.

Daeron nods, then his face brightens again as he looks up at you. “Can I help you pick out a name for him?”

Your smile widens at the offer. “Of course. Do you have any ideas?”

He thinks for a moment, his brow furrowing in concentration. “What about Maelor? It’s a strong name, isn’t it?”

You tilt your head, considering the name. “Maelor…” you say slowly. “Yes, it is a strong name.”

Daeron smiles, clearly proud of himself. “I can’t wait to meet him, auntie. We’re going to have so much fun together.”

As the months drag on, you begin to feel your belly grow heavier each day. Letters from Gwayne arrive frequently, filled with words of love and concern, but you don’t care to answer them.

You feel alone, as the weeks turn into months and the baby gets more active. Every kick is a reminder that the time is running out and you can only hope that Gwayne comes back in time.

But as your belly grows, so too does your anxiety.

One evening, you feel a sharp pain. You clutch at your belly. It’s too soon, you think. Gwayne isn’t here. He promised he would be here.

The pain intensifies, and you know without a doubt that the babe is coming. Your maids rush to your side, their faces filled with worry as they help you to your bed. The midwives and the maester are summoned.

You grip the sheets, your knuckles turning white. “It’s too soon,” you gasp, tears streaming down your face. “Gwayne isn’t here… he isn’t here…”

The midwife shushes you gently, wiping the sweat from your forehead. “Breathe, my lady. Focus on the baby. He’s eager to meet you.”

The labor is long, painful, and each moment is filled with fear.

At one point, you feel that you can’t go on, the pain too much to bear. “I can’t,” you cry out, “I can’t do this…”

“You can, my lady,” the midwife insists. “You’re strong. Your baby needs you.”

The room is full of faces, of whispers and encouragements, of hands holding yours as you push with all your strength.

Hours pass, and just when you think you have nothing left to give, you hear it. A loud cry that fills the room. The midwives wrap the tiny babe in soft blankets before placing him in your arms.

Tears stream down your face as you look down at your son cry. He’s perfect, you think.

“Maelor,” you whisper, “my sweet Maelor.”

Days pass, and the babe grows stronger, his cries filling the empty chambers that once were filled with silence. Daeron is overjoyed to meet his new brother.

“Can I hold him?” Daeron asks one afternoon, his eyes wide with excitement.

You smile, carefully placing Maelor in his small arms. “Support his head,” you instruct gently, watching as Daeron cradles the baby with surprising care.

“He’s so small,” Daeron whispers. “Will he be strong like uncle Gwayne?”

You nod, your heart filled with pride. “He will. But he’ll also have your kindness, Daeron. He’ll need you to show him how to be a good man.”

Daeron’s face lights up, and he nods eagerly. “I will. I promise.”

You watch as Daeron gently rocks Maleor, your heart warming at the sight. For a moment, the loneliness fades, replaced by the joy of watching your sons together.

But as the days turn into weeks, Geayne sends letters, each one more desperate than the last, asking about Lucerys, about you, about your health. But you can’t bring yourself to respond, the anger still too fresh.

Maelor grows, his tiny fists curling around your fingers, tugging at your hair, his eyes beginning to focus on your face. He’s beautiful, perfect in every single way, and yet every time you look at him, you’re reminded of Gwayne’s absence.

Two months pass before Gwayne finally returns. Word reaches you that he is only an hour away, but you remain in the nursery, rocking your son in your arms as you sit by the window.

Despite knowing Gwayne is coming home, you make no move to greet him at the gates.

Footsteps approach, and a moment later the door to the nursery swings open. Gwayne stands there, his eyes searching for you immediately. He takes a step inside, his gaze falling on you and the child in your arms. “My love…”

You do not look up, focusing instead on Maelor. Gwayne approaches you, dropping to his knees beside you. “Please, look at me. I am so sorry…”

You remain silent, unwilling to let your emotions show. Gwayne reaches out, placing his hand on top of yours. “I know I’ve hurt you. I never meant to be away for so long. I didn’t think it would be so… difficult.”

You glance up then, your eyes meeting his.

“I needed you,” you say quietly. “I went through the hardest moments of my life without you, Gwayne. And now… now you come back and expect everything to be as it was?”

“I do not expect that,” he says, “I know I’ve done wrong. And I can’t change what’s happened… but please, give me a chance to make it right. I want to be here for you, for our son.”

You look down at your son, your heart aching. “Maelor is already two months old,” you say, your voice barely a whisper. “You’ve missed so much, Gwayne. His first smile, the way he grabs my finger when he’s hungry… you weren’t here.”

Gwayne’s breath hitches, and he finally touches Maelor’s tiny hand, his fingers trembling as they brush against the babe’s soft skin. “I know,” he whispers. “I am truly so sorry, my love. I’ve never regretted anything more in my life. Please… let me be here now. Let me be the father he deserves, the husband you deserve.”

“We’ll see,” you say quietly. “For now, all that matters is that Maelor is healthy and safe.” You pause and take a deep breath, “But… I want us to be a family, Gwayne. For Maelor and Daeron.”

Gwayne nods. “Thank you,” he whispers, leaning in to press a soft kiss to your son’s forehead. “Thank you for giving me a healthy son, my dear. I promise, I’ll spend the rest of my life making this right.”

You watch as he cradles the babe in his arms, the sight filling you with joy.

PS: I know I have to start writing for other characters, I just love this man so much 😔 So just a reminder that my requests are open 🥰🥰

[softspiderling]

if you can't take it (then get back) | j.v

summary:

“You sound surprised.”

“I just…” you paused, struggling to find the right words to convey what you were trying to say without outright insulting her heir. But Rhaenyra only chuckled, giving a slight nod, understanding.

“He has been rude to you, hasn’t he?”

OR; Your first meeting with the Crown Princes leaves much to be desired.

pairing: jacaerys velaryon x reader

warnings: jace is a classist guys, idk what to tell you, minimal violence, reader is a dragonseed but no descriptors were used <3 also OBVIOUSLY jace and baela are not betrothed in this fic

word count: 3,9k

author's note: yo to the anon who requested this like a bajillion years ago… i’m sorry it took me so long😔 thanks to my lil goblin master @eldrith for beta reading and being the best sister wife ever🫵🏼🧌

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

"Silverwing. What a beautiful name,” you whispered as you gently stroked your dragon’s snout, Silverwing pressing into your hand as you stood in the middle of the meadow in your new dress.

When you had gone into the forest to pick flowers for your mother’s grave, the last thing you had expected was to leave said forest on dragonback, soaring through the skies, a dream come true. It hadn’t taken long before another dragon quickly joined your sides, its rider introducing himself as Addam of Hull, telling you to follow him to Dragonstone.

Before long, you had pledged your loyalty to Queen Rhaenyra and were offered a place to sleep, a position by her side. Only two nights prior, you had been slaving away at a small tavern on Driftmark, not knowing if you’d something to eat, now you’d never go to bed hungry again.

“A beautiful name for a beautiful dragon.”

“She doesn’t understand you.”

You whirled around, only to see Prince Jacaerys stalk his way up to you, his hand gripping the hilt of his sword.

“My Prince,” you uttered, curtsying. You had heard great things about Prince Jacaerys Velaryon, and you felt giddy to be fighting alongside him for his mother.

Jacaerys came to a stop next to you, giving you a glare before he turned to Silverwing. You took a pause, not having expected to be rejected so brazenly, but you swallowed your pride, turning to Silverwing.

“She’s a beauty, is she not?”

You looked at Jacaerys only to see him roll his eyes and you felt a flash of irritation.

“She doesn’t understand you,” he repeated, as if you were hard of hearing. “We speak to dragons in High Valyrian.”

“Oh, Her Grace had mentioned that, but unfortunately I have not gotten around to-“

“Soves, Silverwing.”

Jacaerys seemed unperturbed as he interrupted you rudely, leaving you at a loss for words. Silverwing let out a growl, pushing her snout against your hand one last time before flapping her wings and taking to the skies. You watched as she danced through the sky, a look of awe on your face before you turned back to the Prince, a heavy weight settling in your chest. You took a deep breath, collecting yourself. Surely you were reading this whole conversation wrong. From what you have heard, the crown prince was an exceptional man and no one had ever uttered a bad word about him, or held any grievances.

“I apologize my Prince, if I somehow offended you.”

Jacaerys let out a laugh, but it held no warmth.

“You can refer to pure theft as an offense, yes.”

“Theft?” You echoed, confused. “You must have mistaken me, I am not a thief, I’m-“

“I know exactly who you are,” Jacaerys sniped. “You stole a dragon of House Targaryen.”

Aye, it seemed like you read the conversation exactly right.

“I did not steal Silverwing. I claimed her- she claimed me.”

“She claimed you,” Jacaerys repeated with a scoff. “You are a common born girl, not fit to be a dragon rider.”

Every ounce of grace and manner left your body at the tone of his voice, your eyes sparkling with fury.

“Pardon?”

“It is not your place to claim a dragon,” he hissed out and you sneered at him.

“Oh, my apologies, my Prince,” you exclaimed, voice so biting it was dripping with vitriol as you bowed your head “I did not mean to step on your toes. Let me just unclaim the dragon!”

Jacaerys rolled his eyes at you, his annoyance clear as day.

“That shows how much understanding you truly lack,” he said and you groaned, throwing your hands in the air.

“I know dragons cannot be unclaimed, I was trying to make a point!”

Jacaerys scoffed, turning his head away. He looked at Silverwing flying in the skies before he turned back to you.

“You kid yourself thinking this gives you any meaning to your life.”

You let out a breath of disbelief, your lips parted in shock. You had heard a lot of insulting words in the years of your life, but never have they been so belittling.

“You do not understand the meaning of claiming a dragon, nor do you deserve it,” Jacaerys bit out, continuing. “You will never live up to the worth of a dragonrider. You are merely a tool in a war you have no control over. You’re a commoner, a lowborn,” he said, his face contorted in anger, stepping closer to you. “A mongrel.”

SMACK!!

Your hand slapped across his face, a reaction to his words that was mostly reflex than anything else, and your eyes widened in shock as as you had realized what just happened, a gasp escaping your lips as you reeled back.

Fuck, did you really just slap the Crown Prince of the Seven Realms across the face like a common beggar?

Jacaerys’ hand flew to his reddened cheek, his lips parted as you stared at each other in shock. You were frozen, not daring to move, fearing the Kingsguard would step out of the shadows any moment to strike you down in retaliation.

When you realized that no knight would come, you spared one glance at Jacaerys before turning to leave, quickly fleeing the scene of the crime.

You had retreated into your chambers after the absolute horror of a first impression. Not even Addam’s invitation for supper had beckoned you out of the room; you were sick to the stomach imagining what kind of punishment Jacaerys was planning.

The glass on the window was cool against your forehead. You had sought refuge at the small nook, your eyes in the sky, watching Silverwing fly through the skies, longing in your chest. Feeling the wind in your hair would make you feel better, you had no doubt, but you didn’t want to anger the Prince even further. A knock on the door made you startle, and with a small sigh, you went to open it. Ser Erryk was stood in front of your chambers, inclining his head.

“My lady,” he said. “The Queen has asked to see you.”

Fear ran down your back at his words. It happened. Prince Jacaerys told her that you had laid your hands on him and she was about to cast you out.

This was too good to be true anyway, it was bound to end. You had always known your temper would be your ruin. You’d just assumed it would be a patron in the tavern striking you down for cursing him out, not the Queen taking your head because you put your hands on her heir.

As you followed the Ser Erryk to the Queen’s study, you wondered how she would end your life. Make Silverwing eat you alive? Burn you? Take your head with a sword? All the options made your insides crawl, and you tried to form some sort of coherent apology in your head, but not a single one seemed sufficient.

As you paused in the door way of the study, Ser Erryk announced you, before leaving. You curtsied, your head low. Queen Rhaenyra gave you a smile, extending her hand to the empty chair in front of her.

“Please, sit.”

Her behavior confused you, you had imagined her angry, furious even. Maybe she was trying to lull you into a false sense of security before putting you in chains. Nervously, you took a seat, dropping your hands in your lap.

“How have you been faring?” Rhaenyra asked, her voice soft. “I couldn’t help but notice you have withdrawn yourself to the chambers.”

You bit down on your lips, unsure on what to say; you knew it was rude not to speak when asked a question, especially by the queen, and you were desperately trying to come up with words, any at this point, but your mind was blank.

“I thought you would be dragonback. Jace has told me you have a formidable connection to Silverwing.”

Your eyes snapped up at her words, your blood chilling.

“He has?”

Was that before or after you slapped him?

Rhanyra smiled at you, her eyes crinkling. “You sound surprised.”

“I just…” you paused, struggling to find the right words to convey what you were trying to say without outright insulting her heir. But Rhaenyra only chuckled, giving a slight nod, understanding.

“He has been rude to you, hasn’t he?”

You lifted your eyes to meet her gaze, your silence answer enough and Rhaenyra sighed softly, laying her hand on yours.

“I hope you can excuse the Prince’s unwelcoming behavior. The war is a heavy toll and he has taken it upon himself to shoulder most of the responsibilities.”

Your lips parted in surprise and you leaned back in your chair, giving a demure nod.

“Of course your Grace,” you said softly. “I cannot imagine what the Prince has been going through”

“I hope his words will not hold you back from further strengthening the bond with your mount,” Rhaenyra continued. “It is of utmost importance that you study as much of what the grandmaester can teach you.”

Ducking your head, you nodded and Rhaenyra pulled her hand back, effectively dismissing you. The chair scraped against the stone floor as you stood and Rhaenyra turned from you to look outside, the skies blue.

“I have been told this time of day is perfect for riding.”

You curtsied, your fingers gripping the soft fabric of your dress as you exited the study, suddenly energized after having talked to the Queen. Your feet automatically carried you back into your chambers, but instead of returning to wallowing, you pulled your riding gear out of the closet, unlacing your dress. With quick strides, you walked down to the dragonmount and within moments, you were on Silverwing’s back, soaring through the air.

The wind in your hair was exhilarating, just as you had imagined, and it seemed like all the burden was lifting off your shoulders the longer you were in the skies. You leaned down, brushing your gloved hands against Silverwing’s neck when she let out a snarl, suddenly changing her directions. Puzzled, you peered forward, trying to see what caught her attentions when you saw a smaller dragon at the edge of the island of Driftmark. Its scales were green, a burnt orange and your chest tightened a little when you recognized it as Vermax, Jacaerys’ mount. Letting out a small sigh, you tightened Silverwing’s reigns, pushing your legs into her side, urging her downwards. Before long, Silverwing landed on the soft grass, spreading her wings so you could climb down. Your landing on the ground was anything but graceful, still not quite used to getting off tall heights but if Jacaerys had noticed, he had the courtesy not to comment on it.

Tugging your gloves off, you slowly approached Jacaerys. He was overlooking the harbor of Driftmark. You had never seen it so crowded, with ships and people alike. Nervously, you glanced over to him. Apologies had never come easy to you.

“Good day to ride.”

You regretted your words as soon as they passed your lips, wincing. Out of every words you knew, you chose to say that? Jacaerys shifted on his feet next to you, turning his head slightly.

“Aye.”

He did not speak more, but you found yourself unable to blame him. You just struck him across the face a day ago and now you were talking about the weather? Behind you, Silverwing was growing restless, stretching her wings with a whine as Vermax eyed her, letting out a rumbling growl. An uncomfortable silence settled over you and Jacaerys, and you wrung your hands.

“I was out of line-“ “I apologize for-“

The both of you started at the same time, before stopping again. Your eyes met his briefly, your cheeks flushing.

“Please, you go ahead,” you said quickly him but Jacaerys shook his head.

“No, I fell into your word.”

“I insist, my Prince.”

Jacaerys paused at the honorific, before he nodded, his gaze trained at the ground. He let out a deep breath, raising his head again. “I am sorry for lashing out at you. I regret my words deeply. They came from a place of anger, not honesty.”

You blinked at him, stunned. An apology was the last thing you had expected to come out of the Prince’s mouth. He had no reason to apologize to you, you were of lower rank. Something you had thought he would hold over you.

“Anger… Towards me?”

Jacaerys laughed dryly, shaking his head. “Not truly, no… You had no hand in your parentage, I cannot fault you for that,” he paused, turning his head away, blinking quickly. “And I cannot fault myself for that, either.”

He seemed lost in thought, and you weren’t quite sure what he was insinuating, but you decided against pressing the matter. The atmosphere was still fragile, you didn’t want to risk overstepping.

“I am sorry I struck you,” you said, glancing at him. The cheek you had struck still bore a faint red, which was not surprising, as Jacaerys had fairly pale skin, apart from the small freckles dusted across his nose. He was quite beautiful when he wasn’t yelling at you.

“Oh,” Jacaerys chuckled, his finger brushing over his cheek, like he had forgotten about it. “I guess I deserved that. I called you some… Less than savory things.”

“Still… I’m sorry.”

“You have the temper of a dragon.”

You couldn’t help but blurt out a laugh, quickly covering your mouth. Jacaerys gave you a boyish grin, so different to the Prince you had met the day before.

This.

This is who you had been expecting.

“I could say the same about you.”

“I guess fire and blood runs through both of our veins,” Jacaerys said and you glanced at him, a look of understanding passing through the both of you, your dragons behind you settling down.

“Lykirī, not lykiri.”

“That’s what I said.”

You were sitting on the floor of the library, your back leaning against the bookshelf. Several books on High Valyrian were scattered on the floor around you and if Grandmaester Gerardys were here, he’d keel over and die immediately.

But he wasn’t here. It was just Jace.

Jace.

It was maddening to think that only a moon turn ago you had struck him across the face and now you were sitting together like old friends.

“That is not what you said and you know it,” Jace mused, his hair falling into his eyes as he leaned over a book, before handing it over to you. “Here.”

Your finger tips brushed when you took the book from him and you try to not let it affect you as much as you poured over the book, even thought it felt like his touch left a scorching mark on your skin.

It would be most unwise to let affection distract you, least of all now and least of all for someone like him. Who knew what may come to pass by the next moon or even the morrow? Even if the war’s end should come, the Queen would never allow you near him. You may serve as one of her dragonriders, but you were far from worthy to even be considered as the lady wife of her heir.

“Lyckiri,” you tried again and Jace groaned, leaning his head back against the wall.

“That was worse than before!”

“Ugh,” you whined, closing the massive book with a thud. “I have been studying since we broke fast this morning. I am unable to learn any more words.”

“Do you want to go for a walk?”

“Is that allowed?” you asked and Jace only quirked a grin at you, getting to his feet.

“I’m the crown prince,” he replied, offering you his hand. “Surely no one would take issue with me?”

Rolling your eyes, you took his hand, letting him help you up. The two of you languidly walked outside the library and you could feel the tension seeping from your limbs as soon as the first rays of sunshine hit your skin. You let out a soft sigh, your eyes fluttering shut and you stretched your arms out. Jace was chuckling next to you, and when you peered an eye open at him, he was watching you bemusedly.

“Feeling better?”

“Much,” you sighed softly, wiggling your fingers at him. “You cannot tell me you don’t enjoy the sun and the fresh air, my Prince.”

He quirked a grin at you, dipping his head. “You don’t have to be so formal when it is just the two of us,” he said gently. “You can call me by my given name, if you wish.”

“Me, a low born calling the crown Prince by his given name? What would the council think?” you jested and Jace snorted, very unprincely.

“But,” you started, your voice softer. “Thank you, Jace.”

Jace smiled at youtaking a breath, before exhaling.

“Listen-“

“… is that a dragon?”

Jace whirled around into the direction you were facing, peering into the sky. The sun was shining directly into your eyes, and you squinted them, surely it cannot be a dragon. It was too small. Beside you, Jace blanched, the color draining out of his face.

“That’s Stormcloud. Aegon’s dragon.”

The small dragon seemed exhausted, his wings flapping slowly in the air, almost as if it was dragging itself to the earth of the island, until it finally landed, the small boy ontop of him clambering down. His hair was a stark blonde, one of Jace’s younger brothers.

“Jace!”

“Aegon?”

Jace sprinted towards his younger brother, who met him halfway, taking the boy into his arms.

“What happened? Where’s Viserys?”

Aegon’s eyes filled with tears, and he was tripping over his words as he tried to explain. Your heart ached for him.

“There were ships. They attacked us. I only managed to flee because of Stormcloud. Viserys-“

The blonde boy hid his face in his chest, his small body racking with sobs and Jace wrapped his arms tightly around his brother, his wide eyes flickering to you.

“I-“

“Go,” you urged him. “You have to find your mother.”

With a curt nod, though hesitant, Jace walked back into the Keep with his brother in his arms, leaving you standing in the grass while the dragonkeepers took care of Stormcloud, who seemed content enough to curl up on the warm grass. You didn’t want to imagine what the young dragon and his rider had been through, Aegon seemed inconsolable.

It was much later when you found Jace again, his shoulders tense and his strides quick. His forehead was creased in a frown, his eyes unfocused, so much that he jumped when you touched his arm gently.

“Is everything alright?” you asked him, voice soft.

Jace shook his head, his face pained, eyes wet with unshed tears.

“The Triarchy. Their fleet attacked the ship Aegon and Viserys were on while they were traveling on the Gullet. They have Viserys.”

“What?”

Jace sniffed, turning away from you, his head held high. You wanted to offer him comfort, at the same time, you didn’t want to overstep, so you wrapped your arms around yourself, letting Jace compose himself. He exhaled deeply, before letting out an annoyed growl, shaking his head.

“I have to go.”

Go?

“You can’t possibly mean the Gullet.”

“What else would I mean?” Jace snapped at you; and for the first time since you have made up with him, he reminded you of the Prince that had made you feel so small in the beginning. You knew his anger wasn’t directed at you, but you took a step back, mostly out of impulse. Jace took notice, sighing softly and his shoulders deflated.

“I’m sorry. I did not mean to raise my voice at you,” he said quietly. You nodded, swallowing thickly, freezing when Jace reached out to take your hands.

“There has to be something I can do. It’s my brother,” He said, his voice breaking and his grip tightened briefly. “I can’t lose another.”

“What if I go?” you blurted out; Jace looked appalled at your suggestion. You paused, before sighing. “Me and the other dragonseeds. We should go.”

Your own words terrified you, even though you knew it was the smartest decision. Neither Rhaenyra nor Jace could go, the future of the realm laid on their shoulders. You and the other dragonriders were expendable and you knew that, but Jace still seemed hesitant.

“Let me go. I’m sure her Grace will agree,” you said, squeezing his hand. “I’m merely a tool in a war I have no control over, remember?”

Jace couldn’t help but let out a laugh at you using his own words against him, shaking his head.

“This is why her Grace brought us in, let us do this.”

You knew you had persuaded him already, his eyes downcast, focused on your hands.

“You can’t even say lykirī.”

His voice was quiet when he spoke again, but there was a faint smile on his lips, so you rolled your eyes with a laugh.

“Lykirī,” you said, the word suddenly rolling off your tongue easily. “You happy now?”

Jace agreed reluctantly with a small nod, and you squeezed his hand one last time, before letting go, your skin missing the warmth his hands were providing.

“Be careful, don’t fly too low,” Rhaenyra said, her arms clasped. Her voice was even, but you could tell that she was tense, fearing for her son’s life. “I am grateful for your service.”

She looked at all the dragonseeds, before nodding her head, turning on her heel to leave the dragonmount, but Jace lingered behind. Addam was the first to mount Seasmoke, then Hugh. As the dragonkeepers beckoned you forward, you called out for Silverwing. You glanced back at Jace, who was already looking at you and you swallowed thickly, pressing your lips together. What if this was the last time you’d ever get to see him?

Silverwing let out a small grumble as she settled against the dock. You took a step towards her, hesitantly, before you turned on your heel, running towards Jace.

“What’s wro-?”

He didn’t get the chance to finish his words as you cut him off by pressing your lips against his and he stilled in shock before he wrapped his arms around you, deepening the kiss. Silverwing let out a deafening growl and you pulled away, your cheeks red.

“I-”

“Don’t,” Jace said, inhaling sharply. “Tell me when you come back.”

You wanted to protest, but the look on his face made you swallowed your words. With a last squeeze of his hand you stepped away from him, mounting Silverwing.

“Lykirī, Silverwing,” you said gently, as she whined softly. “I’m sorry. Soves.”

Silverwing flew out of the dragonmount, and you barely managed to catch one last glimpse of Jace before you were in the skies, joining Hugh and Addam, the latter taking the lead. Despite riding the fiercest creatures on earth, you couldn’t help but feel dread all over. It didn’t ease the closer you got to Gullet, but you tried to stay strong as the cold winds whipped you in the face. Your stomach dropped when the clouds dissipated over the Gullet, revealing an entire fleet of hostile ships across the ocean.

Seven hells, you thought, your breath stocking in your throat, I should’ve told him.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

author’s note: sorry for the ambiguous ending😔pls leave some kindhearted feedback 🫵🏼🩵

[rawan-soso]

As the adults struggle to find food and keep a roof over everyone’s heads, the children of northern Gaza also have their own struggles. Their mental health is in a horrible state.

I hesitated to talk about this. I don’t want people to think we have so many donations that we can afford to buy my sister toys. It’s not that we can afford it. It’s just that sometimes we have to skip a meal to buy something for her because the boredom is making her even more depressed. She has severe trauma, she has seen bombs dismember people, she has escaped multiple massacres with us. But now the other kids in the building keep breaking her toys while playing and we can't buy a new one immediately, because there are more urgent things. The cheapest thing in northern Gaza right now is makeup, because no one needs it, so I bought some. I apply it on myself and Soso to make her happy, but I don’t always have the energy or time to play with her. I’m exhausted, sick and malnourished, and I still have to do chores and spend hours at the market looking for the most affordable food, clothes, and hopefully medicine.

We have many expenses that we don’t talk about because people won’t see them as vital. Phone chargers (only used ones that die fast, because new ones are insanely expensive). A fee for the neighbors who have the internet router. Phone bills and data. Toys for the children. School books and private tutors for students.

You’re right, it wouldn’t be vital if the war had only lasted for a week. But it’s been more than a year. Our children’s mental health is destroyed, especially children as young as Soso who is only 4 years old and whose brain is developing in a genocide. Students can’t just stop studying for all this time. My other sister missed her entire last year of high school, but she wants to take university entrance exams. Dropping out of university because of the war has killed everything in me. I can’t let her experience the same kind of loss, so I pay for her books, for paper and printing, for private tutoring classes.

I had to buy three phone chargers in a month. The first one was $70. Days later, it was $100. Two days ago, a neighbor fried the second charger, and the new one was $200. I cried that day, because it wasn't even my fault. The prices of everything keep going up and I feel like I’m going insane. Even our landlord tried to increase the rent. It’s okay if I sacrifice meals. I’m used to hunger. But I have three younger siblings and I can’t watch them lose even more than they already have. I want them to study and play. I want them to eat and stay warm.

Please help me. When all of this is over, I’ll get my degree, find a good job, and I’ll never ask for anything again. But as long as the war keeps going, I need your help. I promise your donations don’t go to waste. Food and rent will always be the priority. Soso and my grandmother are the first beneficiaries. We always think carefully before buying anything. I hope we can reach the final goal soon, and that it will cover all expenses until the war ends, because I’m so tired of relying on strangers. I hate asking for money. I’m eternally grateful to anyone who helps, but the guilt won’t fade, because I wanted to be an independent girl and help my family myself. I'm exhausted and depressed.

My campaign is vetted! ✅️Vetted by @gazavetters, my number verified on the list is ( #347 )✅️

Forgive me, you shared before and it helped a lot so I ask you to please share again @kerosene-saint @andnowanowl @omegasmileyface @4c-aperture @bahrmp3 @dhmiss55-blog @woodesnake @original-character-chaos @revalentinee @rapogirl13 @gorillawithautism @xerxestexastoast @kyoukainokanata @rabiesrabiesdog @rainyrebloggin @ok1237 @isummonedadragon @pro-pin-prinny @boxheadpaint @rukafais @butcklinkle @earlysunsetting @ceeberoni @strangeauthor @the–pony-box @blurrycow @nabulsi @90-ghost

[lightwing-s]

𝐒𝐄𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐓 𝐇𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐍

pairing: simon "ghost" riley x reader

It must’ve been early when the knocking woke you up. Rolling in the warmth of the bed, you struggled to get up and once you did, you walked towards the door on pure muscle memory, still too tired to proceed with any coherent thoughts.

You opened it automatically, rubbing your heavy eyes and letting out a yawn.

“Ghost, Price and I were thinking that maybe…” you heard a voice you faintly remembered blurt out words you vaguely put together. “Yn? What are you doing in Simon's room?”

Freezing at the spot, your eyes dart open, as wide as they could possibly be, and a burst of energy runs through your body, making your mind jolt alight, finally deciding to work.

“Fuck.” you whisper, as you could hear the sound of objects falling and stumbling steps rushing to your side. Simon, still shirtless, holding up his loose sweatpants and whose mask had been clumsy put on, only one of his eyes properly fitting through it’s proper hole, arrived beside you breathlessly, pulling Gaz into the room and closing the door immediately thereafter.

Pushing the Sergeant onto the unmade bed, it took him a moment to catch his breath, spinning around on the same spot on the floor. He had fixed his mask, and the moment his eyes caught yours you could clearly understand his message.

We’re fucked.

Your eyes were restless, moving from Simon and Gaz so quickly it was making you dizzy. Your hands tugged at Simon’s shirt, dressing you like a dress, but barely covering your legs, ones you were not used to exposing in front of your comrades.

It was awkward, this whole situation an awkward mess you had put you all in.

I’m sorry, you mouthed and pleaded with your eyes as Simon stopped in front of you, his hands reaching for your arm, rubbing it warm, consoling you as much as he could as you two sulked in unwanted company.

“Can you two explain what’s going on?” asked your “guest”. Exchanging glances once more, you two fought over who would break him the news. “Or am I supposed to make my own conclusions?”

“‘S pretty obvious, innit?” Simon replied, dryly.

“I wanted to hear it from you, it looks too surreal.” he said, leaning back and straightening his position, a smirk spreading on his face, amusement evident in his eyes. “The Lt and Yn shagging.”

You looked back at Simon once more, his arms crossed on his chest making his biceps look twice their size, and his clear crunched jawline, probably planning three hundred different ways to murder his teammate. Touching his shoulder, you asked for allowance, watching as he considered the options before nodding in return.

“Gaz.” you called, catching his attention. “We’re married.”

Gaz’s head bobbed forward as his eyes almost jumped out of its socket, questioning the shocking news and his own reality. To confirm your words, showed him your hands, more specifically your ring finger, where a pair of letters, ‘SR’, were tattooed secretly on its side. The Lieutenant followed suit, uncrossing his arms to expose your initials drawn on the same spot in his ring finger. 

You two were married. Married, and no one in the base knew it. Hell, they didn’t even know you two had a thing for each other, was going through Gaz’s mind.

“Married?” he repeated, more an affirmation than a question, trying to process it in his head. “I can’t wait till Johnny knows it.”

“Johnny can’t know it.” you immediately cut him. “Please, Gaz. I-it’s…” private, you wanted to add, our lives. But a lump in your throat caught you, feeling everything you’d build crumbling down. 

You’d been so careful. You and Simon had taken every possible precaution since the first night you hooked up, not wanting anyone to find out your silly “mistake”, to the day of your wedding two years ago, the most important day in your entire life. And now the secret was done for, days counted even if Gaz were kind enough to keep it to himself.

“Private.” Gaz completed your words after a brief minute of silence, and the hope in your chest grew. “I get it. You know I’m not a snitch.” Standing up, he continued. “Your secret is safe with me.” and extending his hand towards your husband he wished. “Congratulations, Simon.”

Your husband, after second thoughts, shook Gaz’s hand in his, evident force used to make sure a warning was heard: you say anything, you’re dead. However, knowing him like no one else, you notice signs no one would, and the slight drop in his shoulder lets you know he trusted his Sergeant.

“Congratulations you too, Yn.” he turned to you, giving you a tight hug instead, lifting you off your feet for a brief moment before returning you to the floor. “Does this make me the best man over Johnny?”

Fishing for a pillow, Simon threw it straight into Gaz’s head as he rushed out of your room, giggles heading out with him. You too stood laughing, enjoying knowing your secret paradise wasn’t done for yet, and trying to calm down your sulking and annoyed husband.

.

a/n: short drabble to announce i'm now taking simon and other cod men requests ♡

[nsharks]

bleeding blue | apocalypse au

part thirty-three —other parts

pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x fem!reader words: 4.5k tags: death. blood and gore. zombies of course. AFAB reader. single dad ghost. enemies to lovers. harm to a child. summary: After losing your companions, you run into a skull-masked man and his daughter. They are your last hope for survival. a/n: clearly I am bad at estimating how long this story will take lol

Alexandre is not as susceptible to pain.

The guard outside his home didn’t register his death, not with Ghost as a shadow at his back. One wrench to his neck, and Kyle plucked the key off his corpse, gently opening the planked door. As the three of them swept the inside, you and Ari hoisted the body in. A sudden crash of breaking glass and the sounds of a struggle made it clear—they got Alexandre. He must have woken up.

But restrained to a dining chair by chains from the slaughterhouse, all he offers up is a bloody tooth on the floor—nothing about Blue or the weapons.

"Brûlez en enfer, pécheurs!"

Ghost snarls and tears a fistful of hair from his scalp. Alexandre only spits more blood, teeth clenched.

"He's wasting our time," you mutter, dread curling in your chest. A glance at the window—the sky could turn deep purple any second. You touch Ghost's elbow. "We should just look for—"

"He'll talk."

Ghost draws the knife. He drives his knuckles into Alexandre’s mouth, smothering the scream as the blade severs his pinky. Blood spills over raw bone. Finally, he writhes—eyes rolling back, knees violently shaking.

"Tell us where everything is, or these go next," Ghost snaps, holding up his middle and ring fingers.

He pulls his fist from his mouth. Alexandre sputters, lips twitching from the pain. Under his breath, he groans, "Sal... Mon enfant."

"What is he saying?" Kyle presses.

Ghost positions the knife at the next digit. "Speak up. English."

Alexandre's eyes threaten to close. He whispers something quieter—

"Salome?" you speak up.

His eyes snap open at the name.

You lower beside Ghost, leaning closer, your eyes darting over his swollen face. "Salome. Your 'enfant.' The child is yours, isn’t it?" A flicker of rage flares in his nostrils, and you quietly press on, "You must be worried about her. She was tending to us, you know. Don’t you want to know if she lives? It'd be a shame if she doesn’t. She was so excited for the baby, especially after losing the first one in the winter. I’m guessing that one was yours, too." You let the words hang, then wet your lips, feigning consideration. "The thing is, it’s been a long night. My memory’s hazy. Can’t recall if I slit her throat or not, but I do remember her begging me to spare her—for the child’s sake."

At this, he jolts. "Tu fais chier—"

Ghost covers his mouth.

You keep your voice smooth. "Maybe if you tell us where the girl and the weapons are, I’ll remember. Otherwise, he’ll kill you, and you’ll die not knowing."

The silence breaks as Ghost drives the knife into the base of his finger. Alexandre grits out, "The girl... I don’t know where my mother kept her. But if sunrise is near... She could be at the chapel now, to prepare."

The one you saw? "How many chapels are there here?" you ask.

"Only one for... offerings."

You glance at Ghost and whisper, "If we can find the road, I could get us back to it."

He nods, not looking away from Alexandre. "The guns," he says. "Where are they?"

"I can... show you."

"You're not showing us shit. Tell us exactly where to find them."

Alexandre holds his gaze. "I could tell you wrong, yes? Waste your time. Or I can show you, and you can kill me if they’re not there."

"Don’t let him play games, Simon," Price calls from behind.

Ghost exhales roughly.

Alexandre looks at you. "But you must tell me of Salome first."

"She's alive," you tell him. "But if you don’t show us where the guns are, it’s not just you who will die."

The chains bite into his wrists as Ghost yanks him up by his soiled lapel. A pistol pressed to his temple, Alexandre stumbles forward, his feet dragging over the corpse at the door before leading you outside. The moonlight feels sharper, casting shadows over the pitted ground as you step carefully beside him, scanning the area. No more alarms yet. But when the guards change shifts, that won’t last.

No one speaks as he leads you around the pasture and barn, toward the back, where the silhouette of a small shed takes shape in the darkness. As you near, a three-tuned call cuts through the air, beckoning Alexandre's gaze to the sky, a soft murmur escaping his lips: "La tourterelle chante pour toi."

"Shut up."

Ghost strikes the back of his head with the gun to silence him.

You stop in front of the shed. It is only just bigger than the one you used to sleep in.

"Is this it?"

"Yes," Alexandre nods. "Inside."

Kyle is the one to kick open the door. As expected, the smell of rusty metal hits your nose as you take in the clutter of rakes, shovels, and scythes. There is a wheelbarrow against the wall with nothing inside but residual soil. No weapons in sight.

Ghost cocks the pistol. "You're fucking around with your kid's life—"

"Under the floor," Alexandre flinches, then juts his chin at the planks of wood, "The extra guns, ammo. It is under there."

Ghost shoves the gun into Kyle’s hand. Without hesitation, Kyle takes over, keeping it steady as Ghost drops to his knees, running his fingers over the floorboards. A sharp knock—hollow. He drives his knife between the slats and pries them open.

The unmistakable glint of metal catches your eye. Rifles. Green and gold cartridges, too. Ghost inhales sharply, tearing up more of the floor. Price moves in, yanking out boxes, sorting through the ammo they need to load up. You linger by the door, glancing back over your shoulder. The guns are yours. Now, you'll need to find the chapel. Maybe Blue isn’t there yet. Maybe you can get there first.

Lost in thought, you almost miss it—that softly cooing dove, the kind you used to wake up to in England. Again, Alexandre mutters in French beside you where Kyle quiets him with a shove at his shoulder. Then you detect a shift in the air—no, you squint and realize it is movement in the grass by the barn.

Alexandre suddenly shouts, "La tourterelle chante pour toi!"

The echo of his words is followed by the crack of a pistol. Kyle’s shot strikes his head, and his body crumples at your feet.

You whip around, panic flaring in your chest as you look at Ghost. "Someone was there. He said something to warn them. They're going to wake up the others!"

Ghost's glare snaps towards Kyle. "The gunshot probably already did."

Kyle releases a growl. "Fuck, I didn't think—"

"Take this," Price interrupts, throwing a loaded rifle at Kyle. 

For you, Nereida, and Ari, a small handgun.

But by the time your finger seeks out the trigger, you hear a myriad of voices shout from the barn.

B

Blue sits at a small table. Across from her is that old woman, eating silently. Only the sound of metal on ceramic, and gentle chewing, fills the dining room. Blue's teeth mechanically grind a tart, red berry into pulp, then let it slide down her throat, her eyes never leaving the white plate. On the faintly reflective surface, a years-old memory blurs into focus.

She sits in the back of her dad’s truck, her small hands folded in her lap. The air is thick with the smell of cigarette smoke. Her eyes are fixed on the passing buildings and people, the streets beginning to feel unfamiliar. Then, her dad mutters something low under his breath, the tires screeching as he sharply veers into a petrol station.

He unbuckles and slams the front door, moving quickly around the truck to help her out. "Come on, kid," he says quietly, lifting her up gently before setting her on the ground. Her hand slips instinctively into his.

"Don’t look at anyone," he mutters as he tugs her toward the small food mart.

"Why, daddy?" she whispers up at him.

"Because I said so."

"Why are we here?"

"I need to get something."

"What for?"

The silence stretches between them, and a cold knot of fear tightens in her stomach. He doesn’t answer, and she can’t remember how they got here. She had been in her bedroom, where her mother had told her to stay. There was shouting through the door before it flung open, then her father grabbed her, and suddenly, her mom’s voice faded behind them.

Her father guides her through the aisles, pulling items off shelves. She tries not to look at the old man nearby, her eyes fixed on the hem of his jacket, her fingers nervously tugging at it.

"Why isn’t my mum coming with us?" she asks.

He doesn't answer. They move to the cash register, and after he pays, they head back to the truck. Her eyes sting. She rips her hand from his and shakes her head, her voice breaking.

"I want to go back, daddy."

"You're not going back."

"I want to!"

He kneels in front of her, gripping her chin as her tears spill. A woman filling her car glances over, and he lowers his voice so only she can hear. "I know you're scared, but listen to me, Amelia. Remember that game we play? The one where the bad guys are after us, and we have to get away from them?"

She nods weakly, tears streaking down her face.

"What do we call each other when we play that game, baby?"

"Blue and Ghost," she answers, her voice small.

"Right. We’re playing it again, okay? But this time, it’s not a game. Right now, you’re Blue, and I’m Ghost. You listen to everything I say so I can keep you safe. Do you understand, Blue?"

She struggles to breathe.

"Tell me, do you understand?"

"Daddy, I—"

"No. Not daddy. Ghost."

"Ghost... please, I want to go home."

His voice repeats her new name, over and over, as he shakes her chin, and she cries harder. She looks over at the woman filling her car as she fades into something strange—milky eyes and grey skin—and when Blue looks back to her father, he’s gone. All that remains is the white plate, stained with red raspberry juice.

"Blue."

Blue lifts her gaze, her eyes locking on the old woman across from her. The woman's leathery skin shifts to grey in the pale moonlight streaming through the window. She chews a berry slowly, takes a sip of milk, then speaks. "Tell me. Why do you call yourself this?"

She struggles to pull her voice to the present, looking back at the plate and quietly answering after a moment, "It is... it is the name I've used to survive."

"You are a strong girl, that much is clear," Maman compliments idly. "But sometimes, God does not want us to fight. There is strength in acceptance."

When breakfast is finished, Eloise brushes her hair until it’s buttery soft down her back. Then, they leave. Blue smells the dew on the grass, her toes curling in her shoes to endure the pain of keeping up with them. No matter how lightly she spreads her weight, the wounds split wider, blood silently squishing beneath her soles. Any blood she left behind would be invisible in the dark, but Ghost always noticed things she never could. She picks at her fingernails as they reach a road, which reminds her of when they were walking through, seeing a few abandoned cars left at the sides.

They walk for some time until she smells the Greys. The rot is pungent in the brisk air. Then, she hears the low hum of hymns coming from a small building—a church. She only knows this because of a deep memory with the old woman she called grandmother who used to take her to one. The stained glass glows faintly with dim golden light inside. They approach the large door, and Blue stands outside it, her knees trembling, but her shoulders managing to stay upright.

Maman glances down at her, hand resting on the door. "In God's presence, Amelia, there is no need to survive anymore. You will accept his punishment—and his forgiveness. Tell me, do you understand?"

Blue grits her teeth.

The voice edges softer. "Do you understand, Amelia?"

"I understand."

Behind her, Eloise takes hold of her wrists and ties them together with what feels like prickly twine.

The door creaks open under Maman’s push, revealing rows of pews and cold stone walls. Blue swallows hard, tasting her own heartbeat in her throat as she takes in everything she can before stepping inside. The narrow aisle spills out into an altar, where the same two Greys they muzzled the other day are chained to the floor, their snarls and moans adding a discordant layer to the throaty hymns echoing from the right side of the church. There, the veiled women sit, their heads bowed. On the left, the men. A bony hand presses at her back, urging her forward. Through the fog of fear, she counts them: just three men, plus Pierre—the one from before—standing beside the leashed Greys.

The lingering scent of old blood mixes with the fresh, sharp tang of melting candlewax. Her footsteps are small, barely making a sound against the stone, and the pain seems to fade into nothingness, until she misteps around a scurrying rat. A sharp pang burns through her foot, forcing her teeth to grind. Tears well in her eyes, but she doesn’t let a single one fall, her focus locked on her surroundings. The flickering candles on the altar, the glint of Maman's knife as she unsheathes it, the flicker of hunger in the endless moans—each step draws her closer to the Greys.

When she finally stops, she stands between them, the chains and muzzles the only thing keeping their mouths from finding her flesh.

As Maman begins to murmur in French, a fleeting thought crosses her mind: Can her mother see her now, dressed in a beautiful gown, having grown into her features, even though the shape of her face still carries the strength of her father's? Can she see the fear she can no longer contain, spilling into violent breaths that tear through her chest?

"Venez vous nourrir de sa chair pure, et en retour, bénissez-nous avec plus de nourriture pour l'hiver et des bébés en bonne santé pour vos nouveaux peuples."

Beneath Maman's words, Blue hears something. A distant, piercing sound that reminds her of a gunshot.

Dad?

She glances at the door, then at the faces around her, but no one else seems to have heard it.

A cold hand snatches her arm, the unwounded one, and Blue whimpers. Then she is turned around to face the pews.

"Une coupure pour les faire festoyer!"

The knife draws a matching cut, the release of blood making the Greys jerk within their restraints.

A man stands and unlocks one Grey's chains, while Pierre handles the other. The screech of metal cuts through the air, and with a shout, the creatures are freed. Blue’s heart slams in her chest. Maman's low, cruel laugh reaches Blue's ears just as she drops to the ground and scrambles backward, bumping into the altar and making it rattle. She screams when rotten hands clamp around her ankles—instinct taking over. She wriggles free of her blood-soaked shoes and kicks them as far as possible toward the people in front of her.

The shoes hit the ground with a quiet squelch, and the Greys snap toward them, momentarily confused by their scent of blood. A veiled woman screams, her dress now stained with a red footprint, and the other women scramble for the door as the Greys hurl through the aisle. In that fleeting moment of distraction, Blue pushes herself up, hands shaking as she clutches the twine binding her wrists. She holds it over the candle, praying the small flame will burn through it.

"Come on, come on."

Just before the twine can snap, a hand yanks at her shoulder to spin her around.

"Stupid girl!"

Blue growls like a cornered animal and spits into Maman’s eyes. Sneering, Maman slashes the knife across Blue’s cheek, sending fresh blood down to her lips. The Greys, no longer distracted, screech as they again zero in on the scent of her bleeding wounds.

Through the pain, Blue strains with all her strength, forcing her wrists apart until the charred twine snaps, freeing her hands. Maman grabs her by the dress, but Blue blindly reaches for the only thing within reach—the candle—and jams the burning wick into the old woman's face.

"Fuck you!"

It is enough to make her writhe in pain, giving Blue the opening to snatch the knife from her hand. With a wrecked cry, she stabs the old woman’s throat, then kicks her in the stomach just as the Greys reach them. Maman’s mouth lets out a final gurgling, blood-soaked cry, and Blue watches, panting hard, as the Greys grab her and tear their teeth into her torn neck. 

"Maman!"

Pierre shouts, rushing over. 

Blue bolts away from them, her soaked feet nearly slipping. She shoves a screaming woman out of her way near the door and bursts outside into the breaking dawn. That's when she hears more gunshots, clearer in the open air, and spots a distant plume of smoke. Without hesitation, she runs in that direction.

T

The first round of gunfire kicks up dirt at your heels before you can even react. Ghost yanks you into a sprint, pulling you away from the shed. Men pour through the barn’s back door, giving chase. Somewhere in the chaos, you hear Price’s voice barking orders, his gunfire answering theirs—but there’s no time to look over your shoulder. Ghost grips your elbow and drags you behind an old tractor, shoving you into cover as bullets whizz through the air.

The others tumble beside you, Price forcing Nereida's head low behind the large tire. 

"There’s nowhere else to take cover," Kyle curses. He and Ghost peek over the tractor, firing off shots, but the sound of pounding boots grows closer. There are too many of them, and not enough time to stop their advance.

You swallow hard, heart pounding, and risk a quick glance around the tractor’s hood. The haystacks are right there, and you remember how dry they felt around your ankles when you covered the corpses. You grab Ghost by the wrist and pull your mouth to his ear so he can hear you.

"The hay is flammable—can you light it somehow?"

His jaw sets in understanding when your words register. He closes an eye and redirects his aim, instead firing rapidly at the base of one of the stacks. Stray sparks leap into the air, and for a moment, your stomach sinks when nothing happens. Then, the straw catches—one spark, then another, and the flames grow fast, swallowing vegetation along the ground. Thick, black smoke whips into the air.

"Il y a putain de feu!"

"Let's move!" Ghost shouts.

You're running again, using the distraction to your advantage, the veiled hood flying off your hair. The sudden silence in the gunfire gives you a moment to look around, and with a rush of terror, you realize that a sliver of sunlight has crept over the horizon. The sky above is no longer the pure black of night. 

"Simon, we have to get to her!"

"Where's the chapel?"

"I don't know! I-I need to see the road to find it."

The farm stretches out in every direction, the lack of light making it hard to see anything far off. You stop for a moment, trying to orient yourself. Maybe if you could just—

Another shot hits the ground, close enough to feel the heat on your toes. You barely catch a glimpse of the men still chasing you before a cloud of smoke bursts from the ground. It’s not from the fire he started—it’s a smoke bomb, just like the one they used to disorient you the first time.

The smoke stings your eyes and lungs. You clamp your mouth shut to avoid breathing it in.

"Drop to the ground!" Ghost growls in your ear, loud enough to hear over the gunfire you can only hope is coming from Kyle and Price. 

You obey, hitting the ground hard with his arm firm around your waist. He grips your dress, guiding you as you crawl through the smoke’s underbelly, where the air is clearer. Down here, you can see just enough to navigate forward, the blind gunfire whizzing harmlessly overhead. But as Ghost hauls you to your feet, a new panic grips you—you can no longer see the others.

"Where are they?" 

Through the tears in your eyes, you can't make out anything past the smoke at your backs. 

"Price can handle it. Come on."

For a brief second, you hesitate, torn between ensuring they’re alright and following him—but the encroaching sunrise makes the decision for you. There is nothing else you can do but keep running, hoping something will look familiar as you weave between nothing but stalks of wheat and the small homes. You’ve gained enough distance to escape their line of fire, and when you look back, the flames by the barn seem to have stopped swelling, but that is all you make out before something rams into your side.

"Femme pécheresse, regarde ce que tu as fait!"

The stray guard wrestles your body to the grass, a blade at your throat slicing a shallow welt into the skin, but he is ripped off you within seconds. Ghost breaks the man's neck, steals the pistol from his belt, then tosses it to you. He takes your free hand to help you up, and only as your finger smoothes over the trigger do you realize your other gun is gone.

He turns to keep moving, and part of you wants to sob in rage that you still don't know if you're even headed the right way. Then you see it—something in the grass. You grab his hand. "Look there. What is that?"

His gaze follows yours to the distinctive red stain embedded into the ground. Faint, but there. He leans down to touch it. "It's fresh."

"It could be hers, Simon," you urge.

He stalks forward, fingers hovering before pressing into a faint footprint. "It's her size. This way."

Blood smears lead you to the main road, and your chest tightens at the sight of the cars. This was the route through Fleurbaix. You recognize it. You scan both directions, spotting a white BMW in the distance—a flash of memory.

"I peed by that car. The chapel’s over there," you say, pointing to the stone roof barely visible ahead.

The sudden pierce of a scream confirms it.

B

Blue barely manages to get far before the sound of booted steps echoes behind her. She flits her head around in panic, ducking beneath the first car she sees and holding her breath. The distinct rustle of chains, accompanied by a snarl, unfurls her eyes. She glances up into the warped side mirror of another vehicle, catching sight of a cloaked figure. That man who'd helped Maman—Pierre—is looking around, one of the Greys in tow, its muzzle back on.

"Come out, petite fille. You cannot hide from a démon. Not when your smell is so strong."

Swallowing the lump in her throat, she uses the sleeve of her dress to soundlessly wipe her bloody cheek as if that might help but pitifully realizes her feet and arm are even worse. The movement causes her bare foot to dig into a sharp rock, and she bites her tongue hard to keep from crying out. The footsteps halt, then switch directions.

When the Grey lunges toward the car, Blue leaps out and runs blindly, adrenaline pushing past the dizziness. Pierre shouts and follows, the Grey leading him, its draw to flesh tracking her even as she tries to weave behind the rose bushes. Spotting a tree, she glances over her shoulder one last time before hugging the narrow trunk and using all her strength to climb. What’s usually easy becomes a struggle as pain shoots up her legs when her feet try to find purchase on the bark. Her grip slips, and she falls hard onto her back.

Before she can lift to her elbows, a frothy mouth leaps in front of her face. She screams, writhing beneath the muzzled Grey, as Pierre hovers over her. "You could have earned God's grace, but instead, you killed her." Bitterness laces his voice. "Maman would want you dead, no matter what form the offering takes."

Blue tries scrambling backward, but a boot steps on her freshly cut wrist, twisting around and effectively pinning her. She chokes on a sob, fingers trembling in the dirt below her. The man reaches down to unscrew the muzzle, and in this moment she prays to whatever stupid god there might be, that Ari was right, that being eaten fully is better than the infection from a mere bite. 

She screws her eyes shut, bracing for the pain, but instead, her ears ring from a sharp sound. A weight crashes down on top of her, and when she opens her eyes, she wonders if she’s been drugged again. There, in her vision, is her father—his bare torso covered in blood and grime, his face contorted with rage as he shoves Pierre into the tree.

"Blue!"

It’s Twix. She shoves the Grey’s corpse off of Blue and scoops her into her arms. Blue freezes, unable to return the hug, her gaze fixed on her father as he rips a knife from his belt and stabs it into Pierre's hands, pinning them above his head to the bark. 

When Pierre tries to kick him, Ghost shoots both his knees. 

"Seigneur, s'il vous plaît, épargne-moi dans l'au-delà!"

The plea is choked off as Ghost rips the lower mandible free, the jagged bone tearing through flesh, leaving the tongue to flop uselessly, twitching and gasping for air. Twix's arms tighten around her, urging her to hide her eyes within her neck, but Blue keeps watching as Ghost snarls rabidly, finishing the kill by slamming the butt of his rifle into Pierre's skull, caving it in with a loud crack.

Only when he turns around, shoulders heaving, does she realize it’s truly him—and not a dream. He kneels on the ground, and Twix releases her into his chest, the solid feel of it absorbing the tremors that wrack through her limbs as she cries. Ghost cups the back of her hair, and despite the pained breath in his chest, he lifts her up, clutching her close. Her nose presses into his neck, struggling to breathe as she inhales the scent of him. 

"D-daddy," she croaks.

"It's me, it's me."

"I-I'm alive."

Something raw pushes through his teeth. "Fuck—you're okay, baby girl. I'm here. I've got you. I've got you." His fingers tighten against her scalp. "Hold tight to me. I won't let you go this time."

"Sal... My child." "You're a pain in the ass—" "The turtle dove sings for you." "The turtle dove sings for you!" "Come feed on her pure flesh, and in return, bless us with more food for the winter and healthy babies for your new people." "A cut to make them feast!" "There's a fucking fire!" "Sinful woman, look what you've done!" "Come out, little girl. You cannot hide from a demon. Not when your smell is so strong." "Lord, please spare me in the afterlife!"