#tunnels traps and ambushes

[eretzyisrael]

"How Hamas Is Really Fighting in Gaza: Tunnels, Traps and Ambushes" writes the New York Times, in the first full article in any newspaper that reveals how Hamas is using schools, homes, hospitals and civilians, while its military fight in civilian garb, what is really happening in the Gaza War between Hamas and Israel....

They hide under residential neighborhoods, storing their weapons in miles of tunnels and in houses, mosques, sofas — even a child’s bedroom — blurring the boundary between civilians and combatants.

They emerge from hiding in plainclothes, sometimes wearing sandals or tracksuits before firing on Israeli troops, attaching mines to their vehicles, or firing rockets from launchers in civilian areas.

They rig abandoned homes with explosives and tripwires, sometimes luring Israeli soldiers to enter the booby-trapped buildings by scattering signs of a Hamas presence.

Through eight months of fighting in Gaza, Hamas’s military wing — the Qassam Brigades — has fought as a decentralized and largely hidden force, in contrast to its Oct. 7 attack on Israel, which began with a coordinated large-scale maneuver in which thousands of uniformed commandos surged through border towns and killed roughly 1,200 people.

Instead of confronting the Israeli invasion that followed in frontal battles, most Hamas fighters have retreated from their bases and outposts, seeking to blunt Israel’s technological and numerical advantage by launching surprise attacks on small groups of soldiers.

From below ground, Hamas’s ghost army has appeared only fleetingly, emerging suddenly from a warren of tunnels — often armed with rocket-propelled grenades — to pick off soldiers and then returning swiftly to their subterranean fortress. Sometimes, they have hid among the few civilians who decided to remain in their neighborhoods despite Israeli orders to evacuate, or accompanied civilians as they returned to areas that the Israelis had captured and then abandoned.

Hamas’s decision to keep fighting has proved disastrous for the Palestinians of Gaza. With Hamas refusing to surrender, Israel has forged ahead with a military campaign that has killed nearly 2 percent of Gaza’s prewar population, according to Gazan authorities; displaced roughly 80 percent of its residents, according to the United Nations; and damaged a majority of Gaza’s buildings, according to the U.N.

By contrast, fewer than 350 Israeli soldiers have died in Gaza since the start of the invasion, according to military statistics — far fewer than Israeli officials had predicted in October.

Yet despite the carnage in Gaza, Hamas’s strategy has helped the group fulfill some of its own goals.

The war has tarnished Israel’s reputation in much of the world, prompting charges of genocide at the International Court of Justice, in The Hague. It has exacerbated long-running rifts in Israeli society, prompting disagreements among Israelis about whether and how Israel should defeat Hamas. And it has restored the question of Palestinian statehood to global discourse, leading several countries to recognize Palestine as a state.

Just as important for Hamas, its war doctrine has allowed it to survive.

Hamas’s leader in the territory, Yahya Sinwar, and most of his top military commanders are still alive. Israel says it has killed more than 14,000 of Hamas’s 25,000 fighters — an unverifiable and disputed number that, if true, suggests thousands remain active.

An analysis of battlefield videos released by Hamas and interviews with three Hamas members and scores of Israeli soldiers, most of whom spoke on the condition of anonymity because they were not authorized to speak publicly, suggests that Hamas’s strategy relies on:

Using hundreds of miles of tunnels, the scale of which surprised Israeli commanders, to move around Gaza without being seen by Israeli soldiers;

Using civilian homes and infrastructure — including medical facilities, U.N. offices and mosques — to conceal fighters, tunnel entrances, booby-traps and ammunition stores;

Ambushing Israeli soldiers with small groups of fighters dressed as civilians, as well as using civilians, including children, to act as lookouts;

Leaving secret signs outside homes, like a red sheet hanging from a window or graffiti, to signal to fellow fighters the nearby presence of mines, tunnel entrances or weapons caches inside;

Dragging out the war for as long as possible, even at the expense of more civilian death and destruction, in order to bog Israel down in an attritional battle that has amplified international criticism of Israel.

“The aim is to vanish, avoid direct confrontation, while launching tactical attacks against the occupation army. The emphasis is on patience,” said Salah al-Din al-Awawdeh, a Hamas member and former fighter in its military wing who is now an analyst based in Istanbul. Before Oct. 7, the Qassam Brigades operated as “an army with training bases and stockpiles,” Mr. al-Awawdeh said. “But during this war, they are behaving as guerrillas.”

At the start of the war, Hamas and its allies fired a barrage of rockets toward civilian areas of Israel, including roughly 3,000 on Oct. 7 itself, often using launchers hidden in densely populated civilian neighborhoods in Gaza. The Israeli Army captured and destroyed scores of launchers, including some it said it found near a mosque and a kindergarten, bringing the rocket fire to a near halt.

After Israeli ground troops invaded in late October, Hamas went further in transforming civilian areas of Gaza into military zones, setting traps in scores of neighborhoods and creating confusion about what a combatant looks like by dressing its fighters as civilians.

Israeli officials say that Hamas’s tactics explain why Israel has been forced to strike so much civilian infrastructure, kill so many Palestinians and detain so many civilians.

Mousa Abu Marzouk, a senior Hamas official based in Qatar, dismissed criticism of Hamas’s use of civilian attire and storage of weapons inside civilian homes, saying that it deflected attention away from Israeli wrongdoing.

“If there’s someone who takes a weapon from under a bed, is that a justification for killing 100,000 people?” Mr. Abu Marzouk said. “If someone takes a weapon from under a bed, is that a justification to kill an entire school and destroy a hospital?”

Other Hamas members acknowledge and defend the movement’s use of civilian clothes and civilian homes, saying the group had no alternative.

“Every insurgency in every war, from Vietnam to Afghanistan, saw people fighting from their homes,” said Mr. al-Awawdeh. “If I live in Zeitoun, for example, and the army comes — I will fight them there, from my home, or my neighbor’s, or from the mosque. I will fight them anywhere I am.”

Hamas militants wear civilian clothes in a legitimate attempt to avoid detection, Mr. al-Awawdeh said. “That’s natural for a resistance movement,” he added, “and there’s nothing unusual about it.”

How Hamas Reacted to the Invasion

Hamas’s response to Israel’s ground invasion on Oct. 27 became a model for its strategy since.

When Israeli tanks and infantry battalions surged into Gaza that Friday, they were met with little to no resistance for the first couple of miles, according to four soldiers who were among the first to cross the border.

Lior Soharin, an Israeli reserve sergeant major, helped overrun a Hamas outpost a few dozen yards from the border. There was no one inside, he recalled.

“We learned in retrospect that they were there — just underneath the ground,” Mr. Soharin said.

Having retreated into their labyrinth of tunnels, Hamas fighters had ceded thousands of acres of farmland to Israeli forces.

That was partly because the Israeli forces advanced along routes that Hamas had not lined with explosives and traps, according to a Hamas junior officer from northern Gaza who left the territory before Oct. 7 and remains in close touch with his subordinates. But it was also because the Qassam Brigades’ strategy was to ambush Israeli soldiers once they had advanced deep into the territory, instead of counterattacking immediately, according to the fighter.

Dozens of Hamas propaganda videos, posted by the group on its social media channels, show small groups of Gazan fighters — often clad in jeans, sweatpants, sandals and sneakers — emerging from tunnels to take potshots at nearby Israeli tanks and personnel carriers; rushing on foot toward tanks and attaching mines near the turrets; firing rocket-propelled grenades from residential buildings; and shooting at soldiers with sniper rifles.

Hamas had been preparing for this moment since at least 2021, when the group began scaling up production of explosives and anti-tank missiles, in preparation for a ground war, and stopped making so many long-range rockets, the Hamas officer said.

It also expanded a vast network of tunnels, creating entry points in houses across Gaza that would allow fighters to enter and exit without being seen from the air but made targets of civilian neighborhoods. The network was fitted with a landline telephone network that is difficult for Israel to monitor and that allows fighters to communicate even during outages to Gaza’s mobile phone networks, which are controlled by Israel, according to the Hamas officer, Mr. al-Awawdeh and Israeli officials.

By the start of the war, Hamas had enough explosives in its underground arsenals for an extended campaign — as well as enough canned vegetables, dates and drinking water to last for at least 10 months, the officer said.

The tunnel network grew so extensive that it ran underneath a major U.N. compound and the largest hospital in Gaza, as well as major roads, countless homes and government buildings. Nine months later, senior Israeli officials say that they have destroyed only a small fraction of the network, and that its existence has stymied Israel’s ability to destroy Hamas.

Hamas’s commandos had also been trained to remain alert and focused during shortages of food and water, the officer said. Before the war, fighters were sometimes ordered to spend days eating only a handful of dates and to sit for several hours without moving, even as instructors splashed water on their faces to distract them, the officer said.

As vast swaths of Gaza began to empty out in October, Hamas fighters began booby-trapping hundreds of houses that they expected the Israeli troops would seek to enter, the officer said. The mines were linked to tripwires, movement sensors and sound detectors that detonate the explosives once triggered, the officer said.

The terrain prepared, the fighters then descended into the tunnels — and waited for the Israelis to arrive.

How Hamas Sets a Trap

In the best-planned ambushes, Hamas squads have lulled Israeli forces into a false sense of security by allowing them to move freely for hours or even days in areas marked for attack.

Hamas fighters and Israeli soldiers say that Hamas tracks the Israelis’ locations using hidden cameras, drones and intelligence provided by civilian lookouts. Five Israeli soldiers said those lookouts include children, who stand on roofs and relay information to commanders below.

Hamas’s ambush squads typically stay hidden until an Israeli convoy has moved through an area for several minutes, or Israeli forces have grouped in a particular place for hours, creating the impression that Hamas has left the area, six Israeli soldiers and the Hamas officer said. After a period of calm, a squad emerges from a tunnel, often as a group of four.

Two fighters are tasked with fixing explosives to the sides of a vehicle or firing anti-tank missiles at it, according to the Hamas officer. A third carries a camera to film propaganda footage. A fourth typically stays at the tunnel entrance, preparing a booby-trap that can be activated as soon as the others return, to kill any Israelis who try to follow them underground.

A well-planned ambush aims to take out not only the initial Israeli force, but also the backup fighters and medics who come to rescue the injured, according to soldiers who experienced such ambushes and the Hamas officer.

One Israeli special forces member recalled how a group of Hamas fighters appeared to have positioned itself specifically so that Israeli backup forces would have to fire across stricken comrades in order to hit the ambushers.

Another described Hamas fighters waiting after members of an Israeli unit had been wounded by an exploding mine and then emerging to fire on the rescuing force. In a June 11 attack in Rafah, both Hamas and the Israeli military said that Qassam fighters fired mortars at an Israeli relief force that came to rescue soldiers who had been attacked earlier in the day.

Hamas showed off most of these approaches in an extensive eight-minute video released on its social media channels in early April.

The video appears to show fighters carrying out a multistage ambush that is said to take place in Khan Younis, in southern Gaza.

The video seems to show Hamas fighters, their faces blurred, sitting on patterned mats as they plan the attack. They use pen, paper and a digital tablet to draw simplistic maps detailing where they want to plant a set of roadside mines.

“We ask, O Lord, for the ambush to achieve its goals — let us kill your enemies, the Jews,” the narrator says.

Next, Hamas men — wearing civilian clothes — are seen laying those explosives in the rubble of a ruined neighborhood. Then, the video cuts to what appears to be the planned ambush: Filmed by hidden cameras, a group of Israeli soldiers pick their way through the rubble before being hit by gunfire. That attack seems to lure an Israeli relief squad to the scene, and the arrival of those rescuers appears to trigger the mines.

“This is a miniature sample of what their defeated army is suffering in the mire of Gaza,” the narrator concludes.

How Hamas Uses Homes

In addition to setting traps in houses, Hamas has also used residential buildings to conceal scores of small arms caches across the territory, according to more than a dozen Israeli soldiers who have found such stockpiles.

The soldiers said it became normal to find munitions hidden inside civilian homes and mosques, which is one of the reasons, they said, the army had destroyed so many such buildings.

Some soldiers said their units needlessly destroyed civilian property, or filmed themselves vandalizing it, creating the impression that the Israeli military often had little reason to be searching civilian homes. But others said there was usually a clear military purpose to picking through civilian belongings: One recalled finding guns behind a false wall in a child’s bedroom, while another said his unit found grenades in a woman’s clothes closet. International law requires combatants to avoid using “civilian objects,” which include homes, schools, hospitals and mosques, for military objectives.

Sometimes, Hamas fighters emerged from tunnels without weapons, passing as civilians until they reached a house where other fighters had hidden weapons and ammunition inside the lining of furniture, Israeli soldiers said.

To help its gunmen find these weapons caches, several Israeli soldiers said, Hamas has developed an elaborate system for marking houses that double as military storerooms, or contain tunnels or booby traps. Some buildings were marked with a particular symbol, some had red fabric hanging from windows, and others had plastic barrels or plastic bags outside — all of which told Hamas fighters something about what was concealed inside.

Some Israeli units were eventually supplied with printed guides to help them identify the meaning of each symbol or object, one soldier said.

When in doubt, soldiers entered houses by blowing a hole in their walls, in case the front doors were rigged with mines, according to a senior military officer, Maj. Gen. Itai Veruv, who escorted a reporter from The New York Times in central Gaza in January.

To draw Israelis toward a trap, Hamas gunmen sometimes scattered a building with visible signs of their presence, such as a Hamas flag. At other times, two Israeli soldiers said, Israeli troops were lured inside by a piece of Israeli clothing or identification card, which hinted that hostages might be held within.

One soldier said Hamas used chained dogs to entice soldiers toward a booby-trapped building, hoping that the soldiers would try to free the dogs.

Another soldier recalled spotting a dead Hamas fighter inside an apartment block and making his way toward the body. As he drew closer, he realized the corpse had been rigged with an explosive, he said. When his squad fired at the body, it blew up and set the building ablaze, he said.

Some soldiers said they found weapons in houses that they had searched earlier in the war. It suggested that at least some of the arms had been placed in houses after the start of Israel’s invasion.

Even in areas where Israel claims to have defeated Hamas, Israeli forces have often had to return, weeks or even months later, to continue the battle against fighters who had survived earlier phases of the war.

For Hamas, “it was always about avoiding losses for as long as possible so they can fight another day,” said Andreas Krieg, an expert on military strategy at King’s College London. “They’re nowhere near being defeated.”

[iron-sides]

why is no one on the realm deliberately sabotaging other factions weekly tasks in order to weaken them??? badboyhalo get on this

[notyourtoday]

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[ur-mag]

Gaza invasion plans REVEALED as Israeli shoot-to-kill ‘tunnel rats’ face booby-trap hellhole with ambushes at every turn | In Trend Today

Gaza invasion plans REVEALED as Israeli shoot-to-kill ‘tunnel rats’ face booby-trap hellhole with ambushes at every turn Read Full Text or Full Article on MAG NEWS

[sceletaflores]

it’s the easiest thing (just love me and eat me)

pair: logan howlett x mutant!fem!reader

wc: 6.1k

anon says: nat pls speak on sub!logan...people are hating on the sub!logan agenda and someone needs to show them that they're wrong and it can be done cuz if anyone can convince them it's you mommy!

contains: 18+ SMUT MDNI, crimson! again! she's back!, slight angst, swearing, violence, light gore, somewhat dark content, religious symbolism? (idk this one got weird babes), established relationship, lowkey a toxic relationship but you didn't hear that from me, sub!logan-ish, handjob, p in v, slow sex turned rough, unprotected sex, riding, creampie, pain kink, scent kink, blood play, blood...eating (drinking? idk), porn with a tiny bit of plot, no use of y/n.

author’s note: anon i'm so sorry this took me so long...i hope it was worth the wait! it started as a short smutty drabble that somehow turned into…this? idk it got out of hand so fast. i am a proud member of the sub!logan nation but that's mostly because i think that ALL men have the potential for sub vibes like doesn't matter who he is if i want to fuck him he's probably a little subby. special shout out to my baby boo and fellow sub!logan truther @avocado-writing <3 tysm for sharing anon! xoxo mwah.

dividers by icon @saradika-graphics!

psst! want more logan and crimson? here's the to the bone au masterlist!

it’s not often that logan needs this, but you’re always more than happy to give it to him when he does…

The team had a big scare earlier in the day.

It was supposed to be an easy mission, bust a mutant trafficking ring in Albany. You do assignments like these every week, and as sick as it sounds, it’s almost routine.

But this one was different. It was an ambush, and you were compromised.

Only humans, but they were smart. Waited until the team split up to attack. They had tech, things you'd never seen before.

Big guns loaded with tiny darts full of an ominous red liquid.

It was your fault really. You didn't clear your surroundings, so focused on getting to the kids that you let yourself get sloppy.

The tiny sting in your back barely registered, you don't think you would have even noticed if it didn't kick in so fast.

You'd never felt anything like it before in your life.

It didn't hurt. The rush of pain you braced yourself for never coming.

The sensation was strange—like your body was shutting down, piece by piece. You fell to your knees, shaky legs folding under you in less than a second.

You felt empty, wrong. An eerie silence trickling in to fill your insides.

Panic bubbled beneath your skin, but you were too numb to feel it. Trapped in the mounting weight of your limbs, the slow blink of your eyes, the shortness of breath despite hardly moving.

Your hand slipped across the gritty cement, reaching for support that wasn't there.

That was when you saw it, the shock of it was enough for your heart to drop. Your skin, blanched and sallow, the veins in your arms black and spreading like spilled ink.

You tried to fight it, tried to will your body to move, to react, to do something. You had to get up. You had to. The kids.

As hard as you willed yourself, there was nothing. It was like your body wasn't your own, like it had become something completely foreign.

You could barely make out the tiny voices calling for you. Pleading, frantic yelps of your name fading into a dull hum as everything went hazy. The edges of your vision blurring into a narrow tunnel.

He stepped in front of you, the same one who shot you. A cynical grin on his face and collar in his hand. You'd seen collars like it before, used on mutants to muzzle their abilities, to weaken them.

You tried, fingers barely twitching by your. Nothing. Just another shock of that cold, unfamiliar feeling shooting through your body.

“Got a big one, boss.” The man boasted into a comm strapped to his wrist, his voice sharp and grating. He took a single step towards you, smug grin still stretched across his face. “Yeah, real nice lookin' one too. She'll sell for—“

A muddy roar pulsed through the molasses filled haze of your ears, six claws flying through the air to embed themselves on either side of the man's skull with a wet, stomach-churning sound.

The collar dropped from his slackened grip with a dull bang, shattering into different pieces that slid across the floor haphazardly. A mess of wires and metal.

There were rushed footsteps before he dropped to his knees in front of you, his torso bathed in a dull glow from the overhead lights yellow shine.

There was blood splattered across the side of his face, slicking the front of his suit enough to reflect light off the leather.

Logan, perched in front of you like an angel.

Not one with a golden halo and a harp, but a indescribable mess of eyes and wings looming over you calling 'be not afraid'.

You'd never seen him so shaken before. All wide-eyed and pale as he checked you over for any major injuries. His breath coming in short bursts, hands frantic and shaky as they skated along your body for the viscosity of blood or uneven shift of a break.

He refused to let you even try and walk on your own, swept you off the floor and cradled your trembling body to his chest as he called for help. The beat of his heart was fast beneath your cheek, strong enough that you could feel it even through the thick leather of his suit.

You buried your face deeper in the crook of his neck, the pit in your stomach barely warmed by the feel of him. His scent is strongest there, so much so that in a room full of spilled blood, you could only smell him.

He was careless stepping over clawed up bodies littering the floor like a messy maze of twitching limbs and entrails. You didn't even know there was more than one guard in the room.

The evidence of his love for you, of his devotion, oozing red on the concrete.

Logan didn't even give the carnage a sideways glance as he raced you outside, back to the jet.

Trusting Scott and Jean to take over getting the kids out. The unsteady murmurs he pressed to the top of your head the last thing you heard before there was nothing.

You woke up six hours later.

The sterile hum of medical equipment was the first thing you heard. The sharp scent of antiseptic filled your nostrils, and the faint pressure of a needle in your arm confirmed that you were hooked up to an IV. 

Your muscles felt heavy, like someone had filled them with lead. But you were alive.

You could feel your body working overtime, fixing itself. The sickening shift of your insides falling back into place. 

It took a few more moments for you to realize you weren’t alone.

A low, familiar rumble caught your attention. You turned your head to see Logan slumped in a chair by the bedside, his face buried in his hands, elbows resting on his knees. His hair was mussed, his usually sharp features softened by exhaustion. 

He looked different, smaller, as though the weight of what happened was pressing down on him, making him fold in on himself.

You’d seen him bloody, beaten, on the verge of death, but you’d never seen him like this–completely and utterly human.

Your throat was too dry to speak, but a small sound escaped you, and Logan's head snapped up. His eyes met yours, and in a heartbeat, he was at your side, his large hands hovering over you, unsure where to touch, like he was afraid you’d shatter under his fingers.

“You’re okay,” he whispered, more to himself than to you. His voice was hoarse, cracked with a mixture of relief and something else, something deeper. His eyes darted over your face, your arms, as if memorizing every detail just to make sure you were real.

“I'm sorry,” you managed, your voice barely more than a rasp.

Logan's eyebrows furrowed, the lines in his forehead deepening. "What the hell are you apologizing for?" His voice was gruff, but there was a tenderness beneath it. A gentleness he only reserved for you.

Your lips cracked into a weak smile. "It was my fault. I messed up."

A growl rumbled low in his chest, and you could feel the anger simmering just beneath his skin, not at you but at the situation, at whoever had dared to hurt you.

“Don’t,” he said, voice like gravel. “Don't start, none of this is on you.” His voice softened slightly as he leaned closer, the warmth of his presence enveloping you. “What matters is you’re here.”

The reassurance wrapped around you like a warm blanket, grounding you.

Logan’s thumb traced the line of your jaw, his touch sending a spark of warmth through your veins. “When I saw you on the floor like that…I thought—” He shook his head, jaw clenched as he forced himself to meet your gaze again. “I thought I lost you.”

Your fingers twitched slightly, managing to catch his wrist, squeezing it with what little strength you had. “I’m right here,” you said softly, voice clearer than before. “I’m okay.”

Logan’s gaze softened again as he looked down at your hand, his rough exterior cracking just a little more. He gently pried your fingers from his wrist and pressed your hand to his chest, right over his heart. “You scared the hell outta me, you know that?”

You tried to laugh, but it came out as more of a breathless huff. “Didn’t mean to.”

He shook his head, but there was a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You never do.”

You were fine an hour later. 

The color of your skin had returned, glossy and like new. The hollow emptiness inside of you long gone. Your abilities passed every test Charles threw your way with flying colors.

Fully recovered and finally excused from the med-bay after Hank and Jean checked you over one last time, you were given your strict marching orders in the form of extra fluids and bed rest, no matter how much you argued that you were fine.

Your health was the last thing on your mind, just a distant phantom ache each time your eyes would find Logan.

He was still shaken up, even after all the reassurance from Charles and Hank. He kept close the rest of the day, hovering, his presence more protective than usual, but he didn’t talk much.

You could see it in the way he moved, slower, less sure, like he was carrying around something too heavy to shake off. It lingered in the tight set of his jaw, the way his hands flexed as though still looking for something to fight, to protect you from.

It wasn’t hard to guess what it was. 

You hated seeing him like this, burdened by a guilt he didn’t deserve. 

It gnawed at you, that heaviness. The way he started to shut down, to close himself off in the face of fear. It was the only way he knew how to cope.

After seeing him like that, bed rest was the last thing on your mind.

You knew Logan. Knew what he needed when his thoughts got tangled up like this, dragging him under. He wasn't the type to sit and talk through it, not easily anyway. 

And even though you know he’d never ask for it himself, you knew what he needed—to be reminded, physically, that you were still here, still his.

Later that night, when the mansion had quieted and the others were tucked away in their rooms, you found him exactly where you thought you’d find him—in the room you shared, sitting on the edge of the bed. The yellow light from the bedside lamp cast soft shadows across his face, the tension in his jaw still there.

A frown tugged the corners of your mouth as you moved towards him, catching his attention with the rustle of the sheets as you sat next to him.

“Logan,” you say softly, breaking the stillness. He doesn't respond, only the slightest twitch in his shoulders indicating he even heard you. “Hey,” you try again, your voice a little firmer this time.

He turns his head just enough for you to catch the edge of his profile, the crease between his brows, weariness etched into his features.

But he still doesn't speak.

You shift, moving closer until your fingers brush his arm, the heat of his skin radiating through the fabric of his shirt. “Look at me,” you whisper, and finally, his gaze lifts to meet yours, guarded and pained. “I’m fine. I’m right here.”

Logan shakes his head, bringing a hand up to run it through his already messy hair. “You could’ve died,” he bites out, tone rough and low. “We should've never fuckin' split up. I should’ve been there faster, sooner. I should’ve–”

“Logan.” Your voice cut through his, sharper than you meant it to. You catch his hand in yours, thumb brushing against the pulse point of his wrist. “You saved me, I’m not going anywhere. I need you to hear that.”

He meets your gaze then, eyes dark with something vulnerable, something raw. He nods weakly, like he only half-believes it. You can still see the hesitation swirling through his eyes, the reluctance in the stiffness of his muscles against yours.

He needs something more than words, something to bring him back to you.

With that, you move to straddle his lap, your knees pressing into the mattress on either side of his thighs. His body stiffens under yours, his breath hitching slightly as his hands fall to your waist almost instinctively.

“Hold on,” Logan starts, tone hesitant and hands light as they hover over your hips like he’s still scared to touch you. “You heard what Hank said–”

“I’m fine,” you repeat, finality lacing your tone and leaving no room for argument. You reach down, taking his hand in yours and bringing it up to press flat directly over your heart. The very same way he did your first night together. "Can you feel me?”

The question hangs between you, soft but weighted with purpose.

Logan’s breath catches in his throat, fingers splaying wider across your chest. The heat of his palm sinks through to your skin, lighting a fire in you. 

The steady beat of your heart under his touch is an undeniable reminder–alive, strong, with him. You can feel him relax, just a touch.

The tension in his muscles breaking down beneath you piece by piece as the rhythm grounds him, helps to pull him out of his spiral.

“Yeah,” he mumbles, barely audible. His eyes drop to where his hand rests, his thumb absently grazing the space just above your sternum. “I feel you.”

“Then trust it,” you murmur. “Trust me.”

A deep, slow breath escapes him, and something in his eyes softens just enough. You lean closer, your fingers trailing up his arms, over his shoulders, until they thread into the hair at the nape of his neck. 

You smile softly, pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead. He sighs deeply, leaning into your touch like a dog starved of attention from its master. His grip on your waist finally tightens, fingers pressing into your skin just enough to feel that edge of need—the need to let go.

“You’ve been taking care of me all day,” you murmur, scratching your nails along his scalp softly. “Now let me take care of you.”

You feel him shudder, a weak groan escaping from his slack lips. His hazy eyes search your face, pupils blown out and seeping into the warm hazel color like an oil spill over a lake.

You tilt your head, lips grazing the stubble on his jawline, moving slowly, deliberately, until you can capture his mouth in a kiss.

It’s soft at first, gentle, but you feel him melt into it, the sharp edge of his restraint crumbling as he kisses you back with a kind of hunger that fuels you.

Logan’s hands slide up your back, fingers curling into the fabric of your shirt as you take control, deepening the kiss, coaxing him further into the moment.

His mouth is warm and wet and urgent against yours, the scrape of his teeth along your bottom lip sends a thrill down your spine. 

His lips move over yours with a reverence that makes your chest tighten, as if each slick glide of your lips together is an apology, a promise, and a plea all rolled into one.

But you don’t want his apologies. You want his surrender.

His breath stutters in his chest when your fingers twist in his hair, tugging just enough to remind him who’s in charge tonight.

When your hand finds his chest, pushing him down gently, he goes without protest. His eyes never leave yours as he settles against the pillows, following your every movement as you crawl closer.

Climbing over him to perch on top of his thighs, you waste no time in reaching for the hem of his shirt, gently tugging on it in a silent question. Logan’s breath comes in shallow puffs as he nods, fingers twitching on your hips. 

You can feel the way his chest rises and falls under the tips of your fingers, the sharp intake of air when your hands ghost across the skin of his lower stomach as you lift his shirt up and over his head.

You toss it over your shoulder carelessly, it lands with a muted thump somewhere behind you, leaving his chest bare. His muscles taut and rippling as he forces himself to stay still, the dim light plays across his skin, highlighting the contours along his torso.

You take a moment to just admire him, trailing your fingers along the familiar planes of his skin. Your touch is feather light, tracing over the spots that should be littered in scars. 

The place in his shoulder where he got shot two weeks back, or where the loose shrapnel that embedded itself in his side on the last mission should be, or the skin where his shoulder meets his neck after you dug your teeth into it hard enough to bleed a few nights ago.

The way his body responds to you makes your pulse quicken—the way he finally relaxes completely under your touch, melting into the mattress. 

You continue your path down, fingers slipping through the ridges of his abs, scratching your nails through the dark hair that disappears into the waistband of his bottoms teasingly. The muscles of his stomach jump under your touch, the power of his need thrumming beneath your touch.

You drag your hand over the hard length of him, his cock thick and hot as it twitches beneath your fingers. There’s a sharp hiss bleeding through grit teeth as his hips twitch up off the mattress ever so slightly.

You lean forward, hiding a small smirk in the crook of his neck. “Logan,” you whisper, voice dripping with intent, “I want you to beg for it.”

A deep, guttural growl rumbles through his chest. It shakes your body like thunder, finding a home between your thighs. Logan’s head falls back against the pillows, exposing the tan column of his throat to your hungry gaze.

It’s almost immediate, your reaction, your bodies reaction. The pulse of your blood starts to simmer with that telltale heat, slowly bubbling beneath your skin in anticipation.

Your gaze traces along where the vein of his jugular presses against his skin enticingly, barely suppressing a full body shiver at the sight.

You slip your index and middle finger beneath his waistband, brushing against his hard cock with barely any pressure. His hips buck up again, seeking more friction, but you pull back slightly, making him chase it.

“I said beg, Logan,” you murmur, your voice low, teasing, a sharp edge to it now. Your free hand comes up, gripping his jaw tightly, forcing him to look at you.

His eyes, dark and blown wide with lust, meet yours, and you can see the war raging inside him—the urge to dominate, to take control—but then he’s giving in to you, surrendering so beautifully.

“Goddamn,” he rasps quietly, his voice rough, broken. It’s barely a word, more of a growl torn from his throat. He bites it out, quiet and foreign sounding coming from his tongue. “Please, I need—”

“Good boy,” you purr, and finally, drag the soaked fabric of his bottoms down. His cock springs free, slapping against his stomach lewdly.

You moan softly, deftly wrapping your fist around him loosely. Logan groans, you swear you can hear his teeth grind together at the first feeling of your touch where he wants it most.

He’s scalding to the touch, velvety skin throbbing in time with his heartbeat. Rock-hard and flushed an angry red, darkening even more the closer you get to the tip.

You keep the pace of your strokes tortuously slow, letting him feel every movement, teasing him. It’s addictive, watching the way he starts to unravel beneath you at the slightest touch.

His legs kick out against the mattress minutely, hands falling from your hips to grip the sheets as hard as he can in a failing attempt to calm himself.

You lean down, slick lips brushing against his as you speak, your voice soft but commanding. “You’re going to let me do whatever I want to you tonight, aren't you?”

Logan nods, his breath coming in quick pants, his sweaty chest rising and falling rapidly. “Yes,” he chokes out, eyes brimming with need. “Fuck, do whatever you want, baby. I’m yours.”

The usual dominance he carries like a second skin has been peeled away, leaving him vulnerable, laid out beneath you, at your mercy.

Your hand speeds up, grip tightening as you twist your wrist over his leaking tip. Your knuckles shine with pre-come, slick from the gratuitous amount of wetness steadily drooling out.

“You’re being so good for me, Logan,” you whisper, your voice soft and laced with praise. “So good, letting me take care of you like this.”

His response is a loud moan, his hips arching up off the bed, but you’re quick to press them down with your free arm, your thighs tightening around him.

“Not yet,” you warn, strength on display as you stop his movements. “You’ll come when I say.”

A strangled sound escapes him, somewhere between a growl and a whimper, and it sends a thrill through you. He’s right there, teetering on the edge, but he’s holding on—for you.

“Poor thing,” you mumble, idly pressing your thumb into his slit, gathering the precome there to spread it along the flushed crown. “So hard, so needy for me.”

“Jesus, fuck,” Logan whines, his head tipping back against the pillows a second times, eyes squeezing shut tighten enough to wrinkle the skin around them.

You smile, your nails digging into his chest as you shift, positioning yourself above him. The heat between your legs is unbearable now, slick all along your inner thighs as it pools from your aching cunt, drenching the soft cotton of your panties.

So desperate to be stretched around Logan’s cock, to be filled the only way he can. You roll your hips forward, the hard jut of his cock sliding through the sticky mess of your panties.

“Shit, baby,” he groans, loud and hoarse. “Fuck, give it to me, I’m ready–”

You press your finger to his lips, silencing him as you hover over him. “Not yet,” you whisper, a wicked grin on your face as you slide your panties to the side and take him in your hand, letting the tip brush against your soaked entrance, still not giving him what he craves.

Your own patience is starting to run thin, but the sound of his begging is too good.

“Tell me how bad you want it,” you say, your voice sharp and commanding as you rub the tip of him along your cunt, teasing. “Tell me what you need.”

He’s trembling beneath you, a soft whimper leaving his lips as you sink down slightly, barely letting him inside. "Please, darlin'," he groans, voice rough with need. "I need to feel you—need you so fuckin’ bad."

You finally give in, sinking down onto him in one slow, deliberate motion.

His body jerks beneath you, a choked growl spilling from his lips as you take him in, inch by inch. You don’t stop until he’s buried deep inside you, your walls clenching around him as you settle into his lap.

The feeling is overwhelming, the stretch, the heat, the way he fills you completely.

You both groan at the same time, your fingers digging into his shoulders as you roll your hips, savoring the way he pulses inside you, how his entire body reacts to every little movement.

“God, you’re so big,” you whisper, your voice heavy with lust as you look down at where your bodies meet. “You gonna be a good boy and let me ride you?”

“Fuck,” he grits, voice like gravel crunching underfoot.

His hands slide up your back, desperate and needy as they cradle the back of your head softly. “I’d kill them all,” he pants, lips messily searching for your own, desperate for more frantic kisses. “Fuckin’ all of them, all for you.”

You moan loud and unabashed, eyes screwing shut as your nails rake down his chest hard enough to break the skin. The smell of his blood breaks through the air, heady and sharp. He throws his head back, a broken gasp dragged out of him as his hips speed up.

You think back to the room in the warehouse, the floor slick with stray remains and viscera. Think back to him lifting you to his chest, of the blood spattered across his suit and face slipping against your own clammy skin.

Flashes of Logan running to you like a loyal livestock dog, covered in the blood of any wolf that dares attack his precious sheep. Staining the white of your wool red with the righteous wrath of his sacrifice. 

You roll your hips faster, bouncing with enough force to have you crying out. The tight suction of your walls pulling him as deep as he can get at this angle.

The coarse hair along his stomach drags against your throbbing clit, making white hot sparks of pleasure zing up your spine to light up each vertebrae. 

Logan presses his forehead to your chest, hot breath puffing out over your sweaty neck. You tilt your head to the side almost subconsciously, bearing more of yourself to him.

“Can’t hold back much longer,” he admits weakly, blunt nails digging into your skin sharp enough to sting. “Feels so good, so fuckin' good."

He trails off, face pinched with ecstasy as he gazes up at you. You smile, rolling your hips slowly, tiny figure eights that let you feel every inch of him pressing against your walls.

“You're not supposed to hold back," you whisper, your voice thick with need as you lean down, kissing along his jawline. "I want you to let go, Logan."

His eyes snap open, the hazel gone wild and desperate, and it’s like you can see the exact moment he breaks. The tiniest shred of self control finally crumbling under the weight of his instincts. With a low, feral growl, he surges up.

You’re on your back quicker than you can blink, stomach surging with it. You hardly have any time to react, Logan punching all the air out of your lungs as he sets a brutal pace.

The sudden intensity has you gasping, your body jolting as he takes over, fucking you like his life depends on it. 

Each thrust is hard and deep, hitting the spot inside of you, over and over again until you’re a trembling mess above him, moaning his name, your nails digging into his chest.

Logan’s grip on you is ironclad, pulling you back onto him harder, faster, his breaths coming out in ragged pants as he loses himself completely in the heat of your body.

"That's it," you pant, feeling the way your body tightens around him, the tension building deep inside you. "Fuck, Logan, just like that—"

He growls again, the sound vibrating through his chest as he slams into you harder, his pace relentless. You can feel the sweat slick between your bodies, hear the wet, filthy sounds of your bodies coming together as his control snaps completely.

“Mine,” he growls between thrusts, voice low and rough as he pounds into you, his eyes locked on yours, full of possessive need. "All fuckin’ mine."

Your body responds to his words, tightening around him as your orgasm builds, every nerve in your body on fire. "Yes," you gasp, your voice barely more than a broken moan as he hits that perfect spot again and again. "Yours—only yours."

Slowly, deliberately, you bring your hand to your mouth, biting down on the pad of your thumb hard enough to draw a thin line of blood.

The scent of iron fills the space between you, mixing with the musk of sex and sweat. Logan’s nostrils flare as he takes in the scent, his pupils dilating further, and you feel his cock twitch inside of you.

You raise your thumb to his mouth, sliding it along his bottom lip to leave behind a thin trail of red. “Suck,” you whisper softly, pressing your thumb into his mouth ever so slightly. 

And he does, without hesitation. 

Logan’s lips part, and he pulls your thumb into his mouth, his tongue swirling around the taste of your blood. The look in his eyes as he does sends a wave of heat crashing through you.

The pure devotion of the act thickening the air around you to coil the spring of pleasure winding in your lower stomach tighter.

You groan, your own restraint folding like a house of cards as you drag your nose down the column of his throat, stopping right at the base. You press a quick kiss over the rapid fluttering of his pulse before you bite down, hard.

Logan keens around your thumb, teeth digging into your skin roughly as his blood floods your mouth. 

You get lost in it, the familiar taste of him seeping onto your tongue as his cock jerks and pulses in your clenching cunt. Getting lost in the way you can feel the rhythm of his heart against your lips, each strong beat sending more blood pumping out to leak along your taste buds.

You press your chest to his, not leaving an inch of space between you. It’s still not enough, it will never be enough.

You need more, so much more.

You want to encompass him completely, to be encompassed by him.

You want to dig your hands into his skin–to peel back each layer of flesh and fat and muscle, snap each of his ribs back so you can bury yourself in the cavity of his chest before you bend them back into place. Burrowing yourself deep enough inside him to watch him heal all around you, to watch his skin stitch itself back together.

It’s a sick feeling, the need to take and take until he has no more left to give. Sick and all consuming, lighting you up like the raging flames of a forest fire that destroys everything in its path. 

When you finally pull your hand away from his mouth, he lets out a breathless moan, and you lean down to press your lips against his in a bruising kiss.

The coppery tang of your blood lingers between you, mixing with Logan’s as your teeth clash together violently, as you devour him, pouring every ounce of your control into the kiss.

You press your palm to his chest, powers surging to life over his heart. You don't need to open your eyes to see what you leave behind, the red and blue pulse of his blood lighting up beneath his skin like the neon sign hanging outside his favorite bar.

Logan moans into your mouth, tongue dragging along the point of your canines. "Don't stop," he pleads, “Please, baby, don’t fuckin’ stop.”

You can feel the energy coursing between you, a tangible thing that's threading itself between your fingers. It’s intoxicating, a connection deeper than flesh, a binding of souls fueled by blood and lust. You lean into the heat radiating from him, urging your energy to flow freely, wrapping it around his heart like a warm embrace.

“Logan,” you whisper breathily, breaking the kiss just enough to look into his wild, pleading eyes. “You feel that? You and me, we’re connected.”

“I feel it, honey,” he groans, bucking his hips, forcing you to take him deeper. “You’re everywhere. It’s all I can think about all the goddamn time, drives me fuckin’ crazy.” His words tumble from his lips, raw and unfiltered, sending another thrill of desire through you.

You whine, head tipping back to the ceiling. Drunk of the feeling of him, of his cock, of his blood on your teeth.

You've come to think that being in bed with Logan is like being in church.

There's a holiness to the way he holds you—like you’re the only thing worth believing in.

The familiar weight of his body pressing you into the mattress is the alter. The heat of him like laying in the burning flame of a candle. The strong planes of his muscles each a different scripture that you take in by touch alone, skating your hands over his skin with something close to worship.

Each bead of sweat on his skin feels sacred, a testament to the intensity between you, as though every part of him has been crafted for this moment of devotion.

The hard length of his cock carves a place for itself inside you, each heavy smack of his hips punching another desperate sound out of your slack lips. 

His breath, deep and ragged, is a chant that pulls you into reverence. It puffs against the wild beat of your pulse, his lips brushing over the fever hot plane of your skin. 

The sound of your name falling from his mouth sounds like a prayer answered.

You can’t help but close your eyes, not in exhaustion, but in a kind of spiritual surrender, like by shutting out the world, you can truly grasp the divinity of it. His blood, mixing with yours on your tongue feels like a sacrament—an unholy communion.

The air between you crackles with heat, your bodies moving together in perfect sync, each thrust driving you closer to the edge. Logan’s head tilts back, his mouth open in a silent scream as he claws at your hips, pulling you down harder, deeper.

“I’m close,” he groans, his voice strained, desperate. “Please—fuck—I need to—”

You reach up quickly, grabbing his jaw and forcing him to look at you. “Look at me when you fuck me,” you demand, your voice sharp, dripping with authority. “I want you to watch me when you come.”

That’s all it takes.

 Logan’s entire body goes taut, a strangled roar tearing from his throat as he buries himself inside you one last time, the force of his release crashing through him. The hot spray of his come floods your insides, drenching your walls in thick spurts of white. 

His hands grip you so tightly you’re sure there’ll be bruises blooming later, but you don’t care. You wish they wouldn’t fade. You want them. You want to wear his mark, to feel the evidence of this moment lingering on your skin long after it’s over.

His hips don’t stop even as he comes, a sharp cry ripping its way from his throat as he keeps fucking you, pumping you full of him like he can’t stop. 

When you feel him start to lose control like that, feel the frantic twitch of his cock inside you, you finally let go, your orgasm crashing over you like a tidal wave. The force of it rips a scream from your throat as you clench around him, your body spasming with the intensity of it.

Your abused cunt gushes around his cock to seep into the mattress, soaking both the sheets and his lower body all at once as you let out a weak mutter of his name.

For a moment, the only sound in the room is the ragged, uneven breathing between you as you both come down from the high. Logan collapses on the bed, arms circling your waist to drag you along with him. His cock stays inside of you, plugging you full of his come.

Your body trembles with the aftershocks of your orgasm, chest heaving as you try to catch your breath. 

Logan is warm and grounding under you, soft and lax. You can feel his heartbeat, strong and steady beneath your cheek, and you press a soft kiss to the skin there, a silent reminder.

His hand comes up to thread through your hair, his touch gentle now, his body relaxed in a way that it wasn’t before.

“I love you,” he whispers against the crown of your head, his voice soft, vulnerable in a way that makes your heartache.

You smile, soft and secretive in the valley of his pecs, “I love you too.”

It’s a quiet admission, the first time you’ve ever said that to each other with words. The first time you both felt the need to, because it’s nothing you didn’t already know.

Your blood dripping from his teeth lays the same claim over you as his come dripping down your thighs.

It means you're his, and he’s yours.

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[novaursa]

The Flames We Carry

- Summary: Ser Criston Cole expected for Rhaenys and Meleys to appear over Rook's Rest. To Gwayne's horror, Rhaenyra sent her sister instead: you.

- Pairing: targ!reader/Gwayne Hightower

- Note: reader is referred to as Y/N, is Rhaeyra's younger sister and is bonded to Silverwing. These events happen after Skyfall. If you want to read all the parts in chronological order visit my blog, the list is pinned to the top.

- Rating: Mature 16+ (there is no adult content, but there are visual descriptions of violence, blood and gore)

- Word count: 3 712

- A/N: this was scheduled to be posted tomorrow, but I've decided post extra today. Enjoy.

- Tag(s): @deniixlovezelda @duck-duck-goose2 @aadu2173 @sachaa-ff

Ser Gwayne Hightower had always been a man torn between loyalty and desire, but never more so than in the days leading up to the siege at Rook's Rest. The tension between him and Ser Criston Cole had grown sharper since that fateful day when he let you—the Princess, Y/N—slip through his grasp before their march on Duskendale. He could still feel the warmth of your skin against his, the taste of your lips lingering like a ghostly memory, a sweet torment. You had been his time and time again, even if only in stolen moments, and each encounter had deepened the scars on his heart.

Gwayne knew he should be focusing on the battle ahead, yet his thoughts strayed back to you, his mind replaying that night over and over. The look in your eyes when you realized he would let you go, when you understood the depth of his feelings despite all the bitterness that lingered between your Houses. He had set you free, knowing full well it was an act of treason in all but name, and yet he would do it again if it meant sparing you the horrors to come.

But now, at Rook's Rest, everything was escalating rapidly. Ser Criston's scorpion ballistas and archers were poised in ambush, waiting for the dragon they expected: Rhaenys on Meleys. The war council had been clear, and Gwayne had heard it all through gritted teeth—Aemond and Aegon would flank her on Vhagar and Sunfyre, trapping her in dragonfire and steel. It was a ruthless plan, one that made his stomach churn. He had sworn to protect his family, his king, and yet all he could think about was you.

The skies darkened, a shadow sweeping over the encampment. The men tensed, eyes raised to the heavens as the flap of wings grew louder. Gwayne’s heart pounded in his chest as he looked up, expecting the crimson scales of Meleys. But what he saw instead made his blood run cold.

Silverwing.

The graceful, silvery-grey dragon, once ridden by Queen Alysanne, now bonded to you. Gwayne’s heart twisted painfully in his chest. This was not supposed to happen. It was not supposed to be you in the skies above, facing down two monstrous dragons with only the loyal Silverwing at your side. Panic clawed at his throat, his mind racing. He could see it in Criston's eyes too—the slight widening, the realization that their ambush had just become a slaughter. Not for Rhaenys, but for you.

“No…” The word slipped from Gwayne’s lips before he could stop it. Without a second thought, he rushed toward the nearest scorpion, where soldiers prepared to take aim at Silverwing. His vision tunneled, anger and fear boiling together in his veins. He couldn’t let this happen—not to you.

"Stand down!" Gwayne shouted at the soldiers, shoving one aside with enough force to send the man sprawling. The crew looked at him in confusion, but Gwayne didn’t care. He grabbed hold of the crank, making it impossible for them to load the bolt.

“What in the Seven Hells are you doing?!” Criston’s voice was a venomous hiss as he stalked toward Gwayne, eyes blazing with fury. “You’re sabotaging the plan! Move, or I’ll have you—”

Gwayne spun around, his hand already on the hilt of his sword. “I won’t let you do this, Criston. Not to her.”

Criston’s lip curled in disgust. “Her? You would betray your king, your House, for a traitorous whore who—"

The sound of steel rang out as Gwayne drew his sword, slashing at the scorpion mechanism, rendering it useless. The soldiers scattered, unwilling to get caught in the confrontation between two knights who had both earned their deadly reputations. Criston’s eyes narrowed, and in the blink of an eye, his sword was in his hand, the tip leveled at Gwayne’s chest.

“You’ll die for this treachery, Hightower,” Criston spat, the words laced with venom.

“I would die a thousand times before I let you kill her,” Gwayne growled back, his voice low and dangerous. “I won’t let you harm her.”

Above them, the roar of dragons filled the air as Silverwing engaged with Sunfyre and Vhagar. Dragonfire crackled like thunder, the heat from the flames casting an eerie glow over the battlefield. You were up there, fighting for your life, for your cause. Gwayne’s heart ached with every fiery burst, knowing that each moment could be your last.

Criston lunged, and Gwayne barely parried the strike in time. The two knights clashed, steel against steel, each strike filled with desperation and fury. Gwayne fought with everything he had, driven by the need to protect you, even if it meant cutting down one of his own.

“Do you think she cares for you, Gwayne?!” Criston taunted between strikes. “She’s a dragonrider, a princess—she’ll never be yours! You’re a fool!”

“I know what I am,” Gwayne snarled, knocking Criston’s sword aside and slamming his shoulder into the other man’s chest, sending him stumbling back. “But I also know what I feel. And I’ll not stand by and let you murder her.”

Criston recovered quickly, rage twisting his features as he advanced again. “She chose Daemon over you! The Rogue Prince—do you think she’ll remember your name when she’s ash?”

Gwayne roared in fury, his blade a blur as he pressed the attack. The sounds of battle, of dragons shrieking and flames roaring, were deafening, but all Gwayne could hear was the pounding of his own heart, the desperate need to get to you, to save you. But with every second that passed, his hope dwindled, and fear gnawed at the edges of his resolve.

Then, the ground trembled, a shockwave of heat and force rippling across the battlefield as a massive burst of dragonfire erupted nearby. Gwayne staggered, the distraction costing him as Criston’s sword sliced across his side. Pain flared, but he gritted his teeth, refusing to fall. He couldn’t afford to fall—not when you needed him.

But as the flames subsided, a silhouette emerged through the smoke—Silverwing, descending, with you astride her. Your eyes, burning with determination and fury, locked onto the scene below: Criston standing over a wounded Gwayne, ready to deliver the killing blow.

“Y/N!” Gwayne shouted, his voice raw with desperation.

You didn’t hesitate. With a command, Silverwing unleashed a torrent of dragonfire, forcing Criston to leap back, narrowly avoiding being consumed by the flames. In the brief reprieve, Gwayne stumbled to his feet, clutching his side.

Your gaze met his, and for a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath. The memory of that last kiss, of your shared moments, hung between you like an unspoken vow. Gwayne knew he had only seconds before the battle resumed, but in those few heartbeats, he saw the truth in your eyes—the love that had never truly died, the bond that still connected you, even through war and betrayal.

But there was no time for words. With a final, lingering look, you turned Silverwing toward the sky, preparing for the next wave of the fight. And as you ascended into the chaos once more, Gwayne knew he would fight until his last breath to protect you, even if the whole world stood against him.The battle raged on, but in that moment, Gwayne Hightower’s heart belonged to only one—you.

The battlefield below Rook’s Rest was a symphony of chaos and death, the sky a canvas painted with fire and blood. Gwayne could only watch in helpless agony as you and Silverwing clashed in the heavens with Sunfyre and Aegon, two dragons locked in a deadly dance of tooth and claw. Overhead, the monstrous shadow of Vhagar circled like a vulture, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. Every screech of agony, every roar of defiance, was a knife twisting deeper into Gwayne’s chest.

On the ground, Criston Cole barked orders, his eyes fixed on the battle above. The soldiers scrambled, trying to reload the scorpions, but the dragonfire raining down made their task near impossible. Bolts flew haphazardly, striking neither dragon nor rider, only adding to the carnage below as men screamed, burning alive in dragonflame. Gwayne’s heart pounded in his ears, but he couldn’t tear his gaze away from the clash in the sky.

Silverwing and Sunfyre circled each other in a blur of flashing claws and snapping jaws, the air thick with the scent of burning flesh and blood. Gwayne could see the desperation in the way you leaned into every attack, urging Silverwing forward with a fury that matched his own. Aegon, though armored in golden scales and atop his mighty Sunfyre, was losing ground; he was not the rider you were, and Sunfyre, for all his pride, was no match for Silverwing’s speed and power.

“Hold fast, Sunfyre!” Aegon’s voice cut through the air, laced with both command and fear. But the king’s bravado was slipping. The once-proud Sunfyre shrieked in pain as Silverwing’s talons raked across his side, tearing through scales and flesh. Blood sprayed like rain, glistening in the sunlight before falling onto Criston’s soldiers below, causing them to scatter in panic.

Gwayne could feel his grip tightening on his sword as he watched, torn between the desire to cheer for your victory and the dread that this battle would consume you. Criston, standing nearby, had forgotten Gwayne entirely, his eyes alight with a mixture of awe and hatred. “If Sunfyre falls, so falls our king,” Criston muttered to himself, though Gwayne could hear the edge of panic in his voice.

But you would not give Sunfyre a moment of reprieve. Silverwing descended with fury, slamming into the golden beast with the force of a hurricane. The clash was brutal, teeth and claws tearing through scales, blood and fire mingling as the two dragons grappled. Sunfyre roared, a cry filled with both pain and rage, as Silverwing’s jaws clamped down on his wing.

“No!” Aegon’s scream echoed across the battlefield, his eyes wide with disbelief as Silverwing’s powerful muscles twisted and tore, shredding Sunfyre’s wing almost completely from its body. The golden dragon thrashed wildly, his flight faltering as the wing dangled uselessly by a thread of sinew and bone.

Gwayne’s breath caught in his throat, torn between elation and horror. You were winning, but at what cost? He knew what was coming next. Vhagar, that ancient beast of war, had been waiting for this moment. With a bellow that shook the very ground, the monstrous she-dragon descended like a nightmare from the skies, her jaws wide and hungry.

“Look out!” Gwayne shouted, knowing full well you couldn’t hear him from so far below. His heart thundered in his chest as Vhagar slammed into both Silverwing and Sunfyre with the force of a landslide. The three dragons collided in a tangle of limbs, scales, and teeth, a storm of rage and destruction. The impact was so fierce that Gwayne felt the ground shudder beneath him.

“No! No, no, no…” Gwayne whispered, his voice cracking as he watched the entangled dragons plummet toward the earth. You and Aegon were mere shadows against the backdrop of fire and smoke, barely visible as the dragons twisted and fell in a deadly spiral. Criston’s soldiers, caught between the descending juggernauts and their own fear, broke ranks, fleeing in every direction as the ground rushed up to meet the falling beasts.

Gwayne felt a cold dread settle in his bones as he watched you, desperately holding onto Silverwing’s saddle as the world blurred around you. You clung on with a ferocity that spoke to your will to survive, but against Vhagar’s ancient fury and Sunfyre’s desperate thrashing, even the mighty Silverwing was struggling.

Criston’s eyes were wild as he watched the battle unfold, his voice a harsh whisper of disbelief. “Vhagar will end it… she must end it…”

But Gwayne wasn’t watching Vhagar anymore. He was watching you. You were still fighting, still urging Silverwing to fight back, but the odds were overwhelming. Sunfyre’s golden scales were slick with blood, his roars more pitiful now as he struggled to right himself in the air. Silverwing’s wings beat furiously, trying to break free from Vhagar’s crushing grip, but the elder dragon’s jaws clamped down on Silverwing’s neck, dragging all three dragons toward the ground with terrifying speed.

The earth shook as the three dragons smashed into the battlefield, the impact sending up a cloud of dirt and debris. The sound was deafening—a sickening crunch of bone and screech of metal as the dragons collided with the earth. Gwayne’s heart dropped into his stomach, his eyes searching desperately through the smoke and dust for any sign of you.

“No…” he whispered, stumbling forward as if he could somehow reach you, somehow pull you from the wreckage of dragons and death. But even from here, he could see the carnage—Silverwing’s body twisted and battered, Sunfyre writhing in agony, and Vhagar looming above them all, a monstrous shadow of death.

For a heartbeat, the battlefield fell silent, every eye fixed on the wreckage of the fallen dragons. Gwayne’s breath was ragged, his eyes straining to catch a glimpse of you amidst the chaos. The dust began to settle, revealing broken bodies, shattered armor, and the mangled forms of the dragons.

And then he saw you—barely visible, still moving. You crawled from beneath Silverwing’s wing, blood streaking your face, your expression fierce even in the face of such overwhelming odds. Gwayne’s heart leaped into his throat. You were alive. Against all the odds, you had survived the fall.

But the battle was far from over. Vhagar’s malevolent eyes fixed on you, a deep rumble echoing from her throat as she prepared to finish what she had started. Aegon, still clinging to the last shreds of his pride, shouted commands to Sunfyre, but the once-majestic dragon was crippled, struggling even to rise.

Gwayne turned to Criston, his voice hoarse with desperation. “Do something! Call them off—she’ll be slaughtered!”

But Criston’s eyes were cold, devoid of mercy. “It’s too late, Hightower. She made her choice.”

Before Gwayne could respond, a deafening roar split the air as Vhagar reared back, ready to unleash a final torrent of fire upon you and Silverwing. Gwayne’s breath caught, knowing he was powerless to stop what was coming. All he could do was watch in helpless horror as the monstrous she-dragon prepared to strike.

But in those last moments, your eyes locked onto his. Even from across the battlefield, Gwayne saw the fire in your gaze—the unyielding determination, the refusal to surrender, even in the face of certain death. It was a look that would be seared into his memory forever.

And as Vhagar’s jaws parted, ready to unleash death upon the field, Gwayne did the only thing he could—he prayed. For you, for Silverwing, and for the love that had been forged in the fires of war.

It felt like time itself had slowed, the moments stretching into agonizing eternity. His breath hitched as the flames began to build in Vhagar’s throat, the light of impending destruction flickering in her maw. It would be over in seconds—everything would be lost.

But then, with a burst of speed that took even Gwayne by surprise, Silverwing jolted forward, her wings beating with desperate strength. As Vhagar’s jaws parted to unleash her fiery death, Silverwing struck. The smaller, silvery dragon lunged at Vhagar’s exposed throat, her teeth sinking into the tender scales. Her bite was unrelenting, fueled by both fury and the need to protect you. Vhagar’s flame sputtered out in a roar of agony, the ancient beast thrashing wildly as she tried to shake off the determined Silverwing.

Gwayne’s eyes widened in awe and terror. Silverwing’s tail snapped like a whip, striking Vhagar’s head with a force that reverberated across the battlefield. The blow landed squarely on Vhagar’s eye, the sound of bone and scale cracking sickeningly loud. The she-dragon’s roar of pain was a monstrous, guttural cry that seemed to shake the heavens. Even Aemond, usually so composed in battle, shouted in fury and alarm, yanking hard on the reins to regain control of his wounded dragon.

Gwayne knew he had only moments to act. Blood was streaming down your face, and even from a distance, he could see the exhaustion and pain etched into your features. You laid on the ground, barely holding on to life as Silverwing thrashed against Vhagar’s deadly strength. It was a miracle you had survived this long, but that miracle was on the brink of shattering. Gwayne’s decision was made in an instant, despite the searing pain in his side and the chaos around him.

Nearby, a riderless horse whinnied in terror, its eyes rolling as it tried to flee the madness. Gwayne gritted his teeth, limping toward the panicked creature. “Easy, girl,” he rasped, wincing with every step. The horse reared, wild with fear, but Gwayne moved with surprising swiftness, grasping the reins and swinging himself into the saddle with a grunt of pain. Blood stained his tunic from his earlier wound, but he forced himself to push through it. There was no time to dwell on it—not when you were up there, fighting for your life.

“Where are you going, you fool?!” Criston’s voice rang out behind him, filled with fury. “You’ll die, Hightower! Come back!”

But Gwayne was deaf to Criston’s commands. He spurred the horse forward, urging it toward the burning wreckage of dragons, toward you. The horse resisted at first, terrified by the scent of blood and fire, but Gwayne was relentless, guiding it with strong hands and determined resolve. The animal finally obeyed, its hooves pounding against the earth as it charged through the smoke and debris.

Criston cursed behind him, and Gwayne heard the clatter of armor as the Lord Commander sprinted after him, but Gwayne didn’t care. All that mattered was reaching you.

Above, the struggle between Silverwing and Vhagar intensified. Aemond’s curses mingled with the roars of his dragon as he tried to force Vhagar to tear herself free, but Silverwing was like a vice, her jaws locked onto Vhagar’s throat. The she-dragon’s great wings buffeted the air, but even Vhagar, with all her size and strength, was struggling against the tenacity of her smaller opponent. Silverwing’s wings were shredded, her silvery scales bloodied, but she refused to let go. She was holding on not just for herself, but for you.

“Y/N!” Gwayne’s shout cut through the chaos as he neared the spot where you lay half-alive below Silverwing’s wing. He could see that you were barely conscious, your grip weak on your sword as you fought to stay awake. Desperation fueled his every move as he urged the horse closer, reaching out to you. “Hold on! I’m coming!”

Through the haze of pain, you blinked up at him, your eyes unfocused. “Gwayne?” Your voice was faint, tinged with disbelief. “You… you shouldn’t be here…”

“I’m not leaving you!” Gwayne snapped, his voice rough with emotion. With a final burst of strength, he dismounted down beside you, reaching for your arm. The moment his hand grasped yours, you seemed to come back to life, your eyes clearing just enough to recognize him fully.

“Gwayne… you need to run,” you gasped, wincing as another jolt of pain coursed through you. “She’s going to kill us all…”

“Not today,” he vowed, pulling up with him and onto his horse. You were light in his arms, weakened from battle and injury, but there was still a flicker of the fierce spirit he had always admired in you. “I’ll get you out of here, I swear it.”

Criston’s voice was closer now, filled with anger. “Hightower, you’ll be executed for this!” he roared, but Gwayne didn’t even spare him a glance. He dug his heels into the horse’s flanks, and the animal surged forward, carrying you both away from the hellish scene behind you.

As the horse galloped across the field, Gwayne glanced back over his shoulder just in time to see the moment when Silverwing’s strength finally gave out. Vhagar’s claws found purchase, tearing deep into Silverwing’s side, and with a heart-wrenching cry, the silver dragon was forced to release her grip. Vhagar reared up, triumphant and bloodied, but the cost of the battle was clear—her eye was ruined, her scales cracked and bleeding. Silverwing collapsed onto the battlefield, her wings crumpling beneath her, but even then, she snarled defiantly, refusing to bow.

But there was no more fight left in her. Gwayne’s heart broke as he watched the light fade from Silverwing’s eyes, her body slumping in exhaustion. Aemond’s laughter echoed through the sky, dark and cruel, as he urged Vhagar to take the final blow. But before Vhagar could finish her fallen opponent, Gwayne’s eyes caught the movement of Criston as he halted his pursuit.

“Cole!” Aegon’s voice was a ragged gasp, filled with pain and panic. The king lay on the battlefield, unmoving, his once-golden armor scorched and twisted from the flames. His face was barely recognizable, the flesh blistered and raw, his body wracked with agony. Criston’s eyes widened in horror as he realized what had happened—their king was grievously injured, possibly dying. All thoughts of pursuing Gwayne and you evaporated as Criston sprinted toward Aegon, screaming orders for a healer.

Gwayne tightened his hold on you as the horse raced away from the carnage, his heart pounding with a mix of fear and determination. You clung to him weakly, your breath shallow, your strength fading fast. “Stay with me, Y/N,” he urged, his voice trembling with barely contained desperation. “Just hold on a little longer. We’ll find safety. I won’t let you die.”

Your eyes fluttered, and for a brief moment, you leaned your head against his chest, your voice a faint whisper. “You saved me… again…”

Gwayne’s throat tightened, his emotions threatening to spill over. “And I’ll keep saving you, no matter what it costs,” he promised, pressing a fierce kiss to your temple as the wind whipped through your hair. “I’m not losing you. Not today, not ever.”

Behind them, the battle raged on, but for Gwayne, the only thing that mattered was the woman in his arms and the fragile hope that somehow, despite everything, they would both live to see another day.

[sayruq]

After the withdrawal of over 25,000 troops from northern Gaza, the Palestinian Resistance, which had been giving the IDF hell in that region (hence the withdrawal), focused their attention on central and southern Gaza. The past few days however, they've intensified their operations in the north again, tricking the IDF into becoming complacent. This, as usual, undermines the claims by the Israeli government of controlling the north.

The bigger problem facing the Israeli government is that Hamas has started to re-establish civil services in the north including policing and distributing aid services.

Here's an Israeli analyst almost realising what that means

It means the IDF lost in the north and will lose in central and southern Gaza as well.

It won't be long before the rest of the country also realises what this means though like this analyst they'll blame Israel withdrawing too early and not the fact that the IDF failed to defeat the Resistance. The Palestinians are moving like a well oiled war machine right now, sending rockets into the Occupied Territories while taking out tanks, ambushing Israeli soldiers and booby trapping tunnels. They simply can't be beat, not by the IDF at least.

Eventually, the IDF will have to release accurate casualty numbers and Israelis will understand that their army lost against Palestine despite dropping thousands of bombs and killing over 24,000 civilians. What that does to Israeli society will be interesting to see.

[banmitbandit]

Pots 'N' Picks Week 2024: Day 2: Monster

NOTICE. ADVENTURERS BEWARE. Recent shifts in the dungeon's layout have caused new monsters to spawn from it's depths. Keep yourself educated so you aren't caught unawares by these dangerous creatures. The Wyvern Chimera has been shown to be highly intelligent, possessing heightened senses and an intricate knowledge of it's surroundings. Often ambushing prey on higher floors where traps are abundant, it makes up for it's smaller size by letting the dungeon do most of the work for it. Adventurers attempting to take on this creature should be aware that it will hear you long before you hear it. Those interested should parboil, baste with sweet sauces and roast until cooked to perfection. The White Dragon Chimera is an anomaly in that it can quite comfortably survive in both extreme cold and extreme heat. As such, it quite comfortably roams both the frozen lakes and tunnels on floor six and the dwarven catacombs of floor seven. It posesses a high resistance to magical attacks, but Adventurers should take caution in engaging this monster unless they are extremely well prepared. Surprisingly, this creature is one of the only monsters observed actually cooking it's food. Best served as minced breast meat and liver baked into a pie alongside various spices and vegetables.

I like them a normal amount.

[sighmurderbot]

Are you, like me, suddenly obsessed with COD and want to write fanfic, but you don't want to always follow the canon missions?

Introducing: the mission generator. Pick one thing from each catagory and write away. Assembled from various resources and my head.

Objective:

<air strike / aid / arm / assassinate / assault / bombard / breach / build / bypass / capture / clear / contact / contain / control / defend / destroy / disarm / disaster relief / disengage / disinformation / distract / escort / extract / guard / identify / infiltrate / interrogate / isolate / investigation / lead / liberate / medical assistance / neutralize / occupy / patrol / propagandize / recon / recruit / repair / rescue / sabotage / seize / supply / surveillance / train>

Target:

<ship / dictator / informant / army / navy / armor / missile / chemical gas / estate / financial institution / airplane / organization / religious icon / subject matter expert / terrorist cell / journalist / rebels / airforce / drug trafficker / intelligence agency / factory / general / supply chain / submarine / enemy base / hostage / safe house / WMD / monument / leader / deserters / militia / research center / lab / bridge / mountain pass>

Unforseen Complication:

<old rival / dependant / redundant cell / transportation problems / competition / blown cover / legal trouble / old enemy / natural disaster / love interest / old friend / wounded / illness / journalists / bad weather / civil unrest / emergency election / civilians in need / double agent / weapon malfunction / team separated / betrayal / mistaken identity / regime change / deserters / ambush / bad Intel / false flag op / sabotage / traps / hacking / capture / setup>

Location:

<city / town / village / estate / mountains / abandoned house / military base / port / desert / forest / plains / river / ocean / tunnel / caves / swamp / jungle / coast / volcano / ruins / arctic / tundra / hills / canyon / mountain pass>

[angelpuns]

Leo’s hands were more sluggish than he would have liked. Definitely at least a baby concussion. It was hard to tell by himself, but he was usually pretty good at figuring it out before it got too dangerous. Like after- 

He swallowed thickly. He didn't need to be thinking of that right now. Especially in the med bay, surrounded once again by the sterility and the oppressive white walls that he'd spent way too long in. 

Leo quickly shook the the thought away and grabbed a scalpel. He didn't want to have to use it, but he couldn't afford to keep a tracker in him - if there was one.

He needed to at least get fixed up before they caught on and followed him home. He wasn't sure where he'd go next. Maybe the sewer tunnels? Bad for his minor wounds, but maybe the concrete would screw with the signal enough to give him a bit of reprieve. 

Then again, it wouldn't be a good place to be ambushed. There wasn't much of a way to escape unless he stumbled upon a hatch or something. He could always go further down the subway tunnel instead, but that eventually would lead to an active subway tunnel and he didn't really need to add ‘crushed by a train like a cartoon character’ to his issues today. 

He let out a huff and got to work on fixing up what he could. The brunt of the scratches were on his face, his nose slowly oozing blood. Probably not broken, but it still hurt like hell. If he were human it would've been a lot worse, so there was that at least. 

Leo worked quickly, not sure how much time he had left. He still didn't have a plan either, and he probably only had a portal or two left him in him. Maybe just the one with a concussion. 

Ideally, he'd just hunker down in the lair and defend it, but he was only one turtle with a couple swords and a dream ( and a big heaping dose of PTSD. And a concussion. ) so that wasn't really an option. 

He could try portaling away again, but it seemed like they'd always find him. He didn't necessarily want to try and cut the tracker out, but it seemed to be the only real option he had right now. 

He wasn't sure that would stop them either. They clearly knew where the lair was, and could easily just hide out here until he eventually came back… 

Leo sighed, rubbing his hands over his face with a groan. Why were all these options so shitty? Normally he was better at planning then this… 

 He supposed he'd have to fight them, but one on three was a losing battle and he knew it. Unless…well maybe he could trap them. 

Leo pocketed the scalpel for now. He had to get everything set up before they arrived, then he could worry about the tracker. He had plans for that too, now, and hopefully they weren't smart enough to figure them out. 

An hour passed as he worked to move furniture around and booby-trap as much of the lair as he possibly could. Nothing substantial, just little traps that would allow him to portal all of them into a big cage he'd fashioned out of bent up bars and that he'd soldered to the floor. He'd never been good at doing that kind of thing, so he hoped it'd hold up. 

He returned the supplies to the garage and hurried back to the med bay. They hadn’t shown up yet still, but he supposed them not being able to portal was a good sign. 

Leo checked his entire body for the tracker. He assumed it'd be like a movie and there would be some kind of little lump or something under his skin, or maybe an incision where it had been surgically implanted. The thought made him shiver. He didn't like the thought of those creeps in his room doing surgery on him. 

He didn't feel anything, though, in all the places he could reach anyway. 

He settled his now tired arms on the back of his neck, staring into the mirror and wondering what the hell he was going to do. 

Trapping those guys was a decent plan and all, but it wasn't a long term solution. Maybe he needed to move again. 

Moving after the Shredder had been difficult and all, but at least there hadn't been a looming threat of someone finding him. 

He groaned, arms brushing against the top of his shell as he gave a little stretch. He felt it then, something scratching and small on the upper lip of his shell. Just out of reach of running against his shoulder. He felt along the edges of it, the cool metal against his fingertips revealing that it wasn't just a mark. 

What a damn smart place to put it. 

He pulled at the thing, but it had to have been glued down or something. He put the scalpel he’d been wielding away and hurried to the purple room. He supposed whoever had lived here before had been some kind of scientist, because they had a ton of stuff. It had all just been here when he moved in, and occasionally he'd pop in to check that everything was okay and in its place….and to borrow tools. 

Something about the purple room was very comforting too. It had a familiar and nice smell, and he'd spent a lot of time after the invasion curled up in here, just basking in the comfort of it. The other subway cars were like that, too. Orange and Red and Purple bedrooms that Leo himself hadn't set up. They'd just been like that when he moved in. 

And yet somehow he found them comforting. He didn't know why, but it had sort of been like that when he lived in the sewers, too. 

Rooms he hadn't decorated, but a comfort nonetheless. Those too had just always been there. It wasn't weird because it had always been like that. So to find the same thing in his new lair…well it was nothing short of a miracle, really. 

He sighed and stopped basking in the comforting purple light, hurrying over to a cabinet and rifling through the tools there. 

If he could just find a screwdriver and mallet, he could use the as a chisel. As scary as that was in a place he really couldn't see, it wasn't too dangerous to try. 

He finally found what he wanted and hurried for the nearest mirror, which ended up being in his own room. He still hadn't seen any signs of the intruders from before, but he was confident in his traps. He'd at least hear them falling all over themselves trying to get in. 

Leo carefully positioned the makeshift chisel, pointing it away from y'know, accidentally stabbing himself in the neck, before he carefully began to work at the tracker. 

It took a few hits, the clunk-clunk-clunk of the screwdriver on his shell making his head ache. The vibrations weren't helping either, old shell aches flaring up with each tap on the screwdriver. 

Finally, the little metal bit broke off, the piece flying off into his room somewhere. 

He scrounged around on the floor to find it, finally spotting it under his bed. 

“ I've got plans for you, little guy,” he mused, flipping it over in his hand, “ you're going on a little vacation” 

---

More 50au!!! This obviously isn't like a completed fic or anything, but it is nice to write onto and I have some ideas I wanna do with it ( which is why I'm writing on it more this week, I had a really interesting idea I wanna try out )

So enjoy :)

Part 1 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 7

[sidekick-hero]

(steddie | teen | 3.2k | tags: werewolf!Steve, Human!Eddie, hurt!Steve, Eddie taking care of Steve, minor characters death | @steddielovemonth prompt: Love is feeling safe by @novacorpsrecruit | AO3)

He runs for his life, his paws hitting the snowy ground with heavy thumps. His flank hurts where the bullet buried itself, but it's distant, drowned out by his instinct to survive. He can't afford to slow down, so he pushes through, letting his instincts carry him as fast as his legs will take him.

His pursuers are only human, not equipped to keep up with a nearly grown wolf. But he's hurt, and he's exhausted, and they have guns.

Part of him wonders why he's even trying to save himself.

They killed the whole village. His parents, his friends, his neighbors. They all burned to death, and those who managed to escape the flames were slaughtered by the hunters. All except him, who managed to escape through the secret tunnels beneath their home, while his parents stayed behind to fight off the invaders.

The Harringtons had been the alphas of their pack, and it was their responsibility to protect the pack with their lives.

None of them deserved to die. No one in their pack had ever hurt a human. They hardly ever saw one, choosing to live as far away from their settlements as possible while still being able to trade with them for the goods they couldn't produce.

It didn't matter to the hunters who came late at night and ambushed them in their sleep. In their eyes, they were monsters. His parents always warned him that humans would never understand them, would always fear them, and fear breeds hatred. Humans couldn't be trusted, they weren't safe.

Back when that meant he couldn't be friends with the daughter of the blacksmith his parents did business with, he refused to believe them. But now it seems that they were always right.

Humans are not to be trusted. They're not safe.

It feels like Steve has been running for hours and still he hears them following him, following his bloody trail. They're not even stealthy, branches snapping, shouts and the occasional gunshot. He's not sure how much longer he can keep going, the pain and exhaustion finally catching up with him.

He's so focused on listening to the hunters behind him that he doesn't really look where he's going, just runs and runs and runs.

Suddenly the world turns upside down, the pain in his flank flares up, white-hot, and then everything goes dark.

He comes to slowly, his senses catching up with reality one by one.

It's warm where he lies, the sharp smell of burning wood heavy in the air. Panic rises in his throat and he can't stop the whine falling from his muzzle, it must mean he didn't make it out after all, he's still trapped in the burning ruins of his home. He's going to die here, burned alive like everyone else he's known since he was a pup.

His ears pick up other sounds over the crackling of a nearby fire. Someone is here, Steve can smell them. Smell him. It's a human, a man. His scent is strong, clinging to the soft blanket Steve can feel beneath him. He's humming a familiar tune, his voice deep and melodic, and Steve can't believe he's about to die with the tune of a nursery rhyme stuck in his head.

Heavy footsteps are coming toward him, and Steve hasn't opened his eyes yet, but he thinks the guy is wearing heavy boots. It's winter, after all, and humans don't run as hot as wolves, completely unprotected from the harshness of the season.

His whole body aches, every limb is heavy, and exhaustion is trying to drag him under again. Steve knows he's in no condition to fight, that he won't last more than a few seconds before the human kills him, but he won't die without a fight. That's not who he is.

So when he feels the human stop in front of him and fall to his knees beside Steve's motionless body, Steve attacks.

Well, he tries. But his body won't cooperate, the pain makes him so dizzy that he almost loses consciousness as he tries to rise enough to sink his teeth into the human's soft flesh. He sinks back down, with pained whimpers he tries to suppress but can't.

"Shh, hey, it's okay, buddy. I'm not gonna hurt you. I promise. I'm trying to help you, but you are gonna have to stay still and let me, okay?"

It doesn't make any sense, none of it, but he's so tired and the voice talking to him sounds so nice, warm and soothing. It makes him want to lie still and let it wash over him. With the last of his strength, he blinks his eyes open to look at the man who is about to end his life, no matter what his alluring voice promises.

The last thing Steve sees before the pain and exhaustion pulls him back under are the man's eyes. They were a rich, dark brown, like melted chocolate under a gentle heat. Their warmth held a soft depth, inviting and comforting, reminiscent of a cozy fireplace on a chilly evening. With each gaze, it was as if the soft flicker of candlelight danced within them, creating an aura of quiet reassurance.

The next time Steve is awake, he feels better. He's still weak, but the bone-deep exhaustion has eased. So has the pain, a dull ache rather than a white-hot agony that sets his nerves on fire. As he comes more and more to himself, his brain clearing the haze of sleep, he takes stock.

He's still alive.

He's still surrounded by the scent of the man who found him.

He's comfortable, a soft surface and blankets beneath him.

He's starving.

As if he heard Steve's thoughts - or more likely his growling stomach - Steve hears the man approaching again. Opening his eyes blearily, Steve sees him standing in the doorway with a plate in his hand, and the smell that hits Steve's nose makes his empty stomach cramp with hunger, and saliva floods his mouth. Roasted chicken, Steve's favorite.

"Look who's awake," the man says, and Steve wonders if he knows who Steve is or if he's one of those guys who talks to animals. He really hopes it's the latter, because that makes his chances of survival at least a little better.

The man takes another two steps towards him, but then stops and looks at him cautiously.

"Okay, last time didn't go so well, huh?" He asks, but Steve thinks it's more rhetorical. "I've got food for you, so please don't bite me? God, it's a good thing Wayne isn't here or he'd think I'd finally lost it, talking to a wolf."

Shaking his head, the man comes closer and Steve takes in his appearance. He doesn't look particularly dangerous, rather slender with dark curls and a pale complexion. He doesn't carry any weapons, but he does have an ugly scar on his face. It must have been a deep cut, and it runs in a jagged line across his cheek.

Steve tries to lift his head when the man is close enough to strike, but he only manages a few inches before sinking back down with a soft whine.

"Hey, hey, hey, you shouldn't move yet, sweetheart. It's a miracle nothing's broken, as far as I can tell, but that bullet really did a number on you, almost like it was poisoned. Bastards to do this to another being."

Silver bullet, Steve thinks. That explains the intense pain and weakness.

Then he forgets all about it the moment the smell of the chicken intensifies as the man reaches out to Steve's muzzle with a large chunk of meat between his fingers. The man, if you can call him that, probably about Steve's age, looks terrified as he does so, but he doesn't stop until Steve can close his teeth around the meat and pull it into his mouth. When the meat is gone, Steve chewing happily and the guy still in possession of all five fingers, his host breathes a sigh of relief.

"Shit, man, that was scary," the man laughs, his dimples popping. He beams at Steve as he hands him another large chunk of chicken.

This human is so weird, Steve thinks. Talking to a wolf like it's a human, chastising hunters for wounding it with what he thinks is a poisoned bullet. Feeding it its own rations by hand, during a harsh winter, no less.

Whatever plan is behind this: Steve doesn't understand it. But he's too weak to think much about it, because as soon as the plate is empty and his stomach comfortably full, Steve sinks back under.

He dreams of soft hands stroking his fur, and of someone softly singing to him the lullaby that his mother used to sing to him when he was a pup and woke up from a nightmare.

It becomes routine as Steve's body fights off the effects of the silver bullet.

The man, whose name was Eddie, as Steve learned during one of the many times he was sort of talking to himself, fed him meat by hand, and sometimes broth and potatoes. Every two days he would also dress his wound, always clicking his tongue at the state of it and muttering about asshole hunters.

Eddie always talked while tending to Steve, at first telling him how his body was healing and what Eddie was doing to help him. But after a while, he began to tell Steve about his days and his chores, regaling Steve with tales of his adventures while gathering firewood or preparing meals for them. It was surprisingly comforting to listen to Eddie talk, his stories always funny and dramatic, with a hint of self-deprecation.

It didn't make sense to Steve why Eddie was doing all this until one night he started talking about his uncle, who had gone to the city to find work to better support them and hadn't been home in months.

It was then that Steve realized that Eddie was lonely.

He'd been alone in that cabin in the middle of the woods for months until he found Steve lying in a ravine and carried him home.

Steve was the closest thing Eddie had to a companion in months.

Knowing that eased some of the apprehension he felt toward Eddie, because it seemed that as long as the man didn't know that Steve wasn't an ordinary wolf, he didn't have to be afraid of him.

Three weeks after Steve first woke up in Eddie's cabin, he manages to get up on weak legs and take a few tentative steps before collapsing again.

Eddie is there to catch him and by then his hands are welcome on Steve's body.

They are always gentle with Steve, stroking his fur and snout, scratching behind his ears just right. Eddie touches him all the time now, and Steve has no idea how he feels about it.

That's not entirely true, he has an inkling of what the warmth means that spreads through his body when Eddie lies down behind him on the mattress he'd put in front of the fireplace so Steve would be warm while he healed. Every night, Eddie would bury his face in Steve's fur right at his neck, a vulnerable place only close members of a pack were ever allowed to put their snouts, and stroke Steve's side and belly with gentle hands until they both drifted off to sleep.

Everything smelled of Eddie. Steve smelled of Eddie.

And Eddie had begun to smell of Steve.

It made his inner wolf purr with satisfaction, and that was such a phenomenally bad idea.

That's why Steve is trying to get back on his feet as quickly as possible, so he can leave before these feelings that have started to grow in his heart get any worse.

Eddie is human.

Humans are not to be trusted. They are not safe.

But Eddie feels safe.

Worse, he is starting to feel a lot like mate, and Eddie has no idea what that even means.

"Careful, Koda. You're still healing. There's no rush, y'know. You can stay here as long as you want, okay? This is your home now, too."

Steve whines softly at the ache in Eddie's voice and licks his neck and face to comfort him. The wet tongue probably tickles because it makes Eddie laugh, and he buries his face in the thick fur at the front of Steve's neck.

And Steve just lets him, lets him press his mouth against his throat while he nuzzles behind Eddie's ear and breathes in his scent.

Steve is fucked.

It all comes to a head a few weeks later.

Steve is now back on his feet and uses his new mobility to follow Eddie around and keep him company while he does his chores, often dozing next to him while he cooks or chops wood or sorts through their rapidly dwindling supplies. Soon Eddie will have to go hunting to keep them stocked with meat, and Eddie hates the thought. He doesn't want to hurt another creature.

That's why Steve decides to go hunting for his human. He can provide for him.

A week later, he leaves in the middle of the night, carefully slipping out of Eddie's arms around him and trotting through the little door that Eddie built into his door so that Steve could relieve himself whenever he needed to.

It goes better than Steve expected, his muscles still not back to where they used to be, but stronger and faster than he would have thought after weeks of lying around. He follows the tracks of a deer for almost an hour before he finally finds it. The hunt itself is short, the wind comes from the right direction, and the deer clearly doesn't sense him until it's too late.

Steve kills it as quickly and painlessly as possible, sure that Eddie would want him to. He thinks he would do anything to make Eddie happy.

When Steve comes back from the woods, he's dragging the deer's body with his snout, wishing he could just shift back into his human body because it would be so much easier with his hands. But the shift takes a lot out of an already weakened body, and he can't risk it. In a few weeks it will be as easy as breathing again, he's sure of that, but right now it could be a serious setback in his recovery.

He can already see the cabin through the trees when he hears Eddie's voice calling for him. He sounds panicked and Steve immediately drops his prey to run to his mate.

Eddie is not even wearing a jacket, his breath coming out in clouds of condensed air as he stumbles through the glittering snow, calling for Koda.

He calls for his wolf with panicked tears in his voice and Steve barrels into him without a second's hesitation. Eddie falls to the ground, his arms full of Steve, his hands clutching Steve's fur as if he's afraid this is a dream and Steve will disappear again.

"Koda? Oh my God, where the hell have you been? I was worried sick. I thought you just disappeared." Eddie sits up, his arms never letting go of where they are wrapped around Steve, and Steve can smell the tears on his face. He carefully licks them away as more and more follow. "Please don't leave me, please, please, please," Eddie keeps begging him, his whole body shaking and Steve wants to shift so badly. He wants to take his mate in his arms and hold him, soothe his pain and fear and promise him that he'll never leave him.

So even though he knows better, he does.

One moment Eddie is holding a big, brown wolf in his arms, and the next he is holding a very human, very naked man in his lap.

If Steve wasn't scared to death of how Eddie will react, he would laugh at the high-pitched squeal Eddie lets out when he realizes what has happened.

"Hi," Steve says, waving at Eddie with fluttering fingers. Not his smoothest moment, but to be fair, this isn't how he usually approaches someone he's attracted to. For once he is usually wearing a lot more clothes.

"Uhhh, hi?" Eddie asks, stunned. "Who... Wait, not important right now. Where is my wolf? My Koda. I just got him back."

Steve is pretty sure that Eddie must be in shock and not thinking clearly, but it warms his heart how attached he is to Steve's wolf. He hopes he can get him to like his human side just as much.

Deciding it's best to just come clean with Eddie, Steve exclaims, "Tada," and does a very silly imitation of jazz hands.

Eddie just blinks at him with big eyes.

Okay, Plan B it is, Steve thinks. "I'm him. I'm Koda. Or, well, no, I'm Steve, but you couldn't know that. But, um, yeah, I'm your wolf?" Steve cringes at the your, but it's too late to take it back, and besides, he really wants to be Eddie's wolf.

He wants to be Eddie's everything.

"I knew it!"

Eddie's sudden outburst startles Steve so much that he almost falls off Eddie's lap before Eddie's arms tighten around him.

"Sorry, sorry. It's just... my mom told me about wolves that could turn into humans. She used to tell me stories about how they used to be the protectors of villages and towns, the friends and companions of humans, before some humans turned against them, jealous of the admiration and status they had with the villagers, and drove them away. Mama said that when a wolf chooses you as a mate, you are blessed for life. She always wanted to meet one of you."

Steve knows about Eddie's mother, another story he told Steve under the protective cover of night as they lay on their mattress, Steve's fur soaking up Eddie's tears as he talked about losing his mother when he was only ten.

"Aren't you afraid of me?" Steve still has to ask, his heart beating as fast as the wings of a bird taking flight.

Eddie looks at him as if the thought had never occurred to him. "Afraid of you? Koda... I mean, Stevie, can I call you Stevie?" at Steve's nod Eddie continues, "Are you going to hurt me?"

Now it's Steve's turn to look at Eddie in disbelief. "What? No! Never! Eddie, I promise I would never hurt you. I just thought that you..."

"That I would hurt you if I found out what you are?" Eddie asks quietly, his thumb stroking Steve's collarbone.

"Yes," Steve admits in a low voice. "But not anymore."

"No?" He sounds so hopeful when he asks this, so trusting in the way he holds Steve in his arms, even after learning of Steve's true nature. Steve smiles down at the man who saved him, who tended to him, who cared for him.

His human.

His mate, if Eddie will let him. Steve thinks he might.

"No, I feel safe with you."

Eddie's answering smile is blinding, and Steve has to kiss him, right here in the snow, sitting buck naked in Eddie's lap, the morning sun bathing them in its hopeful light.

[httpvomitello]

In your rottmnt x fem-reader villain can we get a part 2 where we save their lives and when they ask why y/n is standing there and says ‘I don't know why I saved you I-I just did OK!’ I feel a lack it would be funny

Hello, hello! I hope you like it ~ ♡♡♡♡

I received another request similar to this one, so I decided to combine the two!

* * * *

A New Dynamic *⁠.⁠✧

The warehouse was pure chaos. Metal clashed, shadows flickered, and Leo’s focus was locked on the fight in front of him. His katanas were a blur, blocking and slicing through Foot soldiers, teleporting right after making another one of his jokes.

He barely noticed the blur of movement from his side until it was almost too late. A Foot soldier had slipped through his defenses, their blade aimed right for his shell. Leo tensed, ready to dodge, but before he could—

CLANG!

The attack was blocked, the weapon sent flying. And standing there, right between Leo and the enemy, was you.

“Y/N?!” Leo’s eyes widened.

The Foot soldier didn’t back down, lunging again. You deflected the blow, but their blade caught your side, cutting deep. You stumbled, clutching your side as crimson spread across your fingers.

“Y/N!” Leo was at your side in an instant, catching you before you hit the ground. “Why the hell would you—?”

You winced, glaring at him through the pain. “I just did, alright??!” you snapped, your voice shaky but defiant.

Leo stared at you, completely thrown. You were hurt, bleeding, but still trying to play it cool. Typical.

“Y/N, you’re bleeding,” he said, his voice softer now, more serious. “We need to get you out of here.”

You scoffed, though it came out more like a wheeze. “It’s fine. I’ve had worse.”

“Yeah, sure,” Leo muttered, already lifting you into his arms. “Worse than bleeding out in a Foot Clan ambush?”

You didn’t have the energy to argue, letting your head rest against his shoulder as he carried you to safety.

The sewer tunnels blurred past as Leo rushed you back to the lair. You could feel his muscles tense with every step, his grip on you firm but careful.

When you finally arrived, Leo called out, his voice echoing through the space. “Donnie! Get in here, now!”

Donnie appeared in seconds, his eyes narrowing when he saw you. “What the—what happened?”

“She helped me,” Leo said, gently setting you down on the med table. “But she got hit. It’s bad.”

Donnie didn’t waste time, grabbing his med kit. “Only you can make Leo act even more like an idiot...,” he muttered, disinfecting the wound. “You go from stealing our tech to saving my brother? What’s next, joining our book club?”

“Don’t get used to it,” you mumbled, wincing as he stitched you up.

Leo stood nearby, arms crossed, watching every movement with laser focus. “You shouldn’t have done that,” he said finally, his tone unreadable.

You shot him a look. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

Leo’s expression softened just a little. “I mean it. Why’d you do it?”

You hesitated, your eyes darting away. “I don’t know,” you muttered. “I saw you in trouble, and I just... couldn’t let you get hurt, okay? Don’t read too much into it.”

Leo was quiet for a moment, then smiled. “Well, I owe you one. And for what it’s worth... thanks.”

The Foot Clan had set a trap in one of the city’s most rundown warehouses, and Raph was fighting, swinging his heavy fists with precision. But even the strongest can get caught off guard, and this time, Raph was running on fumes.

The last thing he expected was to see you, his not so rival, the one he’d tangled with so many times, leap into the fray.

“Y/N?” He barely had time to react as you slashed through one of the Foot soldiers trying to take him down. But that didn’t stop the enemy from retaliating. In the chaos, one soldier got a lucky strike, and you yelped as the blade cut across your arm.

“Damnit!” Raph grunted, his heart skipping a beat. “Y/N, what the hell are you doing?”

You ignored him, your face contorting in pain, but you didn’t falter. You gripped your weapon tighter, slicing through the next soldier without hesitation. But the wound in your arm was spreading blood fast, and Raph could see it wasn’t just a scratch.

“Y/N, you’re hurt!” he shouted, his voice full of concern. But before you could respond, another soldier aimed their blade right at Raph’s exposed side.

In a blur of movement, you leapt between them, pushing him out of the way just in time. The blade hit your side this time, and you staggered back with a sharp gasp.

“Damn it,” Raph muttered, pushing through his shock. “We need to get you out of here now.”

You, ever the stubborn pain in the ass, shook your head. “I’m fine, Raph,” you snapped, though your voice had an unsteady tremor to it. “It’s just a scratch, relax.”

“Just a scratch?” Raph growled, clearly not buying it. “You’re bleeding out right here, and I’m gonna make sure you don’t die ‘cause of your stupid pride.”

Without another word, he scooped you up, your bleeding side pressing against his shell as he carried you. You didn’t protest, but you muttered under your breath, trying to play it off.

“I don’t know why I’m saving your shell,” you mumbled, but your voice was softer than usual. “You’re gonna owe me big time for this, you know that?”

Raph grunted in response, but he was too focused on getting you to safety. “Just... Keep quiet and let me save your life, alright?”

When Raph barged into the lair with you in his arms, Donnie was already rushing to meet them, his sharp eyes instantly catching the bloodstain on your side.

“What happened?” Donnie asked, though he wasn’t looking at Raph—he was focused entirely on you.

“I think she saved my life,” Raph muttered, setting you down carefully on one of the tables. You winced as you laid back, looking up at Donnie.

“I didn’t ask for any of this,” you mumbled, but it was clear you weren’t putting up the usual tough act now that you were hurt.

Donnie rolled his eyes, though he was clearly concerned. “You never do, do you?” he said, working quickly to clean and dress the wound. “But the fact remains that you’re here, and you need stitches.”

You sighed, looking at the ceiling. “Yeah, yeah. I know.”

Meanwhile, Raph stood by, his arms crossed, but there was something in his eyes that was typical in his family. Worry. Concern. Maybe even guilt.

You caught his gaze and raised an eyebrow. “What?”

Raph shifted uncomfortably. “Why’d you do it?” he asked, his voice low. “You didn’t have to save me. You could’ve just let me get sliced up.”

You met his gaze, your expression unreadable for a moment. Then, you shrugged. “I don’t know, Raph. I just... couldn’t watch you go down like that, alright? You’re... kind of a pain, but you don’t deserve to get your ass handed to you.”

Raph smirked, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’m a pain?”

“Yeah,” you said, your voice still steady, but there was a hint of softness in it that you weren’t used to showing. “But you're not that bad. So I did it. And that’s that.”

Raph didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he stared at you for a long beat, and for the first time, there wasn’t a flicker of anger in his gaze—only gratitude.

“Thanks,” he finally muttered, his voice a little rougher than usual. “I owe you one.”

You glanced at him, rolling your eyes, but there was no denying the warmth in your chest. “Don’t go getting soft on me, Raph.”

He chuckled, but it was a softer sound than you were used to hearing from him. “I’m not. I just don’t like owing people.”

“Well, I’m not taking your money, so don’t even think about it,” you shot back, the corner of your mouth curling up into a smirk.

The night had started like any other. You and Donnie were out in the city, doing your usual thing—him, geeking out over new tech, and you, causing a little chaos just for the fun of it. But tonight, things went wrong.

The Foot Clan had found you. Or maybe you had found them—it wasn’t exactly clear. All you knew was that you were cornered, and that didn’t happen to you often.

Donnie had been watching from a distance, but when he saw you get overwhelmed by a group of Foot soldiers, panic surged through him. He wasn’t about to let you get hurt.

So, he dove in, all but crashing into the fight, his bo staff whirling through the air, knocking soldiers down with ease. You managed to get two soldiers away from him, preventing them from hurting Donnie, but it wasn’t enough to stop what happened next. You were too far from him, your back to a wall, the soldiers closing in on you.

And that’s when the worst happened. A Foot soldier’s blade scraped across your side, and you went down, your breath catching as the pain hit you. Donnie’s heart dropped.

“Y/N!” he shouted, pushing his way through the chaos to get to you.

He reached you in seconds, kneeling down next to you. “Hey! Look at me!” His voice was frantic, his hands hovering above your wound, unsure of what to do.

You groaned, struggling to sit up. “It’s fine,” you mumbled, your voice shaky but trying to stay tough. “It’s just a scratch.”

“Just a scratch?!” Donnie nearly yelled, his tone a mix of frustration and genuine worry. “Y/N, you’re bleeding out!”

You gave him a look that said you weren’t going to listen to his freak-out, but the way your lips trembled told him you were starting to feel the full weight of the injury.

“Hang on, I’ve got you,” Donnie said quickly, scooping you up and cradling you in his arms. He ignored the protests you threw at him, already making his way out of the battle zone, his heart racing. He couldn’t lose you. Not like this.

He didn’t even waste time explaining—he just rushed over to one of the medical tables, laying you down as gently as possible.

“Donnie, it’s not that bad,” you said weakly, though it was clear you weren’t exactly believing your own words.

“Y/N, don’t make me slap you,” Donnie muttered, pulling out his med kit with shaky hands. He was trying to remain calm, but it was hard. Seeing you hurt—seeing you like this—was something he couldn’t handle.

He took a breath, trying to steady himself before looking down at you. “You’re an idiot for getting yourself into this situation.”

You smirked weakly, despite the pain. “Yeah, well, you’re an idiot for rushing in to save me.”

Donnie’s face softened, and for a moment, he looked at you as if he was about to say something else, something more heartfelt. But instead, he focused on the task at hand, carefully cleaning your wound.

“You saved me,” Donnie said, his voice quieter now, almost hesitant. “You really didn’t have to, but you did.”

You tilted your head, trying to meet his gaze despite how much your head was spinning. “I don’t know why I did,” you admitted with a sigh. “I just... couldn’t watch you get hurt.”

Donnie froze, his hands still for a moment as he processed your words. He’d known you were an unpredictable force, but this? This was something new. Something genuine.

“You’re saying you... care?” Donnie asked, his voice betraying the disbelief he felt.

You gave a pained smile. “I don’t know. I think I might, okay?”

Donnie blinked, clearly caught off guard, but the look on his face softened. He took a breath, trying to hide the relief that was slowly spreading through him. “Well, thanks,” he said softly. “I guess I’m not used to seeing you... Trying to save me.”

“You’re welcome, geek,” you teased, even though your voice was softer now, a little more sincere than you’d intended. “But don’t get all sappy on me.”

Donnie chuckled, though it was a strained sound, as he worked on bandaging you up. “I wouldn’t dream of it,” he said, though his smile didn’t quite hide the relief in his eyes.

You and Mikey were always a bit of a chaotic duo. He had this carefree, fun-loving attitude, while you were more... well, unpredictable, to say the least. Despite the fact that you were usually on opposite sides of the law, Mikey’s energy always seemed to drag you into his adventures—whether you liked it or not.

Tonight, though, things were different. You had been running solo for a while, causing your usual trouble, when you’d gotten into it with a group of Foot soldiers. Normally, that wouldn’t be an issue for you. You could handle yourself. But this time, they’d caught you off guard.

You were cornered, surrounded by blades and weapons, when Mikey showed up—grinning, as usual, with his nunchucks in hand, ready to save the day. But as he dove into the fight, you took a wrong step, and a blade caught you across the shoulder.

“Shit,” you muttered, clutching the injury as the pain surged through you. You didn’t have time to dwell on it because Mikey was already there, knocking out the nearest Foot soldier.

“Mikey, get out of here!” you snapped, trying to keep your balance. You weren’t going to show him weakness.

But Mikey wasn’t listening. He dropped to his knees beside you, his grin quickly falling into a concerned frown. “No way, dude. I’m not leaving you behind.”

You rolled your eyes, even though you could feel the blood staining your shirt. “I didn’t ask for your help, Mikey. Get back to your brothers before you get yourself hurt.”

“Like hell I’m leaving!” Mikey replied, his voice full of determination. “I’m not gonna just let you get hurt.”

And just like that, Mikey scooped you up with surprising ease, carrying you toward safety. You didn’t have the strength to protest this time. You just let him do it, even though you were clearly irritated by the situation.

“Dude, this is so not cool,” you grumbled, lying back on the medical table as Donnie worked to patch you up.

Mikey sat beside you, clearly not understanding why you were so upset. “I don’t get it. You’re hurt, and I’m saving your shell, what’s the problem?”

You gave him a sharp look, your lips pressed tightly together. “I didn’t need saving, Mikey. I can handle myself.”

Mikey cocked his head, looking at you like you were speaking another language. “Yeah, but you were not handling yourself. You were about to get sliced up by some Foot soldiers!”

“Exactly my point,” you shot back, wincing as Donnie cleaned the wound. “I don’t need anyone’s help. I’ve survived this long on my own.”

Mikey’s expression softened, and his voice grew quieter. “Yeah, but that’s not all there is to it. You don’t have to do everything alone, you know.”

You turned your head to the side, trying to hide the sudden wave of emotion that hit you. Mikey’s words were simple, but they struck something deep inside you. You had always prided yourself on being independent, doing things your own way, but...

You couldn’t deny that Mikey’s sincerity was getting to you.

“You’ve got a weird way of showing you care, Mikey,” you muttered.

He grinned widely, not missing a beat. “Well, you’re lucky I’m weird, huh?”

You rolled your eyes, though you couldn’t suppress a small smile. “Yeah, I guess I am.”

Donnie finished up with your wound, stepping back to give you some space. “You’re all patched up, but you’re going to need to take it easy for a while. That said... DON'T TRY TO STEAL ANYTHING ELSE FOR NOW!.”

You let out a dramatic groan. “Yeah, yeah, Donnie. I hear you.”

Mikey nudged you with his elbow, still grinning. “You’re welcome, by the way. I’m pretty sure you’d be toast without me.”

You shot him a glare, but your voice wasn’t as harsh as usual. “I didn’t ask for your help, Mikey.”

Mikey just shrugged. “Yeah, well, too bad. You got it anyway. And I’m glad I was there. You know why?”

You frowned, looking at him cautiously. “Why?”

“Because,” Mikey said, smiling again, “you’re my friend. I care about you. And I’m not gonna let you get hurt if I can stop it.”

For once, you didn’t have a snarky retort. You just looked at him, feeling something strange bloom inside your chest. It wasn’t weakness. It wasn’t dependence. It was just... genuine care.

You sighed, still trying to hide the softness in your voice. “I guess you’re not so bad, Mikey.”

He smirked, obviously pleased with himself. “I know. It’s part of my charm.”

You couldn’t help but chuckle, even as you fought the growing warmth in your chest. “Yeah, yeah, whatever.”

Mikey’s grin only widened, and he gave you a playful pat on the shoulder. “Just remember that I saved your shell, and you owe me big time, alright?”

You raised an eyebrow, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at your lips. “Yeah, sure, Mikey. But don’t expect me to make it a habit.”

He winked at you. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Y/N. Wouldn’t dream of it.”

[tinydefector]

TINYDEFECTOR! DROP ANOTHER INSECTICON FIC OR WRITTEN WORK AND MY LIFE IS YOURS!

(If you have the time and energy of course. Take care of yourself and be safe!)

Y'all asked for Insecticons get ready for Arcee and Insecticon reader as this for Kinktober for today and tomorrow as a two part piece becuase I wanted my wife to get some action and she deserves a Rebelled Colony of Insecticons.

This actually really made me want to make an Insecticon Oc so....

Kinktober day 4 Insecticons

TFP Arcee x Insecticon reader

Word count: 1.5k

Warnings: pheromones, hormones, fingering, mating.

@tf-kinktober2024

Day 3

Day 5

____________

Arcee is out on a stealth mission investigating an Insecticon disturbances. Her sensors were on high alert as she moved through the tunnels of the mines. a set of optics linger on the blue autobot as she slinks around the old mine. But they stay out of view of the Autobot, following her movements. "You're not a very sneaky Autobot" they call out.

With a quick scan of the area, Arcee tried to pinpoint the source of the voice blasters drawn. She knew that if this was a Decepticon trap, she had to be prepared to defend herself at a moment's notice. 

As she continued to move cautiously through the dark tunnels, Arcee kept her optics sharp and her processor running at full speed, ready for whatever might come her way. She couldn't afford to let her guard down. 

They move along the roof of the mine quickly, disappearing before she can see them. "Where's your Team blue?" They ask, slinking back behind more rocks as they move further down the mine. Arcee's circuits buzz with a mix of concern and determination as she hears the mysterious figure taunting her about the absence of her team.

 She replies in a calm but firm voice, "My team is where they need to be, just like I am."

Despite the voice's attempts to unsettle her, Arcee focused on navigating the dark and treacherous mine. She couldn't let herself be distracted. 

They move swiftly, body slamming her into one of the walls of the mine before pinning her down. Arcee's systems flared with alarm as she was suddenly ambushed and pinned down by the mysterious figure. Despite her best efforts to defend herself, she found herself overpowered and at the mercy of her assailant. 

Bright green optics look down at her as their wings flicker making a low clicking noise. " You know better to sneak into places that aren't yours" they warn, in truth they didn't want to hurt her, but they couldn't say the same for others of the Rebelled hive.

Struggling against the force holding her down, Arcee tried to maintain her composure and assess her options. The warning from the figure only added to her unease, knowing that there were potentially more dangerous threats lurking in the shadows of the mine.

With a steely resolve in her voice, Arcee replied, "where's Arachnid, is she skulking around here" it came out more as a snarl as she spoke, Arcee's processors worked overtime. 

They let out a soft vent. "The hive has moved on. Arachnid has taken them, few of us have separated, taking these old mines as our burrows. The others dont like intruders, they will rip you apart if they find you" they warn, Their wings flutter again slightly but they don't make another move to try and attack, just keep her pinned. 

Another sound further down the mine makes their head snap towards the noise. Before tightening their holding her and moving swiftly with her pressed against their bulk. "Stay quiet" they chirp against her audial processor.

As they navigated the maze-like passages, Arcee remained on high alert, scanning for any signs of danger or potential threats. She knew that the Insecticons were formidable adversaries, and the one currently carrying her was a much larger one than she had dealt with before. 

 They drag her down into a rather tight burrow using their bulk to block out the view from any of the other Insecticons that move around. Arcee's spark pulsed with fear as she found herself dragged into the tight burrow, surrounded by the ominous sounds of the Insecticons communicating with each other. Despite the overwhelming odds against her.

Struggling against the figure holding her, Arcee fought back slightly, pushing against their bulk and trying to break free from their grasp. She knew that the Insecticons were dangerous adversaries, so she had to get out now. "Let me go!" Arcee growled. 

"Stop or i'll let them have you" They nearly snarl against her shoulder. Their clawed Servos pull her snuggle against their frame. Despite the other Insecticons displeased noises no one had attacked her. Their wings seem to almost wrap around her. Its only when the sweet scent emitting from the Insecticons have her frame relax and nearly melt into the one holding her she realises something is amidst.  

 Feeling a wave of dizziness wash over her, Arcee's usual reserve and caution seemed to slip away as she found pulled closer to their frame. "What... What are you doing to me?" she murmured, her voice much softer even as she still struggles.

They let a heavy rumble leave their chest as they watch the other Insecticons slowly disappear. " You little femme walked yourself into a Rebelled Insecticons Colony in the midst of trying to find a queen. Your frame is reacting to our pheromones" They finally explain while pulling her closer so the others couldn't have the blue Autobot.

Arcee's systems buzzed with a mix of alarm and realisation about the situation she had unwittingly stumbled into. a shiver ran down her spinal struts, Struggling to push back against the effects of the pheromones clouding her sensors and processor.

Despite the closeness of the Insecticon and the overwhelming scent clouding her thoughts, little whines leave her as her frame shakes from the intensity of the hormones.  

" the others, they would have you the moment i let you go" their antai move as they click and buzz softly. "They are watching, waiting for you to make a run for it" they move slightly keeping Arcee pinned against them. 

The warning about the other Insecticons waiting to pounce on her if she tried to escape sent a chill through her circuits, reminding her of the precarious situation she was in.

"I-I won't make a run for it," she forced out, her voice strained with effort as she tried to resist the allure of the pheromones.

They click again this time softer as they slowly release her, moving and repositioning her in the burrow. Running their mandibles against the side of her neck cables as they slot themself against her frame. "We wish to mate little femme, that is why our pheromones are affecting you "

The admission about their intentions to mate sent a surge of alarm bells off in her processor. "I... I, I'm an Autobot," Arcee managed to stammer out, her voice barely above a whisper as she tried to push back against the overwhelming sensations threatening to overwhelm her. 

" It hasn't stopped us before, why do you think the Decepticons and us were aligned for so long?One of theirs was once our Queen. We are a Rebelled Colony with no allies, little Femme we care not the alliance" they state, while pulling her further back into what looked like a rather soft little nest. Laying down with her gently grooming and tending to her as the effects take hold.

Lost in a haze of her systems pleading for more, for the con currently holding her to touch more of her plating. But the glowing optics of the others focusing on her sends cold dread through her frame. "Easy little Femme, I won't let them touch you unless you want them" they coo against her neck cables.

 The realisation that the Autobots were in desperate need of allies, even if it meant forging a tenuous alliance with the Rebelled Colony, sent a shiver down her frame.

Despite her reservations and the full fledged effects of the pheromones clouding her judgement, Arcee found herself surprisingly talkative under the influence of the Insecticons touch. "We... we need allies," she murmured, her voice betraying a hint of vulnerability beneath her usual stoicism.

As the Insecticons gentle ministries continued. "And we need a Queen little femme" they mumble, the buzzing from their frame has her trying to pull them closer. They lean into her, servos moving down her hip plating to her valve cover, lightly tracing it, as their digits move down as it snaps open, they watch her every reaction as her body begins reacting to their pheromones. Keening softly as he moves against their servo. 

Her voice trembling, Arcee managed to speak, her words tinged with a mix of uncertainty and curiosity. "I-I am not a Queen," she whispered, her voice barely above a murmur as she tried to process the Insecticons words.

Their digits slowly press into her valve, working her open softly, scissoring her open. "We can change that sweet Femme" they hum softly, mandibles tracing her face and cables. Their other arm lifts her other leg giving themself more space between her thighs, Breathing in the scent of her.  

For an Insecticon they are rather gentle, even loving as they kiss her. She melts into each touch, optics blown wide as little moans and gasp leave her. A loud purr vibrates from their chest as they press closer to her. Digits tracing over her nodes and even running up her spike before plunging back into her valve. 

_____________

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[ur-mag]

Gaza invasion plans REVEALED as Israeli shoot-to-kill ‘tunnel rats’ face booby-trap hellhole with ambushes at every turn | In Trend Today

Gaza invasion plans REVEALED as Israeli shoot-to-kill ‘tunnel rats’ face booby-trap hellhole with ambushes at every turn Read Full Text or Full Article on MAG NEWS

[tiddygame]

Ghoap god type au part 10!

Ao3 /// part 1 /// part 2 /// part 3 /// part 4 /// part 5 /// part 6 /// part 7 /// part 8 /// part 9 /// part 10

WERE ALMOST THERE LESSGO

Everyone say thank you to my friend Aster who has no interest in Call of Duty whatsoever, but let me talk to them about this fic for almost two fucking hours and use them as a rubber duck to fix some issues with the plot. Thank you, Aster! And sorry for ranting to you about Call of Duty fanfiction for TWO. FUCKING. HOURS. :,)

edit: why does the formatting always break after i post 😭

@imjustheretofightforlove / @pieckyghost / @life-as-a-gamergirl

...

The plan was simple, in theory.

Before the war began, tunnels had been dug into the mountain; At the time, their numbers, both of men and supplies, were outgrowing the fort, even with it being as big as it was. It was supposed to eventually become a store room, winding passageways connecting to create an outline.

Then war came knocking. Their supplies dwindled, they lost men, and the tunnels became nothing more than a forgotten project. Once they sat as an odd reminder of how far the fort had fallen; to have gone from carving through stone for extra room for all of their supplies to barely able to avoid hypothermia at night was a haunting ghost of their fall from grace.

But, perhaps now they could offer their salvation.

The Captain’s men were to set a scene; They hid the evidence of the medical center the once formidable fort had become and made it look like it had been bustling with life. 

Initially, they tossed around the idea of moving the sick and injured out but abandoned the idea quickly. It involved too much risk, too many variables; Some wouldn’t have survived the trip.

Instead they prepped the unused warehouse and war room. They moved the worst off into the buildings and those who had a better chance at fighting into the walls. Snow would cover the amount of movement that had happened over the course of executing their plan. 

The healthy few would  silently tell the story of a panicked and hasty retreat that looked as if it had happened just minutes prior.

They laid false tracks, leading to the tunnels. Tunnels that could perhaps be mistaken for an evacuation route by those unfamiliar with the area or a group in the rush of a promised battle. Tunnels that could trap those who charged in blindly. Tunnels that had one entrance, one exit.

And they waited, placing their trust in the reluctant apostle of a forgotten god.

…

Ghost had returned to camp well into the night; the air didn’t feel as frigid after sleeping on a mountain. The trek was much easier the second time, having two advantages with setting out earlier and not losing his fucking mind in a dead man’s cabin.

The general hadn’t asked him any questions. Just said that it was a shame he didn’t catch anything and that dinner had already been served.

That first night, Ghost fell in and out of a fitful sleep, unable to rest. He kept his weapons placed strategically, waiting for the ambush. There was no way they did not know of his betrayal.

Yet, the ambush never came. They marched on. 

It took weeks for the entire camp to make the journey that had taken him a single day. The snowy weather only worsened in protest of spring looming closer.

When the general sent out the platoon, Ghost was filled with so much  dread that he couldn’t feel anxious. He knew how to stay calm in dire situations, but this wasn’t that. He wasn’t calm, it was like he had hit his limit of how much stress he was able to process and was left hollow.

The morning was far too calm for the bloodshed that was bound to occur on either side. Tragedy was imminent and the sun hadn’t even crested the horizon.

Staring at the closed gates of the fortress in formation with men he should have called brother, he had a sinking feeling that he was going to be reunited with his old friend before the next sunrise.

He thought he might have heard that friend telling him to breathe.

Ghost was not the one leading the charge, no, he wasn’t trusted enough for that, but he was on the front lines. He was one of the first to push through the gates, to search for the enemy, and perhaps might have even been the one to pointedly stare at the obvious trail leading to the tunnels.

He may or may not have been right behind the commanding officer that followed the trail with his weapon drawn. 

And when they realized that the tunnels were nothing more than a circuitous dead end, they filed out in reverse order. The passages were not wide enough for two armored soldiers to pass by each other, forcing them to slowly and awkwardly work their way out of the commander’s shortsightedness one by one. 

The commanding officer, Ghost, and whatever other poor fools that had been stuck on the front line were still at the back when the Captain called to fire. 

Archers that had been lying in wait, hiding atop the walls, picked off the soldiers that made their way out one by one. The Captain’s men were greatly outnumbered, but those numbers offered no help when the only soldiers that made their way out were turned into pincushions.

It did not take them long to realize that the exit was impassable, and they fell back, looking to their commanding officer for an order.

Their commanding officer, whose head had been cleaved in two by someone who was once on their side. Some were frozen in fear, some charged towards the defector, and some attempted to flee. 

Those with delusions of bravery were cut down quickly, same went for the ones that froze. As for the rest, the traitor found a perverse satisfaction from attacking the back of a fleeing man, just as they had done to their enemies. 

The only light was from the few that had carried in torches. As they dropped, the shadows grew twisted and distorted, corrupted by the betrayal. 

The soldiers that made it to the exit found that swordsmen had joined the archers in blocking the exit. They turned back once more and saw the carnage caused by a wraith covered in the blood of their allies. 

They had a choice, not to live or die, but of which blade to be struck down by.

The mountain reeked of copper.

The sounds of a slaughter quietened.

The swordsmen did not holster their weapons. The archers did not drop their arrows. The Captain did not give the order to stand down. Each and every one of them waited to see who would exit the tunnels.

The silence was cut through by the sound of squelching, the sound of piles of corpses being stepped on as one man exited.

The traitor emerged, black cloak turned red. 

The Captain’s men cheered. 

The traitor did not.

They relit the fires that had been snuffed. The bodies were removed and treated with an undeserved amount of care as they were lined up and piled. Despite just cheering their deaths, they gave the felled enemy the mercy of a proper funeral.

They knew that their own allies had not been given the same treatment, but refused to stoop to the enemy’s level. The Captain watched as the pyre was lit. Soon after, they dispersed, preparing the fort for regular, day-to-day life.

The Captain stayed and kneeled by the roaring flame, tending to it, making sure it continued to burn. 

The traitor approached, stood next to him. He took off his armor piece by piece and tossed it onto the fire. It was soaked in blood, the insignia that once denoted him as one of the mighty general’s soldiers was hidden beneath the carnage that he had wrought. 

They both watched the fire.

The traitor walked towards the gate. The Captain stopped him. Thanked him. Held out his hand to shake. It was stared at for a long time.

The traitor accepted and shook his hand. He found that the Captain held money in his palm, an award for his treachery. Blood money. It was still accepted.

The Captain wore a gaze too kind for the size of the pyre behind him. Told the traitor that should he need it, he would have a roof for himself at the fort. One that did not require pledging a blade nor a life to his army.

The Captain said that they all owed him their lives.

The traitor disagreed but said nothing. He walked down the path to his steed, covered in the blood of his old allies, money in hand.

…

Ghost came back to himself sitting in a freezing river.

Ice and snow dotted the muddy banks in clumps. 

His horse was hitched to a tree. 

Water lapped at his neck; he was kneeling and hunched over enough that only his head was not submerged. Blood trailed away from him, following the flow of the river. 

His sword had been dropped on the snowy bank, pulled slightly by the water but still secure where it sat. His halberd had been buried into the riverbed, the ax slammed into the mud with enough force to hold it in place against the current.

First he realized someone was humming. 

Then he realized someone was holding his head to their chest. 

And then that they were wiping his face and neck, cleaning what the water could not reach.

Ghost closed his eyes and let himself collapse fully into Soap’s arms.

His tune did not stutter. He just held the broken man closer, pressing his lips against his hair and rocking them back and forth.

Ghost clung onto the arm stretched across his chest like it was a lifeline. And it might as well have been. Soap might as well have been. 

He couldn’t tell if he was breathing.

A former gladiator, forced to the ground and shaking because he had to kill people.

He was cold, but not as cold as he should have been. Submerged in a frozen river, he should have already been dead, but Soap didn’t let him feel more than a watery chill.

His fingers weren’t numb, yet he couldn’t feel them. He was trying. He wanted to feel the current, to feel the flow of water, but they might as well have not been there, refusing to respond.

He would never return to camp nor meet the general’s ire ever again.

There was a bird on the ground. A little waxwing. Hopping around and pecking the dirt. It scratched at the rocky bank for a moment before taking flight, landing in the branches of a leafless tree.

The little waxwing ruffled its feathers and shook its head. It called out a few times before taking off again, flying somewhere Ghost couldn’t watch it anymore. He wished it had lingered just a little longer.

He would have thought he was hyperventilating if not for the fact that he watched  his slow, steady puffs of air freeze in the wind.

After spending too long drifting away, Ghost found it within himself to ask, “What happens now?”

Soap hummed, “Find somewhere safe for tonight, eat something warm, and rest.”

He said it so simply without even having to think about it. It was obvious to Soap.

“And then after that?” Ghost asked, not able to accept that it was that easy.

“One step at a time,” he said gently, running a wet hand through his hair.

Ghost shook his head, his anxiety growing, his breathing getting quicker. He knew what Soap was trying to say, but to him it sounded like there was no plan. Like the only thing he could do was focus on tonight because there was no tomorrow. 

“Hey,” Soap pulled him back, pressing his lips to his temple, “Heroes for hire, right?”

“I’m—,” Ghost stuttered a moment before he remembered confiding in him about an old friend. “—Surprised you remember that,” he finished in a mumble. It was said so softly, a mortal man wouldn’t have heard it over the rush of water.

The god smiled, “Of course. You said it, didn’t you?”

The words bounced around in his mind but failed to process them.

“It’s up to you to live out the dream, for both of you.” Hope came so easily to Soap and Ghost would have given anything to have a fraction of his love for the world.

Soap paused the rocking as something spooked a small flock of birds that were sitting in a nearby tree. Ghost could see out of the corner of his eye the way the god glared over at them, daring anyone or anything to intrude on… whatever was happening.

As soon as Soap was certain that there was no imminent threat, he returned to his rocking and rested his head against the top of Ghost’s.

Ghost, ever the contrarian, cynically asked, “The dream of running around, demanding money from people in need?”

It was the very thing that had him itching for a fight when getting the kid medical attention; Someone taking advantage of another’s desperation for a little bit more change in their pocket. 

Was that the life Ghost was meant to strive for?

Despite the (surely by now, very annoying) pessimism, Soap easily amended, “Running free, helping people in exchange for a warm meal.”

“You remind me of him,” Ghost said before he could think better of it.

Soap was silent, Ghost didn’t know how long for. His thoughts were split between regret for voicing the comparison and guilt at the reminder of his long lost friend. When he found it within himself to pull far enough away to see Soap’s face, he found that he was wearing a soft smile.

Soap asked gently, “What’s his name?” 

Ghost wasn’t used to so much gentleness directed towards him of all people and struggled with the question. Ghost wanted to answer, but he couldn’t.

Soap, in all of his kindness, waited. Let him sit there and flounder under a simple task with enough patience to ascend him to divinity if he weren’t already a god.

Ghost took a deep breath and closed his eyes. 

He exhaled shakily.

“Roach. His name was Roach.”

Ghost felt years upon years of delayed grief hit him at once.

“He—” 

His voice broke. After all of that, his voice broke after six words. 

Fucking years of never-ending torment made bearable by one man’s presence and he didn’t have the decency to give out more than his name? Gods, the amount of fights he wanted to lose just so it would be over but kept going because of him and that was all Ghost had to offer? Six fucking words!?

“—Is very proud of you, I’m sure,” Soap finished his sentence for him, “And happy that you’ve come so far.”

I am.

“Both of you need to shut up,” Ghost grumbled, his lip curling at the nauseating words from both of them. 

He reopened his eyes slowly. The snow was still just as bright as before, the water was still moving, and the wind continued to shake empty tree branches.

He stood very slowly; He didn’t know how long he was kneeling for, but he did know that it was long enough for his legs to lock into place and one of his feet to fall asleep.

Soap stood with him, holding onto his arm to make sure he didn’t fall. He couldn’t be embarrassed, he certainly needed the help (not to mention he had done the same thing to Soap not too long ago). 

With his foot only half-assedly responding, he limped towards Taxes. Soap did not let go until Ghost grabbed onto her and started petting her mane. 

It took Ghost far too long to realize that his clothes were inexplicably dry. It should have been the first thing he noticed as soon as he stood, and yet…

He couldn’t afford to get lost in his own head again. 

Ghost removed his gloves to feel the coarse hair of Taxes’s winter coat beneath his hands and stared down at his feet, noting any and every detail about the snow and twigs beneath him.

Soap grabbed his weapons from the river for him and set them against the tree. Part of the ax and speartip were muddy, a line showing where they had been sunk into the riverbed. 

He watched, entranced, as the water on the blades frosted over and coated the metal in a sheen of white. He couldn’t tell how cold it was with the god shielding him from most of it, but if it froze that quickly…

It only served as yet another testament to how much Soap did for him with little to nothing in return. 

There was a tangle in Taxes’s mane.

He brushed through it slowly. Soap patted Ghost’s shoulder and let his hand linger there. Part of Ghost wondered if the god was as touch-starved as he was.

“Do you know where the nearest town is?” Soap asked. He was probably about to have to leave again.

Ghost nodded slowly. 

Ghost was going to a town. To find a hotel. So he could rent a room. And stay there. Because he wasn’t going back to camp again. Ever. He couldn’t. 

And again, it was Soap who pulled him back. 

Soap dropped his hand to grab Ghost’s, squeezing it with that complicated look of emotions that Ghost wasn’t willing to unpack. Nothing was said, but Ghost squeezed his hand back.

They stared for a while, Ghost still trying to process how to function under the crushing weight of freedom and Soap doing whatever it is that Soap does.

Soon, the god was stepping back but did not let go of his hand. The complex array of emotions was taken over by one he knew very well: An unwilling goodbye. 

It was the sad smile of someone not wanting to leave but already anticipating their next reunion; Seeing it on Soap and about him made him feel… odd. There was a pain in his chest, but one he wanted to seek out instead of avoid. Ghost still managed to find guilt in causing Soap any negative emotion.

Soap said in a voice that was only just loud enough to be heard and no louder, “Well, I’ll… try to see you there.” 

He admitted the “trying” part reluctantly, as if ashamed by his own limits. Ghost wanted to reassure him that it was okay, but words were never his strong suit.

You should kiss his hand.

Ghost pulled Soap’s hand closer and pressed a kiss to Soap’s knuckles like some stupid scene from a stupid fairytale. As he pulled away, he rubbed his thumb across where he just kissed and let go.

Soap’s eyes were wide and a blush was just visible against his tan skin. Ghost felt pride well up from somewhere deep inside him; He, Ghost, a mortal man, just made Death blush.

“Until we meet again,” Ghost said with a sarcastically pompous tone and a burgeoning smile as he got on his horse, hoping a message that he himself wasn’t clear on was clear to Soap.

The god was still gawking at him, frozen in surprise even as Ghost rode towards the faint path in the snow. It wasn’t until he checked behind him and saw that the god was gone that his brain turned back on and practically screamed at him that he’s an idiot.

Because, yes, the god was frozen in shock, but why the fuck did he assume Soap was frozen because he was happy about Ghost kissing his hand?

Ghost closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose. 

This was the fucking bar fight thing all over again. He had assumed that Soap wanted or needed his help to get down and made a fool of himself back then, and the same had happened once more. 

Except worse. Because he just fucking kissed his hand. Unprompted.

Well… unprompted from Soap, at least.

Quit your whining. Soap’s a god, if he didn’t like it, he’d have done something about it.

Which was the same excuse he had given after the cabin.

I was correct then, and I’m correct now!

He buried his face in his hands. Gods, why didn’t Ghost just fucking ignore him like he always did? Everything would have been fine if he hadn’t acted on some stupid little voice inside his fucking head—

You’re gonna thank me when all of this is said and done.

Ghost couldn’t take it anymore and yelled in exasperation to an empty, snowy forest, “When all of what is said and done!?”

Predictably, the trees held no answer and he heard the faint echo of a familiar laugh from somewhere in his own head. Ghost resituated and mocked the voice, hoping his annoyance was clear.

The town was hours away, and he’d spend every minute of the ride stewing in the agony of knowing he was an easily manipulated, stupid idiot. He sighed, although it quickly turned into a frustrated groan.

“Fuck you,” Ghost grumbled.

Aww, you’re so nice to me!

Ghost could picture his stupid shit-eating grin without even being able to see him. He shook his head and reminded himself that he was angry at him and shouldn’t smile at his joke. Fucker.

…

The room he had been given was comfortably small, most of the area taken up by a large bed centered on one of the walls, with a floor that creaked every time he shifted his weight.

Most of the light streamed in from the windows that overlooked the tree line although a few dim lanterns were dotted about the room. A wood stove in the corner was working to fend off the frigid weather with a small table and chairs under one of the windows.

Ghost barely took the time to check the room before dropping his gear and outerwear unceremoniously to the floor. It was warmer than what he would have expected and the bed was calling his name even though it couldn’t have been past noon.

He still needed to give the god an offering, both as a part of his daily routine and as a thanks. Ghost couldn’t help but yearn for when it was warm enough for him to go searching for Soap’s temples.

He missed the thrill of exploration, the rewarding feeling upon properly reading the environmental clues, and comfort once near one of his old shrines. As soon as spring began to scare away the snow or he was far enough south for it to warm up, he’d have to find one again.

He stared at the ceiling above him in case it had any ideas for possible offerings hidden in the wood grain. Nope. But the bed was more comfortable than he expected.

The quilt overtop of it was rough, scratchy, and heavy in a way that he knew he would not struggle to stay warm that night — It reminded him of one his mother had made years and years ago. The unrefined stitching was charming; whoever made it cared more about functionality than looks and wanted something warm as opposed to pretty.

Uncomfortable, lumpy pillows sat against the headboard. The last time he had slept with an actual pillow was… probably back in Soap’s temple after the bookstore debacle. (He still had no idea where Soap had gotten it and the blanket from).

Sure, most people would probably call it pretty shitty, but he wasn’t on a cot, in a sleeping bag, or staring up at a canvas tent. To him, it was perfect.

While he was cold, he did not get under the covers. He knew that he was lying to himself that he would be able to stay awake if he did.

But he definitely wasn’t lying to himself about staying awake as long as he just laid on top of the blankets. The fact that he blinked and suddenly the sun was much closer to the horizon than it had been a moment ago meant nothing.

The cause of his vexation was sitting at the table. Soap was staring out the window with his chin propped up on his hand, Ghost could only see the back of his head. He was tapping his fingers against his arm.

Ghost reluctantly sat up and stretched, afterwards having to blink several times for the world to return to normal.

“I was wondering when you were going to wake up,” Soap commented without turning away from the window.

“Should’ve woken me, then,” Ghost grumbled. He was surprised by the rasp in his own voice, making a face of confusion, only then realizing how deeply he must have slept. He moved his legs over the side of the bed like he was going to stand, but as soon as he realized that standing meant leaving the bed, he changed his mind.

Soap chuckled quietly, now looking at him. “I’d rather kill myself than interrupt your sleep.”

“Fucking hell! Alright, gods…” Ghost responded as if he wouldn’t make a similarly grim joke. “How long have you been waiting?” he asked, fruitlessly trying to rub the sleep from his eyes.

“Not long.” Soap answered fast enough that Ghost knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was lying. He rubbed his eyes harder, now wondering how long Soap had to wait on him.

When he finished, he found Soap staring at him. As soon as he saw that Ghost had noticed him, Soap looked away, shifting in his chair and messing with his hands.

It was Ghost’s turn to stare now as he tried to figure out what made him so antsy and… was he blushing? What— 

Oh yeah. 

That.

Fuck.

How does he even begin to apologize for kissing Soap’s hand?

Tell him you want to kiss him on the lips.

Ghost wanted to throw something out the window. That stupid little voice was the very reason he was in this fucking predicament to begin with!

Oh, boo hoo. Now kiss.

Ghost took a shaky breath. “I’m sorry about earlier—”

“I’m sorry I made you—”

They started speaking at the same time, both apologizing but cutting each other off before the reason for the apology could be revealed. They paused and a slightly awkward laugh was shared as a tense air fell over them.

“You first,” Ghost said before Soap could, delaying the inevitable.

“I’m sorry I made you do— well— all of this,” Soap said, looking anywhere but at Ghost, gesturing around.

“All of what?” Ghost asked.

“This,” Soap said again. “The— The betrayal, the cabin, the ambush— all of it.” He finally looked back at Ghost, his voice filled with regret. “I’m glad you’re not there any more—” If he said it with any more anger, smoke would have been pouring from his lips. “—But I wish it hadn’t come with… everything else.”

Ghost sighed sadly, upset at the idea that Soap believed he owed an apology for pushing him to leave the general’s side. “Soap—”

“Nope! Your turn! What do you think you have to apologize for?” he interrupted quickly, his tone pulling a 180 with a hypocritical denial to hear any push back on whether he needed to apologize. 

The last part of his statement didn’t make any sense; It should have been obvious why he was apologizing. Ghost had just kissed his hand out of nowhere, of course he needed to apologize for that. 

Did Soap somehow forget? Was it that bad that he immediately repressed it to the point he didn’t even remember Ghost’s fuck up? Did he just want to pretend it never happened and brush it aside in the hopes it wouldn’t happen again?

Well, Soap would be right about that — Ghost sure as shit wasn’t going to make a mistake of that magnitude again. He owed that much to Soap, at least. He couldn’t let himself establish this pattern of constantly and consistently overstepping—

“Ghost?”

His head shot up. Soap was looking at him concerned. 

Right. They were talking.

He started his apology, “I’m sorry about earlier…” 

But Ghost always has been and always will be a coward. “With— um, not giving you an offering.” Gods, what is wrong with him? Stupidly, he stuck to his lie. “I, I tried to think of something— of an offering—”

Unless pretending he wasn’t upset about it was a test to see if he’d still apologize without Soap having to mention it, to see if he was actually sorry, and he just failed.

He was staring firmly at a knot in the floorboards as his hands mindlessly picked at his nails. He was never sure if it was a habit he formed to distract his hands or if it was because he wanted the pain of picking them too far.

Breathe.

“Ghost.” 

Soap had stood up, was standing in front of him. His eyes widened, not having heard the god’s approach. He grabbed Ghost’s hands and pulled them apart. When his thumb absently moved to keep picking at his nails, Soap clasped their hands together to prevent the action. 

Soap, perfectly fine with turning Ghost’s world on its head with just a few words, said so softly, “I’ll tell you as many times as you need to hear it. You do not owe me. You have done more for me than I could ever put into words.” Soap brought his hands together and kissed his knuckles.

If Ghost wasn’t blushing before, he definitely was now. And he wasn’t even wearing his mask.

I FUCKING TOLD YOU, YOU STUPID LITTLE BITCH.

Ghost snorted. 

Which was not the right response to Soap’s heartfelt words, but damn if dead people don’t have awful timing. Knowing just how bad of a response it was made him chuckle more, shaking his head.

“I— I’m sorry—” He was still giggling.

“What?” Soap thankfully sounded more confused than offended.

“Roach, he—” Still giggling. He could feel the dead bastard’s smug grin in his sudden silence.

“What…? Wait, did he say something?” Soap asked, catching on. “He did, didn’t he? What did he say?” Soap had a growing smile, almost laughing along with Ghost even though he had yet to find out what was so funny.

“…Nothing,” Ghost said unconvincingly. Gods, how does he explain what he said without recounting every time the asshole demanded that he flirt with Soap.

“He was making fun of me, wasn’t he?”

“No, no—”

“No? Then what was it?”

“He’s mean to me,” Ghost tattled, trying to stop laughing.

Am not. Pussy.

“You’re not gonna tell me, are you?”

“You don’t want to know,” Ghost said honestly, shaking his head. Without thinking beyond just wanting to hide, he dropped his head and closed his eyes in embarrassment, the crown of his head resting against Soap’s sternum. 

Which solved his problem of wanting to hide, but created a new problem in not knowing what to do with his hands as Soap let go. 

Gods, so much was fucking happening and he was still barely awake.

Shakingly, hesitantly, his hands fell to Soap’s sides. He was still too caught up in his own issues for the forefront of his mind to pay much attention to the action, leaving his subconscious to decide that it was the right move.

His hands were clenched in a loose fist, as if his subconscious thought that it would fix any worry of the motion being mistaken for wandering, grabbing hands. 

Part of him, the stupid part, wanted to pull the god closer and, at first, he couldn’t figure out why. But Roach’s influence must be rubbing off on him because he realized he wanted a hug. 

How fucking embarrassing.

What was even more embarrassing was how much his blush worsened when Soap brought his own hands up, one brushing through his hair and one resting on his shoulder, occasionally rubbing half-circles with his thumb.

Recompense.

That was the only thing Ghost could think of in that moment. What could he do in return.

He just said you don’t need to give him anything, dumbass.

Yeah, thanks, dumbass, but he wanted to give him something. Ghost from a year ago would have scoffed at that idea and probably make fun of him too, but a year ago the only thing he had to look forward to was dying on the battlefield.

“Simon,” he said quietly without thinking about it a moment more.

“Hmm?” Soap asked quietly, neither of his hands pausing.

“My name— It’s Simon.” He lifted his head from where it was resting but did not look up. He would lose his nerve if he tried looking up at the god, so he decided that the third button from the bottom on Soap’s shirt would be just fine as a replacement.

It wasn’t the kind of offering the god needed, it didn’t have much of any meaning aside from another way to address him, but it meant something to Ghost, at least. The gods didn’t care about his weird personal plight with his real name given to him by his Mother versus the moniker bestowed upon him by those placing bets on when he’d die, but maybe it could mean something to Soap too.

“Thank you, Simon,” said Soap, still running his fingers through his hair.

And the way he said it, maybe it did mean as much to Soap as it did to Ghost. It was just his name, but it had tears welling up in his eyes. He did not know how long it had been since someone called him by his actual name.

(He did. It was the last thing Roach had said, his last words wasted on trying to save Ghost, calling out for him to move before acting for him.)

He still couldn’t look up at him, but he did manage to pull up enough to now be staring at the fifth button on his shirt. No one knowing him as anything other than Ghost was a self imposed punishment; He could have, at any given time, told people his name, but he didn’t.

And he wouldn’t. Not after how nice Soap said it. No, he would like to keep that to himself and Soap.

“I think my name was John.”

Ghost heard the way he said it. It was the same way Ghost had confessed his: quick and impulsive, saying it before your fears could talk you out of it. 

He finally pulled his eyes up, making eye contact for a split second before he settled for staring at some point on his cheek. Ghost was still sitting on the bed while Soap stood, the exaggerated height difference only making the moment of vulnerability that much more intimidating.

“John?” Ghost asked to confirm.

Soap inhaled shakily, like finally hearing someone else call him by his name confirmed hazy memories. “All of it’s fuzzy, but… I— I think it was.”

Ghost knew he would never understand the full weight of that confession but he knew that he felt happy that Soap trusted him enough for it, that Ghost may have been able to help him find solace with a question he might never be able to answer.

He would never know the origin of Death and it wasn’t a question he felt too pressed to find an answer for, not when he was sitting in front of it, fucking holding him. Knowing the name he had before becoming Death was more than enough for Ghost.

“Well, it’s nice to meet you Johnny,” Simon said, squeezing his hand.

“Is it?” Johnny asked, a question loaded with more than what was directly said.

While Simon did not know what all the god wanted to ask, he knew what his answer was regardless. “Yes, I think it is.” 

The hand that had been on his shoulder moved under his chin and slowly tilted his head up. 

It wasn’t the first time the god had done it, but his breath still hitched; the god did it the same way every time, always careful, always with a touch light enough to be a suggestion and nothing more, never forcing. And like every other time, he obliged.

Simon still dodged the eye contact like it would cause him physical pain if their eyes met, but he took in every other detail of Johnny’s face; The lingering blush, the expression that Simon couldn’t describe as anything other than awe even though that couldn’t be what it was, and (after a courage-gathering inhale) the eyes that were not looking at his own, but staring at his lips.

It took Ghost an embarrassing amount of time to realize, ‘Oh, he wants to kiss me.’

And as soon as he did, a million and one fears ran through his head, all about messing it up or misinterpreting it, but the closer Soap got, the more muffled they became. 

And, well, thinking had never done him any good, so he made an impulsive decision and crossed the last half of an inch between them.

Ghost hesitantly brought his hand to rest on Soap’s cheek, reassured when Soap did something similar and held the back of his neck. Soap held his hand there like it was protection, covering a weak spot during a moment of vulnerability. 

Vulnerable was really the only word he could use to describe it. Normally, where the word would bring fears of helplessness and going unprotected, he only felt comfort. Intimacy, his brain provided.

There was nothing he could do to try to describe it, partially because it broke his brain, but what else is new.

When they separated, Soap’s chest was moving like he was breathing heavy, like he had run out of air. Ghost smiled; He knew it was no physical limitation causing his perceived breathlessness. 

But they didn’t stay separated long. No, now that kissing was on the table, it was going to be taken fully advantage of.

Soap was the one to close the distance the second time, now holding Ghost’s face in both hands, one still on the back of his neck and the other positioned so his thumb could rub his cheek, just under his eye.

Ghost was completely out of his element but he trusted Soap. Johnny stepped closer, resting his knee on the bed next to one of Simon’s own. He almost laughed at himself; Earlier, he had scoffed at the fact that he wanted a hug, and now…

When the contact started to become too much and he remembered that he was supposed to be breathing, he tapped Soap’s wrist and pulled back. Soap thankfully understood, moving one hand back to his shoulder and the other ghosting the back of his neck. It was still contact, but much less all-encompassing; Something easier to digest without taking it away completely.

They sat in silence for a moment, processing and basking in the sudden development. Ghost felt like he was a kid sneaking into a closet to steal kisses from his sweetheart. The comparison made him blush more, and only then did he realize how red his cheeks must have been.

Simon wondered when the hell they had grown so close, wondered when the god managed to fully gain his trust without his notice.

It was anxiety-inducing and exhilarating all at once. And with Soap’s presence alone calming the anxious part of him, he was left with a delighted, fuzzy feeling that made the world feel a little more welcoming, a little bit brighter.

Ghost’s smile grew as he quietly teased, “And here I thought the kiss of Death was supposed to be a bad thing.”

Soap did something between a sigh and a scoff, like he wasn’t sure if he should take it as a compliment or a taunt. It seemed he took it as both, rolling his eyes even though the fond smile never left him.

“Oh, gods…” Ghost groaned in reluctant realization, his head falling against Johnny’s chest.

“What?” Johnny asked, his hands hovering, his worry palpable.

Simon pulled him closer as he groaned, “Roach is going to be so fucking smug.”

Damn fucking right I am, you stupid, lovable, delusionally oblivious bastard.

Soap huffed, clearly not having expected that development. “What do you mean he’s gonna be smug?”

Go on, tell him.

Ghost was now officially trying to hide against Soap, even though it was Soap he would want to hide from after this admission. He groaned like he was in grievous physical pain and (very) reluctantly admitted, “…Roach has been trying to tell me that you want to kiss me or that I should kiss you for weeks now.”

The words were so mumbled, Ghost hoped that Soap didn’t understand them. But of course he did. Simon heard Soap’s laugh as much as he felt it, and damn that pushy, dead freak, he wanted to burrow through the floorboards.

“Is… Is that why you kissed my hand in the forest?” Johnny asked, a grin audible in his voice.

He groaned again, just needing to make his annoyance known, and nodded against his chest. 

Soap’s arms landed on his back and held him, comforting him even as the traitor chuckled at Simon’s misery. “Well, he wasn’t wrong — And I’m very glad you chose to listen to him.”

Ghost held his breath for several seconds, though he had no idea what he was trying to achieve. When he breathed in again, he turned his head to the side, still resting against Soap but watching the sunset through the window.

I believe a thanks is in order.

“Thank you, Roach,” Ghost reluctantly mumbled, forgetting that Soap would hear it too. He needed another nap.

The god echoed his words, “Yes, thank you, Roach.”

Simon shook his head, “Don’t thank him too, his ego was already bad enough.”

“Well, I think he deserves it,” Johnny said, leaving Simon outnumbered. 

Ghost finally pulled his head up and stared at Soap. “That’s because you don’t have to listen to him—”

Soap quietened his petulant argument by kissing his forehead, stopping Ghost in his tracks and leaving him to blink blankly as his blush slowly grew worse as if they hadn’t kissed on the lips just a moment ago.

Haha, loser.

Simon looked away and resisted the urge to feel the spot the god kissed, who only chuckled at his reaction.

…

Although the sun had settled behind the mountains, he still braved the nighttime winds that rolled through the town. It had only been a few hours since he left Taxes in the hands of the local stable, but he couldn’t not check on her. So, to the stables he trekked.

The locals were wandering the street just fine, unfazed by the weather. Ghost, however, was not as acclimated.

It wasn’t long after Soap and Roach bullied him that the god had to leave, still bound by the limitations of his power. Ghost distantly wondered if he could give Johnny food offerings again and claim they were for dates… But the idea was left behind when it made him confront the idea that he might be dating a fucking god.

Flowers would still have to do… 

…Which are also something given on dates. Fuck.

He hugged the buildings, the store fronts and porches offered some protection from the wind that billowed down the street. There were more people out and about now, but even the nighttime rush was still quite quaint.

The hitching posts in front of the tavern were almost all taken. Fortunately, the building didn’t look too rowdy from where he glanced through the windows from the other side of the street; Soap would absolutely kill him if he got into another barfight.

When he finished trudging through all of the snow and got to the stable, he found that predictably, Taxes was fine, but that didn’t stop him from letting out a sigh of relief. When he went to pet her, she was reluctant for only a second or two before she remembered that she liked to be petted and demanded that Ghost continue and never stop.

He loved his stupid horse.

“We actually made it out, huh?” he mumbled, still not believing it himself.

Ghost’s small smile only grew when he realized that she didn’t even know that her life was about to change for the better; She’d never have to march into battle or deal with the general’s men ever again.

Tomorrow was going to be stressful, trying to figure out a plan of action and leave to avoid having to spend what little money he was given on another night in the town. But, now that he thought about it…

It was stupid beyond belief and proof that his survival instincts had been thoroughly fucked, but part of him considered taking the Captain up on his offer.

Out of one frying pan, into a second frying pan, out of that frying pan, and back into yet another fucking frying pan. Brilliant.

But he wasn’t indebted to the Captain, there was no reason for him to stay longer than necessary, and, well… 

Fucking hell, he wanted to trust what Captain Price had said about helping him, alright? Yes, it’s fucking stupid, but fuck he just wanted it to be true.

Maybe… Maybe he could “take a sabbatical” or some shit, follow through on the idea of finding a temple of Johnny’s, maybe shake the bastard by the collar and demand to know what the hell happens if you date a god, and then see if the Captain’s offer still stands.

It felt like it should have been suicidal to return to a military after finally breaking his chains, but— but he wanted to have hope, dammit.

Taxes let out an ear piercing whinny and stomped around, at which point Ghost realized she was probably pissed that he hadn’t brought her a treat. No doubt the stable hands had already given her something, but he’d like to keep the horse in his good graces.

Glancing around, there wasn’t anything left out in the stable for him to pilfer for her, meaning he’d have to go all the way back to his hotel room, get an apple or oatcake or something from his bag, and then come all the way back to give it to her.

“The lengths I go to for you…” Ghost mumbled in mock annoyance.

Softy.

“Shut up,” he demanded without any bite, rolling his eyes. He could still hear Roach’s chuckles echoing faintly from his own mind. He patted her nose in lieu of a goodbye and when he stepped away, she moved around in her stall, stomping some more. 

He shook his head and took a courage gathering inhale, dreading the frosty wind; He hoped Taxes appreciated that he was facing a snowstorm just to get her a snack. 

Making sure his cloak was pulled tight, he stepped into the snow, and made it three steps before hands grabbed him and his world went dark.

[matan4il]

Daily update post:

Three more bodies were retrieved from Gaza by the IDF and identified. At least two of them were Israelis taken hostage on Oct 7, who were seen alive in vids published by Hamas as they were being led away, and today it was confirmed that they were murdered in captivity by these terrorists. They were both 19 years old. On the right is Ron Sherman. On the left is his friend, Nick Bizer. In the middle are the last text messages Ron sent to his mom. They read, "Bye mom, I love you all" (followed by five heart emojies), then "That's it," "They're here" and "It's over."

The third body was identified as 28 years old Elia Toledano. He was kidnapped by Hamas terrorists from the Nova music festival on Oct 7. As far as I can tell, there's no confirmation yet of when he was killed.

May their memories be a blessing.

The IDF revealed today how Hamas is trying to lure Israeli soldiers into an ambush in a booby trapped area, with armed terrorists lying in wait: by using child-shaped mannequins, school bags and speakers playing recordings in Hebrew and of sobbing, to make the soldiers think hostages might be held there.

Yesterday, the IDF finished a 60 hours operation in Jenin, where the Palestinian Authority is supposed to be responsible to fight against Hamas and terrorism, but in reality, the PA does nothing. This was the longest IDF operation in Jenin since Opoeration Defensive Shield (Mar to May 2002, which started following a wave of suicide bombings, and specifically after the murderous terrorist attack on Park Hotel in Netanya, where Jews eating a Passover meal together were targeted and murdered). During the operation that ended yesterday, the IDF uncovered 10 shafts leading to terror tunnels. That's not in Gaza. Let that sink in.

Also, if you see anyone saying, "But Hamas only operates in Gaza!" you'll know they're either ignorant or lying. Hamas only rules Gaza, but it absolutely operates outside it.

Another case in point for that last statement, that Hamas operates outside of Gaza, too. Remember that I posted in my daily update yesterday about the people arrested for having intended to carry out a terrorist attack against Jews in Denamrk? We have more info about that now, and it turns out that 7 people were arrested in total, not just 4, and that they were arrested in 3 countries, not just 2 (so in addition to arrests in Denmark and the Netherlands, terrorists were arrested in Germany as well), and most importantly, the people arrested included Hamas terrorists.

Again, let that sink in. When we tell you that Hamas wants to kill all Jews in the world, that's not just idle talk. It's not just a recent statement, either. Here's a Hamas senior stating as much back in 2019, and they also said as much in their founding charter.

Maybe just as importantly, these terrorists were taken down thanks to the Mossad's work.

So when we tell you that Jews are safer with Israel existing, that's not just in the case of Jews finding sanctuary from danger in Israel. That's true as well. But there can be Jews, even anti-Zionist Jews, who will lead their entire lives outside of Israel, never realizing that behind the scenes, an antisemitic terrorist attack that could have killed them, was stopped thanks to the fact that the Mossad (Israel's equivalent of the CIA) is in charge not only of protecting Israelis worldwide from terrorist attacks, it's responsible for the safety of all Jews. That's the kind of protection people would rob Jews of, when they advocate for the destruction of Israel, or even "just" the destruction of Israel as a Jewish state.

I thought this was a great response. From Letters to the Editor, Los Angeles Times:

Hanukkiahs lit in honor of the Israeli hostages, in the Jewish Quarter of the Old City of Jerusalem, on the last night of Hanukkah (the song is Come Back by Idan Raichel, performed by Roni Delumi, and its chorus goes, "Come back, come back, today / I so wanted you to arrive / I wish you'd come without announcing it this very day"):

These are 26 years old Yovel Sharvit and 27 years old Mor Trabelsi:

They married exactly a month before the Hamas massacre. On Oct 7, they were at the Nova music festival. Yovel survived, but Mor was shot to death in front of her eyes. Yovel participated as a model in a special fashion show, meant to call attention to the victims of Hamas, and especially to the sexual violence perpetrated that day. Yovel wore a wedding dress reminiscent of her own, with blood stains on, and groping hands. The dress also features sentences in Hebrew and Arabic that Yovel heard on or about that day. The dress is torn at the top, as per Jewish mourning customs. The make up artist recreated Yovel's real wounds on her back, and just as importantly, the deadly gunshot wound that killed Mor, on Yovel's forehead.

(for all of my updates and ask replies regarding Israel, click here)