#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.”

[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.

- Paring: 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>

[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.

[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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[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.”

[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)

[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

[saltysaltdog]

Just because it's been boiling my brain, the fandom agrees Ratau is the reason there's so many traps and ambushes in cult of the lamb, right? Because he was a stealth main who vanishes into underground hiding spots/tunnels, taking down units one by one, and sneaking into temples, right?

Because that giant screaming bell thing seems like it'd be a pain for rogues: since it only goes off when enemies are alerted/an enemy dies, then follows the player around till all enemies in that area are defeated. Total stealth killer. They made it especially for him.

Thus the best way to defeat Ratau was to have traps, stakeouts, and ambushes. Instead of general patrols, checkpoints, and unit check-ins since a rogue would just sneak past those. Because unless those doors have a "fixed*" entry point, it's pretty weird to have your whole place covered in traps just in case a crown bearer comes through.

[evolutionsvoid]

Though belonging to a group of animals known for their slow speed, Decapitator Slugs are actually a serious danger and are capable of racking a substantial body count over their lifetime. They dwell in dark and forgotten places, like tunnels, caves and abandoned buildings. Their sluggish nature makes the pursuit of prey impossible, so they rely on ambush to take down their food. Their typical tactic is to slither up onto ceilings and wait for a target to pass below them. Once prey is detected beneath them, they will peel their front half free and stretch their heads down to reach their food. What used to be simple tentacles and eye stalks have now developed additional grasping tendrils and hooked barbs. They are quick to reach down and snare prey, digging in their claws and holding on tight. Their strength and sticky mucus make this grip quite difficult to break, no matter how much the prey struggles. It is then the maw of the Decapitator Slug descends, yawning open to reveal horrible blades and a slicing radula. The slug will latch onto the victim's head and use its highly flexible mouth to slowly swallow the entire skull until its cutting jaws are positioned round the neck. It is then they begin slicing and sawing through skin, flesh and bone, eventually shearing through the spine. The head is cut off and swallowed whole, while the body is left to drop like a useless sack of meat. With prize in gut, the Decapitator Slug latches back onto the ceiling and then slithers to its lair to digest its new meal.

It appears that these slugs feed primarily on the brain organa, which many find fitting due to slugs' association with Phlegm. All soft parts of the head are digested, and eventually the skull is excreted as waste. However, it does not discard these bones, rather it scoops them up and holds onto them with its muscly foot. Decapitator Slugs carry a morbid collection of skulls, all taken from previous victims. Studies found that they store their eggs in these skulls, using them as a protective shell for their young. Some suggest that these slugs even leave some digested brain matter inside these things to help feed their children as well. When the young are ready to live on their own, they slither out from their bony homes and venture out to new feeding grounds.

The diet of the Decapitator Slug makes it a menace to all, but what makes it more horrific is the slow excruciating manner of death. Those snared by its tendrils are forced to struggle in vain, all while the deadly maw creeps closer to their heads. And if they cannot cut themselves free, the mouth begins the lazy journey of swallowing your head. The entire time this happens, you are alive and aware, watching in horror as its gullet creeps over your eyes, nose and then mouth. Your screams are muffled in its throat, and your only hope remaining is that you asphyxiate before the teeth begin sawing through your neck. This is why they are despised and slain wherever they are found.

Their populations were once kept in check, and they were little more than scary stories for children, but now that the war has dragged on, they have found their opening. Less hunters and more places to call home. The menace spreads, and not always on their own. Some unsavory types have found these slugs to make good guards and living traps, placing them where intruders and easy targets may wander. The slugs will eat those who don't belong, and the bandits get the spoils from the corpse. Plus, the slugs provide a fine source of skulls and bone for those who need forging materials or intimidating trophies. However, it should be warned that these slugs know no loyalty. They simply eat whatever passes below them. Thus many drunken bandits have met their end to their own guard dogs when blindly wandering into the wrong places.

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"Decapitator Slug"

A creature drawn before my FOI redoing and then slapped into that setting once I saw the fit. Thus why its design and colors are a bit different then one would expect for a FOI slug.

[dreamingofyeo]

𓏲๋࣭ ࣪ A siren's song࿐࿔𖦹ִ

Chapter 6: Passage of hope ࿐࿔𖦹ִ

~ details in masterlist

~ playlist

~ 1,372 words

~ chapter warnings: none

~☆彡 tumblr's algorithm works off of reblogs so please consider it if you like my work :)

Playlist song key

🕸️ambush

🕯️rain

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Yeosang pov

The appearance of the blue bird had been the first indication, it resurfacing in the market had been confirmation. San at the bar had been a beacon of hope, his magical healing gifts no match for any petty potion Vervona could acquire. Mingi and Wooyoung in the shadows had been the trigger in their plan. My crew, they finally found me. A single subtle nod toward San was all they needed to act first and ask questions later regarding rescuing my new friend with me.

As the arms I recognise as Jongho’s wrap under my own I can’t help but grin. The sharp inhale of breath to my left an indication of a scream about to escape, I clamp my hand over her mouth and she thankfully takes the hint. With that, Jongho and, to take a guess Yunho, pull us from our seats and down the hidden trapdoor beneath the rug. To be fair to her, when the elixir arrived in front of us, all it took was as a pointed look for her to take the hint, she’ll fit right in.

~🕸️

The shouting and gunshots continue above our heads as the trap door closes and is jammed shut by Jongho with a strategic placement of some kind of plank. There’ll be time for reunions later, for now we’ve got to move.

We begin to run down the passage way, carefully placing our steps in the darkness. My new friend, obviously not called Cara Jones, grasps my wrist and pulls me to a stop, speaking in a flurry of panic. I can just make out her features in the darkness; they’re paralysed in a state of shock and fear, yet when her eyes meet my own they somehow soften.

“Yeosang, who? Where-“

“My crew, there’s no time to explain right now we need to move.”

I feel bad for cutting her off, but she’ll thank me for the time saved on explanation later. With that, we begin running again. The sounds of gunshots are fading now, thankfully.

The tunnel goes on for what feels like forever, it must be an old smugglers passage, I hope she’s not afraid of spiders, there are cobwebs undoubtedly all over us by this point.

I call out to my crew members, the relief evident.

“Yunho, Jongho how the hell-“

It’s my turn to be cut off now apparently.

“No time for that right now Sangie, save it for Capt’n.”

Yunho clips back excitedly. Jongho laughs under his breath.

The sliver of light in the ceiling at what must be the end of the passage brings with it all the hope imaginable. Upon reaching it, Yunho delivers 1 firm knock followed by 2 scrapes of his dagger; the exit trap door opens and as I look up I see the face of my Captain’s first mate. Park Seonghwa.

~🕯️

He spares a moment to smirk down at me, shaking his head as he laughs into his chest before extending a rope down. I look over at my friend, she is looking at me with an expression akin to relief. I stifle a chuckle when she registers the cobwebs coating her and her features morph into horror. She frantically gestures and pleads with her eyes for me to swipe them away, I do so gladly. Yunho and Jongho gesture for me to take a hold of the rope, and so I do.

After a minor struggle we all get safely out of the passage, resealing and camouflaging the trap door. When satisfied, I look at my surroundings, we’re in a secluded dune on a beach. Palm trees reach high above us, effectively hiding our forms from the worst of the sun’s unforgiving rays.

Seonghwa’s voice snaps me out of the momentary daze. His tone thick with the kind of authority I’ve taken for granted all these years, a tone I’ve missed dearly.

“The Illusion is about 10 minutes from here, had to hide her in a cove. Let’s move. You can explain our extra crew member to Hongjoong when we’ve put some distance between us and the Crimson.”

“Aye.”

The contrast in emotions from now to the last I spoke that word is immense, and reminds me again how much I’ve missed everything.

I can’t help but grin at him, before gesturing to my friend to follow. I really hope she entrusts me with her real name soon.

The slow trudge through the sand feels even longer than the passage, not for the distance, for the anticipation. Seeing the ship’s billowing white sails after so long is a feeling I fear I will never be able to do justice to with words. I’m home.

The feeling of climbing aboard tops that; setting my feet down upon those all familiar planks, they creak as if to say ‘welcome back’.

Readers POV

The amount of emotions which have coursed through your body in the past 20 minutes is beyond description, terror and confusion taking centre stage. These pirates are different though, they’re Yeosang’s crew. If he trusts them then you will at least attempt to.

The door to the main cabin swings open and the remainder of Yeosang’s crew run to you all- or more specifically to him. Though you’re now stood rather awkwardly to the side, you’re more than happy to watch the scene of such pure chaos and joy unfold.

A man with hair similar to the navigator’s in length bounds over like a puppy and practically tackles him to the deck. You can already tell he will be a lot to handle simply from the positively manic expression across his countenance. His sheiks of excitement sounding across the deck remind you of seagulls, you suppress a chuckle at the thought. Yeosang’s muffled greeting into his shoulder makes you smile just as wide as the man though. From this, you learn his name to be ‘Wooyoung’.

Another - the man from the bar you suddenly realise, shows some level of restraint. His eyes and soft despite his wide smile. He opts to simply rest a hand upon Yeosang’s shoulder before crushing him in another hug when he’s released from his first. You catch his name too, it is ‘San’.

A third man ducks out of the cabin, black hair cropped close to his head with the top framing his face. His face changes from stern and intimidating to the very picture of happiness, his smile wide and crinkling at his eyes. There is a long gun of some sort across his back, he must be responsible for the lanterns going out. He doesn’t bother to wait, instead opting for a group hug- to which Wooyoung eagerly joins. The final choked greeting from Yeosang informs you that his name is ‘Mingi’.

One last man exits the cabin, his posture leaking with authority. Though he wears no signature hat, he must be the captain. The others back away from Yeosang and give them space for a more formal reunion, after a firm hand shake the captain also wraps him in a warm embrace.

The man you assumed to be the captain steps away and observes his crew with a content smile before speaking up. His tone is loud and authoritative, yet unable to mask the sheer happiness emanating from him even if he wanted to.

“Now then men.”

Everyone instantly settles down, you could swear even from the distance apart you were that there are tears in Yeosang’s eyes. His smile settles from wide and gleeful until it is almost akin to a pout, holding back whilst receiving word from his captain.

“We’ve achieved our mission. But before we can celebrate our reunion, we need a little distance. So, to your stations.”

He smiles kindly at Yeosang who practically hops skips and jumps to the cabin where you assume the maps to be held, he pulls himself up though and beckons for you to follow.

Before you reach him, you feel a hand close over your shoulder.

“We will address the elephant in the room when we’re at a safe distance, his safety is my priority right now.”

Though laced with kindness and reassurance, you feel a shiver go down your spine at the captain’s words…

<-chapter 5 ~ chapter 7->

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