Feo's Chaos Haven

Instead of shifting into a proper wolf, he becomes something...different, wrong. Limbs too long, torso bent at an odd angle. His fur is patchy and thin, tail wiry and ears too pointed. Ghost can't escape his disfigurement even in his other form, the one meant to bring comfort to him.

If ghost had it his way, he'd never shift again. Live his life as a human and pretend his wolf never clawed at his insides begging to be seen.

Unfortunately for ghost and his tendency to never address his emotions, shifters have to shift at least once a month to prevent hospitalization.

So, once a month, ghost drags himself deep into the forest outside of base.

Government property technically, least risk of being seen by civilians or gunned down by hunters. Under the moonless night, ghost becomes a twisted memory of a wolf. He stalks the ground, indulges in every instinct while stubbornly refusing to acknowledge his body.

Every stumble is just excitement, every wrong-sounding howl and bark just a weird echo. But when ghost finds his way to the river he loves, he also finds another shifter.

Another shifter like him.

A deer, at some point. But your fawn spots still paint your hide, your legs have too many bends in them, and antlers sprouts only from the right of your head. You, too, are a creature born of violence.

It is a silent agreement, what happens between you.

That night, two monsters follow eachother through the woods. For once, ghost finds himself play-bowing and chasing another creature again. He feels light, happy. Working his twisted muscles until you end up curled into his soft stomach, soft grass under you and polluted sky above.

Only in the morning will ghost learn that the terrible scarred thing in the woods is the shy archivist on base. The one who smiles at him when no one else will.

Barely

ELIZABETH RAAB PHOTOGRAPHY

Guerriere series

They were always too big, considering his behemoth size above the rest of his peers. Long, spindly fingers that over the years in the military, became thick with callouses and scars. Yellowed with cigarette butts, a knuckle here and there slightly out of place from all of the fractures and breaks.

The palms of his hands were completely webbed with delicate lines from both age and the extensive length of times he had worn his fingers in a fist. He had tried to make them look a little better, had gotten tattoos, would lotion when he could remember. The ink ran deep, little swirls and designs eating up the thick, aged skin on the back of his hands, fingers blotched on the first knuckle with little images or letters. It had started to bleed and fade that strange sort of navy that tattoos do after a prologued time under the skin.

But no amount of ink on the planet would erase the blood that they carried each day. Breaths silenced by those jagged palms, lives ended with just one pull of an index finger. His hands were dirty. Worse than the muck constantly tucked under his trimmed nails. They were forever stained crimson with decisions he would never be able to take back.

Right now, he was fighting hard to stop his fingers from trembling. He’d never felt his heart race this way. His palms were tense, outstretched to minimise the age lines that spanned them, and waiting for when the weight settled between them.

His breath stopped.

Bundled up in blankets and a tiny pink hat, those same hands that had carried grenades and guns and knives, was now so carefully balancing a tiny baby girl. No bigger than the length of his hands held open side by side, weighing nothing more than just a small few pounds and ounces.

Just her face was visible. Still a little smushed up from birth, peach fuzz coating the softest, pinkest skin. Her eyes shut, tiny lashes splaying across little rosy cheeks. She had his nose. Well the one before it has been broken four times. A little button nose, a little long, with a tiny bump down the bridge. But she had the poutiest little lips on the planet. Glossy with salvia, undoubtedly a carbon copy of her mother’s.

Simon was breathless and speechless.

This tiny thing, no bigger than this calloused, ugly hands… it had come from him. And the fact somebody loved him so much to give him one.

He could feel the hot sting of tears in the corner of his eyes.

His daughter stirred, her little face scrunching up even more before she yawned. Simon only watched, how her tiny pink tongue flexed in her mouth, how the fat of her cheeks shifted to accommodate that teeny tiny jaw to open as wide as it could go. Then, she settled back into the blankets, clearly comfortable in Simon’s hands. She squeaked quietly before settling in completely.

The first tear streamed down Simon’s cheek. Then the next. And the next.

His hands. Those calloused, ink stained, bloodied evil-doing hands. He had hated them for as long as he could remember.

But now, holding the smallest, most delicate, precious being in the world.

This heat is frying my brainnnnn (and theirs too)

(Price hates it bc if it's there he cant control every aspect of his partner)

(Johnny loves it bc he's overly freaked out and 100% owns a fleshlight himself)

I think I may have answered this before, but it was a long time ago! So I’ll go through it again.

I think Price follows the traditional practices of being an oft-away partner. What did whaler’s wives do when their men were at sea? Well, I like to think they had tons of lesbian sex, but historically they also used a he’s-at-home. So, in short, I think he’s totally fine with you using toys when he’s away. When he’s around, though? He wants you using the real thing, always. Toys get banished to the back of the nightstand drawer. He will admit that the idea of plugs intrigue him, though.

Gaz is a modern guy who also happens to enjoy overstim. So he’s a big fan of using a vibrator as an assistant— but he gets a little huffy over you using dildos (he’ll never admit it). Like, he’s got a perfect cock right here, can silicone really compare? But anything else— bullet vibes, roses, suckers, plugs— all completely fair. But if you introduce the idea of a clone-a-cock…. He’s very interested in that. Loves to be on assignment and get a video of you fucking a replica of him, moaning for him.

Ghost is a utilitarian guy. Admittedly, I think sometimes he just does not get hard. Maybe it’s from all the torture, maybe it’s from nerve damage, maybe it’s just from all the wires that are crossed in his brain, but sometimes the synapses meant to send blood to his penis are just not firing. While he’s not against medicinal intervention on it, he’s also perfectly happy to fuck you stupid with a fake cock. And he has to admit, he does like how a clear dildo lets him see all the details of what’s going on in there.

And ofc somehow this becomes entirely your fault bc nobody questions Price or considers that the problem might not be you because he’s the king, he’s healthy, he’s strong, he’s already proven himself in every other way that matters to these people, so obviously it must be his wife who’s defective.

And you spend two years being poked and prodded by royal physicians and forced to drink disgusting tonic things and tracking your cycles and praying at shrines and enduring every older noblewoman at court giving you unsolicited advice while rumors about the “barren Queen” spread through the palace.

And Price doesn’t exactly stop them. Maybe in the beginning he tells you not to listen, tells you there’s still time, but as the months pass he starts treating your inability to conceive like a personal failure.

And ofc there’s this one woman at court who makes your life like absolute hell over it. Daughter of some powerful duke or neighboring kingdom or whatever, beautiful and fertile looking and exactly the sort of woman everyone whispers Price should have married in the first place.

She makes little comment about children whenever you’re nearby, brings babies into conversation just to watch you go quiet, maybe even starts getting increasingly bold because Price is starting to favor her. And you know they’re sleeping together long before he admits it. You just don’t have any power to do anything about it.

Then Price divorces you.

And he’s not quietly about it either and that’s the part that really destroys you because he could’ve found a dozen political reasons to dissolve the marriage, could’ve protected whatever dignity you had left and let you save face but instead he specifically cites your failure to provide an heir as the reason for the divorce. Has it entered into the official decree that the marriage produced no issue and that you’re presumed barren, basically stamping it into history that you failed in the single duty expected of a queen.

And to add insult to injury he marries the woman who spent the last two years tormenting you, who becomes Queen, and suddenly all those rumors about how she’d always been better suited for him become accepted fact.

Meanwhile you’re just… there. The discarded Queen. Technically still noble, technically still wealthy enough, but socially ruined because who is going to marry the woman the King publicly declared barren?

Except Simon, Price’s knight who’s his own kind of social outcast cause he’s scarred, disfigured, and everyone assumes will never marry anyway because nobody has ever exactly been lining up to become Lady Riley to a monster, you know.

So when Simon asks for your hand, you say yes. Maybe Price even allows it because he thinks there’s something almost amusing about it. His unwanted wife and his disfigured knight. Two things the court has decided are damaged being tucked neatly away together.

Except Simon doesn’t treat you like you’re damaged. And then the absolute fucking scandal when, before the end of the year, you start appearing in court with a very obviously rounding stomach.

At first everyone tries to pretend they don’t notice because surely not. Surely the former Queen who spent two years unable to conceive isn’t pregnant within months of marrying Ser Simon Riley.

Except you are and it isn’t even ambiguous after a while. You’re glowing with health, Simon is hovering around you like some enormous armored guard dog, the physicians confirm the pregnancy is progressing perfectly, and suddenly all those old whispers start changing direction because Price’s new Queen still isn’t pregnant even after and entire year.

Meanwhile you give birth to this enormous fat healthy Riley baby and suddenly the court has to reckon with the fact that maybe their discarded barren Queen was never barren at all.

Which means maybe the King publicly humiliated and divorced his wife, destroyed her reputation, married his mistress, and announced to the entire kingdom that she was incapable of giving him an heir-

when the problem had been him the entire fucking time.