I'm so sorry for being this late with this set but it took really long to troubleshoot the islands so they are seamless, I redone the texture for the countertops at least 3 times, painting the checkered tiles by hand and the time it took to do all the wallpapers in 3 sizes... I won't describe the suffering, you can imagine. :D
But after all that I am really proud of the result and I haven't lost my love for kitchens, I just need some time to recover after this and not do a kitchen for a while. :D
I didn't want to make a traditional looking mediterranean kitchen because this whole collection for me is a mix of styles and I wanted to bring boho, mediterranean, elegant but homey into the mix and this is what I came up with. I shared my inspiration earlier for this set but I'll tell you some thoughts about it either way. I fell in love with the scalloped design a while ago and I wanted to use it for a possible farmhouse inspired set but I thought it would fit here perfectly with its playful look.
First I couldn't decide where to incorporate the rattan because I felt both the cabinets and the counters with this design feature would look too much but I wanted to give you the option to choose so I made two sets of each. One with the rattan insets and one plain option. Both have different end and corner pieces.
I added an accent counter with drawers and accent cabinet/shelf which has the same arched style as the fridge nooks.
I added backsplashes as separate objects with middle and end pieces. They have the same colors as the countertops plus a few different ones to give you more options.
There are 5 shelf items for a modular setting. I included middle, end and outer/inner corner pieces.
Lastly there are a bunch of wall tiles and wall paint swatches to complete the look. The wall tiles come with all the colors the countertops have with a few wall color pairings.
I really hope you like this set! It was a journey to finish it but I hope you'll enjoy using them! The stove on the photo is from my Baker's Kitchen set but for the next part I'm gonna make appliances to fill up that sad, empty fridge nook. (So the kitchen will have 3 parts because then I want to continue with clutter.)
Let me know your thoughts, I'm always very thankful for everyone who leaves a comment. Thank you for your ongoing support!
The Set Includes
Counter
Rattan Counter
Accent Counter (Drawers)
Rattan Accent Counter (Drawers)
Island
Rattan Island
Cabinet
Rattan Cabinet
Accent Cabinet
Backsplash (Left, Middle, Right)
Shelf system (Left, Middle, Right, Inner corner, Outer corner)
Floor Tiles
Wall Tiles
Wall Paint
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Public Release on the 23rd of October 6PM CEST
Did you just legitimately tell me that a person who draws wolf ass is more competent than a dude who spent 8+ years in a university to give you your lung transplant?
doctors are bullshit and furry artists perform an infinitely more valuable service to society compared to them
It took doctor’s like 10 years to diagnose what was wrong with me, some insisting I was faking for attention while a furry artist I knew just went “that sounds like crohn’s” after hearing me complain once and ended up being right
Also I can’t go to a doctor and ask them to draw Rouge the Bat wider than she is tall with tits to match, now can I
[ID: a comic illustrating the above thread as if it was happening in a theater. The users are mostly shaped like their icons, pukicho is a pikachu and hokuto-ju-no-ken is a gengar. The last panel is gengar looks back where a speech bubble comes out of the crowd to say, “you could if you weren’t a fucking coward.” /end]
No cause I’m still mad abt how as soon as Ferdinand left the entirety of Ehrenfest started piling up responsibilities on top of Rozemyne with complete disregard to her well being (Charlotte always being the exception)
Like everyone was constantly expecting her to solve everyone’s problems while giving no thought to what she wanted AND SHE HAD INTERNALIZED IT SO MUCH TOO. She started to believe her wishes didn’t matter and all her efforts were null. No wonder my girl broke
Wilfred talked so much abt how she never helped him and didn’t act like a proper wife but he also never stopped three nanoseconds to think abt her - what she wanted or how to help her. He just piled on work for her to solve
pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x fem!reader
words: 5.8k
tags: death. blood and gore. zombies of course. AFAB reader. single dad ghost. enemies to lovers. menstruation. harm to a child.
summary: After losing your companions, you run into a skull-masked man and his daughter. They are your last hope for survival.
Jagged rock burns into your palms. Slapping a hand up, you feel for the grassy ledge, barely visible in the darkness. You heft the backpack over it before managing to pull yourself up, landing on your stomach with a grunt through your teeth. The sneakers you scavenged from the closet are tight around your toes—better than Salome's thin shoes, but still far from pleasing as you stand and press on towards the road.
Moonlight guides you north.
Not long until sunrise, judging by the sky.
Small white clouds puff around your mouth as the chilled air brushes the damp spot on your too-big jeans, the cuffs rolled and the waist cinched to keep them from slipping. You couldn't leave in the middle of the night, so you held a mug of water as a makeshift alarm. The moment sleep tried to steal you, the splash on your thigh ended it abruptly.
You'd woken Blue up to tell her. At first, grey eyes scolded you in the dark. She looked away, ready to argue, before quietly reciting instead: the house they kept her in, the layout, any hiding places she may have seen.
"What about her?" you had asked. "Anything important to her. She probably saw antibiotics as a gift from God or something."
"Yeah. She would've," Blue muttered. "She liked to knit. And, um, talked about birds. Her husband owned the whole place, but he died. I don't know if any of that helps."
"It does. It's better than nothing." You gave her hand a squeeze. "Make sure he eats again. And check his back. You might need to drain it. You know how now, right? Nereida could—"
"I've got it." She slipped her hand away. "Just—don't do anything stupid, okay?"
"Of course not."
Sneaking out had been easy—only because Nereida was on watch. You slipped out the back and wove through the tall grass, barely stirring the stalks. Price would've caught you for sure. But you made it across the creek with nothing more than the slow unrolling of your jeans to slow you down, the cuffs dragging in the water and soaking through. You rolled them back up, but a kilometer up the road, they've slouched back down, heavy and clinging to your legs.
Time feels like an enemy, one you've already let get the better of you for over a day now. Begrudgingly, you sink onto the hood of a rusted car and take the knife from your waist, slashing roughly at the ends of the fabric. A serrated one would be easier to work with. The end result is jagged hems. Less of a nuisance now, at least.
Ghost's persistent fever isn't the only threat. It's the sepsis. The blood poisoning. The shutting down of his organs. The things you haven't explained to Blue. At best, he could have a week. At worst, if they set in quickly, another day. The thought scrubs your hands over your bleary eyes, recentering your vision, and you push away from the car. You toss the cut scraps in the grass just when a disturbance skims the back of your neck.
You whirl around, dropping the knife in favor of the pistol.
"Just me."
"Jesus. Kyle. I was ready to shoot."
"Honorable of you to give me a quick one."
You huff, bend for the knife, and slip it back at your waist.
He closes the gap, rifle and backpack slung over his shoulders.
"Why wouldn't you tell anyone?" His brows lower. "I went to feed him, and Blue said you’d gone back. Hell of a surprise."
You give him your back. "I've already wasted time. I knew what you'd say."
"And what exactly did you think I'd say?" A hand on your shoulders pries you back around.
Your eyes drift up to his, narrow, then veer to the side. "That it's a long shot."
"Yeah, it is." His hand drops. He brushes past you with a sigh, long and ragged, adjusting the rifle on his back. "Come on, then. You're not the only one who gives a shit about him."
There isn't anything to be said as you trudge beside him, no argument able to form. You know his company is invaluable. Gratitude is still hard to find, even when he prevents you from going the wrong way. "We turned here last time." Apparently you hadn't paid much mind. The road fills the gaps of silence, dawn breathing life into the buzz of cicadas. Long drags of air fill your lungs: sweet flowers only, until, something else. A waft of charred meat.
"You should eat."
Kyle extends a piece of squirrel. Despite the twinge in your stomach, you brush him off. "While they were starving you, we were getting stuffed. Fatten the mares, get a strong foal—all that."
His jaw ticks. "Ah."
"Damn good food, too."
"Lucky you."
"Lucky us."
Conversation shrinks to a brief exchange of what Blue said. He doesn't look convinced it'll help much. The stench doesn’t sour the air until the first sign for Fleurbaix rises at your right—like a breath in your face. Humidity clings to it, thick and unmoving, until there’s nothing else to breathe. In the sunlight, familiar stone walls and red-shingled rooftops repulse you, almost more than the sight of aimless Greys—some weaving between clotheslines, most trapped within the fenced pasture. The cows, however, have already fled through a broken gap, eager to escape uphill.
"They should've lost interest by now. The blood isn't fresh," you mutter.
"Humidity. Less evaporation, more smell." He nods the tip of his rifle. "Over there. That one has a wraparound porch like Blue said."
The view vanishes behind overgrown trees as you crest a hill, descending toward the commune. Kyle motions you forward, weaving through structures, keeping clear of the Greys. As long as they can’t scent you, they will stay distracted. You step over a few stray bodies, faces picked apart by crows that scatter at your approach. Clinging to a stone wall as you follow, a bony hand bursts forth from a window—Kyle knifes its skull before it can grab you.
Other than that, there aren't any close calls.
You reach the house that fits Blue's description.
The door is wide open.
Kyle sweeps in with the poised rifle.
You are greeted by an already ransacked interior. Tipped chairs, half-yanked cabinets, tossed couch cushions. A sick understanding settles at your fingertips, curling them around the gun.
"They were here. The women. They knew she would've hidden them."
More signs that this is just a dead end; a waste of precious time.
Kyle lowers the guns and presses forward into the hall. "That doesn't mean they found what they were looking for. Check the rooms."
Maman's house is as expected, even in disarray. Quiet and balmy. You kick open the first door. Polished wood, gold-embellished hinges, a closet stuffed with white gowns. A knitting bag catches your eye. You sift through it, tossing out balls of red yarn. Nothing.
More nothing under the bed.
You tear the painting from the wall, only solid stone behind it.
A family photo thrashes to the floor beneath a swipe of your fist. You find Kyle in the other room, where a smaller bed is tucked beneath a window—the sight makes it hard to breathe for a moment. The blood stain on the sheets. Somehow you know whose it is. Your stomach rips at itself. You force yourself to look away before you lose it.
"The floorboards. They didn't look under them. Help me."
He raps the butt of the rifle against the wood. A hollow echo near the doorway offers promise. A knife jammed between the planks pries them apart. When you sink to your knees, all that fills your hands are stashes of faded euros. No pills, no vials.
You rip up the notes and let the shreds feather through the air, leaning back on your palms as a quiet hiss leaves your teeth. "Where did you put them you vile, ugly, goddamn hag."
"Maybe her son kept them," Kyle murmurs, threading a hand through his hair. "He had the guns."
"No." Your voice is firm. You stand and pace. "She would've wanted them close to her. Antibiotics—she was saving that for the women. The births."
You reach for your knife and stab the mattress, slicing it open. Springs and foam. Books maybe. You run back to the shelf in the hall and rip them one at a time, flipping them open to see if any were hollowed out. Even the Bible is just a book.
What else?
What else?
"How much time are we willing to spend looking for them, Twix?" he asks lowly behind you. "Maybe we check somewhere else. A town."
"They'd have picked them clean years ago." You toss the Bible to the floor with a thud. "This was our best bet. We had them. We fucking had them."
"And now we don’t. We can’t keep tearing this place apart. We focus on keeping him stable—keep the wounds clean, use what we’ve got. He’s made it this far without them. We just need to buy him more time. There might be another stash in one of the other houses."
You lean against the wall, eyes fluttering shut briefly. A deep inhale. "There's just—something I'm missing."
"Twix—" He sighs, running a hand down his face. "Alright. Let's do another sweep. I'll check the floors in the living room."
Thoughts race. A frothy tide refusing to settle. You press your thumb to the scabbed cut on your wrist, the sting sharpening your mind. Back in the cell. Morning sun slanting through the window. Obsessively studying what’s around you. Replaying everything you learned about that woman. A dead woman. If you could’ve told the Greys to hold off, let her speak before they tore through her neck, you would have.
In the midst, a dove’s call breaks through—three notes, too close in your ear. You must be imagining it, but Alexandre’s voice stirs in your head: La tourterelle chante pour toi.
He said that when he heard the dove.
Why?
Birds.
She talked about birds.
You push off the wall and follow the sound to the room where they kept Blue. The coo draws you to the windowsill by the bed, where the glass is cracked just enough for the curtains to stir, the stench outside seeping in. Twin beady eyes snap to yours, a mechanical tilt of its neck. A collared dove, you think. Paul used to rise early to listen to them.
"Where are they?" you press lowly, accusing. "You know, don't you?"
The bird doesn’t answer, only flutters down from the sill.
Your fingers grip the edge of the window as you kneel on the ruined mattress. Below, the bird perches in the flower box—no flowers, just dried weeds and a nest of twigs.
"Tell me." It watches the whisper curl from your lips. "Tell me, or I’ll rip apart your home."
It flutters off. Your arm lunges after it, clawing at the nest in blind retaliation. Twigs snap. Dirt kicks up into your eyes. You blink hard to clear it. A strangled sound catches in your throat—half a curse, half a cry. Then, something strange beneath. Sharp rust that makes you freeze.
You sweep debris off the top of a—a lock box—loosely buried within the soil. A breath lodges in your throat as you claw at the dirt, dragging the rusted metal loose, launching backward on the bed with it clutched in both hands. It can't be real. You give the box a sharp shake. Something rattles inside, and your chest tightens.
"Kyle!"
Thunderous slaps of his boots echo down the hall. He rushes in, scanning you with a sweep of his gaze.
"No, I'm—this is locked." You tug at the bolted metal. "Can you open it?"
He doesn't question it, the flicker of relief in his face quickly replaced by a grim determination as he musters his strength, raising the rifle and bringing the butt down hard against the lock. A sharp clang echoes through the room, metal chipping but holding firm. He exhales through his nose, adjusting his grip, and you meet his eyes, nodding once—keep going.
He hammers at the lock repeatedly, pausing only to yank at it, testing for weakness. You wipe dirt from your jeans, watching. Whatever she buried here—it mattered. It had to. You glance away for a second when the dove returns to the windowsill, but movement beyond it sends your pulse spiking above the sharp cut of metal.
Greys.
When did they—
"Shit, shit, shit." You lurch from the bed.
He stops, yanking up the rifle to jut it toward the window, shooting a snarling one that clambers up on the porch. It flails back, revealing more alike behind it—many more—shambling out from wherever they'd been lingering. "Fuck—how!" He tucks the lock box under his armpit and grabs your wrist. "Come on."
The living room windows reveal just how many have begun to close in around the house. Faster ones are already at the front door, clawing at the wood. Kyle swears, yanking you toward the bathroom—higher ground, a window above the porcelain tub. He slams it open with the rifle, then hands instantly find your waist to lift you. You shed the backpack, pulling it through behind your feet to squeeze through blindly.
"Anything to climb?" he barks.
You look up. "A gutter!"
You grab it and tighten your core, hoisting yourself up as your sneakers scrape against the siding, the moans below growing louder as they round the corner of the porch. Your palms press into exposed rafters, the gutter serving as a shaky foothold, but the last push onto the roof eludes you.
A firm shove at your thighs sends you over. You scramble up, steadying yourself before glancing back.
Kyle is halfway up, rappelling fast—until a bony hand clamps around his ankle, yanking him downward. Disoriented from the rush, you slap for the gun at your waist, firing wildly—two bullets wasted before one lands, shattering the Grey's skull with a squeal.
He throws the lockbox. You catch it just as he hauls himself onto the shingles.
Your head reels as you watch Kyle drop to one knee and start picking them off. Four, maybe five drop with ease, but the rest move erratically—jolting, frantic. He slows, trying to track their unpredictable movements, each shot requiring more precision. If you had your bow, you could help. But the pistol? You don't trust yourself.
He grunts in frustration, adjusts his stance, then reloads as he circles the perimeter of the roof. That’s when you feel it—not a hunger pang, but a deep, familiar ache, piercing low in your gut. Then something wet. Warm. A slow gush down your leg. Your breath stutters as you glance down at the stain blooming red across your thigh.
"It's me," you say.
"What?"
"Fuck, it's me they smell. My period."
His gaze drops to your body, widening when he sees the evidence. You should feel exposed, but you don’t. The thought slams into your brain at the same time your hands move—unbuttoning, yanking at the fly. The moans below swell.
"We can use it. Look away."
His eyes snap back to yours, then dart away with a sharp exhale. "Christ."
You’re already shoving them down, tugging at the loose, borrowed underwear clinging to your hips. Gathering the fabric, you swipe at the blood slick on your thigh, pressing it deeper into the fabric. "It can buy us time—but not much."
You yank the jeans back up. You roll the underwear into a ball. Kyle looks over.
"There—throw it toward that house. The door’s open. If enough go inside, it might trap some. Then we run back to the hill."
Just as quickly as the plan is formed, you hurl back your arm and launch the decoy as hard as you can. It lands in front of the next house, far enough to release the breath caged in your lungs as heads snap toward it, bodies lurching away. Kyle slings the rifle over his shoulder, grips your waist, and helps you down—but the moment he lets go to steady himself, your foot slips on the gutter.
You land roughly on your side, losing hold of the lockbox. All of the breath leaves your body as you scramble to grab it. A strong hand beneath your armpit tugs you back up, and then you're sprinting. A quick glance back shows most are drawn away, but a few still trail you. Kyle snatches the handgun from your waist mid-stride and fires, dropping two before they get too close.
You duck beneath clotheslines, weave through wash bins still brimming with water. Trample roses. The pulse pounding in your neck drowns out everything but the next shot Kyle fires—enough to throw off your step. You don’t see the one lunging until it slams into you from the side.
You feel the jolt of the fall before you fully register the thing wrestling on top of you. Hair whips into your mouth, rancid breath spilling hot across your cheek. The strength is wrong—too fresh, too human. The hands grabbing at you are still strangely soft. A distinct bulge presses you down. Then a glob of dark-tinged saliva splats onto your eye, blinding you before you can make sense of it.
It's only a second of fight before a shot to the skull sends pulpy blood and brain onto your face.
The weight is torn away as you scrub at your eyes. Part of you already knows before you look at the limp corpse. Time congeals. Blonde hair fans over the grass, framing a pale face with white eyes. The slip dress—the same one you pulled over her head.
Her swollen belly.
You go rigid. Kyle has to yank hard to get you upright.
"Come on!"
"They left her."
The words spill numbly from your lips.
When he shoots another Grey, your wooden, puppet legs move. You leave the body of her behind, adrenaline numbing you. After what is realistically only minutes but feels like hours, the thick trees envelop you once again, and when you finally steal a glance, you can't see them anymore. They've lost your scent for now. Enough for you to pause against a tree, swallowing air to catch your breath.
You walk deeper into the vegetation until Kyle feels satisfied enough to stop and retrieve a canister of water from his backpack. He offers it to you. It takes a moment to steady it at your lips, then your throat allows some down. But your stomach spasms almost instantly, and you are wrenching it back up at the base of a tree, crumpling to your knees.
"Shit."
Hands collect your hair.
A few more dry heaves consume you, until you're breathing harshly through a hanging mouth.
"No… They didn’t—" A hard swallow. "They let her out. She was in the cell."
"What?" His voice brushes your neck, touch halting at your shoulders. Realization softens his tone. "You knew her—the pregnant one."
You wipe your mouth. Force yourself to stand. His hands stay at your arms a beat too long, grip firm, like he’s waiting for something—an explanation you don’t give. You don’t meet his eyes. A flicker at your jaw. "We need to move."
Your stomach still aches, but you don't vomit again. You walk quickly out of the trees and to the road.
The walk back is spent scanning more closely to see if you've drawn more with your smell. By the time you reach the cliff, midday swelters. Lightheadedness teeters your first attempt down. Kyle tosses the box and rifle to the bottom, then carries you on his back, your fingers interlocking to keep you secure like the backpack that hugs his chest.
A stop at the creek allows a shaky handful of water to splash your face. Taking off your jeans to wash your blood-stained thighs feels too much of a task. Instead, you watch Kyle finally finish striking the lock, the metal giving way under his relentless grunts.
"Do you want me to open it?" He glances at you.
A slow shake of your head. Your knees sink before it. Fingers hesitate at the latch. If this isn’t it—if it’s empty—you don’t know what comes next. What fills the space where the smallest sliver of hope has wedged itself in.
The scrape of rusted metal.
At first, all you see is cloth. A yellowed shade of white. A beat of nothing. Then, your hands move on their own accord, unwrapping the contents, brushing hard plastic. The faint rattle of capsules makes you inhale before you even read the first label: amoxicillin. You go still. Dig through for more. Four, five vials. Even more than what you had on you.
The run back to the house is a battle against your own legs.
The smell of blood hits first—thick, metallic. Not human. A quick glance confirms it, Price carving up a hefty cattle he must've found.
He's saying something, to Kyle maybe. You don’t pause.
The front door swings open.
Blue—
She slams into you, arms locking tight, breath knocked from your lungs.
"I saw you from the window."
"You shouldn’t be on your feet," you manage.
She looks down. At your hand. At the pills.
Her voice trembles. "You… you found it?"
You nod.
Up the stairs. Blue tugging at your sleeve. Kyle's steps audible behind you. The bedroom waits. Stale air. Ghost—he's lying on his stomach the way you left him, but a smother of something sticky glistens on his back.
"Honey," Blue mumbles, wincing as she lowers on the bed. "Ari... he found a hive. I was just about to put clean bandages, too. It helps, right?"
"Not as much as this should help."
Kyle begins lifting him.
"He was up for a bit, but he was... talking weird," Blue whispers as you kneel at Ghost's side, fight the shake in your hand to unscrew the cap. "He asked if you were sleeping outside—like, out loud, to himself. Then he kept saying ‘sparks’ and ‘Washington.’ Do you know what that means?"
The words barely register anything but confusion and the fact that he is even worse. It's Kyle who answers under his breath. "No clue." His gets Ghost upright without disturbing his wounds, steadying a hand at the back of his skull.
When your thumb presses at his bottom lip, the dry, cracked skin resists. As you try to pry it apart, his eyes flicker open—unfocused. Dilated pupils shift to yours.
"I need you to open," you whisper around the tightness in your throat. "It's amoxicillin. We've got it."
Overgrown hair clings to his forehead, thick and unruly. Sharp stubble scrapes your hand as you try again to open his mouth. Labored breaths hit your knuckles, unnervingly hot, along with a release of words he murmurs through his teeth. "There you are... again.
Your teeth graze your cheek. "Here I am. Now open, please."
He does—barely. The chalky pill makes it to his tongue. The rest blurs.
Waking up on edge is nothing new.
At first, you keep your eyes shut—squeezing them until the backs turn red. Then, true consciousness jolts through your limbs, setting a heavy heartbeat between your ears. Light floods your vision. Soft cheeks. Pink lips, pursed. Brows knitted tight.
"You make the strangest faces in your sleep sometimes."
"I..."
"Water?"
"Please," you croak.
Pins and needles prickle your fingers as you lift your head. A mug presses to your blistered lips, gentle fingers stroking the greasy hair at your temple. The gulp of water almost makes you moan. You're ready to down the entire things until it's pulled away.
"You're gonna throw up again if you keep going."
You lick your lips. "What?"
"You've been passed out for two days," Blue explains. "Except for when we tried to get you to eat and drink, but that was a fucking struggle. Nereida says you overworked yourself. Not enough sleep and water can kill you, you know." Her brow arches. "I told you not to do anything stupid, but I guess you've been doing that."
Two days.
You inhale through lungs that feel primitive.
"He—"
"Before you ask, yes. We've been giving him the meds. Morning and evening. His fever finally went down last night. He's been out since."
Your eyes finally drift to the other side of the bed. A steady rise and fall presses warmth into the sheets. You scramble up, reaching over—his cheek meets your palm, warm, but not alarmingly so. Normal, almost. A faint flush dusts his skin, the color creeping back in. His back is freshly bandaged, but his eyelids still bear the violet tinge of exhaustion.
"It's helping." The words press into your teeth.
The rest of the day passes in gentle fragments.
A bowl of fire-braised beef pressed into your hands. You eat without tasting, slow chewing through lush fat, while Price and Kyle pore over a more detailed almanac they found in the house. The food settles heavy, to the point of discomfort, but stays down.
Later, you wade into the creek with Nereida. She was the one who changed you while you were out—scrubbing the dirt from your legs, tucking fresh towels and a new pair of underwear beneath you. You only realize she added rosemary when a sprig falls out as you undress.
You listen to her talk. You don’t tell her about Salome. No. You keep it to yourself. The water is warm. At first, you don’t feel it. But as it swallows your shins and carries away ribbons of dried blood, the gentle current soothes, taking the edge off the sun, which turns the rocks along the bank scorching hot. Birds call from the trees—you don’t know what kind. Worm-like minnows tickle your sore toes.
Back at the house, you sit on the porch to wring out your hair. You catch Ari carrying Blue through the garden, her head tucked against his shoulder, bandaged feet dangling over the arm that hooks under her knees. They whisper about something. His steps are slow, pausing by a beautiful patch of flowers that, apparently, smell rancid by the way she leans in and recoils, making a face. When you look away, Kyle is staring at you across the grass as he hangs strips of beef over a tree branch to dry.
You should thank him. For not letting you do the stupid thing alone. But instead, you shift your gaze to the sun and watch its slow descent on your own, studying the way it casts an orange glow across the wild growth. It's the sudden assault of dark clouds that send everyone inside. A summer rain that bursts down without warning, without mercy.
It hasn't relented by the time you fix a bowl of meat for Ghost. He has yet to ingest anything but bone broth and some plum juice according to Blue and Nereida. You chew off little pieces of the least fattiest parts into a bowl and give it to Blue. You go with her to feed him but stop short, keeping your distance. You simply watch from across the room as he manages to sit up on his own despite swaying, brushing away Price's helping arm, and chewing slowly with great effort. His eyes, focused and clear, flit upward to yours. You hold them for a moment, until the pull in your chest turns intolerable, and you look down at his bandaged shoulder instead.
"Tastes good?" Blue murmurs, brushing the hair from his forehead.
He hums.
"How do you feel?"
He swallows, then lifts a hand to her hair, thumbing at it. "Young again."
She places her hand over his, biting a smile. "You're so annoying."
She wipes at her eyes.
Instead of easing, the rain intensifies as the night deepens. Distant thunder rolls closer, flashing into overhead lightning that only sharpens your edge. Blue, on the other hand, spends the night with Ari in the living room, where Kyle helped them set up a small fort of blankets and pillows—a small distraction, but one she could use. It takes a nudge from you to push past her hesitation, to convince her it’s okay to leave Ghost’s side, just for a little while.
"It's good to have some space, if you need it."
That leaves you alone in the bedroom with him. He knocked out again after eating. You redo his bandages, relieved to find the wounds free of pus. New scabs have begun to form, fragile but promising.
But you can't lay down. You try—perch at the edge of the bed, press your palms into the mattress—then you're back on your feet.
The walls feel too close. The air too thick. His steady breathing should ground you, should ease something inside you, but it doesn’t. The storm is unyielding, pressing against the house, rattling the windows. It drives your nails into your palms, into the raw skin around them. A string ties itself around your ankles, pulling one foot in front of the other until you're in the hallway, hand blindly skimming the wall to guide you to the spiral staircase.
Upward.
The library. You don’t even realize you’ve come here until you freeze at the top of the stairs, staring at the wreckage left behind by your hands. Books lie scattered across the floor, pages severed and crumpled. A curtain rod rests askew, displaced in the quiet ruin.
When you finally move, it’s a mindless ordeal. The motions of putting the room back together—guided only by the stray flash of lightning—steal any thoughts before they can form. You kneel, gently stacking books against your chest, slotting them one by one back onto the oak shelves. Embellished spines offer familiar titles, even in French. A lot of Jane Austen.
"No Hemingway, huh?" you whisper, swiping a finger through the blanket of dust before bending for more books. You reach the last shelf, lips twitching. "I'm fixing you. Happy now?"
Of course, no answer. Only the faint slide of leather against the wood.
He’s in the room before you notice.
The presence registers as a skim along the back of your neck.
But you don’t turn, hand freezing after you release Le Comte de Monte-Cristo, then dropping limp at your side. You know it’s him. You feel it in the shift of the air, the weight of it settling differently around you. More so in the slow, deliberate footfalls, each one measured, as if testing the ground. And if none of that gives him away, the warmth of his breath—heavy, uneven—spilling over your scalp does. It sinks into your skin when he reaches you, winds through your veins, curls your toes against the floor until they hurt.
You try to inhale, but the breath snags, fracturing in your throat. "You shouldn’t be up."
"I shouldn't."
His hand lifts, knuckles skimming the flannel draped over your frame before grazing your neck with a slow, unhurried sweep of his thumb. It trails down your arm, pausing at the last book in your grasp. He takes it from you—or maybe it slips from your weak grip. You can't tell.
With a deep breath, he reaches the shelf above you. The book doesn't fit at first, his hand unsteady, struggling to align it. A final rough shove of his knuckles forces it into place. He’s close. You knew he was, but now his scent wraps around you—mossy, salty, earth that you fall face-first into. His chest skims your spine. An elbow grazes your ear as he finishes.
And then he turns you.
Slowly. His fingers curl around your shoulder, guiding you until you're facing him. Your feet slide to follow, reluctant and all too willing. Storm-filtered light catches on the sharp cut of his jaw, casting it in shadow. You brace yourself, breath unformed in your chest, unable to meet his eyes—though you feel them, tracing every inch of your face.
Wordless, he takes hold of your wrist. You don’t understand why until he cradles it in his rough palm, between your chests. His chapped lips lower to the tail-end of the healing cut, light enough not to stir pain.
His lips move.
But you don't.
It's as if every function of your brain is funneled into the nerves beneath each kiss he trails up your forearm. Soft, unwavering, yet each one lingering for a beat longer than the last. The next one lands at the crease in your elbow. A breath finally rushes out of your nose when he reaches the top of your shoulder, close enough to the pounding artery in your neck to invite heat over your cheeks. A strange heat. The same temperature of the moisture that begins to cloud your vision.
You tremble. "Ghost, I—"
You make a last-ditch effort to clutch the hem of his jeans before your knees can waver, clutching it fiercely when his mouth finds your throat. He kisses the part of it that bobs. Then pulls away just enough to cup your face between his hands, forcing your gaze to his. What you are met with is twin, black eyes. They unnerve you. Like the ground beneath your feet, it feels like they might swallow you whole and spit you out.
You can't breathe. The shaking is uncontrollable. Rapid blinks dispel the moisture in your eyes before you're gasping, pressing into him. "Please... please. Ghost, I—" Frustration chokes you. "Please, I just—"
You sound scared, even to your own ears. Like you might get hurt if you he doesn't give you what you're asking for. But you don't know what you're asking for—don't understand why the soft kisses he places on your forehead and cheeks feel like too much and not enough at the same time. Your hands clasp his wrist to pull his hands off your face, nails thoughtlessly piercing into the skin there. He allows it—you hurting him—even when almost his entire upper half is swathed in bandages.
"You're shaking," he murmurs.
"I'm fine." You exhale, but it’s uneven, shaky in its own right. "I just need—"
His thumb presses under your chin in attempt to still you.
A swallow forces down the lump in your throat. The ghost of an inhale. Then you lunge, kissing him. Not gentle or hesitant. But with a desperate growl, bursting forth from your mouth into his, your hand threading into his hair and holding tight onto his skull.
Slightly cropped, cute cable knit sweater with a heart shape cutout. I included a ribbed accessory crop top with a bow detail and lace edges. ❤️ ✨ (Inspired)
custom thumbnail
sweater: 20 swatches, acc top: 10 swatches
base game compatible
accessory top located in gloves section
edited EA mesh by me
please read and respect my TOU
you can buy me a coffee on Ko-Fi if you want
➤ DOWNLOAD HERE (Patreon, Early Access)
Public release: 13th March, 2025
✩ CC on previews: Hair #1 / Hair #2 / Jeans / Skirt
pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x fem!reader
words: 4.5k
tags: death. blood and gore. zombies of course. AFAB reader. single dad ghost. enemies to lovers. harm to a child.
summary: After losing your companions, you run into a skull-masked man and his daughter. They are your last hope for survival.
a/n: clearly I am bad at estimating how long this story will take lol
Alexandre is not as susceptible to pain.
The guard outside his home didn’t register his death, not with Ghost as a shadow at his back. One wrench to his neck, and Kyle plucked the key off his corpse, gently opening the planked door. As the three of them swept the inside, you and Ari hoisted the body in. A sudden crash of breaking glass and the sounds of a struggle made it clear—they got Alexandre. He must have woken up.
But restrained to a dining chair by chains from the slaughterhouse, all he offers up is a bloody tooth on the floor—nothing about Blue or the weapons.
"Brûlez en enfer, pécheurs!"
Ghost snarls and tears a fistful of hair from his scalp. Alexandre only spits more blood, teeth clenched.
"He's wasting our time," you mutter, dread curling in your chest. A glance at the window—the sky could turn deep purple any second. You touch Ghost's elbow. "We should just look for—"
"He'll talk."
Ghost draws the knife. He drives his knuckles into Alexandre’s mouth, smothering the scream as the blade severs his pinky. Blood spills over raw bone. Finally, he writhes—eyes rolling back, knees violently shaking.
"Tell us where everything is, or these go next," Ghost snaps, holding up his middle and ring fingers.
He pulls his fist from his mouth. Alexandre sputters, lips twitching from the pain. Under his breath, he groans, "Sal... Mon enfant."
"What is he saying?" Kyle presses.
Ghost positions the knife at the next digit. "Speak up. English."
Alexandre's eyes threaten to close. He whispers something quieter—
"Salome?" you speak up.
His eyes snap open at the name.
You lower beside Ghost, leaning closer, your eyes darting over his swollen face. "Salome. Your 'enfant.' The child is yours, isn’t it?" A flicker of rage flares in his nostrils, and you quietly press on, "You must be worried about her. She was tending to us, you know. Don’t you want to know if she lives? It'd be a shame if she doesn’t. She was so excited for the baby, especially after losing the first one in the winter. I’m guessing that one was yours, too." You let the words hang, then wet your lips, feigning consideration. "The thing is, it’s been a long night. My memory’s hazy. Can’t recall if I slit her throat or not, but I do remember her begging me to spare her—for the child’s sake."
At this, he jolts. "Tu fais chier—"
Ghost covers his mouth.
You keep your voice smooth. "Maybe if you tell us where the girl and the weapons are, I’ll remember. Otherwise, he’ll kill you, and you’ll die not knowing."
The silence breaks as Ghost drives the knife into the base of his finger. Alexandre grits out, "The girl... I don’t know where my mother kept her. But if sunrise is near... She could be at the chapel now, to prepare."
The one you saw? "How many chapels are there here?" you ask.
"Only one for... offerings."
You glance at Ghost and whisper, "If we can find the road, I could get us back to it."
He nods, not looking away from Alexandre. "The guns," he says. "Where are they?"
"I can... show you."
"You're not showing us shit. Tell us exactly where to find them."
Alexandre holds his gaze. "I could tell you wrong, yes? Waste your time. Or I can show you, and you can kill me if they’re not there."
"Don’t let him play games, Simon," Price calls from behind.
Ghost exhales roughly.
Alexandre looks at you. "But you must tell me of Salome first."
"She's alive," you tell him. "But if you don’t show us where the guns are, it’s not just you who will die."
The chains bite into his wrists as Ghost yanks him up by his soiled lapel. A pistol pressed to his temple, Alexandre stumbles forward, his feet dragging over the corpse at the door before leading you outside. The moonlight feels sharper, casting shadows over the pitted ground as you step carefully beside him, scanning the area. No more alarms yet. But when the guards change shifts, that won’t last.
No one speaks as he leads you around the pasture and barn, toward the back, where the silhouette of a small shed takes shape in the darkness. As you near, a three-tuned call cuts through the air, beckoning Alexandre's gaze to the sky, a soft murmur escaping his lips: "La tourterelle chante pour toi."
"Shut up."
Ghost strikes the back of his head with the gun to silence him.
You stop in front of the shed. It is only just bigger than the one you used to sleep in.
"Is this it?"
"Yes," Alexandre nods. "Inside."
Kyle is the one to kick open the door. As expected, the smell of rusty metal hits your nose as you take in the clutter of rakes, shovels, and scythes. There is a wheelbarrow against the wall with nothing inside but residual soil. No weapons in sight.
Ghost cocks the pistol. "You're fucking around with your kid's life—"
"Under the floor," Alexandre flinches, then juts his chin at the planks of wood, "The extra guns, ammo. It is under there."
Ghost shoves the gun into Kyle’s hand. Without hesitation, Kyle takes over, keeping it steady as Ghost drops to his knees, running his fingers over the floorboards. A sharp knock—hollow. He drives his knife between the slats and pries them open.
The unmistakable glint of metal catches your eye. Rifles. Green and gold cartridges, too. Ghost inhales sharply, tearing up more of the floor. Price moves in, yanking out boxes, sorting through the ammo they need to load up. You linger by the door, glancing back over your shoulder. The guns are yours. Now, you'll need to find the chapel. Maybe Blue isn’t there yet. Maybe you can get there first.
Lost in thought, you almost miss it—that softly cooing dove, the kind you used to wake up to in England. Again, Alexandre mutters in French beside you where Kyle quiets him with a shove at his shoulder. Then you detect a shift in the air—no, you squint and realize it is movement in the grass by the barn.
Alexandre suddenly shouts, "La tourterelle chante pour toi!"
The echo of his words is followed by the crack of a pistol. Kyle’s shot strikes his head, and his body crumples at your feet.
You whip around, panic flaring in your chest as you look at Ghost. "Someone was there. He said something to warn them. They're going to wake up the others!"
Ghost's glare snaps towards Kyle. "The gunshot probably already did."
Kyle releases a growl. "Fuck, I didn't think—"
"Take this," Price interrupts, throwing a loaded rifle at Kyle.
For you, Nereida, and Ari, a small handgun.
But by the time your finger seeks out the trigger, you hear a myriad of voices shout from the barn.
---
B
Blue sits at a small table. Across from her is that old woman, eating silently. Only the sound of metal on ceramic, and gentle chewing, fills the dining room. Blue's teeth mechanically grind a tart, red berry into pulp, then let it slide down her throat, her eyes never leaving the white plate. On the faintly reflective surface, a years-old memory blurs into focus.
She sits in the back of her dad’s truck, her small hands folded in her lap. The air is thick with the smell of cigarette smoke. Her eyes are fixed on the passing buildings and people, the streets beginning to feel unfamiliar. Then, her dad mutters something low under his breath, the tires screeching as he sharply veers into a petrol station.
He unbuckles and slams the front door, moving quickly around the truck to help her out. "Come on, kid," he says quietly, lifting her up gently before setting her on the ground. Her hand slips instinctively into his.
"Don’t look at anyone," he mutters as he tugs her toward the small food mart.
"Why, daddy?" she whispers up at him.
"Because I said so."
"Why are we here?"
"I need to get something."
"What for?"
The silence stretches between them, and a cold knot of fear tightens in her stomach. He doesn’t answer, and she can’t remember how they got here. She had been in her bedroom, where her mother had told her to stay. There was shouting through the door before it flung open, then her father grabbed her, and suddenly, her mom’s voice faded behind them.
Her father guides her through the aisles, pulling items off shelves. She tries not to look at the old man nearby, her eyes fixed on the hem of his jacket, her fingers nervously tugging at it.
"Why isn’t my mum coming with us?" she asks.
He doesn't answer. They move to the cash register, and after he pays, they head back to the truck. Her eyes sting. She rips her hand from his and shakes her head, her voice breaking.
"I want to go back, daddy."
"You're not going back."
"I want to!"
He kneels in front of her, gripping her chin as her tears spill. A woman filling her car glances over, and he lowers his voice so only she can hear. "I know you're scared, but listen to me, Amelia. Remember that game we play? The one where the bad guys are after us, and we have to get away from them?"
She nods weakly, tears streaking down her face.
"What do we call each other when we play that game, baby?"
"Blue and Ghost," she answers, her voice small.
"Right. We’re playing it again, okay? But this time, it’s not a game. Right now, you’re Blue, and I’m Ghost. You listen to everything I say so I can keep you safe. Do you understand, Blue?"
She struggles to breathe.
"Tell me, do you understand?"
"Daddy, I—"
"No. Not daddy. Ghost."
"Ghost... please, I want to go home."
His voice repeats her new name, over and over, as he shakes her chin, and she cries harder. She looks over at the woman filling her car as she fades into something strange—milky eyes and grey skin—and when Blue looks back to her father, he’s gone. All that remains is the white plate, stained with red raspberry juice.
"Blue."
Blue lifts her gaze, her eyes locking on the old woman across from her. The woman's leathery skin shifts to grey in the pale moonlight streaming through the window. She chews a berry slowly, takes a sip of milk, then speaks. "Tell me. Why do you call yourself this?"
She struggles to pull her voice to the present, looking back at the plate and quietly answering after a moment, "It is... it is the name I've used to survive."
"You are a strong girl, that much is clear," Maman compliments idly. "But sometimes, God does not want us to fight. There is strength in acceptance."
When breakfast is finished, Eloise brushes her hair until it’s buttery soft down her back. Then, they leave. Blue smells the dew on the grass, her toes curling in her shoes to endure the pain of keeping up with them. No matter how lightly she spreads her weight, the wounds split wider, blood silently squishing beneath her soles. Any blood she left behind would be invisible in the dark, but Ghost always noticed things she never could. She picks at her fingernails as they reach a road, which reminds her of when they were walking through, seeing a few abandoned cars left at the sides.
They walk for some time until she smells the Greys. The rot is pungent in the brisk air. Then, she hears the low hum of hymns coming from a small building—a church. She only knows this because of a deep memory with the old woman she called grandmother who used to take her to one. The stained glass glows faintly with dim golden light inside. They approach the large door, and Blue stands outside it, her knees trembling, but her shoulders managing to stay upright.
Maman glances down at her, hand resting on the door. "In God's presence, Amelia, there is no need to survive anymore. You will accept his punishment—and his forgiveness. Tell me, do you understand?"
Blue grits her teeth.
The voice edges softer. "Do you understand, Amelia?"
"I understand."
Behind her, Eloise takes hold of her wrists and ties them together with what feels like prickly twine.
The door creaks open under Maman’s push, revealing rows of pews and cold stone walls. Blue swallows hard, tasting her own heartbeat in her throat as she takes in everything she can before stepping inside. The narrow aisle spills out into an altar, where the same two Greys they muzzled the other day are chained to the floor, their snarls and moans adding a discordant layer to the throaty hymns echoing from the right side of the church. There, the veiled women sit, their heads bowed. On the left, the men. A bony hand presses at her back, urging her forward. Through the fog of fear, she counts them: just three men, plus Pierre—the one from before—standing beside the leashed Greys.
The lingering scent of old blood mixes with the fresh, sharp tang of melting candlewax. Her footsteps are small, barely making a sound against the stone, and the pain seems to fade into nothingness, until she misteps around a scurrying rat. A sharp pang burns through her foot, forcing her teeth to grind. Tears well in her eyes, but she doesn’t let a single one fall, her focus locked on her surroundings. The flickering candles on the altar, the glint of Maman's knife as she unsheathes it, the flicker of hunger in the endless moans—each step draws her closer to the Greys.
When she finally stops, she stands between them, the chains and muzzles the only thing keeping their mouths from finding her flesh.
As Maman begins to murmur in French, a fleeting thought crosses her mind: Can her mother see her now, dressed in a beautiful gown, having grown into her features, even though the shape of her face still carries the strength of her father's? Can she see the fear she can no longer contain, spilling into violent breaths that tear through her chest?
"Venez vous nourrir de sa chair pure, et en retour, bénissez-nous avec plus de nourriture pour l'hiver et des bébés en bonne santé pour vos nouveaux peuples."
Beneath Maman's words, Blue hears something. A distant, piercing sound that reminds her of a gunshot.
Dad?
She glances at the door, then at the faces around her, but no one else seems to have heard it.
A cold hand snatches her arm, the unwounded one, and Blue whimpers. Then she is turned around to face the pews.
"Une coupure pour les faire festoyer!"
The knife draws a matching cut, the release of blood making the Greys jerk within their restraints.
A man stands and unlocks one Grey's chains, while Pierre handles the other. The screech of metal cuts through the air, and with a shout, the creatures are freed. Blue’s heart slams in her chest. Maman's low, cruel laugh reaches Blue's ears just as she drops to the ground and scrambles backward, bumping into the altar and making it rattle. She screams when rotten hands clamp around her ankles—instinct taking over. She wriggles free of her blood-soaked shoes and kicks them as far as possible toward the people in front of her.
The shoes hit the ground with a quiet squelch, and the Greys snap toward them, momentarily confused by their scent of blood. A veiled woman screams, her dress now stained with a red footprint, and the other women scramble for the door as the Greys hurl through the aisle. In that fleeting moment of distraction, Blue pushes herself up, hands shaking as she clutches the twine binding her wrists. She holds it over the candle, praying the small flame will burn through it.
"Come on, come on."
Just before the twine can snap, a hand yanks at her shoulder to spin her around.
"Stupid girl!"
Blue growls like a cornered animal and spits into Maman’s eyes. Sneering, Maman slashes the knife across Blue’s cheek, sending fresh blood down to her lips. The Greys, no longer distracted, screech as they again zero in on the scent of her bleeding wounds.
Through the pain, Blue strains with all her strength, forcing her wrists apart until the charred twine snaps, freeing her hands. Maman grabs her by the dress, but Blue blindly reaches for the only thing within reach—the candle—and jams the burning wick into the old woman's face.
"Fuck you!"
It is enough to make her writhe in pain, giving Blue the opening to snatch the knife from her hand. With a wrecked cry, she stabs the old woman’s throat, then kicks her in the stomach just as the Greys reach them. Maman’s mouth lets out a final gurgling, blood-soaked cry, and Blue watches, panting hard, as the Greys grab her and tear their teeth into her torn neck.
"Maman!"
Pierre shouts, rushing over.
Blue bolts away from them, her soaked feet nearly slipping. She shoves a screaming woman out of her way near the door and bursts outside into the breaking dawn. That's when she hears more gunshots, clearer in the open air, and spots a distant plume of smoke. Without hesitation, she runs in that direction.
---
T
The first round of gunfire kicks up dirt at your heels before you can even react. Ghost yanks you into a sprint, pulling you away from the shed. Men pour through the barn’s back door, giving chase. Somewhere in the chaos, you hear Price’s voice barking orders, his gunfire answering theirs—but there’s no time to look over your shoulder. Ghost grips your elbow and drags you behind an old tractor, shoving you into cover as bullets whizz through the air.
The others tumble beside you, Price forcing Nereida's head low behind the large tire.
"There’s nowhere else to take cover," Kyle curses. He and Ghost peek over the tractor, firing off shots, but the sound of pounding boots grows closer. There are too many of them, and not enough time to stop their advance.
You swallow hard, heart pounding, and risk a quick glance around the tractor’s hood. The haystacks are right there, and you remember how dry they felt around your ankles when you covered the corpses. You grab Ghost by the wrist and pull your mouth to his ear so he can hear you.
"The hay is flammable—can you light it somehow?"
His jaw sets in understanding when your words register. He closes an eye and redirects his aim, instead firing rapidly at the base of one of the stacks. Stray sparks leap into the air, and for a moment, your stomach sinks when nothing happens. Then, the straw catches—one spark, then another, and the flames grow fast, swallowing vegetation along the ground. Thick, black smoke whips into the air.
"Il y a putain de feu!"
"Let's move!" Ghost shouts.
You're running again, using the distraction to your advantage, the veiled hood flying off your hair. The sudden silence in the gunfire gives you a moment to look around, and with a rush of terror, you realize that a sliver of sunlight has crept over the horizon. The sky above is no longer the pure black of night.
"Simon, we have to get to her!"
"Where's the chapel?"
"I don't know! I-I need to see the road to find it."
The farm stretches out in every direction, the lack of light making it hard to see anything far off. You stop for a moment, trying to orient yourself. Maybe if you could just—
Another shot hits the ground, close enough to feel the heat on your toes. You barely catch a glimpse of the men still chasing you before a cloud of smoke bursts from the ground. It’s not from the fire he started—it’s a smoke bomb, just like the one they used to disorient you the first time.
The smoke stings your eyes and lungs. You clamp your mouth shut to avoid breathing it in.
"Drop to the ground!" Ghost growls in your ear, loud enough to hear over the gunfire you can only hope is coming from Kyle and Price.
You obey, hitting the ground hard with his arm firm around your waist. He grips your dress, guiding you as you crawl through the smoke’s underbelly, where the air is clearer. Down here, you can see just enough to navigate forward, the blind gunfire whizzing harmlessly overhead. But as Ghost hauls you to your feet, a new panic grips you—you can no longer see the others.
"Where are they?"
Through the tears in your eyes, you can't make out anything past the smoke at your backs.
"Price can handle it. Come on."
For a brief second, you hesitate, torn between ensuring they’re alright and following him—but the encroaching sunrise makes the decision for you. There is nothing else you can do but keep running, hoping something will look familiar as you weave between nothing but stalks of wheat and the small homes. You’ve gained enough distance to escape their line of fire, and when you look back, the flames by the barn seem to have stopped swelling, but that is all you make out before something rams into your side.
"Femme pécheresse, regarde ce que tu as fait!"
The stray guard wrestles your body to the grass, a blade at your throat slicing a shallow welt into the skin, but he is ripped off you within seconds. Ghost breaks the man's neck, steals the pistol from his belt, then tosses it to you. He takes your free hand to help you up, and only as your finger smoothes over the trigger do you realize your other gun is gone.
He turns to keep moving, and part of you wants to sob in rage that you still don't know if you're even headed the right way. Then you see it—something in the grass. You grab his hand. "Look there. What is that?"
His gaze follows yours to the distinctive red stain embedded into the ground. Faint, but there. He leans down to touch it. "It's fresh."
"It could be hers, Simon," you urge.
He stalks forward, fingers hovering before pressing into a faint footprint. "It's her size. This way."
Blood smears lead you to the main road, and your chest tightens at the sight of the cars. This was the route through Fleurbaix. You recognize it. You scan both directions, spotting a white BMW in the distance—a flash of memory.
"I peed by that car. The chapel’s over there," you say, pointing to the stone roof barely visible ahead.
The sudden pierce of a scream confirms it.
---
B
Blue barely manages to get far before the sound of booted steps echoes behind her. She flits her head around in panic, ducking beneath the first car she sees and holding her breath. The distinct rustle of chains, accompanied by a snarl, unfurls her eyes. She glances up into the warped side mirror of another vehicle, catching sight of a cloaked figure. That man who'd helped Maman—Pierre—is looking around, one of the Greys in tow, its muzzle back on.
"Come out, petite fille. You cannot hide from a démon. Not when your smell is so strong."
Swallowing the lump in her throat, she uses the sleeve of her dress to soundlessly wipe her bloody cheek as if that might help but pitifully realizes her feet and arm are even worse. The movement causes her bare foot to dig into a sharp rock, and she bites her tongue hard to keep from crying out. The footsteps halt, then switch directions.
When the Grey lunges toward the car, Blue leaps out and runs blindly, adrenaline pushing past the dizziness. Pierre shouts and follows, the Grey leading him, its draw to flesh tracking her even as she tries to weave behind the rose bushes. Spotting a tree, she glances over her shoulder one last time before hugging the narrow trunk and using all her strength to climb. What’s usually easy becomes a struggle as pain shoots up her legs when her feet try to find purchase on the bark. Her grip slips, and she falls hard onto her back.
Before she can lift to her elbows, a frothy mouth leaps in front of her face. She screams, writhing beneath the muzzled Grey, as Pierre hovers over her. "You could have earned God's grace, but instead, you killed her." Bitterness laces his voice. "Maman would want you dead, no matter what form the offering takes."
Blue tries scrambling backward, but a boot steps on her freshly cut wrist, twisting around and effectively pinning her. She chokes on a sob, fingers trembling in the dirt below her. The man reaches down to unscrew the muzzle, and in this moment she prays to whatever stupid god there might be, that Ari was right, that being eaten fully is better than the infection from a mere bite.
She screws her eyes shut, bracing for the pain, but instead, her ears ring from a sharp sound. A weight crashes down on top of her, and when she opens her eyes, she wonders if she’s been drugged again. There, in her vision, is her father—his bare torso covered in blood and grime, his face contorted with rage as he shoves Pierre into the tree.
"Blue!"
It’s Twix. She shoves the Grey’s corpse off of Blue and scoops her into her arms. Blue freezes, unable to return the hug, her gaze fixed on her father as he rips a knife from his belt and stabs it into Pierre's hands, pinning them above his head to the bark.
When Pierre tries to kick him, Ghost shoots both his knees.
"Seigneur, s'il vous plaît, épargne-moi dans l'au-delà!"
The plea is choked off as Ghost rips the lower mandible free, the jagged bone tearing through flesh, leaving the tongue to flop uselessly, twitching and gasping for air. Twix's arms tighten around her, urging her to hide her eyes within her neck, but Blue keeps watching as Ghost snarls rabidly, finishing the kill by slamming the butt of his rifle into Pierre's skull, caving it in with a loud crack.
Only when he turns around, shoulders heaving, does she realize it’s truly him—and not a dream. He kneels on the ground, and Twix releases her into his chest, the solid feel of it absorbing the tremors that wrack through her limbs as she cries. Ghost cups the back of her hair, and despite the pained breath in his chest, he lifts her up, clutching her close. Her nose presses into his neck, struggling to breathe as she inhales the scent of him.
"D-daddy," she croaks.
"It's me, it's me."
"I-I'm alive."
Something raw pushes through his teeth. "Fuck—you're okay, baby girl. I'm here. I've got you. I've got you." His fingers tighten against her scalp. "Hold tight to me. I won't let you go this time."
As another year comes to an end, I wish you a New Year filled with love, joy, and countless beautiful moments. Your continued support means so much to me, and I cannot thank you enough for being part of this journey.
I am delighted to share Estate Part 5 with you—a set that I hope will inspire your creativity. This month's pieces are perfect for crafting intimate libraries or enhancing your drawing rooms. They are lovingly inspired by the furniture at Estelle Manor, which has always been a source of beauty and charm.
I am especially excited to introduce the grand piano, a project I have dreamed of creating for years but only now felt ready to bring to life. I hope it finds a special place in your creations.
This Set includes:
a Grand Piano ( Steinway inspired, it is pretty expensive, so don't be shocked)
Dining Table ( matching last month's Chairs)
Round Side Table
Ottoman Coffee Table
Ottoman
Armchair
Journal
Bookcase Tall ( three modular pieces)
Bookcase Short ( three modular pieces)
Oak leaf Chandelier ( tall and medium version)
This Set is on Early Access and will be available for everyone in March, and you can find it here
Thank you again for all your support. I wish you joyful moments and happy Simming!
Here is the next part of the Cozy Cabin Collection which includes windows and doors. I wanted to add some curtains too as you could see in the wip posts but there were some problems I couldn't solve and I had to leave for visit my family so I will add them to the next part which will be the bedroom set. Let me tell you, this set barely came together in time and I pulled an all nighter to finish the objects so if there are any errors with them, please let me know!
Although this set not being that exciting, I wanted the make it to complete the cabin collection because as I was furnishing the rooms for the previous sets I couldn't find the perfect stylish, cabin windows I wanted. For months I was planning to make them but always run out of time. This time they were the priority but don't worry, next time I'm making the bedroom and I want to add some clutter items as well.
This set will come two main designs of doors, they are similar but one is a little more rustic, the other is more elegant. As I said earlier I had to combine the doors with the upper windows because they have a different shader than the windows. This means all glass doors come in short and medium heights.
The windows I separated so you can combine them and use 2 types of accent windows above the regular ones. This way there are a lot of combinations because I made 3 heights and 2 widths of the windows.
I hope you'll like them and again, let me know if you notice any problem, because I was a little tired when I was finishing them. I will be back next week and I'm gonna start on the bedroom set so new wip posts will come soon!
The Set Includes
Rustic Glass Double Door, Medium
Rustic Glass Double Door Medium - Opened
Rustic Glass Door Medium
Rustic Glass Door Short
Rustic Glass Door Short - Opened
Rustic Double Door Short
Rustic Double Door Short - Opened
Rustic Interior Door Short
Glass Double Door Medium
Glass Double Door Medium - Opened
Glass Door Medium
Glass Double Door Short
Glass Double Door Short - Opened
Double Door Short
Double Door Short - Opened
Interior Door Short
Small Window
Small Double Window
Short Window
Short Double Window
Paneled Window
Paneled Double Window
Full Glass Window
Full Double Window
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Public release on the 15th of February 6PM CST
I wanted to dedicate this set to 'a uniquely portable magic' (as Stephen King would say) aka books! So, let your sims kick back and get lost in their favorite novel. Or maybe it's about time they start working on their own? I'll let you decide that! 📚
Oh, and please let me know what your favorite book is in the comments, I'm always on the lookout for something new to read.💌
This set consists of (from left to right):
Serendipity loveseat (functional, 8 swatches, all lods, 1,520 polys, slots)
Vellichor backpack (functional, 9 swatches, all lods, 9,582 polys)
Bibliophile's Throne deco chair (7 swatches, all lods, 4,254 polys)
Latibule bookshelf (functional, 10 swatches, all lods, 844 polys, slots)
Shop&Shelf cart (functions as a shelf, 10 swatches, all lods, 3,502 polys, slots)
Booksmart living chair (10 swatches, all lods, 3,070 polys)
Reader's Dream desk (10 swatches, all lods, 4,660 polys, slots)
The Cratest Storage (10 swatches, all lods, 2,131 polys)
Scholarly Satchel backpack (functional, 10 swatches, all lods, 11,866 polys)
Bibliophile's Throne functional chair (7 swatches, all lods, 3,886 polys)
The items are base game compatible, they have custom thumbnails and you can search for them in the catalog by typing ‘atticwindowatdawn’ or 'bookish’. Enjoy & have fun! ♥
download (patreon, free)
Follow me here: Patreon / Bluesky
The paintings in the background of the preview picture can be found here!
Special credits for creators whose textures/simlish graphics I used: myshunosun, nucrests, helgatisha, trillyke.
Just a reminder to my US peeps that have a uterus:
Stop using period tracking apps. Delete the data. Delete the app. Learn how to manually track and stock up on plan B (has a shelf life of 4 years if stored properly)
