#and then it's nothing but a desperate struggle to survive

[thoughtfultyrantlove]

I LOOK FOR YOU IN EVERYTHING ft. geto suguru

you navigate a world hollowed by loss, where memories haunt every corner, and healing emerges through the smallest, most fragile moments of possibility.

contents→ sashisu and reader (though hints at past suguru/reader), gn!reader, angst angst angst, slight comfort, canon au, slow healing, reader is numb and introspective, themes of isolation and yearning, reader is struggling but determined to survive!!! shoko and satoru are here for reader! yumi is back!!! (those who know, know), again very introspective!!! emotional depth and a hint at a hopeful ending (not really...)

word count→ 6.5k

ring. ring. ring.

the sound cuts through the fragile veil of unconsciousness, sharp and relentless. it claws at your skin, dragging you into the waking world—a place heavy with a melancholy so profound it feels tangible. a gray weight presses against your chest, sinking into your very bones.

the alarm screams beside you, shrill and insistent:

get up. get up. 

each piercing note feels like an accusation, a grating companion to the misery of morning. 

your hand moves on instinct, silencing it with a clumsy slap. the motion is mechanical, practiced—an unthinking ritual repeated countless times. the sting of impact lingers in your palm.

ouch.

poor little device—it’s only doing its job, though it always seems angry with you. 

but today, this rickety clock isn’t the only one disapproving of your existence. 

you feel it before you see it—grief, your ever-faithful companion. its presence burns against your back like a silent glare, scorching and unyielding. you don’t need to turn around to know it’s there. it waits patiently on the windowsill, a shadowy warden poised to deliver its daily sentence.

watching.

waiting.

your eyes flutter open slowly, reluctantly.

the fan spins overhead, its steady rhythm a monotonous backdrop to your morning—a soft hum that fills the silence but offers no comfort. shadows dance lazily across the ceiling, tracing patterns that feel both familiar and foreign.

the space beside you is hollow.

emptier than usual.

no warmth lingers there—no soft breathing or steady heartbeat to ground you in the present. it’s a void that aches like an old wound reopened—a constant reminder of what you’ve lost and what will never return.

even your cat is absent this morning. she isn’t here to paw at you impatiently, to demand breakfast or break through the oppressive quiet with her small but insistent presence. her scent lingers faintly in the sheets—an apparition of comfort teasing you with the illusion that she might still be around the corner.

but she isn’t.

a sigh escapes your lips—heavy and unspoken, carrying something too fragile to name aloud. your lashes flutter as you blink away the remnants of sleep clinging stubbornly to your consciousness. your back presses into the resisting embrace of your sheets, letting the silken touch hold you momentarily against the tide of reality.

your gaze drifts upward to the ceiling above—a landscape carved with grooves and imperfections that frown down at you in silent judgment. each line feels like a scar etched into plaster—a testament to moments suspended in time, memories that refuse to fade no matter how desperately you try to erase them.

a lump rises in your throat—thick and unyielding—but you swallow it down and turn toward the window instead.

at least out there, there’s some semblance of calm.

birds chirp faintly in the distance; wind whistles through unseen cracks in buildings long weathered by time. once upon a time, this symphony might have stirred something inside you—joy or wonder or even just a fleeting sense of peace.

but now?

now it stirs nothing but irritation—a low-burning resentment at how casually indifferent the world remains to your grief.

stuck in this haze of anticipation, reality creeps closer—gentle yet devastating—and dissolves what little comfort remains holding together your fragile sanity. cruel on its part, really.

you close your eyes again shutting out the light hoping everything else follows suit.

and then…

you hear it...

footsteps echo down the hallway—confident and deliberate, each step loud enough to shatter what little peace lingers in this not-so-peaceful sanctuary of yours.

the external world.

it barges in without invitation—the memory of yesterday’s voicemail from your mother reverberating through your mind like an unwelcome guest:

“you haven’t been taking care of yourself,” she’d said.

her voice carries disappointment like a blade—not sharp enough to cut but heavy enough to bruise.

the accusation lingers in the air now, mingling with the familiar tightness coiling around your chest—the weight of unmet expectations pressing down on you like an invisible hand.

this is all my fault, whispers a voice inside your head—a voice that sounds suspiciously like every criticism you’ve ever internalized.

you remember how the universe turned away from you a long time ago—how gloomy skies swallowed a black-haired figure lost among an indifferent sea of faces. there was no acknowledgment then; there is none now either. the world continues its endless pulls and pushes without sparing even a glance for those left behind in its wake.

at this point, you can’t tell if this is some ugly truth about life or just another cruel play staged by your subconscious—a punishment born from guilt too heavy to bear or perhaps a curse whispered by someone long forgotten.

either way… it doesn’t matter anymore.

(or so you tell yourself.)

you’ve grown accustomed to this particular brand of nonsense—the weight of despair settling over you like an old coat worn threadbare from overuse.

peeling off suffocating blankets feels like shedding armor too heavy for battle as you stagger toward the bathroom on legs weighed down by weariness that goes beyond mere exhaustion. duty calls—even on days drenched in despair.

the tiles beneath your feet are cold—biting into bare skin with sharp clarity as though trying to remind you that yes…you are still here.

the golden light from above flickers faintly—casting uneven shadows across walls painted with echoes of mornings just like this one. the faucet drips steadily into porcelain below—a rhythm so precise it feels mocking:

time doesn’t wait for you.

it never has.

you pause before the mirror—its surface dull and unkind—and stare at what greets you there: red-rimmed eyes blinking back hollowly; cheeks sunken with fatigue; lips that have long forgotten how to curve upward into anything resembling joy.

the reflection feels warped somehow—as though even glass itself has grown tired of reflecting this version of you day after day after day.

but it isn’t just your face staring back at you—it’s everything else too: every mistake etched into lines around tired eyes; every regret shadowed beneath hollow cheekbones; every moment survived when survival felt impossible.

your fingers tremble as they reach up toward cold glass—a fleeting thought crossing your mind: what if it shattered under your touch? would cracks spiderweb outward until they consumed this distorted version staring back at you?

but no matter how hard you press…the mirror holds firm.

unyielding.

unforgiving.

a cruel reminder that some things cannot be broken—no matter how desperately we wish they could be.

and deep down… you’ve always known this truth.

haven’t you?

the answer was always there—hidden beneath layers of denial—but acknowledging it feels impossible even now…

even here…

even when there’s no one left but yourself to face it alongside.

*

the walk to the kitchen feels endless today. each step drags like wading through a river of ghosts, their unseen hands clinging to your legs, pulling you deeper into the weight of yourself. the air in the house is thick—dense with something you can’t name. it presses against your skin like a second layer, suffocating yet inescapable.

when you finally reach the living room, she’s there—your cat. perched atop the dining table like a queen surveying her kingdom, she greets you with a soft meow. her tiny frame vibrates with purrs as she stretches lazily before pawing at your uniform, her claws catching on the fabric.

a faint smile tugs at your lips despite yourself. 

at least someone is happy to see you today.

in the kitchen, life stirs again—tentative and fragile—as breakfast begins to take shape under your deliberate hands. the sizzle of eggs meeting hot metal cuts through the silence, and the rhythmic clatter of utensils pulls you back into reality, piece by piece.

the scent of butter melting into salt fills the air, mingling with faint traces of houseplants and dust motes that drift lazily through beams of sunlight. for a fleeting moment, the weight on your chest lifts—just enough to let air fill your lungs again.

your cat leaps onto a chair beside you, her wide eyes tracking your every move with curiosity. her presence is grounding in a way that nothing else seems to be these days—a small anchor tethering you to this fractured world.

the aroma of breakfast lingers as you set a plate on the table: eggs cooked just right, toast slathered with jam. you move toward the cabinets, rummaging for tea packets hidden among forgotten treasures—a collection of expensive blends brought by a certain white-haired troublemaker and traditional teas gifted by a tired girl who doesn’t visit anymore.

your clumsy hands knock over several boxes, their contents spilling across the counter and floor in a chaotic tumble. but one catches your eye—a familiar brown package that stops time itself for just a moment too long.

it’s his tea.

your breath falters as you reach for it, fingers trembling against the worn edges of the packaging. the seal tears easily under your touch, and pu’erh leaves scatter like fragments of memory across cold tiles. you sink to the floor, knees meeting unyielding wood as you clutch these remnants of what once was.

grief doesn’t announce itself—it doesn’t knock or wait for permission. it lingers quietly in shadows, resurfacing uninvited to remind you of what’s missing in life’s smallest moments.

the earthy scent rises into the air—rich and familiar—and suddenly it feels like he’s here again. suguru. sitting across from you at this very table, his hands wrapped around a steaming mug as he laughs at something silly you just said.

the memory crashes over you like a tidal wave—relentless and all-consuming.

you can almost hear his voice—soft and teasing—as he recounts his day or asks if there’s any honey left for his tea (there never was). you can almost see him leaning back in his chair with that easy smile—the one that made everything feel okay even when it wasn’t.

you can almost feel his gaze on you—violet eyes drinking in every detail with an affection so quiet it felt sacred.

but when you blink…

he’s gone.

all that remains is silence and the dry texture of pu’erh leaves scattered across cold tiles like ashes from a fire long extinguished.

your cat pads over to where you sit on the floor, her tiny paws making no sound against the wood. she nudges her head against your arm—gentle but insistent—and lets out another soft meow. her warmth pulls you back just enough to remember where you are:

here, now, alive.

not whole.

not healed.

but alive.

you take a deep breath—shaky but steady enough—and begin gathering up the spilled tea leaves with trembling hands. the kettle whistles softly in the background—a sound so simple it feels almost soothing—and for just a moment…there is peace.

not healing. not forgiveness.

just… possibility.

possibility that tomorrow might be easier than today. 

possibility that one day this ache will dull into something softer, something manageable. 

possibility that maybe—just maybe—you’ll learn how to live again without feeling like half of yourself is missing.

for now… possibility is enough.

you pour hot water over fresh tea leaves and watch as they unfurl slowly in their new home—a quiet transformation unfolding before your eyes. pain softens into something transient and mellow, carried away on steam rising toward an indifferent sky.

it isn’t much. but it’s something.

and for today…

that will have to do.

the train rumbles beneath your feet, a low vibration that travels up through your legs and settles deep in your chest. it’s a familiar sensation—one you’ve felt countless times before—but now it feels heavier, as though the weight of memories has seeped into the tracks. the train carries not just passengers but ghosts, their presence woven into the very bones of this rattling machine.

your phone buzzes against your leg—a faint buzz buzz that pulls you from the haze of your thoughts. you glance down at the screen, its dim light cutting through the shadowed cab. shoko’s name glows softly. her message is short, simple: 

"i can pick you up."

your thumb hovers over the keyboard, but no words come to mind. what could you even say? 

for a moment, you let the message fade back into darkness. your reflection stares back at you from the black glass of your phone screen—that same face, worn down by time and emotion.

so foreign.

you turn toward the window instead. outside, the world blurs together—gray skies bleeding into green trees, flashes of neon signs smearing across rain-streaked glass like watercolors left out in a storm. the rain slides in uneven trails, catching faint glimmers of light from passing buildings. 

and then, unsolicited, comes the memory.

he always sat by the window on these rides. always. his fingers would trace patterns in the condensation—spirals and shapes that disappeared almost as soon as they were made. his eyes would follow the city as it slid past, his expression a mix of wonder and something else entirely—something quieter, harder to name.

“like a painting in motion,” he’d said once, his voice so soft you almost didn’t hear it over the hum of the train.

to him, these rides weren’t just journeys from one place to another—they were moments suspended between movement and stillness, between reality and something more ephemeral. they were spaces where time seemed to pause just long enough for conversations about everything and nothing to unfold without interruption.

(the very essence of him: transient and beautiful.)

your thumb hovers over shoko’s message again. a simple no sends itself before you can second-guess it. the screen blinks off, leaving only your reflection staring back at you once more.

the train jolts slightly as it slows for its next stop. a passenger brushes past you with a muttered apology—soft and hurried like a skittish bird taking flight. you nod absently but grip your phone tighter, as though her words might spill out if you’re not careful.

the seat beside you feels louder than any sound in this rattling space—a hollow echo of his presence that once filled it so completely it was impossible to imagine it ever being empty.

but now it is.

(and it feels impossible to get used to that.)

the train begins to slow as your station approaches. outside, familiar landmarks come into view: cracked pavement glistening with rainwater, a weathered sign bearing the station’s name in peeling paint.

it’s all so common yet suddenly so alien—like looking at an old photograph through someone else’s eyes.

you gather your bag as the train comes to a halt. your movements are mechanical—unthinking—and each step off the train feels like leaving another piece of him behind.

the platform is damp beneath your feet, puddles reflecting fragments of gray sky and muted scenery. your steps trace a path you’ve walked countless times before, automatic and unfeeling.

in the distance looms jujutsu high.

and with it comes a silence louder than any memory.

*

the halls are just as you remember them: wide and echoing, their polished floors reflecting faint glimmers of light from overhead fixtures. but today they feel different—colder somehow, emptier.

each step reverberates like a hollow drumbeat against walls that seem too vast for their own echoes. for a fleeting moment, you wonder if even these walls miss him too.

it isn’t just his absence—it’s what his absence has left behind: an ache that lingers in every corner he once occupied. every shadowed alcove where he leaned or stood or laughed now holds its breath in mourning.

you pass by the classroom where he used to sit.

his chair is still there—tucked neatly under his desk as though waiting for him to return. dust gathers on its surface—a quiet betrayal of time moving forward without him—and for a moment, you hesitate in the doorway. 

your fingers brush against the doorframe as if stepping inside might summon him back from wherever he’s gone.

and for just a second…

he is there.

you see him so clearly: dark hair falling into his eyes as he leans back in his chair with that lazy confidence only he could pull off. arms crossed over his chest; smile teasing yet disarming—a look that always made you shy away despite yourself.

the image blooms so vividly it makes your chest ache—makes something stir inside you that feels almost like hope—but then you blink… 

and he’s gone again.

the chair is empty.

the room is empty.

you force yourself to move on because standing here won’t bring him back.

(but as you turn down the hallway, you swear you hear his voice call out to you.)

*

the training grounds stretch out before you: wide open spaces where laughter once rang sharp and unrestrained—a sound so uniquely his it could slice cleanly through even the thickest tension.

even now, small remnants remain: vending machines humming softly with familiarity; shadows cast by trees swaying gently in the breeze; echoes of choices made at snack machines that once felt monumental simply because he made them.

right here—this is where everything changed.

this is where he changed.

but not everything has shifted beyond recognition.

familiar faces linger around corners like ghosts refusing to leave their hauntings behind.

there’s satoru—a moon disguised as the sun—his laugh rippling through air thick with memories before he even steps into view. when your eyes finally meet across the hallway…

something is different about him now.

his grin is still wide—still bright—but behind it lies something fractured: cracks running through armor no one else seems able to see but you.

he passes by whistling some half-forgotten melody and squeezes your shoulder gently as he goes. his hand lingers just a second too long—as though letting go might unravel everything holding either of you together.

no words are spoken.

none are needed.

in that moment, everything is understood:

i’m here.

but what good is being here when neither of you knows how to bridge this chasm between griefs too heavy to share? his pain feels too vast to touch; yours too fragile to expose.

*

you pause at the courtyard—the old tree swaying softly in the breeze catches your eye.

his tree.

the one he used to sit under when life became too heavy to bear alone. head tilted back against its trunk; eyes closed as if seeking solace in leaves whispering secrets only they could understand.

its branches sway gently now—a quiet rhythm carrying words meant only for him. their rustling fills spaces words cannot reach anymore no matter how hard you try to find them.

you clutch your sleeve tightly—a futile anchor against storms raging within—and close your eyes against tears threatening to spill over.

even now…

he lingers behind closed eyelids.

but when they open again…

there’s nothing.

just wind.

just leaves.

just silence breathing heavy on your chest with everything unsaid between breaths too shallow for comfort.

you take one last look at his tree before stepping away—letting its whispers carry what they can into skies too vast for understanding yet small enough for hope lingering somewhere unseen but felt all the same.

it’s the lunch break. 

bells ring out, loud and sharp, shattering the quiet that had settled over the building. chaos erupts in its wake—voices rising, footsteps echoing through hallways as everyone rushes for a much-needed reprieve. 

you rise slowly from your slouched position, every movement deliberate, as though shaking off the weight of the morning. hours spent arranging files with yaga or keeping an eye on the first years while satoru was whisked away to yet another clan meeting have left your body heavy with fatigue. 

your stomach growls—a low, insistent protest that pulls you forward. 

megumi rushes past with a curt nod, his expression as stoic as ever, while itadori and nobara yell a boisterous “good afternoon!” their voices carry a warmth that surprises you, and before you realize it, you’re returning their greeting with a small curve of your lips. 

a genuine smile. 

ah…

youth. 

(and what wouldn’t you give to experience it all over again? just for once.) 

*

the cafeteria greets you with its familiar stillness, empty save for the kind lady behind the counter. the glass doors swing shut behind you with a quiet click, sealing you into this space where time feels delayed.

you don’t need to look at the menu—it’s been etched into your memory for years. the same dishes, unchanged:

japanese delicacies mingled with fast food staples.

nothing new. every flavor tasted and cataloged long ago. 

you settle on takoyaki—simple, comforting. the steam rises from the tray in soft tendrils as you carry it away, its rich scent filling your lungs and stirring something deep within you. a memory flickers at the edges of your mind—shared laughter in these very rooms—but you force it aside before it can take root.

your feet carry you without thought, guided by muscle memory rather than intention, until you find yourself at a familiar block:

the medical wing.

*

the air here feels different today—sterile and suffocating. 

the faint hum of fluorescent lights buzzes overhead, persistent and invasive, like a sound that worms its way into your thoughts and refuses to leave. the antiseptic smell lingers—sharp and clean—but it does nothing to mask the heaviness pressing against your chest.

the pale green walls are meant to soothe, but instead they remind you of hospital waiting rooms from years ago: stiff chairs lined up in neat rows, ceilings with too many tiles to count, and time dragging on endlessly as you waited for something—anything—to happen.

you slip quietly into one of the rooms—the only room you know here.

shoko doesn’t look up when you enter. her hands move with practiced precision as she organizes medical supplies on a nearby tray.

each motion is deliberate, careful—as though she’s constructing something invisible between herself and whatever unspoken truth hangs heavy in the air between you.

her fingers hesitate briefly on the edge of a vial before continuing their work. the tension in her shoulders betrays her calm exterior; even her steadiness feels strained under the weight of shared grief.

you hover behind her, unsure of what to do with yourself. your presence feels intrusive here—as though you’ve interrupted something sacred.

your shoes squeak faintly against the polished floor as you shift your weight from one foot to the other. shoko doesn’t react to the sound—but you know she hears it.

she always does.

“how are you holding up?” she asks finally, her voice soft but steady—a question crafted with care only she could manage.

your throat tightens at her words. shoko doesn’t want an empty “i’m fine,” and both of you know it.

but no words come out.

the silence stretches between you—thin as glass—waiting for even the slightest touch to shatter it. shoko doesn’t press for an answer; instead, she slides a cup of water toward you—a quiet acknowledgment of everything neither of you can say aloud.

her fingers tap softly against the tray in a rhythmic pattern as she sets it down—a grounding motion against the stillness that fills the room.

“c’mon,” she says after a moment, gesturing toward a cluster of chairs haphazardly placed in one corner. “sit.”

you follow her without question—like always—and sink into one of the cold metal chairs that creaks faintly under your weight. its frame presses uncomfortably into your back, but you don’t adjust yourself.

“do you want to talk?” she asks again, her tone gentle—an invitation rather than a demand.

you shake your head—a simple gesture dripping with everything unsaid.

in the silence that follows, memories surface unbidden: pale green walls from years ago; his large hand squeezing yours during stitches; his voice steady as he reassured you: 

“it’s just another challenge.”

back then, those words felt like truth—like medicine could hold back inevitability if only for long enough.

shoko knows this history without needing to be told. some stories are written not in words but in how people carry their grief—in silences that linger too long or hesitations that speak louder than any confession ever could.

her presence has always carried a particular gentleness—not pity but understanding—and for that alone, you are grateful beyond words.

the untouched glass of water sits between you both like a silent witness. droplets bead along its surface before trailing down in uneven lines���a quiet metaphor for something neither of you can name but both understand instinctively.

outside, sunlight shifts across tiled floors in long shadows that stretch and breathe with their own rhythm. time feels suspended here: outside this room, life pulses forward; inside it…everything stands still.

shoko moves again—a subtle shift as she rises from her seat to busy herself once more with supplies on nearby shelves. her brown eyes meet yours briefly before darting away again—not out of discomfort but because she knows better than anyone that sometimes being seen is enough.

“take your time,” she murmurs before disappearing behind rows of cabinets again.

her words settle over you like a thin blanket—not warm enough to comfort entirely but enough to shield against some small part of the cold creeping into your bones.

eventually, the bells ring again—a sharp reminder that life moves forward whether or not you're ready for it to do so.

you sigh softly as your body protests against standing once more—the ache in your bones heavier now than when you'd first sat down. the untouched glass remains on the table behind you as if bearing witness to everything left unsaid between two souls bound by shared loss.

your steps echo faintly through empty halls as they carry you back toward your office—a journey so familiar yet so foreign all at once.

and somewhere deep within yourself…

you wonder if this ache will ever truly fade—or if it will simply become another part of who you've always been meant to be.

the day dissolves like watercolors bleeding into twilight—each passing hour a soft, indistinct blur. your office breathes its quiet resignation, a contained universe of stillness.

the clock ticks—a metronome measuring grief's endless rhythm—while your fingers dance across the keyboard, creating soft percussion against silence.

something hangs in the air.

a tension.

as though the walls themselves hold their breath, waiting for your departure.

outside, the sun has surrendered—its final breaths painting the sky in amber and crimson. streaks of molten light filter through window blinds, casting fragmented patterns across your desk. kaleidoscope shadows too beautiful for a moment so heavy.

you lean back. your chair creaks—a sound both familiar and strange.

the city beyond feels distant.

muted.

its distant hum barely penetrates this contained space where memories and paperwork blur into one indistinct landscape. contracts. reports. forms. they mesh together—an abstract painting of professional grief.

your mind drifts.

to him.

to suguru.

memories curl around you like smoke, soft and suffocating.

your thoughts drift like autumn leaves—weightless yet laden with memory. how different would everything have been if life had been gentler? if it had spared him the weight he carried alone, silent and unbroken?

you dream of alternate moments. suguru sitting across from you, his voice teasing, pulling you from the darkness of your own making:

"let's get you out," he might have said, "before you turn into these chairs."

the vision lingers—so clear you can almost taste it, yet so distant you cannot touch. a phantom possibility suspended between what was and what could have been.

the memory feels like a bruise—tender when touched, sharp with remembered pain. you can almost hear his breath, feel the warmth of his proximity. but proximity is a luxury long stolen from you.

the door swings open with sudden violence—a bang that shatters your delicate remembering.

satoru appears, leaning against the doorframe. one hand buried in his pocket, the other clutching a bag of snacks. his hair slightly disheveled, bandages over his eyes loose—suggesting he's come directly from the meeting, some world you're no longer part of.

"still here?" he asks.

his voice carries its usual casual amusement, but underneath—something careful. something fragile.

you do not comment.

a wordless nod is your response—your voice a fragile thing, liable to shatter if pressed too firmly.

satoru enters without permission—he never asks, never waits—dropping into the chair across from you with a heavy sigh that feels like a universe of unspoken understanding.

the snack bag rustles—a sound sharp against the room's muted stillness. he pulls out a packet of pocky, tossing it onto your desk with a practiced motion that speaks of countless similar moments.

"for you," he breathes simply. "thought you might need some sugar."

the pocky sits between you—a small offering, a bridge across the landscape of grief. you turn it in your hands, examining it as though it might contain some hidden message, some secret code that could unlock the weight pressing against your chest.

"thanks," you murmur. your voice barely rises above the room's quiet hum—a whisper so soft it might dissolve into the gathering shadows.

satoru only watches you.

his sharp blue eyes scan your face like he's trying to read something written between the lines of your expression—a text of pain, of memory, of something both fragile and unbreakable.

his gaze feels like a physical touch—searching, probing, yet somehow gentle. a familiar silence stretches between you filled with everything neither of you can bring yourself to say.

suddenly, he moves. standing with an exaggerated stretch that reminds you of a cat—all fluid motion and deliberate grace. his arms reach overhead, fingers brushing the ceiling, breaking the room's careful stillness.

"come on," he says lightly, circling back to you. "i'll drive you home."

you hesitate. the unfinished paperwork calls to you—a siren song of responsibility, of distraction. "i'll manage," you start, your voice thin and unconvincing.

but satoru cuts you off with a dismissive wave, something both stern and tender in his gesture.

"don't argue," he says, mock severity barely masking genuine concern. "i'm not taking no for an answer."

your resistance crumbles—not from weakness, but from a sudden exhaustion that feels bone-deep. the kind of tired that transcends physical space, that lives in the marrow of grief itself.

he helps you gather your things—movements practiced. the office lights click off behind you, casting long shadows that seem to reach out like desperate fingers trying to hold onto something already gone.

the hallway breathes its own quiet language. same fluorescent lights flicker—pale ghosts illuminating empty corridors that feel more like memory than physical space. your footsteps echo softly, each sound a delicate percussion against institutional silence.

satoru moves ahead with his characteristic grace—hands tucked into pockets, body moving like water between shadows. he whistles something again that hangs in the air like a fragile thread connecting you both to something lighter than grief.

behind him, you trail like a shadow.

your mind drifts—caught between the unfinished work left on your desk and the promise of something that might resemble home.

the building feels different at night.

intimate.

holding its breath.

walls that have witnessed countless moments of human fragility now stand as silent witnesses to your particular landscape of loss.

outside, rain begins—soft droplets painting the world in shimmering grays. each raindrop feels like a memory sliding down invisible glass, collecting stories too delicate to be spoken aloud.

satoru's car waits in the parking lot—a sleek silhouette against the night's dark canvas. he opens the passenger door with a flourish, bowing slightly—part chauffeur, part court jester attempting to break through your carefully constructed walls of grief.

"your chariot awaits," he says, that familiar grin playing at the edges of his mouth—not quite reaching his eyes.

you roll your eyes, but the faintest tug at your lips betrays you—a ghost of a smile, fleeting and fragile. you slide into the passenger seat, the door closing with a soft thud behind you.

the scent of the car wraps around you—a mix of leather and something distinctly satoru—like a hug.

the engine hums to life, a low purr that fills the quiet space between you. as the car pulls out of the parking lot, you cast one last glance at the building behind you. its windows glow faintly in the rain-soaked night, a beacon of light holding secrets and memories within its walls.

the drive begins in silence. the rain falls steadily now, streaking the windows with uneven trails that catch and refract the golden halos of streetlights. the rhythm of the tires against wet asphalt becomes a kind of music—soft, steady, unrelenting.

satoru fiddles with the radio, his fingers moving absently over the dials until he settles on a station playing soft jazz. it’s an unexpected choice for someone like him, but somehow it fits—the muted trumpet notes weaving through the quiet like threads of something almost forgotten.

he talks after a while—something about training earlier in the day, about itadori accidentally summoning an army of curses during an exercise gone wrong. his words are light, his tone playful, but there’s an undercurrent to it—a deliberate effort to fill the silence with something other than grief.

you don’t laugh—not fully—but there’s a faint pull at the corners of your mouth that doesn’t go unnoticed. satoru glances at you out of the corner of his eye, his grin widening just slightly.

“see?” he says softly. “you can still smile.”

the words hang in the air between you like a fragile thread—delicate but real. you don’t respond, afraid that speaking might break whatever tenuous connection has formed in this moment.

the rain picks up, its rhythm growing louder against the windows. droplets race each other down the glass, their paths illuminated by passing headlights. the city blurs around you—buildings and streets melting into streaks of light and shadow.

when he finally pulls up outside your apartment building, he leans back in his seat and looks at you with an expression you can’t quite decipher—part concern, part something deeper that he doesn’t let surface fully.

“if you need anything,” he says finally, his voice low but steady, “you know where to find me.”

you nod slowly—gratitude swelling in your chest but refusing to rise to your lips. instead, you open the door and step into the cool night air. the rain greets you immediately—soft and persistent—as satoru rolls down his window.

“don’t forget to eat that pocky!” he calls out teasingly before driving off into the night.

*

your phone buzzes as you climb the stairs to your apartment—a message from shoko:

“take care of yourself.”

simple words that carry more weight than they should coming from her. you pause at your door before typing back: “i will. you too.”

and for once…

you mean it.

the apartment greets you with its familiar stillness—a quiet that once felt suffocating but now feels like a reprieve. your cat waits by the door as if she’s been expecting you all along.

her tail flicks lazily as she lets out a soft meow—a sound equal parts greeting and reprimand for making her wait so long.

“hey,” you murmur softly as you crouch down to scratch behind her ears. she leans into your touch with a contented purr that vibrates through her small frame—a warmth that settles somewhere deep within your chest.

the weight on your shoulders eases—just slightly—as she follows you into the living room on silent paws. she leaps onto her usual spot on the couch while you set down your bag and shrug off your coat.

for a moment, you just stand there—still caught between memory and reality—as the low hum of electricity fills the quiet space around you. then she meows again, insistent this time, pulling you back into the present.

you sink onto the couch beside her without thinking too much about it. she curls up against your side almost immediately, her warmth grounding in a way nothing else seems capable of these days.

your gaze drifts toward the window where rain continues its quiet descent—each droplet catching faint glimmers from distant streetlights before sliding out of sight. the city stretches beyond—a vast expanse of twinkling lights and darkened silhouettes, each one holding stories you'll never know.

your fingers flutter against the cool glass as though tracing invisible paths across its surface. the gesture reminds you of suguru—the nights spent beneath canopies of rain and stars as he whispered dreams too afraid of daylight.

it still aches—the memory of him—but it’s no longer sharp enough to cut through flesh and bone. instead, it sits within you like an old scar: tender when pressed but no longer bleeding.

behind you, the apartment remains still—as if mourning his absence alongside you. your cat pads softly across the room before leaping onto the windowsill beside you.

you reach into your pocket and pull out the pocky satoru gave you earlier. its wrapper crinkles loudly in the hush as you unwrap it—a sound startling against this newfound calm. you break off a piece—the sweetness melting on your tongue feels almost sacrilegious against memories so bitter.

your fingertips press lightly against your lips, trying to hold onto something slipping away—the shine of suguru's smile, the way his breath would catch just before he kissed you, how vulnerability bloomed between shared silences.

the memory doesn’t shatter you now; a tamed beast locked behind the bars.

your cat’s soft purring draws your attention back to her green eyes—knowing and patient as if she understands what even words cannot convey:

it’s okay to remember.

and perhaps…

it’s okay to move forward too.

you whisper into the darkness—not for anyone who can hear but simply because it feels right:

“good night… suguru.” your voice trembles but doesn’t break.

“i miss you—i always will—but i’m learning how to carry this without letting it destroy me.”

an inhale.

“a—and i hope... that's okay.”

the city lights flicker faintly in response as though offering their silent acknowledgment. and for just a moment—you let yourself believe that somewhere beyond this world…

he hears you too.

you let the night wrap itself around your body— a heavy blanket—not stifling but comforting in its weight. grief sits beside hope now—not as enemies but companions sharing space within your chest.

tomorrow will come with its own burdens and blessings—a new mix of joy and sorrow waiting just beyond this moment's reach.

but tonight…

tonight is yours to simply be.

goodbye, suguru.

a/n→ i looked over some research papers for this... wanted to get this as accurate as possible lmao!!! i had to change some sections so many many times... things just won't work out... anyways im happy i manged to flesh this out on his birthday!!! happy birthday suguru <333 will be taking a break for midterms :(((

[mewritestufflol]

Chapter 2: The Game Begins

Pairing: Kang Dae Ho x Fem!OC Kang Eun-ji

Warnings: Squid game level violence, reunion,Slow Burn,Angst,Graphic Violence,Death,Blood and Injury,Psychological Trauma,Guilt,Emotional Manipulation,Survival Horror,Mild Language.

The sound of metal scraping against metal echoed through the massive dormitory as the steel doors slammed shut. Hundreds of people, all dressed in identical green tracksuits, murmured anxiously. Some clutched their knees in fear, others whispered hurried alliances, but no one—no one—looked safe.

Kang Eun-ji pressed herself against the cold wall, forcing slow, even breaths. She had spent years working in a hospital, surrounded by death and chaos, but this was different. Here, she wasn’t the doctor. She wasn’t the one saving lives.

She was just another player.

And then—

"Eun-ji?"

Her stomach twisted at the sound of her name. It was deeper than she remembered, rougher. Hesitant.

She turned.

Kang Dae-ho stood across the crowded room, his dark eyes locked onto her like he had just seen a ghost. He looked older, leaner, his face sharper with lines of exhaustion carved into his features. His once-carefree expression was gone, replaced by something unreadable.

Her chest ached.

Years. It had been years since she last saw him. Since the day his father tore them apart, sending him to the marines like love was a mistake that could be beaten out of him. He left without a goodbye, without a promise to come back.

And now, here he was.

In this hell.

With her.

Eun-ji swallowed the lump in her throat. "Dae-ho."

Before either of them could say another word, a loud, robotic voice crackled through the speakers.

"Attention, players. The first game will begin shortly. Please follow the guards to the game arena."

The crowd murmured in confusion as the masked enforcers filed into the room, rifles slung across their shoulders like silent warnings.

Eun-ji felt her pulse quicken. She had no idea what was coming, but the air was thick with an instinctive, unspoken fear.

Dae-ho’s gaze lingered on her for just a second longer before he clenched his jaw and looked away.

Just like old times.

Just like he always did.

And somehow, even surrounded by hundreds of strangers, Eun-ji had never felt more alone.

The First Game: Red Light, Green Light

The field stretched out before them, bathed in the eerie golden glow of the setting sun. At the far end stood a giant, robotic doll, its lifeless eyes staring ahead.

"Red Light, Green Light."

The words sent a chill through Eun-ji’s spine. It sounded harmless. Childish. But nothing about this place felt safe.

She took a deep breath, her fingers twitching at her sides. The rules were simple: run when it said "Green Light," stop when it said "Red Light."

Then the first shot rang out.

A man, too eager to sprint forward, collapsed instantly. Blood pooled beneath him.

Screams.

Panic.

Chaos.

Eun-ji’s body went rigid, her mind struggling to process what she had just seen.

This wasn’t a game.

This was execution.

Someone shoved past her, desperate to run, but the gunfire didn’t stop. One by one, players fell.

"Freeze!"

The command was sharp, urgent.

Eun-ji’s head snapped toward the voice.

Seong Gi-hun.

She had recognized him before, but now his presence held a weight she hadn’t fully grasped. The only known survivor of the original Squid Game. The one who came back.

"If you move, you die!" he shouted, voice cutting through the chaos. "Don’t run! Don’t panic! Just listen!"

A ripple of hesitation spread through the remaining players. Some were already trembling mid-step, their bodies fighting the urge to flee.

Gi-hun took a breath, his voice steady despite the horror unfolding around them. "You need to move when it says ‘Green Light’ and stop immediately when it says ‘Red Light.’ That’s the only way to survive. Trust me."

Trust.

Eun-ji didn’t know if she could trust anyone in this place, but she knew one thing—he wasn’t lying.

She clenched her fists, forcing herself to stay rooted. Think. Stay calm. Panic would only get her killed.

"Eun-ji."

The voice was close. Familiar.

Dae-ho.

She turned to see him just a few feet away, his gaze sharp with determination. "You need to move when it says ‘Green Light.’ Don’t hesitate. Stay close to me."

Eun-ji stared at him. "Why do you care?"

Something flickered in his eyes—frustration, maybe even something softer—but there was no time to push him for an answer.

"Green Light."

He grabbed her wrist and pulled her forward.

Eun-ji ran.

Her heartbeat thundered in her ears as her feet pounded against the dirt. The bodies of fallen players blurred at the edges of her vision, but she refused to look.

"Red Light."

She skidded to a stop, breathing hard.

Dae-ho stood beside her, his grip still firm on her wrist, grounding her. "Don’t look at them," he murmured. "Just focus ahead."

Her hands trembled, but she nodded.

They moved in bursts, careful, precise. Each step felt like walking on a knife’s edge.

The finish line was close now.

"Green Light."

She sprinted, her legs burning, lungs screaming for air—

"Red Light."

Dae-ho yanked her back just as she nearly stumbled. His arm wrapped around her waist, steadying her.

Their faces were inches apart, his breath warm against her skin.

"Careful," he muttered.

She swallowed hard, her pulse hammering for reasons that had nothing to do with fear.

"Green Light."

The final stretch.

They ran.

And just as the doll’s head spun toward them—

They crossed the line.

Safe.

Eun-ji collapsed onto her knees, gasping. Around her, survivors sobbed in relief while others stood frozen in shock.

Dae-ho crouched beside her, his expression unreadable. "You okay?"

She let out a shaky laugh, something almost bitter. "I just watched people die, and I almost became one of them. What do you think?"

He exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face. "You’re alive."

"For now."

Dae-ho’s gaze darkened. "That’s all that matters."

Eun-ji didn’t respond.

Because she knew better than anyone—survival wasn’t just about staying alive.

It was about what you were willing to do to stay that way.

And looking at Dae-ho, at the man she once loved, she realized the worst part of this game wasn’t the dying.

It was the fact that, in the end, one of them might have to watch the other lose.

Please tell me how it is and make sure to comment<3 and if you wanna be added to the tag list

Headers credit: @sisterlucifergraphics Tags: @silas-222

[manga-and-stuff]

Source: Delicious in Dungeon Danjon Meshi ダンジョン飯

by Ryōko Kui

[phagodyke]

the masculine urge to take a saucepan off thr draining board and bash myself repeatedly over the head with it until I pass out and no longer have to experience feeling Bad 😍

[adriancatrin]

feral merman gutting a fish, i sculpted him two years ago but was unable to finish because he melted (my room can reach over 100 degrees in the heat of summer). only unfinished parts were the hands, fish, and the rock he’s sitting on (wanted to add reeds and coral and other details). despite him not surviving he’s one of my proudest creations ever, i’m so glad i got these photos before he collapsed into a sad slump of slime and wire

[hesitantsorrows]

Is Ao3 down for anyone else or am I just getting this late

[halamushtaha]

My name is Hala, from Deir al-Balah, Gaza. I live with my four children, Abdul, Jaber, Mohammed, and Lian, and my mother-in-law, in a never-ending nightmare. Our home was bombed, and everything we had turned to ashes. Now, we live in a burnt house, with no safety or hope.

My husband, Adham, is stuck in Egypt, and I face this torment alone. My children suffer from hunger and illness, and we have nothing to protect them. Life here is unbearably difficult; every day is a struggle for survival.

I urgently need your help to raise $35,000 so we can escape, as each person requires $5,000. This money isn’t just numbers; it’s our hope for a new life away from pain and suffering. We are human beings who deserve to live, so please don’t let us drown in this nightmare.

Help us, as we are in desperate need of your support.

Vetted @bilal-salah0

[hala123sposts]

My name is Hala, from Deir al-Balah, Gaza. I live with my four children, Abdul, Jaber, Mohammed, and Lian, and my mother-in-law, in a never-ending nightmare. Our home was bombed, and everything we had turned to ashes. Now, we live in a burnt house, with no safety or hope..

My husband, Adham, is stuck in Egypt, and I face this torment alone. My children suffer from hunger and illness, and we have nothing to protect them. Life here is unbearably difficult; every day is a struggle for survival.

I urgently need your help to raise $35,000 so we can escape, as each person requires $5,000. This money isn’t just numbers; it’s our hope for a new life away from pain and suffering. We are human beings who deserve to live, so please don’t let us drown in this nightmare.

Help us, as we are in desperate need of your support.

https://gofund.me/75b52b8a

[angelseraphines]

ೃ⁀➷ playing dangerous ˗ˏˋ꒰ 🦢 ꒱

╰┈➤ hwang in-ho x player!reader imagine

a/n: i would like to give a special thank you to @lumillsie for the layout of this post and for the filter used on the header!

˚ ༘♡ player 177. your assigned number. the three digits stitched in stark white thread on the coarse forest-green tracksuit now clinging to your body. you didn’t remember putting it on. you didn’t remember anything between falling asleep in your cramped apartment and waking up in this sterile, alabaster void. the tracksuit was loose in some places, tight in others, the fabric rough against your skin, a similar sensation for the discomfort that had settled deep into your bones.

˚ ༘♡ the air here was heavy, oppressive. tension hung over the room like a storm cloud, pressing down on everyone in its path. you sat on the thin mattress of your cot, the iron bars of the bedframe biting into your back as you leaned against them. your throat was dry, your lips chapped, and a faint crust of dried blood clung to the edge of your mouth, an unpleasant reminder of the chaos you’d barely survived. in your lap rested a cold metal bento box, unopened. the thought of eating its contents of rubbery eggs and starchy rice, made your stomach churn. it wasn’t hunger gnawing at you but dread. eating felt like acknowledging the possibility of another day here, in this place where death lingered so close you could almost taste it.

˚ ༘♡ death. it wasn’t something you’d ever had to think about seriously before. you were young, healthy enough, aside from the occasional winter flu. life’s struggles had been mundane, bills, work, nothing quite noteworthy. you’d thought financial trouble was the worst of your problems. how naive that seemed now. the sharp crack of gunfire still rang in your ears, and the memory of bodies crumpling mid-run played in an endless loop in your mind. every scream, every desperate gasp for air as life left someone’s body, was etched into your mind.

˚ ༘♡ this wasn’t life. it was survival, twisted into something grotesque. children’s games weaponized against desperate people for the amusement of others, with the promise of money as bait. one hundred million won for every life taken. your own life, reduced to a figure on a balance sheet. you’d survived the first game, the horrifying version of red light, green light, but at what cost? surely, after witnessing such carnage, the others would have voted to leave. you’d been certain of it. but the desperation was stronger. greed was stronger. most players had chosen to stay, ignoring the horrors of what lay ahead.

˚ ༘♡ “the next game,” player 456 had said, “will be cutting shapes out of dalgona candy. pick the triangle. it’s the easiest.” his voice had carried a strange conviction, and he claimed to know these games intimately, even to have won before. but how could you trust him? maybe he was lying, or maybe it didn’t matter. maybe none of you were meant to leave this place alive.

˚ ༘♡ “hey, 177!” the crude voice shattered your thoughts, dragging you back to the present.

˚ ༘♡ you glanced up to see player 230, “thanos,” as he called himself, sauntering toward you. his garish purple hair stood out like a bruise against the sterile backdrop, and his brightly colored nails flashed as he gestured. he’d painted them to match the infinity stones, leaning fully into the nickname he’d given himself. behind him, player 124 followed, all sharp angles and slicked-back hair, his grin as eager and sly as ever.

˚ ༘♡ “why didn’t you vote for one more game, huh?” thanos sneered, his voice laced with mockery. “you had no problem playing foul last round.”

˚ ༘♡ you frowned, rising slowly to your feet. “you and i both know it was an accident,” you replied steadily. “everyone was running for their lives. i didn’t block your way on purpose. we both finished in time, didn’t we? no harm done.”

˚ ༘♡ he rolled his eyes, his expression exaggerated and spontaneous. “yeah, sure, whatever. typical cold-hearted bitch behavior.”

˚ ༘♡ player 124 cackled at the insult, his laughter harsh and grating. “that’s right. cold, stuck-up bitch,” he echoed, his voice dripping with scorn.

˚ ༘♡ their taunts were designed to provoke you, but you refused to give them the satisfaction. your hands curled into fists, but you forced yourself to relax them, forced yourself to breathe. these two thrived on conflict, and the best thing you could do was walk away. you turned on your heel, ignoring their shouts, and started to move toward the far corner of the room.

˚ ༘♡ “hey! i’m talking to you!” thanos barked, stumbling after you with heavy, uncoordinated steps. he didn’t get far. player 001 stepped into his path, his expression stoic and unyielding.

˚ ༘♡ “don’t you boys have any respect?” player 001 asked, his voice quiet but firm. there was something about him, an emanation of authority that made everyone within earshot pause.

˚ ༘♡ thanos bristled, his arrogance faltering for just a moment. “mind your own damn business, old man,” he snapped, jerking forward.

˚ ༘♡ player 001 didn’t flinch. when thanos lunged at him, the older man moved with startling precision, sidestepping the punch with ease. he grabbed thanos by the wrist mid-swing and twisted sharply, forcing a guttural yelp from the younger man as his knees buckled. with a swift motion, player 001 yanked him forward and drove an elbow into his chest, the dull, cracking impact echoing in the room. thanos collapsed onto the floor, clutching his ribs and coughing violently.

˚ ༘♡ player 124 scrambled forward, his face twisted in fury. “bastard!” he yelled, charging with reckless abandon. player 001 turned just in time, catching the younger man by the collar and using his momentum against him. a sharp twist and a well-placed shove sent player 124 sprawling into the edge of a nearby cot, the metal frame rattling as he hit it with a thud.

˚ ༘♡ the fight wasn’t over. thanos struggled to his feet, his face contorted in pain and rage. “you’re gonna regret that, old man,” he spat, lunging again. this time, player 001’s response was more deliberate. he ducked under thanos’s wild swing, stepped inside his reach, and delivered a devastating blow to his lower torso. the younger man doubled over, gasping, before player 001 swept his legs out from under him, sending him crashing to the floor once more.

˚ ༘♡ not finished, player 124 staggered up again, charging at player 001 with fists raised. the older man sidestepped and grabbed player 124 by the arm, wrenching it behind his back and forcing him to the ground with a hoarse cry of pain. he planted a knee firmly against player 124’s spine, holding him there as the younger man squirmed and cursed.

˚ ༘♡ thanos, blood now trickling from his nose, crawled toward his friend, wheezing apologies and swearing obscenities all at once. player 001 released player 124 with a shove, stepping back as the two younger men lay crumpled together on the floor.

˚ ༘♡ the room was silent, every player watching in stunned awe. then, slowly, the silence broke into cheers and clapping. player 001 straightened his posture, his expression as calm and inscrutable as ever. without a word, he turned and walked back to where player 456 and a few others were gathered, leaving the two troublemakers to nurse their wounds.

˚ ༘♡ you hesitated, then followed him. when you reached his side, you spoke softly. “i wanted to thank you, sir. if you hadn’t stepped in, they wouldn’t have stopped harassing me and disturbing the peace. you’ve done us all a favor.”

˚ ༘♡ player 001 turned to look at you, his dark eyes meeting yours briefly before he nodded. he said nothing, his expression unreadable. there was something deeply weary about him, a weight that seemed to press down on his shoulders. his posture was rigid, his face lined with exhaustion, and though he was relatively handsome, it was the kind of masculine appeal eroded by time and hardship.

˚ ༘♡ you wondered what had brought him here, what had led him to the point where he’d chosen, or been pushed into, to enter this place. you didn’t ask. prying into his past would be an impolite gesture and an indignity for what he had done for you.

a/n: my first squid game fanfiction! i definitely want to write more for hwang in-ho in the future so let me know if you have any requests! 🤍

[embbarnes]

Sugar Plums. | W.S

summary: The soldier has an attachment to you.

warnings: Suggestive 18+ MDNI & Fluff | Fem!reader | Winter Soldier!Bucky | Brief mentions of PTSD | Brief talk of HYDRA | Heavy petting | Love biting/hickeys

a/n: This came to me randomly but thought it was cute and somewhat spicy. I added some fluff to balance it all out and tried to keep the sexy scenes sweet too. I see so many fics of him being super aggressive in bed and those are great, but for me I think he'd be a little more like this. Takes place after the events of CA:TWS. Contains roughly translated Russian, native speakers can correct me if anything was translated wrong. Ty. ;; wc: 5.5k

It was so awkward.

Everyone sat frozen in place, their eyes locked on the imposing figure of the Winter Soldier as he towered behind you, his piercing blue eyes methodically scanning the room and studying each occupant with an intensity that made them shift uncomfortably in their seats.

"Absolutely not!" Tony was the first to break the suffocating silence, his voice sharp and decisive as he beat Steve to speaking by a mere second. There was absolutely no way he would even consider allowing the fist of HYDRA to take up residence in his tower, treating him like he was nothing more than some lost stray that needed sheltering. "He's not staying here, no way in hell - this isn't a halfway house for reformed assassins."

"Tony, come on. HYDRA is gone, their control over him is broken," you reasoned desperately, your voice taking on a pleading tone as you gestured toward the silent figure behind you, "He's been surviving on his own for weeks, barely getting by. Just look at him...he's exhausted, malnourished, and clearly needs somewhere safe to stay and recover."

"Uh, how about no?" Tony fired back, staring at you like you had grown a second head...or like you had a towering sleeper soldier looming behind you.

Tony wasn't your favorite person in the world, but he was usually somewhat reasonable.

"There's absolutely no way that he's staying here. Have you completely lost your mind? What if he suddenly snaps or loses control and goes completely berserk, hm? What if one night those sleeper triggers buried in his brain suddenly activate and he systematically takes us out one by one in our sleep?" Tony added emphatically, his hands gesturing wildly in the air as he attempted to visualize the gruesome scenarios playing out in his mind.

"Your state-of-the-art security cameras can't give us a heads up before that happens?" You asked with dry sarcasm, your tone deliberately flat and unimpressed, clearly making a joke while you tried to find some kind of middle ground that would get the agitated, self-proclaimed playboy to calm down and think rationally.

"No chance in hell, sweet cheeks," he folded his arms and glared at you with sternness that etched across his features. "Too dangerous."

"He's staying, whether you like it or not," you replied in the same unwavering tone, standing your ground with resolute conviction. "He's hurt, weak, completely vulnerable. There's absolutely nothing he could possibly do in this state. He needs somewhere warm and safe to stay, especially since he's been struggling to survive out on the streets for weeks now. Besides, winter is coming fast and there’s no way he won’t get hypothermia or something." You added with concern, knowing full well that while the soldier hadn't been entirely helpless during his ordeal, he certainly hadn't managed to secure any kind of stable shelter.

His temporary refuges consisted only of cold spaces beneath bridges, dark corners tucked away in forgotten alleys, or the remains of abandoned buildings - not a single place where he could truly let his guard down or feel protected from the harsh elements. With winter's rapid approach and already light dustings of snow, the temperatures would only get more brutal as the nights went on.

You continued to argue with Tony, Steve butting in every so often, luckily siding with you, desperate to have his old friend somewhere safe. It was a long, frustrating argument that lasted much longer than need be.

Earlier that day, while you had been making your way down the frost-covered street of New York's downtown district, his eyes had caught sight of your familiar form. Something deep within him told him to follow you, a magnetic pull that he couldn't explain. He obeyed the instinct, trailing silently behind you all the way back to the tower. When you finally became aware of his presence, he was thoroughly drenched from the steadily falling snow, his cheeks and nose having turned a bright, rosy color from the biting cold as he tried to suppress his constant shivering.

The moment you made your sudden turn to approach him, he visibly startled, immediately taking a defensive step backward as his mind raced through all the possible scenarios and potential threats. His eyes darted across your face with obvious wariness as you fully turned to face him, his entire body subtly shifting its weight from foot to foot, muscles tensed and ready to bolt away.

"It's okay...you look cold..." You spoke softly, your voice barely above a whisper, trying not to startle him as you took in his disheveled appearance. The soldier, the one whose face had practically been plastered across every news channel, the same one Steve had spoken about with such raw emotion in his voice.

You remembered how Steve had mourned his best friend, utterly confused and devastated about why he had saved from the river, while Bucky fell to what should have been his death. Steve held onto that grief, that guilt, like a lifeline. He held onto it so desperately, clinging to the faintest hope that a sliver of Bucky was still somewhere deep inside the persona of the Winter Soldier.

Looking at him now, you couldn't see any trace of the man from Steve's stories - the soldier's eyes were too wild and wide, filled with fear and confusion.

But despite everything you'd heard, despite the destruction you'd witnessed on the news, despite the intense warnings from everyone in the tower, there was something about his presence that didn't trigger your fight or flight response.

He didn't make you feel unsafe.

He looked absolutely beat down, exhausted to his very core, his shoulders slumped in a way that made you wonder when he'd last had a moment's rest. You weren't even sure he could take you down if he tried in this state, though you knew his reputation suggested otherwise. He was shaking from the cold air as it blew in a stinging breeze, his metal arm gleaming dully in what little light remained, while the incoming winter storm brought with it a thick haze and countless tiny pinpricks of needle-like snowflakes that seemed to cut through the air.

"Come inside with me, I'll take care of you." You offered quietly, your voice gentle and reassuring as you extended your hand towards him. Your body language remained open and non-threatening, shoulders relaxed and posture deliberately casual to help put him at ease and to show him you felt no fear.

After a few silent moments where his piercing blue eyes studied you through the thick haze, he finally shifted his weight forward and took a step in your direction.

The water in the shower had set a steady steam in the bathroom, the mirror had fogged and the tiles sweat below your bare feet.

You could hear the gentle splashing of water against the bathtub as he cleaned himself. The mechanical whirring of his metal arm caught your attention, hopefully that thing was waterproof, but it must be, right?

After setting out a fresh towel and clean clothes for his use, you quietly excused yourself to provide him with privacy. The state of his current attire was awful, every piece was thoroughly saturated and carried an unmistakable stench that made you wrinkle your nose. The clothes were in such poor condition that you couldn't help but wonder if they had been scavenged from someone who no longer needed them.

You wouldn’t put it past the soldier to steal from a cadaver.

His shower routine was notably brief, years of conditioning taught him to minimize the time spent on his personal care. Upon finishing, he emerged from behind the curtain and efficiently dried himself with the provided towel. His gaze fell upon the fresh clothes you had thoughtfully placed by the sink, while his previous garments had been discreetly removed.

The soldier hesitated momentarily before donning the clean outfit. It wasn’t anything fancy, a pair of grey sweatpants emblazoned with the Avenger's logo along the side and a simple yet comfortable black tank top. When he finally emerged from the bathroom to face you, his body language betrayed his uncertainty as he stood there, not sure what to do now. Comfort was completely foreign to him, and care was a dream away.

"Tony finally gave in," you replied softly, your voice sounded in the quiet stillness of the bedroom. "He said you could stay here with us."

He remained motionless, his expression blank and unreadable as he stood there, offering neither response nor the slightest hint of acknowledgement to your words. You weren’t sure what to expect but that seemed pretty in character for him at the moment.

"You'll be staying in my quarters since no one else is comfortable having you in their space just yet...but don't worry too much about that," you reassured gently, though you could tell from his demeanor that others' opinions held little weight in his mind. "They'll come around after some time, I'm sure of it."

His gaze fixed upon you then, his brow creasing ever so slightly with an unspoken question as he began to move. Each step was deliberate and measured as he crossed the room, closing the distance between you until he stood directly in front of you, close enough that you could see the water droplets from his freshly washed hair beading at the ends and falling onto the fabric of your top, leaving dark spots where they landed.

"Everything's going to be fine," you said with gentle reassurance, trying to ease the tension in the air. "Why don't we head to the kitchen and get you something to eat? You must be hungry." You offered, hoping to bring some normalcy to the situation.

The soldier shadowed your every movement, following closely behind like a faithful companion who refused to stray from their master's side.

Upon entering the expansive kitchen, you immediately made your way to the industrial-sized refrigerator, searching through its contents for something suitable to offer him. The kitchen was perpetually stocked to the brim with an array of foods, snacks, and ingredients, practically anything one could imagine or desire. It was like having a private, fully-stocked grocery store.

Though with a the ravenous super soldier with enhanced metabolism, the mighty Asgardian god whose appetite matched his status, and Banner's surprisingly hulk-ish consumption…the team still depleted their food with an efficiency that would put a pack of famished wolves to shame.

"Hm...what should you have...do you want anything specific?" You turned over your shoulder to address him, but he maintained his characteristic silence. Unmoving, and completely stoic, like a statue carved from marble.

"Нет [No]," came his quiet response, the Russian word rolling off his tongue deeply. He remained perfectly still, observing with careful attention as you continued your search through the refrigerator's contents, trying to determine what would be most appropriate for him to eat. Your mind was working quickly, knowing you wanted to avoid anything too time-consuming to prepare. You wanted to get some food into him sooner rather than later.

"How about...I could make some soup real quick? Tomato and grilled cheese might be a safe option for you. Shouldn't upset your stomach too much if you haven’t been eating a lot, and it will warm you up if you're still feeling cold." You turned back toward him once more, studying his features carefully for any hint of reaction or preference to your suggestion, any subtle change in his expression.

But, he didn't provide even the slightest indication of his feelings.

You decided on tomato soup and a grilled cheese anyway, you figured it was best and immediately set to work in the kitchen.

Although you typically prided yourself on preparing meals completely from scratch, this particular circumstance called for something different. You assembled the sandwich, buttering the bread before placing it in a heated pan to get a golden-brown crust while keeping a watchful eye on the pot of soup simmering beside it, occasionally stirring for even heating.

Once everything reached the perfect temperature and consistency, you transferred the meal onto clean dishes, relieved it didn’t take too long. You presented him with the steaming bowl of soup and perfectly grilled sandwich, watching as the soldier deliberately took his place at the counter, his eyes fixed intently on the rising steam from the bowl before him.

You watched him, noting how his entire body remained unnaturally rigid and motionless, as though every muscle was locked in place and braced for something. His lips bore a slight sheen of moisture, like he had licked them at some point when you weren't watching. Yet despite his obvious hunger, he hadn't made even the slightest attempt to reach for the food. His eyes held intense longing and hesitation, briefly meeting yours before quickly darting away, as if making eye contact was somehow forbidden.

"What's wrong?" You asked with growing concern etched across your features, "You're hungry aren't you? I can tell you haven't eaten in a while. Especially not anything warm, at least. I know it can be hard out there, all by yourself…"

His response came in the form of an almost imperceptible nod, his gaze remaining firmly fixed on the bowl and sandwich before him, as though they were the most important and most dangerous objects in the room.

"So why aren't you eating? The food's getting cold, it won’t be as good if it cools too much."

"Я не могу совершить действие без приказа. [I cannot perform an action without an order]," the soldier responded in barely more than a whisper, his voice carrying the weight of years of conditioning.

You stood there, completely lost in the language barrier between you. Your limited knowledge of Russian extended only to the most basic words - 'да' and 'нет' - leaving you clueless by his response and worried about the implications of his behavior.

You didn't want to wake Natasha, even though she would certainly understand what he was saying in Russian, but disturbing her sleep for something as simple as a quick translation seemed unnecessary and might put her in a bad mood. Instead, an idea popped into your head that would avoid an angry widow. You reached for your phone and placed it on the smooth counter surface, navigating to a translator app before looking up at him again. "Can you repeat that?"

The soldier's eyes flickered briefly to the phone screen, taking in the sight of the translation app with what seemed like recognition, before his gaze deliberately returned to the untouched food laid out before him. "I cannot perform an action without an order," he stated in perfect, albeit mechanical English this time.

You blinked in surprise, thoroughly caught off guard by the sudden switch to English when he had been persistently speaking Russian up until this point. "Okay...well...eat then, you can eat freely here, you don't need an order to do that." You slowly tucked your phone away into your pocket as his right hand gradually lifted from where it had been resting in his lap, reaching out to pick up the sandwich.

You weren't sure what you were expecting, but he wolfed down his food within a minute, that sandwich was gone within maybe three bites. The soup swallowed just as fast.

God, he was starving, and the realization made your heart ache.

"Better?" You asked gently, to which he only nodded, swallowing the last of the food in his mouth.

This became routine, the soldier stuck by your side like a duckling imprinting on its mother.

He followed you diligently around every corner of the tower, his protective instincts activated as he positioned himself like an ever-vigilant guardian. His eyes constantly scanned the surroundings, noting how others would cast uncertain and sometimes suspicious glances in his direction.

These looks made him increasingly self-conscious and anxious, as though he were some exotic creature put on display at a zoo for others to gawk at. But in your presence, he seemed a bit more at ease. He genuinely liked being around you.

Gradually, the rigid tension that had defined his existence began to melt away, and he started allowing more intimate gestures of care. He let you gently brush his unruly hair into place, carefully wash his face with warm water, or trim his growing stubble for him.

He accepted these tender ministrations without the slightest resistance or complaint, though a nagging worry lingered in your mind that his compliance stemmed from years of conditioning to submit to others' wishes. Each time you worried about that, you’d see a genuine warmth and contentment in his gaze rather than submission, showing you that he truly found comfort and pleasure in your gentle touch.

It was evening, the room reflected the warm glow of festive holiday lights emanating from a miniature Christmas tree nestled in the corner. The soldier found himself transfixed by the small decorated tree, his eyes lingering on each twinkling light as their vibrant colors danced and shimmered. The sterile, monotonous walls he had grown accustomed to during his confinement were nothing compared to the colorful lights. The gentle play of red, green, and gold seemed to awaken something long dormant within him, he almost wanted to plant himself in front of the tree and just stare at it.

Tony may have allowed his stay, but that didn’t mean there weren’t restrictions. He was stern about where and when the soldier could go anywhere with you, and he demanded that he not leave your room afterhours. It wasn’t hard to follow, the solider showed reluctance to leave your room at all, having been so accustomed to being kept in one room. You didn’t push him, but you felt bad for him because he was missing how the tower had been decorated for the holidays. So, you got a smaller tree for the bedroom to provide some kind of festive look for him to take in.

You emerged from the bathroom, wisps of steam following in your wake, your damp hair leaving little droplets on your shoulders as you continued to towel it dry with scrunches. He remained motionless on the edge of your bed, his attention immediately shifting as he turned and blinked up at your approaching figure.

His icy eyes traced a deliberate path across your form, which was barely concealed beneath the thin fabric of your sleep shirt, the hem teasingly brushing against your mid-thigh with each movement. "I am beat," you sighed heavily, your voice carrying the weight of the day's festivities. The marathon of holiday activities had clearly taken its toll, leaving you thoroughly drained. The tower often held an array of things to do because Tony loved to show off what he could afford, and it wasn’t like anyone else would object.

He observed with rapt attention as you made your way onto the bed and settled back against the pillows, releasing a deep exhale that seemed to melt away the day's tension. His unwavering gaze remained fixed on the rhythmic, hypnotic motion of your chest rising and falling with each breath.

You felt the bed shift beneath you as he moved, his weight causing the mattress to dip and creak softly. He crawled over to where you lay, his arms positioning themselves on either side of your body, caging you in. Your eyes fluttered open to find him hovering directly above you, his presence overwhelming in its proximity. This was something new…he had always maintained somewhat of a distance before, never daring to position himself so intimately over top of you.

"Я скомпрометирован. [I'm compromised]," the soldier spoke in a hushed tone, his voice carrying that distinctive gravelly pitch that made you feel tingly. The tension between you had become damned near impossible to ignore. What had started as a subtle pull had grown into an overwhelming force of attraction that seemed to draw you both together like magnets.

Still, you forced yourself to hold back, maintaining that last thread of restraint. You had no way of knowing the depth of his emotional capacity, if he was even capable of genuine feelings, or wanted to experience them at all after everything he endured.

"Soldat...?" The whispered word escaped your lips as you noticed the subtle shift in his demeanor, the way his muscles tensed as he remained suspended above you, perfectly still. "You know I don't understand-"

"I am compromised," he repeated, switching to English this time. His voice had dropped even lower, carrying an edge of frustration that vibrated through the minimal space between your bodies.

"Comprom..." You sat up slowly on your elbows and shook your head in confusion, your brow furrowed as you tried to process his words. That’s what you’d say about a machine or computer, not a man. "What are you talking about?" Your eyes wandered downward, suddenly drawn to an unmistakable tent in his fitted briefs that became obvious from your new viewing angle, causing you to freeze in place as your breath caught in your throat.

So, he could feel things.

"Oh..." You felt a wave of embarrassment wash over you as you remained frozen in place, your cheeks growing warm. "I think I understand now...you're feeling a bit pent up, aren't you?"

His metal arm whirred softly, the sophisticated machinery humming as he moved to adjust his hand placement. "Да. [Yes]," he responded in a low voice, his gleaming titanium fingertips delicately ghosted across the bare skin of your thigh, just barely grazing beneath the hem of your thin sleep shirt. Goosebumps erupted along your body in response to the contact, the cool metal sudden against your flushed skin.

"Мне не нравится делиться вашим вниманием. [I don't like sharing your attention]," he muttered with an undertone of possession, his lips curling into a slight frown as he gradually leaned closer to you. His silken hair delicately tickled your face as he slowly lowered himself, the tips of your noses barely grazing against each other in an intimate gesture. His lips parted ever so slightly, revealing a glimpse of anticipation before he dipped his head down, warm lips pressing a tender, lingering kiss to your jawline.

You swallowed reflexively, your breath catching in your throat as you felt his warm, steady breath caress your sensitive skin, sending a visible shudder of growing excitement through your body.

He continued his gentle exploration, encouraged by your acceptance and the absence of any resistance. He pressed a trail of soft, purposeful kisses along the curve of your jaw, each one more intimate than the last, before gradually working his way down to your neck. His lips carefully followed the rhythmic flutter of your pulse beneath your skin, his tongue peeking out shyly to touch against you.

"Ah-" You voiced softly, feeling him settle on a particularly sensitive spot, right against the delicate side of your neck. It was nestled perfectly between the graceful junction where your neck connected to your collarbone, the skin there warm and inviting, holding a faint trace of blood flow from the intricate network of smaller veins positioned just beneath the surface.

He kissed many times with increasing intensity, clearly finding this spot ideal for his attentions. The soft, tentative pecks gradually became more passionate, open-mouthed kisses as each one was placed. His tongue began gently pressing against your skin with each lingering kiss, the pressure slowly growing in need. You felt your cheeks flush with warmth when he finally latched on, your eyes widening in surprise as the soldier's strong arms held you a little tighter.

Soldat began to suckle a mark, his ministrations gentle and teasing at first, but quickly growing in force and intensity as his skilled tongue swirled expertly around the trapped skin between his lips and teeth. The sensation drew a breathy moan from deep within you, making your entire body feel as though it were engulfed in flames of desire. Though you were completely helpless beneath the assassin, you had absolutely no intention or desire to push him away.

This felt too damned good.

Without thinking, your leg came up and hooked around his hips, drawing him closer until your bodies were flush against each other. The heat between you grew and you felt his painful erection trapped in his briefs, straining against the fabric as his arousal was staining them. Soldat exhaled sharply through his nose, his grip tightening possessively, but he did not let go.

His suckling grew increasingly intense, the sensitive skin tingling and starting to sting and burn with each passing moment. Still, he didn't release the bruised skin just yet.

Instead, he just bit down harder, ensuring the mark he left would last for days. You moaned loudly, your fingers gently tangling in his thick hair as your pleasured sounds encouraged his attention. He became more attentive when your little sounds of pleasure turned into sharp, quiet hisses - clearly indicating that the sensation had crossed from pleasure into discomfort, silently telling him to ease off.

When he did finally relent, he pulled back to admire his handiwork, looking down at the deep purple mark blooming on your neck. His breath came in heavy pants through his parted lips as he stayed quiet, watching intently as you struggled to catch your own breath too. The sight of you beneath him, disheveled and vulnerable, with flushed skin and labored breathing, was enough to draw him right back in.

He dipped back down with renewed hunger, his metal hand slowly threading through your hair before gently fisting it at the base of your skull, though his careful control ensured it wasn’t painful, just firm. He tugged just enough to guide your movement, encouraging you to expose more of your neck to his hungry gaze.

"E-easy..." You whispered, a note of anxious anticipation in your voice. You wanted more, god you wanted more, but his sudden change of behavior was a bit surprising for you.

"Понял. [Understood]," he whispered against your skin, pressing a soft kiss of reassurance to your jaw before returning his attention to your neck. Those soft kisses began again, trailing along your skin, but his restraint didn't last long as he quickly sought a new canvas for another mark. He latched onto a spot just a little bit higher on your neck, alternating between sucking and carefully controlled bites to gradually darken and bruise the sensitive flesh.

You felt bite after delicious bite, hickey after possessive hickey.

He marked the tender flesh of your neck in several deep, purple marks that bloomed like violent flowers across your skin...each one throbbing with a sweet ache when he pulled away. His tongue always swirled over the mark with care to soothe the sting of it, making you arch into his touch as you fell into a complete daze.

"S-Soldat," you muttered breathlessly, cheeks flushed crimson and eyelids heavy with desire. Your pupils matched his own - completely blown with hunger and desperate need. Those bermuda swirls meeting yours as he continued a torturously slow trail of hot kisses down your chest, nipping your collarbone with just enough pressure to make you gasp before following the gentle dip of your sternum.

He paused deliberately, pulling up so he could lift the thin sleep shirt over you and expose more of your bare chest to his hungry gaze, giving him better access for his heated kisses and teasing nips. Once your top was discarded somewhere on the floor, his hands gently but firmly held your sides, trailing up with reverent touches until settling against your ribcage. His larger hands completely encompassed your torso, making you feel small but protected.

The soldier was absolutely transfixed at the sight of your breasts, eyeing the soft mounds and peaked nipples as they hardened in the cool air, growing increasingly sensitive and rosy with your mounting arousal. It was like he was completely mesmerized by the sight before him, the fucking Winter Soldier, the most dangerous assassin in history, stopped dead in his tracks at the mere sight of your bare breasts.

You felt in charge now.

"What is it? Do you like them?" you purred softly to the soldier, your body swaying in a deliberately teasing motion that made them gently move. His eyes remained fixed, drinking in the sight before him as his lips parted ever so slightly. Slowly, his head tilted down again, surrendering to the moment. He let his face nestle against your chest, his lips trailing a constellation of unhurried kisses across your skin.

He began to nip and suckle the tender skin of your breasts, his mouth working to create deep, purple love bites on that delicate flesh. The bruising blossomed easily beneath his ministrations, almost like they were eager to show themselves.

His lips would find a promising spot, then he would begin lapping at the skin with gentle strokes of his tongue until he felt you squirming. The soldier took the sensitized flesh carefully between his teeth, rolling the captured skin while his talented muscle swirled and sucked.

Your chest displayed his passionate handiwork when he finally drew back to admire his creation. The plum-colored bruises created an intimate pattern across your skin, their rich hues made even more striking by the soft glow of the holiday lights that danced through the room, highlighting each carefully placed love bite until they seemed to shimmer like twilight stars against your flesh.

"Soldat...I think you covered enough surface area," you breathed, feeling overwhelmed by the intense throbbing that radiated from each mark he'd left. The sensation pulsed in waves across your skin, making it difficult to focus. Your neck was thoroughly covered in the passionate marks, and now your chest bore an equally impressive collection.

The soldier gazed down at you with intensely, his eyes taking in each little sugar plum bruise that decorated your skin like a masterpiece. Though they were scattered without any deliberate pattern, the overall effect clearly pleased him. You lay there looking thoroughly affected by his attention, hair mussed and breathing uneven, cheeks beautifully darkened with a dust of blush, just from his careful application of bites alone. The sight of you in such a state, marked so thoroughly, brought deep set satisfaction in his gut.

"Моя теперь. [Mine now]," he muttered softly, his warm breath ghosting across your skin as his lips hovered mere millimeters from your own. The almost-kiss was delicate, just the faintest brush of contact that sent electricity dancing through your nerves. He almost seemed nervous to close that final distance, his confidence faltering despite the passionate trail of marks he had already left scattered across your skin.

He drew back slightly, seemingly snapping out of a trance, and you could see the vulnerability written plainly across his features as that nervousness flickered in his eyes. Shifting his weight, he settled back onto the bed, his right hand finding your knee and tracing gentle, soothing circles there with his thumb. The tender gesture matched his hushed voice as he spoke, "Я не хочу идти дальше. [I don't want to go any further]," the words carrying both certainty and a hint of apology.

Your brow furrowed deeply as you struggled to understand what he was trying to stay, the confusion evident in the slight crease between your eyebrows and the questioning tilt of your head. You really needed to study Russian. "Do you not want to continue?" you asked slowly and carefully, focusing more on interpreting the subtle nuances in his tone rather than trying to parse the exact words he was using.

His facial expression held hesitance and uncertainty, the slight downturn of his lips and the way his eyes wouldn't quite meet yours telling you what you needed to know. Body language was his primary mode of genuine communication, and you had become very good at reading these silent signals he unconsciously broadcast.

"It's okay, we can stop," you replied with a reassuring tone, making sure to keep your voice soft to help dissipate any lingering tension he might be feeling. "Let's just lay here, okay? We can cuddle without any kind of pressure to do anything else, if you want." You offered with a warm smile, wanting him to feel that his comfort and boundaries were completely respected and that there was no expectation or obligation to continue.

This was a lot of good progress with him, you typically just cuddled or he kept to his side of the bed but he had shown you a lot of sweet affection tonight, and you loved it, it meant he was growing more confident in himself and your relationship. The evidence of his passionate yet tender attention remained visible in the form of gentle, plum-colored marks that decorated your neck and chest as you lay beside him, watching as his silent form trembled slightly beneath the heavy warmth of the thick blankets that enveloped you both.

You opened your arms, offering him a warmer space, and he quickly scooted forward, tucking himself against you. Prone to being cold, he liked being under many layers of blankets, so you made sure to provide plenty for him to not only feel warm but secure. Plus...having you to hold him always helped.

Without the worry of being a soldier, he could rest easy like this.

Thanks for reading. -em 🌿

Dividers by @/strangergraphics | Images found on Pinterest.

[mahmoudna]

Urgent Call for Help: Every Donation Can Save Us

Dear friends,

I am reaching out to you today with a heavy heart, hoping you can help me and my family through an incredibly tough period. So far, I've only been able to raise 390€ from my campaign, and the last donation I received was five days ago. While I am grateful for the support, we are still in desperate need of more.

My family is in real danger, and we are struggling to afford the basic necessities we need to survive—food, water, and other essential items. Every day is getting harder, and I am left with nothing but hope that you can help us.

If you are able to contribute, even with a small donation, it would make a huge difference in our lives. We need your help now more than ever. Every donation brings us one step closer to a better tomorrow.

Thank you to everyone who has supported us so far. I truly appreciate each and every one of you, and I hope you can continue to stand by us in these trying times.

Donation link:

[ahmedbm]

📍🚨please don't skip that 🚨📍📢

✅️Vetted by @gazavetters, my number verified on the list is ( #275 )✅️

Hello dear friends and potential saviors. My name is Ahmed Totah, I am 21 years old, my father is 67, my mother is 55, and my sister is 19 and my brothers Mahmoud 26 and Abdallah 24 and My grandfather is crippled and can't do anythingWho is 91 years old . We now live in the northern Gaza Strip.

Since the beginning of October 7, 2023, and now we are more than 12 months into the war, my family and I have lived a life of relentless violence and suffering after being displaced from our home, more than 10 to 11 times. We have been displaced to schools and relatives, and we are currently living without shelter, and we suffer from food shortages that have forced us to eat animal and bird food due to high prices. Winter has come and we have no blankets or shoes to warm my family. I want you to help me provide for my family's needs and protect them from the bitter cold in winter, and the harsh mud that floods our lives under the rain.

And our suffering in transporting water for drinking, and when it is provided, it is not pure. Diseases, especially rashes, epidemics and pollution, are spreading, while we struggle to survive without proper food, water or medicine. There is no place for anyone, especially children, but

And when it is provided, flour is hardly available through aid (trucks - bershtat) and one day my foot was run over by a truck because of an attack by people and this is because of the lack of flour.

This is all we have. Before the war destroyed our lives, I had just moved to my home in northern Gaza. It was supposed to be a moment of joy, but our happiness was short-lived. On October 7, everything changed. The day started like any other, but soon the sky darkened with smoke, the ground trembled beneath our feet, and the air was filled with the sounds of terrifying explosions. The bombing was continuous, and my family gathered together, praying that we would survive. When the dust settled, nothing was the same. The bombs continued to fall. Every day, my family and I in Gaza wake up to a living nightmare, in a race against time as the war strips us of any sense of peace and normalcy.

My father and mother kept the key to their house in the hope that they would return to it. My father was shocked by the news of the bombing and explosion of our house that held our memories. Here, our dreams of home were displaced and everything was destroyed.

Our lives are in constant danger, and we are desperate to find a way out - a chance to protect my family and rebuild our future safely. But we cannot do it alone. We need your help to escape this nightmare and start over abroad. My profession before and after the war Before the war, I was proud of my work, I studied Hakim at Al-Aqsa University and built a future for myself and my family. I had a thriving career and a home that I worked hard to establish. But everything disappeared during the war. After the war now, everything has disappeared. My work, my tools, and everything I worked for turned into rubble. The war took everything from us, and now my family lives in a tent, and we struggle to survive. We live in fear, trapped in war, everything we had disappeared one day. Our home is destroyed, our community is in ruins, and the constant sounds of explosions remind us that there is no safe place.

My family and I are trapped in Gaza, living in fear and panic as the bombs fall closer and closer. Every night, the walls shake, and we wonder if we can make it until morning. We have lost everything, and we know that our only chance of survival is to escape this war-torn land. But we can’t do it without your help. Please help my family, my friend. The money raised will go directly to cover the costs of my evacuation and that of my family. This includes:

1. Travel expenses – fare, documents, transportation for me and my family.

2. Temporary shelter – a safe place where we can rest, recover, and begin to rebuild.

3. Basic necessities – food, clothing, and medical care upon arrival.

4. Support to rebuild our lives – access to education, healthcare, and job opportunities in a new country.

My family is made up of 7 people, and we know that we will need $10,000 per person to cover these critical expenses. Why your help matters Can your support make the difference between life and death for my family? Every donation brings us one step closer to leaving the devastation and fear behind, and starting over in a place where we can finally find peace. We cannot do this alone, but through your kindness, we can give our family a chance to live – a chance to rebuild, to dream, and to live without fear. From the bottom of our hearts, we thank you for being a part of our journey toward safety and hope. Please help my family escape death and the danger of life. Please help my family.

That's why I'm begging you to share my story and post the link to help my family survive.

#Free Palestine #Free Gaza #All eyes on Palestine #All eyes on Gaza #The war in Gaza @asexual-levia-tan @timetravellingkitty @deathlonging @briarhips @mazzikah @mahoushojoe @sar-soor @rhubarbspring @pcktknife @transmutationdice @sawasawako @appsa @anneemay @commissions4aid-international @wellwaterhysteria @mangocheesecakes @kyra45-helping-others @turtletoria @tortiefrancis @ot3 @amygdalae @ankle-beez @communistchameleon @dykesbat @komsomolka @notallmensheviks @riding-with-the-wild-hunt @heritageposts @stuckinapril @lacecap @determinate-negation @deepspaceboytoy @paper-mario-wiki @kibumkim @neechees @chilewithcarnage @ghelgheli @sayruq @rooh-afza @shesnake @emil @stuckinapril @side-sidecast @brokenbackmountain @paper-mario-wiki @turian @buttercuparry @littlegermanboy @imjustheretotrytohelp @90-ghost @heritageposts @gazavetters @neechees @butchniqabi @fluoresensitive @khanger @autisticmudkip @beserkerjewel @furiousfinnstan @xinakwans @batekush @appsa @nerdyqueerr @butchsunsetshimmer @biconicfinn @stopmotionguy @willgrahamscock @strangeauthor @bryoria @shesnake @legallybrunettedotcom @lautakwah @sovietunion @evillesbianvillain @antibioware @akajustmerry @dizzymoods @ree-duh @neptunerings @explosionshark @dlxxv-vetted-donations @vague-humanoid @buttercuparry @sayruq @malcriada @sar-soor @northgazaupdates2 @feluka @dirhwangdaseul @jdon @ibtisams @sawasawako @memingursa @schoolhater @toesuckingoctober @waskuyecaozu @a-shade-of-blue @c-u-c-koo-4-40k

[lama-gaza0]

Hello, my name is Lama, and I am from Gaza City, specifically in the northern Gaza Strip. I grew up in a loving family of resilience and hope, with my parents working tirelessly to provide us with a life of dignity and opportunity. My father was our steadfast provider, and my mother was the heart of our home. I have two brothers and three sisters, the youngest of whom is just six months old. She is frail and often sick due to the lack of proper food and medicine. My siblings and I have shared dreams of education, careers and a bright future. But life in Gaza is marked by hardship, and when the war began, everything we had built was shattered. My older brother, a kind and a courageous soul, was martyred while trying to secure basic necessities for our survival, my younger sister was gravely injured, and the cost of her treatment weighs more than the universe to us, now the responsibility for my family has fallen on my shoulders.

✅️Vetted by @gazavetters, my number verified on the list is ( #510 )✅️

Our home, once filled with warmth, laughter and memories, has been reduced to rubble. We have been displaced more than thirty times from place to a place with nothing but the clothes on our backs. Each time we returned, we found more destruction, we always clung to the hope of rebuilding, but in the last attack, our home was completely destroyed, we are now homeless, living in unsafe conditions with no shelter to protect us from the cold nights. The loss of our home is not just the loss of a building, it’s the loss of safety, stability, and the place where our dreams were nurtured.

With my father unemployed since the beginning of the war, we have no income to provide even the most basic necessities. Water, food, medicine, warm clothes and blankets-things that many take for granted-are beyond our reach. Every day is a battle for survival, and every night is a reminder of the dangers and struggles we face. I am determined to care for family and give my younger brothers and sisters a chance to grow up with hope. But I cannot do it alone.

I am reaching out to you with a plea for compassion and action. Your support can help us rebuild our lives, restore hope, and secure a future where my family can live in peace and safety. Every donation, no matter how small brings us closer to survival and dignity. Please for the sake of god and humanity, help us in this time of desperate need.

[transmutationisms]

31 July: Update on Mohammed Iwais

Hey everyone, a lot of you have seen my posts about Mohammed @mohdiwais in Gaza. Since October 7, Mohammed has lost his house and his company to the IOF bombing, and he is struggling to access clean water, food, and necessary medical care. He has 9 brothers, all of whom are married and have children, and he's fundraising to help all of them get to safety and eventually rebuild their lives.

In my last post I told you about his sister, who got shot and had a massive bullet embedded in her leg:

Luckily, the operation to remove it was successful, and she is still alive. However, today Mohammed told me that her condition is getting worse due to pollution and lack of access to medications she needs. Caring for someone after surgery is hard enough without enduring a horrific genocide at the same time. Her family are desperately hoping she recovers, but they are stuck in unsafe conditions, being bombed and deprived of basic necessities by the IOF.

That's where you come in. Mohammed and his family are in an ongoing crisis, and they need your help. Since I started boosting his campaign, he's raised a few thousand more SEK, and he's extremely grateful to everyone who has donated and helped share his campaign.

However, he still has a long way to go before he reaches his goal of kr500,000 SEK, or $46,679 USD.

This is an attainable goal! But he desperately needs your help to get there.

Before October 7, his family had 37 people, including his brothers and sisters and their children. They lost more than 10 people when their house was bombed, and even laying their bodies to rest properly was not possible in the rubble. Please don't let the Iwais family lose another member. They are still here with us, and they need help urgently.

The support you have given already is amazing, both by donating and by sharing Mohammed's campaign when you can't give anything. Please keep that up. Don't look away, and don't forget about Mohammed, his family, and the horrific abuses they are enduring.

This is an ongoing crisis, and your help can make a tangible difference. Any amount helps; nothing is too small. If you've been waiting to donate to a Gazan campaign, consider this a sign and help Mohammed. Everyone deserves a decent life, and right now Mohammed is still praying just to survive.

kr31,010 SEK / 500,000

verified by @/90-ghost

[gaza-giving-tree]

Imagine this:

You once had a warm, safe home filled with love and comfort. Your children laughed and played with their favorite toys, cuddled in their cozy beds, and wore clothes that kept them warm through the seasons. But now, all of it—your home, your children’s comfort, and your family’s security—has been reduced to nothing but memories.

Images: Images of Rana's home in Gaza, before and after the attacks.

@ranafam2

Story written by @visionsofaselfmademan

For Rana Abdul-Jawad, a wife and mother of four from Gaza, this is her heartbreaking reality. Her beautiful home, once a haven of joy, was destroyed, leaving her and her children in a torn and worn-out tent. They now face the unrelenting cold of winter with no warm clothes, no covers, and no reprieve. Her children shiver through each moment, vulnerable to illness from the freezing temperatures, and struggle to survive the harsh conditions.

Recently, the winter rain storms have flooded their fragile tent, soaking everything inside. Rana has spent entire nights desperately trying to stabilize it against the wind and rain, fearing it might collapse entirely. Despite her efforts, the tent cannot properly shield her family from the bitter cold or the relentless rain.

Image: Rana's tent, flooded with rain and barely holding up under the heavy winter rain storms.

Rana’s family needs your help. The soaring prices caused by war have made basic necessities like clothes and blankets unaffordable.

Rana’s plea is simple yet profound: “Please, save my children.”

Images: Rana's beloved children.

Your donation, no matter how small, can bring warmth, comfort, and hope to this family. It can mean the difference between enduring the cold and finding safety and security in these desperate times. Let’s stand together to help Rana’s children find warmth and peace again.

You can donate to Rana's GoFundMe [HERE].

This campaign has been vetted by association [LINK].

[noarfamily]

Freè palestine

My name is Noor, and I am a mother of three children, living in Gaza. I am 32 years old, and my children are Yamen (5 years old), Tala (11 years old), and Yara (9 years old). Our lives were filled with hope and dreams before the war changed everything. Now, we find ourselves with nothing but devastation around us, and no one to turn to.

My husband has been missing since the start of the war, and we have no information about his whereabouts or condition. Our home was completely destroyed, and in the midst of the destruction, I was severely injured by an airstrike, which left me with severe damage to my right and left hands. I can no longer move my right hand, and I have undergone two surgeries so far. My left leg also had to be treated with a metal plate, and I am still recovering.

But perhaps the hardest part of all this is that I am unable to provide food for my children. I look into their innocent eyes, and I can't tell them when they will eat again. I can’t bear seeing them go to sleep hungry, not knowing when the next meal will come. This is the unbearable reality we face every single day.

Today, I turn to you, asking for your help. We desperately need assistance with food and basic supplies. We need your help to survive this nightmare, to bring some hope back to our lives. Your support, no matter how small, will mean the world to us and help us through this overwhelming struggle

Please, if you can help in any way, know that you will be giving us more than just food—you will be giving us hope and strength to face another day.

May God bless you and reward you for your kindness. Whatever you give will not go unnoticed, and it will remain in our hearts forever.