#cw graphic details

[solargeist]

Can we just agree that Grian is a kinky idiot /j (/srs???)

his main kink is Scar

lmaoooo i dunno abt ~kinky, im not particularly interested in diving into that, but he is crazy abt scar. he learned a lot abt himself in that desert

[riding-with-the-wild-hunt]

"Upon it sat a shape, black-mantled, huge and threatening. A crown of steel he bore, but between rim and robe naught was there to see, save only a deadly gleam of eyes: the Lord of the Nazgûl. To the air he had returned, summoning his steed ere the darkness failed, and now he was come again, bringing ruin, turning hope to despair, and victory to death. A great black mace he wielded." - J.R.R. Tolkien, The Return of the King, "The Battle of the Pelennor Fields"

@tolkienhorrorweek day 2 ⇢ angmar + minas morgul + sorcery || THE WITCH-KING OF ANGMAR

[ID: an edit comprised of four graphics in shades of cool brown and green with white accents. They all have brown backgrounds and white italicized text.

1: A rectangular image covers the left side of the graphic. It shows Joao Vitor, a brazilian model with brown skin and dark hair tied back behind his head. He is sitting sprawled in a chair with a skull at his left, and looking up at the viewer with a fierce, moody expression. His shirt is open and he is barefoot, but wearing a large and ornate necklace. The graphic is framed on three sides with white lines that overlap the image, and white text reads "Born the illegitimate son of minor Númenorean nobility, the Witch-king of Angmar would rise to such heights of infamy as would have astounded his forebearers. Having escaped the sinking of Elenna after being sent to a remote outpost near Umbar (despite the destruction of certain pertinent records, the rumor of his parents being half-siblings is widely believed; it is likely his grandparents arranged his appointment as a settlement governor in an effort to conceal the incestuous nature of the union), he removed from the coast with his people, and, after a period of absence, reemerged in the far north of Eriador as the self-styled Prince of Angmar. At this time he first began to produce concrete demonstrations of sorcery, such as the raising overnight of the citadel at Carn Dûm (though this may be mythic exaggeration) and the calling down of a plague upon the kingdom of Cardolan." Below the text is a decorative motif comprised of lines and circles.

2: A rectangular image in the center of the graphic shows conifers surrounded by mist. The bottom edge of the picture is overlapped with part of the same decoration from Image 1. Below it, text reads "Stories of all kinds circulated regarding the Witch-king’s talents and proclivities: it was said that his shadow walked without him, that he could change his shape and assume forms strange and terrible; that he never took a lover but to bring them happy to some gruesome fate. It is unknown which of these anecdotes are true and which the product of ensorcellement or simply a fearful reputation, but certainly Angmar’s powers were great and varied, as evinced by the complete erasure of his right name from all surviving records, including memory."

3: Same format as Image 2, but the image shows the grey stone entrance to a castle surrounded by woods. Text reads "After his defeat at the hands of King Eärnur of Gondor and his allies, the Witch-king journeyed south to Mordor to seek the protection of Sauron his liege. There were all nine of Sauron’s greatest servants first united, and when they once more issued forth, it was against Gondor that their collected might was turned. They laid siege to the garrison of Minas Ithil, driving those within to such extremities of terror that they tore one another to pieces, or else hurled themselves from the battlements in madness and despair."

4: Same format as Image 1, but the orientation is switched, with the text on the left and the image on the right. It shows Joao Vitor, this time turning towards the viewer with one hand resting on his shoulder. He is wearing multiple gold rings as well as bracelets and earrings. Text reads "Thus Ithilien became largely uninhabited save for the fell creatures of Mordor, and all Minas Ithil’s beauty fell into ruin and decay. The people of Gondor shunned the city above all, and it was called Minas Morgul, for any who looked upon those silent streets or smelled on the air the perfume of the flowers growing in the vale was plagued with evil dreams, or became distempered in their wits, or else slept and came never back among living men. But it is said in that city was yet one who was not Sauron’s minion, and it was Eärnur the King. For the ire of the Morgul-lord did not rest, and he taunted Eärnur and challenged him to come once more upon the field. And though his people endeavored to stay him, Eärnur went forth from Minas Tirith in arms, and was taken within the Morgul City; and it is told that the Witch-king set him there to torment, yet would call him ever back within the circles of the World that his suffering might have no end." //End ID]

[rei-does-stuff]

Nah I can never fucking read berserk I saw a few PANELS of the rape scenes and it’s way too fucking much for me, I actually felt ill, fuck that shitt

[kuumara]

if anyone tells u ur gayass ship is weird and "what ab friendships😡" tell them to go read Maggot Moon by sally gardner. the 2 guys in there are such good friends they even make out🥰

[clangenhead]

aconiteclan: a beast-hearted leader [moon 48]

it has been five years since bearstar has become leader of aconiteclan. since then, many cracks are beginning to show through in her leadership. her stubborn nature and unnatural cruelness can be a powerful asset on the battlefield, but it makes her a terrifying force to be reckoned with to her clanmates.

she uses manipulation on her clanmates to get what she pleases and will force others to physically punish anyone who dares challenge her rule. even her own daughter, azurewhisker, was not spared from this fate, and lives to bare the scars from that event.

a dark force is growing within the heart of aconiteclan and the clan is at a loss for what to do. even many of bearstar's biggest supporters and allies are beginning to waver. yet, they all feel powerless to stop her reign.

finchfang, the clan's newest medic, has been getting strange dreams for moons now. many faint voices keep whispering in her ears. visions flash before her very eyes. they all clearly carry one message.

"the beast will feed and feed unless its prey fights back."

their document that track the clan's events in depth is here!

i tag any posts about them on my blog as #aconiteclan!

[devilmass]

meta + rodrick's abuse

the morning of the accident felt all wrong. he wakes up and the air is different. it feels charged, fed full of vitriol before anything even happens. he remembers waking up in a heap, he recalls the silence of the big house and somewhere else, the sound of a hammer being used. the reluctance to leave his bed does not go away. even when he's dressed for the day, roddy is cognizant that something is coming; something big, something with teeth and nails and a mouth big enough to swallow him whole. perhaps this reluctance is what catalyzes the incident altogether. he often wonders what his life might be like if he'd just listened better. if he wasn't fixed on fighting his grandfather on everything.

it starts when the morning's bible study doesn't go to plan. he talks back, asks when's dad gonna be done ? because he's nothing if not his daddy's son, he wants to go outside and tend the land alongside him, wants to feel the warmth of his gaze just once before the parishioner's come. his grandfather answer's with a swift slap across his right cheek. it comes when his head turns back to the bible, when his eyes are distracted and he doesn't realize the creaking of the chair is his grandfather standing up. or maybe it starts when rodrick asks him, immediately after, is this how god wants you to treat your only grandson ? red cheeked and red - rimmed eyes from holding back his pain.

all he knows is that the look in his grandfather's eyes are unlike anything he's ever witnessed. a heady mix of hatred and an incurable iciness, one that rodrick will never inherit, pours across the kitchen between them. he thinks he's won. his grandfather leaves the kitchen silently and rodrick watches as he trudges upstairs without a word. rodrick's never come out on top in anything, much less with his grandfather, and the immediate presence of his guilt is proof of that. his stomach turns. he sits at the table for an hour, for two hours, before finally deciding to head upstairs to his bedroom. " rodrick ? " the sound of his grandfather's voice inspires a dread that could not be overstated. his rabbit heart jumps in his chest and rodrick dives under his bed, pushing himself so far in that he clings to the opposite wall, breathing hard, watching the doorway. his grandfather stands there, clad in his best cowboy boots with the metal spurs strapped to them.

sometimes rodrick imagines that nothing happened. when he thinks back on the empty spaces between seeing his grandfather's boots and waking up at the bottom of the stairs with his father standing over his body, several hours later rodrick tries to imagine that his grandfather's ire was not as bad as it might have been. that the broken bones mean little when his life is still intact.

he imagines that his dad intervenes just in time. that he picks him up and carries him to bed and washes the blood from his mouth with a warm cloth, just like he used to do with his drool.

but that's not what happens.

his father doesn't stop it. he only comes in, when the hour is late, and finds him crumpled up in a pile of his own blood; he doesn't stop to pick rodrick up. instead, he goes to the living room where his grandfather sits and asks him why -

why did you do that, daddy ? what did you do ? daddy -

he sounds like the child rodrick never knew him as.

the ambulance is called when his father tries to stand him up. rodrick crumples immediately, whimpering, falling into the same heap he was in before. his bloody mouth pukes up more blood, his smashed in teeth doing little to stop it from spraying everywhere.

when the paramedics come for him, rodrick remembers asking if his dad was going to be mad. in the hospital, with morphine running through his veins, rodrick only remembers bits and pieces: photos being taken of his body, strange lights passing overhead, a needle, two needles, and gauze being packed into his mouth. he remembers his clothes being cut off of him and a soft voice telling him that he's so brave.

in the weeks following the accident, rodrick's tally is given: two broken legs, a fractured shin, a broken humerus and several teeth were removed via surgery because they were incapable of being saved. he had a concussion and a numerous bruising that suggests he was given the belt more than once. his ribs and hips are bruised to all hell and he's given a brace when he walks because it makes walking torture.

social service doesn't allow rodrick visitors for the month their investigation spans, a cautionary consequence for the boy's worrying questions about both grandfather and father. when he is given permission to go home, it's under the assurance that rodrick sr. would never be allowed within 500 feet of rodrick and furthermore, would be hospitalized for the remainder of his life.

social services makes sure that rodrick goes to school. they give him needles that make him feel strange and warm and for the entirety of the following year, rodrick falls into a state of selective mutism. he stops talking, but he doesn't stop praying.

he never stops praying. he never sees his grandfather again.

[liminsendhelp]

Vampire who ate the sun

[frigidwife]

your comfort is complicity.

someone tagged one of my fundraising posts with "cw palestine". there are no photos on my post, no graphic descriptions. just people's names and how far they are from their goals. even if i had included photos or recounted suffering in intricate detail, how dare you? how fucking dare you put a content warning on people BEGGING for your attention when your tax dollars sponsor their destruction? no one can turn away and still claim a conscience.

here are more palestinians who have reached out to me in the past week.

abd al mutei @abdelmutei / vetted / GFM €13,063 raised of €25,000

ahmed al yazji @ahmedgaza1 / vetted / GFM $698 raised of $30,000 !!!

abed al hadi aburass @abedalhdihesham / vetted / GFM $5,605 CAD raised of $65,000

bshaer and ayla @bshaeromars-blog / vetted #231 / GFM $18,480 raised of $40,000

etaf @familyetaf1234567 / unvetted / GFM €2,088 raised of €50,000

mohammed swierh @mohammedswierh2 / unvetted / GFM $14,757 raised of $40,000

jawad and fairuz @jawad236 / vetted #655 / GFM $2,038 raised of $30,000

al saidi family @supportmyfamily1 / vetted / GFM £374 raised of £30,000 !!!!

[voiceoffenrisulfr]

Multitudes Chapter Eleven

... Comes Memories Best Left Behind.

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 -> Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov, James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov, James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton, James "Bucky" Barnes/Natasha Romanov, Clint Barton/Steve Rogers, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, Steve Rogers/Natasha Romanov, James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov/Steve Rogers

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘 -> Nat wakes up, and starts to remember.

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓 -> 8349

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 -> (E) Post-suicide attempt, graphic flashbacks of sexual assault via mind-controlled friend, guilt tripping, injury detail (SH), external and internal examination, forced hysterectomy, restraint, SA of an injured minor (non-graphic, predominantly verbal).

𝐀/𝐍 -> Dead Dove: Do Not Eat. Please read the warnings, and proceed with caution. Check it out below, or on AO3 here!

The snazzy Black Widow divider comes from @/firefly-graphics and I love it <3 The Multitudes Universe one is our own!

<- Previous Chapter (10/72) Next Chapter (12/72) ->

I woke slowly, to a reluctant consciousness I immediately prayed was a dream.

The agony I was in told me otherwise.

I kept my eyes closed against the bright lights, a headache barrelling down on me  without hesitation.

Silence.

Odd, blissful silence.

I became aware, over time, of a hand in mine. Only when the fingers clasped tight flexed could I notice their presence, and as soon as they stilled once more, I immediately forgot that I wasn’t alone.

Occasionally, voices spoke around me, but I didn’t have the energy to decipher the words. I had no idea how long I’d been lay there, being poked and prodded, before I finally opened my eyes.

The room was nondescript and light, an airy space intended to encourage healing and wellbeing.

I immediately wished I’d never bothered.

Turning my head with a groan, I froze when I saw the person with their fingers interlocked with mine.

Clint’s eyes were puffy, the space underneath a violent violet of sleepless nights and poor-quality food, lips chewed to rags and scabbed over, time and again. His cheekbones protruded sharply, hair lacking its usual healthy shine, and his fingernails were bitten to the quick, raw and angry.

Beautiful.

His lids were closed in twitchy sleep, and I took the opportunity to follow the line of my arm, wrapped heavily in sterile bandages between wrist and bicep. Glancing across, I found the other to be the same, and, if the discomfort spread throughout my body was anything to go by, there were many more wounds scattered across my skin – rips and tears I didn’t remember making.

“Natasha?”

My head jerked back around, finding Clint’s red eyes watching me hesitantly, dropping my hand quickly. “God, I… I’m so glad you’re awake. There was… I didn't think you'd wake up.” He stood, weaving slightly, his clothes wrinkled and malodorous. “You’ve been out for a week. The blood loss, the extent of the damage… They put you into a coma to give your body chance to recover. They… You wouldn’t eat enough, and we knew it. They had to make the choice.” He gestured to my other side, and I followed his gaze to the creamy IV situated above me, panic settling in.

“No,” I whispered, my eyes flicking back to him desperately. “No, Clint – Please, please don’t let them do this to me.”

He smiled weakly, stepping away from the bed, hands raised to protest his innocence. “It’s none of my business, Nat. I shouldn’t even be here – don’t you remember? I’m just a rapist, and you never want to see me again.”

I winced, recalling the words that flowed unheard from my mouth. “…What did it say?”

“It?”

“The Voice. It… It was me, in the beginning. But not – it didn’t give me a choice. But then I couldn’t, and it… It took over. I don’t… I couldn’t hear it. I couldn’t do anything,” I whispered, balling my mostly-numb fists and digging my nails into my palms. “I only woke up under the car.”

“’I remembered how you fucking hurt me, and now I can’t even look at you’,” he murmured, dropping into the seat once more. “That was you, wasn’t it?” I nodded reluctantly, and he pushed a hand through his hair. “After that… You were cold. You were… Nasty.”

“What did I say?” I whispered, trembling with fear.

He met my gaze slowly, with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “I can’t, Nat.”

“I can’t move on until I know what I did.”

“You won’t move on when you do,” he quipped, throwing my own words back at me. “You won’t be able to live with it.”

“It was that bad?” I pressed, hands shaking. He looked away, deviating from a script we’d followed once before.

“It was worse.”

I winced and rested my head back against the pillow, drained and tired of life. “… I’d still like to know, Clint.”

He hummed and met my eye once more, hard and haunted. “I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.”

Clint tossed his knife from hand to hand, grinning wolfishly, his bright blue eyes sparkling with menace. “Natalia,” he crooned, the blade spinning between his fingers. “My dear, sweet Nat. Why don’t you come a little closer? I’ve missed you.”

“Leave him alone,” I hissed, fists raised and coiled loosely. “Clint, if you’re in there… You can fight this. I know you can.” He shook his head harshly, growling, and my hope flared. “Clint? Clint, you can do this. Come back to me, please…” My hands became open palms, offered soothingly as I inched closer, his eyes squeezed shut in a grimace. “Please, Clint, I-”

He jerked forward with a primal snarl, catching my wrists and securing them around the pipe with a zip tie. I looked up, stunned, into the brightest, most terrifying gaze. “Nat, Nat, Nat…” He tutted, walking around to kick my legs apart. “You love this one, don’t you? You’d do anything for him.”

I nodded sharply, heart racing in my chest. “Anything.”

He pressed the knife to his own throat, grinning sinisterly. “Prove it. I’m going to fuck you now, and you’re going to take it, or I will kill him.” He squatted by my side, trailing a finger across my cheek. “You’ve always wanted me, haven’t you, Little Spider?”

I flinched and recoiled, swallowing the bile in my throat. “I want Clint. Not you.”

He smirked as he straightened, undoing his belt. “This is the only way your precious ‘Clint’ will ever fuck you, Natalia. You may as well accept it.”

I blinked owlishly, then nodded, rigid and terrified. “Just don’t hurt him. I… I’ll do anything you want. Just please… Don’t hurt him.”

He grinned once more, trailing the knife along my body, cutting through my suit from breastbone to abdomen and ripping it from my skin. I shivered under his lustful gaze, writhing in an effort to hide my scantily clad body, eliciting a tut and pressing the knife to his throat. “Natalia, we’ve discussed this. You will behave, or he will die.”

I stilled immediately, muscles going limp as his rough hands dragged down my underwear, tossing it aimlessly over his shoulder and forcing my legs apart.

There was no hesitation as he pushed a finger inside me, making me cry out against the intrusion. “Fuck, Natasha… Do you like that, Little Spider?” He pumped himself mercilessly as I sobbed, caressing my walls in an almost tender motion. My tight ring of muscle burnt, clamping down against the intrusion. “You love the way I stretch you out and make you all ready for me. You’re so goddamn tight – I thought you were a slut?”

“You pretend like you don’t want this, but you’re so wet… Your pussy wants this, and you can’t deny it.” He smirked as a second finger prodded my hole, rubbing gently. “You want another finger, is that it? You’re squeezing so hard – so desperate. No, it’s not a finger you want, I know. But one more first, Little Spider. We have to make sure you can take it; I wouldn’t want to hurt my dear Natty, after all.” He forced his way inside me and I screamed, burning and tearing, fading to a soft sob as he worked me wider. His fingers drew out and came to his mouth, licking the blood from the digits with a laugh. “Well… Wet is wet.”

He crawled up my body, smelling of sweat and Clint, and I wept aloud as he poked at my entrance. “Clint, I’m sorry,” I whispered, fingers balling into fists.

He pushed inside me once more, setting fire to my nerves and burning away my last vestiges of sanity, muscles relaxing as I gave up. “God, Nat… You’re so fucking tight. I never thought you’d be this tight.” He stuttered out a groan as his hips shifted, his length moving inside me, but I could barely feel anything anymore, my unseeing eyes locked somewhere over his head as I jerked at his motion. “Natasha… Such a good little girl,” he crooned, hand smoothing the hair from my face. “Talk to me, my little slut. Tell me how good this feels… How long you’ve wanted it.” I simply nodded distantly, and he growled, slapping me hard. “Do as I say, Natalia, or your loverboy dies while you watch.”

“Please,” I whimpered, forcing my body to wriggle in faux arousal – something I had more than enough experience of, but never in such a heartbreaking way. “I’ve wanted it for so long – it’s so good. You feel so good, please…”

He grinned wickedly, pulling out long enough to flip me over, my ass in the air, entirely at his mercy as he pushed into my clenched, unprepared hole, making me scream once more, nails snapping as they scraped the metal ground. “You like it when I do it like this, don’t you? You like it rough…” He jerked his hips forward, another cry escaping my torn throat, followed by a desperate sob.

“Please,” I begged, wanting this to stop – needing this to be over.

“You like that, don’t you?” he breathed, reaching around to paw at me ineffectually. “Tell me how much you like it, Little Spider…”

Now. Left leg back, against his neck. There’s a pipe he will hit his head on. He’ll be out cold.

Wh… What?

“What did I say, Natasha?” he ground out as he rammed into me, body chafing against the grating. “Answer me. Tell me how much you love this cock in your ass; I bet Barton could never-”

My leg raised of its own accord, colliding with the side of his throat and sending him flying into the pipe I was secured to. He instantly crumpled, and I sobbed, curling my beaten, damaged body into itself.

Thank you…

You’re welcome, Natalia. I only want what is best for you – for us.

“I managed to get the knife and cut through the zip ties. I found a fresh suit, cleaned the blood from my body, and got you to the medical bay. I never spoke of it… Not until now,” I added, wincing.

Clint’s mouth worked wordlessly, tears flowing freely down his cheeks. “Nat…”

I shook my head, offering him a weak smile. “Your turn.”

Wiping his face, he cleared his throat, shifting in his seat. “It... Well, I feel like an asshole for comparing the two, now.” I reached out a hand across the space between us, and he hesitated before entwining his fingers firmly with mine, unable to hide his shaking.

“Like I said, I... I knew something was wrong. You said what you said about not being able to look at me, and then you just... Disappeared. You do it, sometimes; I think it’s when The Voice is talking with you. Sometimes you just go blank, staring off into the distance, and it’s almost impossible to get you back.”

“After that, things got... Weird. It was like you had a switch for your emotions, and you just turned it off. You... You looked me in the eye, and you said... You said that you only fucked me as test, to see if it was the same. To see if I was really under Loki’s control, or if it was just a lie to get away with doing whatever I wanted. You said that I failed.” He swallowed hard, looking away. “I tried for explain- to apologise- anything. But you – it – just laughed. It said that once a rapist, always a rapist. It said... ‘We never want to see you again. You’re a monster, Clint, and we wish we’d never met you’.”

He paused for breath and I rubbed his hand reassuringly, guilt settling like rock in my chest. ���And then... Then it said that I was the reason for it all. The cutting, the starving. It said ‘we do these things because we can’t fucking live with what you did to us. But I bet you still touch yourself at night when you think of it, don’t you, Clint? You still come to the memory of us screaming and begging for mercy as you unmade us, wishing more than anything you could tie us up again. But we’re not going to give you the opportunity’.” He blanched and gagged,  eyes growing wide. “I- I don’t, I would never...”

“I know,” I soothed, extending an arm to him, pulling him tight against my chest as he crawled on the bed beside me, sobbing uncontrollably into my gown. “I know... I’m so sorry, Clint.”

“I understand now,” he whispered, fingers wrapped firmly in my sheets as he curled against me. “I understand, vaguely, how hard it must be. How mean that goddamn Voice is.” I nodded and hummed, placing a soft kiss to his hair. “I’m sorry I hurt you,” he added, his voice a low murmur.

“I’m sorry too, Clint. I... Can we start over?”

He looked up, shocked. “You... Still want to be with me? After everything I did?”

I smiled affectionately, pressing my forehead to his. “You are my light in the darkness, Clint Barton. I will always, always love you.”

He grinned for a heartbeat, then winced. “Then... Why? Why did you leave me in the first place?”

I baulked and looked away, shame colouring my cheeks. “Basically? The Voice tricked me into doing something... Dumb. Intimately dumb,” I added when frowned, rolling my jaw thoughtfully as my face pinked further. “I... It convinced me I would get sick, and that I needed to be clean. I... Ate body wash. And... put it in other places.”

He winced sharply, hissing air in through his teeth. “Are you okay?”

I nodded dismissively, waving a hand. “Charcoal helped with the sickness, and it seems that the coma helped with the... Discomfort. I’ll be fine. But I felt stupid and embarrassed, and I knew I’d have to tell you about it. But... The Voice can be so persuasive. It made a fool of me, and then used that as proof that I needed it, and should listen to it. It… It made me feel like I didn’t have a choice.”

He leant forward, touching his forehead to mine. “You weren’t to know, Nat. You… You could have talked to me.”

Nodding quickly, I sniffed. “I know. But at the time…”

He clucked sympathetically, cupping my chin in his hand. “I know, my love. That Voice has a power and a way of making you believe things.” I hitched a sob, and his nose brushed mine before he hesitated. “I… Can I kiss you?” A few more tears leaked down my cheeks, touched and honoured by this humble, damaged man, and I nodded desperately, his lips brushing mine, sweet and chaste. “I love you, Little Spider.”

“I love you, too,” I whimpered, wrapping my arms around him as tight as the bandages and IVs would allow, clinging to him desperately.

I’m never letting go again.

That was how Bruce found us, curled around one another and crying softly, murmuring apologies and forgiveness into each other’s bodies.

“You’re awake?”

We looked up in unison, and Clint went to detangle his limbs from mine, but I held him fast. “She woke up only recently,” he offered, chagrined – I guess he was supposed to tell someone.

Bruce hummed, glancing between the two of us impassively, before a weak smile flickered on his lips. “I’m glad to see you’ve made up.” His gaze flicked to me imploringly, and I nodded.

“I told him,” I explained, wincing in shame once again. “I should have done that in the first place.”

The doctor grimaced sympathetically, moving closer, and I nodded when he gestured at the foot of the bed imploringly, settling himself by my legs. “I’m going to talk to you about the medical treatment you have received, and where we go from here. Would you like Clint to stay?”

I felt Clint’s eyes on me, questioning and unassuming, but I only chuckled under my breath. “Yes. I would always like Clint to stay.” His arms twitched around me protectively, and I smiled, burying closer into his chest.

Bruce watched us for a moment, his face a perfect blend of happiness and grief, before he shook his head. “Natasha, you were found in the parking lot seventeen minutes after you ran from Clint. Given the extent of the damage sustained and the lengths you went to in to try to hide, it has been assumed that this was an attempt on your life. Is that accurate?” I hesitated then nodded reluctantly, and he made a quick mark on his clipboard before placing it on his lap, meeting my gaze steadily. “You made seventy-three incisions, two of which involved major arteries. You were unconscious when we found you, already far into major hypovolemic shock. You were extremely tachycardic and tachypnoeic, with almost no capillary refill.” He flinched at a memory I couldn’t fathom, looking away before continuing. “You’re O-negative. While we always have universal donor blood on hand, it wasn’t enough. Without Clint -  the only other O-negative member of the team, aside from myself – you’d have died, Natasha.”

I offered my partner a weak smile, noticing for the first time the heavy bruising that marred the curve of his elbow, and pressed my lips to his forehead. “Thank you.”

“It took four hours to stitch you up. Near the… End, you stopped searching for skin and just went through the clothes. There were fibres and grit embedded into your wounds. One of the IVs is a broad-spectrum antibiotic,” he added, nodding at the multitude of bags hanging above me, “and you’ve been responding well. You… You had four-hundred and twelve stitches, in the end. Stephen and I worked on you in shifts, and we weren’t optimistic that you’d pull through. When you somehow started trying to regain consciousness, you had a seizure, so we induced a coma to give your body chance to recover. The drug was withdrawn yesterday, but you didn’t wake up. We weren’t certain if you would ever wake up, or the… Condition you would be in, if you did.” He offered me a tight smile, meeting my eye once more. “We’ll have to run some tests, but… It seems that you haven’t suffered significant impairment of your faculties, at least.” He gestured down at my arms, swathed in white. “Stephen did what he could to salvage your nerves, but… Natasha, you have to be warned. You may never regain full sensation or function. The damage was significant, and any healing will be slow, but there’s no guarantee you’ll ever be back to how you were before.”

“Your weight was at an all-time low, and you had a violent infection from the lacerations to your ribs, which were beginning to turn septic. You were severely anaemic, and deficient in almost all essential vitamins. I don’t know how you’re alive, Nat,” he finished simply, something akin to wonder and intimidation flickering across his face.

I shrugged half-heartedly, looking away. “Just lucky, I guess; or unlucky, depending on your interpretation,” I added with a snort, sending Clint’s head jerking up from my chest with a frown.

“That’s not funny, Natasha.” I rolled my jaw and nodded tersely, and his eyes widened infinitesimally. “Are you… Do you still feel that way? Like… Hurting yourself?”

I shrugged again, picking at my bandages absently. “Everything isn’t suddenly fixed because we talked a little, Clint. It’s better, but it’s not… Better. I still…” The lump in my throat made my voice crack, and I squeezed my eyes shut before continuing. “I still hate who I am. The things I’ve done.”

His fingers found mine one more, filling the spaces between. “Then we’ll keep talking,” he replied simply, my eyes opening to meet his sympathetic gaze. “For as long as it takes. Right, Doc?”

Bruce sighed, drawing our focus back toward him. “Actually… It’s my professional opinion that Natasha should be transferred to a dedicated facility.”

My blood thrummed in shock and devastation – no, don’t send me away, he is the only thing that makes this endurable and I won’t survive without him – but Clint merely stood slowly, stepping closer to the seated doctor and looming over him. “Do you make that choice?” Bruce shook his head, skin tinged with lime, and my partner smiled emotionlessly. “If she is not under non-voluntary admittance, as required by law, then she goes nowhere. And if you know what’s good for you – and more importantly, what’s good for her – you won’t seek out that order. Not only will it likely kill her, but it’ll mean I have a lot of free time on my hands to make your life a living hell, Bruce.”

I blinked vacantly, startled by the flat fury in Clint’s voice, his eyes dark and intimidating. But Bruce, the mottling of his skin growing more evident, only stood, his chest close to the other man’s as his height increased steadily. “Don’t make me angry, Barton,” he whispered, barely perceptible. “You won’t like me when I’m angry.”

“Boys!” I snapped, sending both heads whipping around to me, the doctor deflating slowly. “That’s enough. Clint’s right – I’m not going anywhere. You can try and force me if you want, but it will be the death of me. I’m an international spy; do you really want to test my ability to commit suicide in a locked ward?”

Bruce blinked and paled, then turned his gaze back to Clint, still vibrant green and furious. “Don’t ever insinuate that I don’t want what’s best for her. She was on a strict no-exercise order for a reason, and you fucked her. She could have had a heart attack. You could have killed her for your own pleasure – and even though you didn’t, what good has come of it?” Hands raised and open, he gestured to the surrounding room. “You are the last person who can ever question my motivation, Barton. Not when your own is clearly so selfish.”

Bruce’s words rung in the silence as he left, Clint stood loosely beside the bed.

“Clint-”

“He’s right,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair frustratedly. “God, he’s right. I could have killed you, Nat.”

“Clint, I-”

He turned to face me, the blue of his eyes made ever deeper by the redness surrounding them as he held back tears. “I’m so goddamn selfish. I’m so sorry.”

I shook my head, shuffling toward him as best I could despite the various leads and tubes attached to me. “Clint-”

“Why would I do that? Why am I so fucking self-serving? God, The Voice was right, I’m no better than-”

“Clint!” I interrupted fiercely, my tone clipped and harsh. “That is enough. I will not listen to this. You are nothing like Loki. And you are not selfish. I made a choice – it might not have been the smartest one, but neither of us was fully aware of the risk. And I do not regret it, not for a second. It’s a choice I’d make over and over, because it was worth it. It…” I flushed, my passion overridden by my embarrassment. “It was the best I’ve ever felt. In every sense – physically, emotionally, and goddamn spiritually.”

He uncurled his fists, inching closer uncertainly. “But-”

“No.”

“I just-”

“Shut up, Clint.”

He sighed, moving back to lay beside me and pressing a gentle kiss to my nose. “… It was that good?”

I met his gaze slowly, a tremble of static shooting through my body and the memory of him; his teeth, his tongue, his hands. “I’ve never believed in God before, but… I’m pretty sure I did then.”

He smirked, brushing his lips against mine affectionately. “Glowing praise. If it’s any consolation, I’ve never…” Flushing red, he scratched the back of his neck shyly. “It’s never been that quick. Not by far.”

I grinned, rubbing my nose against his jaw. “I’ve just never, so I think I win.” He chuckled, his fingers finding the curve of my hip, shaking his head as I shimmied closer.

“Bruce was right, though. We should… I mean, we need to take it easy. At least until you’re stronger. I don’t want anything to happen to you, hon.” I pouted playfully, but paused when I caught sight of his serious expression, and sighed.

“Yeah. But hey… It’ll give me something to look forward to, right? A reason to improve?”

He smirked again, peppering kisses across my cheeks. “I’ll start planning it out. It’ll be the best night… Day… Weekend of your life.”

I swallowed at the implication, the connected ECG obnoxiously betraying my thrill. “I guess I’ll have to try and eat more, then."

Stephen rapped on the door before entering, and I hurriedly pressed a finger to my lips, inclining my head at the slumbering archer curled against my chest. He smiled wanly, moving to sit on the chair beside the bed. “I need to check your sutures, Natasha. All being well, you can get out of here today – but you’ll be on bedrest for the next few weeks, at least, and we’ll be checking on you several times a day. The perks of being an Avenger with a dedicated medical team,” he added, chuckling.

Nodding, I placed a tender kiss to the forehead of my sleeping love, caressing his cheek. “Clint, honey? Dr. Strange is here.”

Clint grunted as he stirred, blinking in brief confusion before his gaze cleared. “Huh? Oh. Hi, Stephen.”

The wizard dipped his head politely, hands tented in his lap. “Mr. Barton.”

“Stephen’s here to check my stitches. I may be able to leave later,” I added, grinning. But Clint frowned, glancing at the surgeon.

“Is that advisable?”

“It’s only upstairs, Clint. She’ll be in a wheelchair the whole way, and on bedrest for a few weeks. If we can find someone who is willing to wait on her hand and foot, that is,” he added, an eyebrow raised in self-amusement.

I muttered in Russian under my breath, then raised my voice. “I don’t need a wheelchair.”

“It’s not negotiable, Natasha. It’s the only way you’re leaving this room,” he replied smoothly, and stood. “Now. This is likely to be somewhat uncomfortable, Nat. You have stitches over most major swaths of skin, and examination will, unfortunately, require nudity, though I will provide a courtesy sheet to be moved around as needed. Do you understand?”

I nodded tightly, any humour lost from the situation at the idea of the doctor’s eyes on me. Hesitating, I met his gaze slowly. “While I’ve been unconscious?” I whispered, horrified when he nodded stoically.

“Not through choice, Ms. Romanoff. Life-saving measures were required, and there was no other option.”

“Who?”

Clint frowned at the question, but Stephen tipped his head, instinctively understanding the question. “Bruce did not feel able to work outside of your arms and legs. All other sutures were performed by myself. I’m sorry, Natasha.”

I swallowed dryly, cringing at the thought of the wizard looming over my naked, empty body. Stephen’s a professional. He did his job, and nothing more.

Are you sure?

I resisted the urge to groan aloud, hanging my head in my hand. Not you. God, please, not you.

The Voice laughed harshly – a grating sound that scraped the flesh from my brain. You didn’t say that when I got you away from Clint. Both times, it added meaningfully, and I flinched against my palm. raising my face to the doctor.

“Let’s just get this over with.”

Stephen nodded, glancing at the man still sharing the single bed. “Would you like Clint to stay?”

“… No.”

Both men seemed shocked as I spoke, sharing a look before Dr. Strange recovered, nodding. “As is your right, of course.”

I could feel Clint’s gaze on my face, and winced. “I’m not… I don’t want you to see me like that. Not yet. Please.” The archer nodded and kissed my cheek, murmuring his understanding before standing. “But… Will you wait outside? In case I need you?”

He offered me a reassuring smile as he turned, his hand on the door. “Always, Little Spider.”

“Okay. I… I’m ready.”

I lay on my bed on my back, covered from collarbone to thigh with a thin sheet, littered with bandages and tubes. Dr. Strange edges around the sheet, taking me in without a reaction – for which I was deeply grateful.

He flicked on his glasses, moving to lean over my left arm. “Are you ready to proceed?”

I hesitated, and he raised a curious eyebrow, silently prompting me. “Could you… Can you sit?” I stammered, intimidated by his looming figure. He nodded, immediately sliding onto the chair beside the bed, offering me a reassuring smile.

“If you need a break at any point, Natasha, or you begin to feel uncomfortable – you just let me know.” I nodded gratefully, and he took a deep breath as he began to unwrap my bandages, beginning at my wrist, the hush of the fabric the only sound in the silence.

Those bandages would be a good way to tie you up. I wonder how the good doctor-

“Can you… Talk? About anything, just… I can’t sit in silence. Please.”

“We used braided nylon for your sutures,” he responded immediately, his soft, steady tone bringing me back to focus, The Voice hissing angrily as I concentrated on his words. “It comes in clear and black dyed – while less attractive, I opted for the black. With the amount of work to be done, visibility trumped aesthetic, I’m afraid.” His fingers gently poked at my wrist, light but sure. “Absorbable materials are de rigeur for an individual wound – but considering the amount of bodily fluids involved, we opted, largely, for non-absorbable. There’s a significant number of sutures, and we didn’t want to compromise integrity in any way. You had four hundred and twelve stitches in total.”

His hands reached my elbow, and I swallowed as I felt the skin there tingle, tight under his handiwork. “… Do you want me to tell you how the wounds are doing, or would you rather not know?”

I shrugged, swallowing. “Anything. Just keep talking to me.”

“Your sinister – left – brachial artery was approximately 70% severed. Ironically, this caused more devastating effects; complete transection of the vessel would have allowed for proximal retraction and constriction, though repair would have been more difficult. We internally sutured the vessel, followed by soft tissue repair through the layers.”

“That sounds like a lot of work,” I murmured, my gaze still locked on the ceiling, and I felt him look at me.

“I’d do it every day if I had to, Natasha. While I wish it wasn’t needed, it was a task I had no qualms about performing. I care for you, as I care for the rest of the team,” he added, continuing his way up my shoulder, my muscles tightening involuntarily as his knuckles brushed my throat.

“Stay down, slut.”

I blinked in surprise and stammered, the ECG verbalising my distress, and causing Stephen to pause until I nodded tightly. “Keep going.”

He raised a bandage on my shoulder, the latex of his gloves catching on my skin dryly. “Here, there was only superficial damage. Four sutures – Bruce’s handiwork. He is more adept at cutaneous stitching than more invasive procedures. Fortunately, you have a surgeon on your side,” he noted, a smile in his voice as he rounded the bed to repeat the process.

I was counting the tally in my head, and Stephen hesitated at three hundred and nine, halfway up my left leg. “Natasha…”

“I have another one hundred and three stitches to be examined, Stephen. I know.”

He swallowed audibly, the faintest tremor in his hands. “Would you like me to break them down?” I nodded gratefully, squeezing my eyes shut, and he exhaled sharply. “There are... Seventeen stitches in your left breast, and three on the nipple. Fourteen and four on the right, respectively. Thirty-six on your abdomen and ribs; the pre-existing wounds were cleaned and treated, but suturing was no longer possible. A further twenty-one on your pelvis – six on the left, nine on the right, and six in… On the pubis.”

It was the first time he stammered with embarrassment, and I couldn’t help but smile wanly. “And the last eight?”

“Internal.”

My eyes snapped open, locked on his apologetic face, his brow furrowed in pain. “I’m sorry, Natasha. We… I had to stop the bleeding. I was as perfunctory as I could be, I promise. I haven’t checked those sutures since they were applied.”

“What did I do?” I whispered, horrified. He swallowed again, looking away.

“The tissue was already thin and inflamed as a result of the… existing cleanse trauma. You also have extensive internal scarring from historical injury. The serration of the knife was such that, when you removed it, there was significant damage sustained. I repaired the area in as efficient and swift a manner as I could.”

I felt myself go red, breath hitching in my throat. “You know about the… The soap?”

He nodded tersely, jaw set. “Bruce thought I should be aware of the pre-existing risk of infection. But even if he hadn’t, I would have assumed something similar upon examination.”

My head dropped back, shame flowing through me violently, causing my stomach to churn. “Let’s just get this over with.”

“Where would you prefer that I start?”

I gestured to my chest reluctantly, jaw clenched. “May as well work our way down.”

He nodded again, moving wordlessly to my side and lowering the sheet slowly, his motions considerate and careful as he smoothed it across my ribs. “I’ll make this as quick and painless as I can.”

I could only nod wordlessly, eyes latched on the ceiling, the machine by my side matching the staccato beating of my heart. His delicate fingers peeled back the adhesive bandages, gently probing at my chest and murmuring quietly. “The sutures are healing well. I was particularly concerned about this one – the positioning, close the breastbone, makes healing problematic, as it is prone to rubbing. But it has settled well, with no sign of infection or irritation.”

“The larger wound on this side was easier, but the nipple was almost completely severed. I did what I could to reattach the nerves, but you may experience some loss of sensation.” His fingertips were timid but my body clenched at the contact, his breathed apologies doing little to still my anxiety.

Mercifully, his hands left my chest, skirting the wounds of my ribcage, both new and old. “The existing lacerations were of most concern, both due to depth and existing infection. We performed a minor debridement, removing some infected tissue. You seem to be responding well to the antibiotics, however. The infection is still present, but receding.”

His hands paused by my navel, entirely uncertain. “Would… Would you rather I move the sheet? I’m not sure what… Where you would prefer to be covered.”

“Leave it,” I whispered, my voice cracking. “Please.”

He hummed affirmatively, his gentle touch pulling back ever more bandages, tenderly probing at the space between thigh and abdomen. “This… This is why you can’t walk anywhere, Natasha. It seems you were aiming for the femoral, or perhaps the iliac. But this was almost the last set of injuries, and you had grown weak. If you had moved directly from the brachial to here… Well, you barely survived as it is.”

His hands were barely felt now, moving to the soft skin of my pubic mound, a low tremble settling into my bones.

I bet he’s loving this.

“This one is fine, too. A relatively simple suture chain, it should heal cleanly with minimal scarring – perhaps a minor interruption of the hair growth.” He smoothed the sheet back up to my collarbones, and I met his eyes, a quivering, heaving breath escaping me. “Are you okay?”

“No,” I replied with a desperate sob, wiping my tear-stained cheeks. “No, I’m not. But we should continue. If we stop now, I… We can’t stop now.”

He nodded, offering me a terse, sympathetic smile. “In that case, I shall continue.” His feet dragged on the floor as he moved, lowering the end of the bed and sitting down. “I… I have to look. I’m sorry.”

I only cried.

He took his own deep, preparatory breath, his fingers brushing my ankle. “Okay.” He cleared his throat, shaking off any emotion, separating himself from the guilt of what he had to do. “Natasha, I’m going to need you to shuffle down a little, if you could.” I obeyed silently, tears flowing freely as my knees slipped from the end of the bed. “That’s great, thank you. Now, bring your feet up – as close to your behind as you can – and let your knees fall apart.”

A ragged sob escaped me as the balls of my feet met the soft cotton, thighs seized and glued together.

“Take your time, Nat. I’m here.”

My legs shifted slowly, the muscles contacting and fighting for every inch.

“That’s excellent, Natasha. You’re doing so well.” My breath hitched in my throat, fingers curling into my palms and breaking the skin. “I’m going to insert a small speculum now, okay? You may feel a little pressure, but it shouldn’t be painful.”

There was a hesitation, both infinite and brief, before I felt the pressure.

“Stay still, Natalia, or it will be worse.”

The feet and hands were chained down.

The bar between the knees, digging into the flesh.

The tearing, tugging, cutting, dragging.

The feeling of having the core ripped out and snipped away.

The wet thud as it landed.

The screaming, and writhing.

The punishment, the blade twisted inside.

“You’re done. Now there is no risk. No distraction.”

The pain. The blood.

“He will be in to see you shortly. We need to make sure you can still perform, of course.”

“-sha? Nat? Natasha, you need to relax, okay? You are still weak. I’ll stop, but I can’t get it out if you don’t release me.”

“Если ты когда-нибудь снова прикоснешься ко мне, я отрежу твой член и скормлю его тебе,” I snarled, pulling tighter on the arm pinned between my legs.

“Sorry, Widow, my Russian is rusty,” he gasped, my foot pressing firmly on his throat.

“’Touch me again, and I will cut off your prick and feed it to you’,” I hissed, broken accent spitting past bared teeth.

“Natasha, I just needed to examine the-”

“Natalia,” I growled, bending his wrist back. “You examine nothing. You touch nothing. You are not authorised.”

“Authorised?” Pale blue flashed between my knees, his free hand held up imploringly. “I asked your consent, Natash- Natalia. I… The sutures. Your injuries.” He gasped again, the air audibly painful in his compressed throat. “I am Doctor Stephen Strange – an Avenger, and a Master of the Mystic Arts. I was a surgeon. I attended to you after you received a great number of lacerations.”

“Strange,” I repeated at a mutter, the sound sparking something distant in my terrified mind.

“Yes. Myself and Dr. Bruce Banner administered care. You received over four hundred stitches. Clint Barton, your partner, is waiting just outside this room.”

Clint.

I gasped, muscles relaxing immediately, and Stephen backed away, coughing, one hand clasped to his quickly darkening throat. “S… Stephen…”

He glanced up at me, his other hand raised imploringly. “That’s it. It’s just me. You’re safe, Nat. I promise.”

Trembling fingers touched my mouth, stunned and horrified. “S-Stephen, I… I don’t…”

He shook his head, his own hands lowering. “Natasha- Natasha?” he clarified, and I nodded once. “Natasha, you had existing, extensive damage, and I would have been a pretty terrible doctor if I didn’t notice you were missing some stuff down there. I don’t know exactly what happened, but I imagine it was not a pleasant experience. I should have predicted that this may be a triggering event.”

I whimpered softly, nodding my head. “I never remembered before… But now I remember.” I looked up once more, mortified. “Stephen, I… I’m so sorry.”

He rolled his shoulder and neck in turn, then smiled weakly. “No damage done. Though I may be drinking my meals for a few days,” he added playfully, touching a finger to his throat with a wince, before meeting my gaze seriously. “Natasha… The speculum is still…” I flinched and clenched instinctively, and he raised his hands. “No, no… Be careful. Without it being steadied, there’s a chance it’s caught on your stitches. If you try and push it, or remove it yourself… I… I need to get it out. Ideally, I need to re-examine you, to make sure there’s been no further damage, but I understand if you can’t do that.” He took a deep breath as he moved closer, eyeing me warily, like a flighty animal. “But at the very least, it needs to be removed. And if you’d prefer, I can put you under to do that – but I’d really rather not, given that you took so long to come out of your induced coma. There’s a slim, but very real, risk that you won’t wake up again.”

I hesitated, watching him carefully. “… Restrain me.”

Startled, he paused, one foot comically suspended above the floor. “… Why?”

“I can’t die. Not now. And I can’t… I can’t risk hurting you again – hurting you more. So use your glowing whip thing, and restrain me. It’s the only way we’ll get through this.”

“It’ll hurt.”

“I don’t care.”

“It’ll likely make the… You’ll probably remember more.”

“Stephen.” I met his gaze steadily, the ECG slowing as an eerie calmness set in. “Just do it.”

Slowly, his hands began to move. “You’re sure? Once I start… I can’t stop suddenly if you change your mind. I don’t think we’ll get another shot at this.” I sighed in acceptance, resting my head back against the bed, letting my knees part once more, wincing at the pain inside me.

The lash burnt against my skin, and I cried out, gritting my teeth against the scream as it wrapped under the bed and secured my other wrist, tight and immovable.

The binds around my legs snaked up to my knees before they grew taut, holding me still.

Helpless.

Stephen met my eyes, and I nodded around the trembling of my body.

“Well, well, well. I’m glad I could be the first.”

The HYDRA man, with his dark eyes and tangled hair, was one who favoured me.

I cried, trashing against my bindings, but they held fast.

His rough hands on my thighs, pushing and parting, made me freeze. “You’ve always been so good to me, little girl. Let’s hope they didn’t ruin that perfect hole.”

“Please… Please. I’ve always been good, like you said. But I can’t… Not now. It hurts. It hurts so much.”

“It’s okay, little girl. I’m going to make it feel better.”

It hurt. God, it hurt so much. It felt like he was fucking me with a hot poker, burning everything away. Unmaking me.

Maybe now you have learned your lesson.

You? It was… It was you? You did this?

An insurance policy, in case you survived. I wanted to make sure nobody would ever be able to touch you again.

“Fuck you,” I hissed aloud, vaguely aware of the faint sensation of pulling between my legs. “Fuck you. I’ll heal, and I’ll screw him again. I will make love to that man every day.”

Not if it hurts too much, you won’t.

“You wanna bet? I’ll scream and cry and do it anyway. I’ll let him put it somewhere else. We will find a way, together, because the Red Room will not fucking win. The Soldier will not fucking win. And you – you will not fucking win.”

“Nat?”

I opened my eyes, squeezed shut as I had shouted, to find Stephen hovering over me, his blue-grey eyes full of concern. “Are you with me?” I smiled weakly, and nodded.

“I’m here. I’m with you.”

“I’m all done. Are you… Can I remove the restraints?” I nodded again, and the tension released from my limbs, leaving me to slide myself into the proffered gown as he averted his gaze. Sighing, he removed his gloves, slumping into the chair beside me, a haunted look in his eyes.

“Are you okay?” I murmured, dragging the thin blanket back over myself with a wince.

He glanced up, nodding slowly, scrubbing a hand over his face. “The sutures are intact, and healthy, for the most part. They’ll finish dissolving over the next few days. There was some minor bleeding during our… Interruption, but it should be fine. If there’s any issues, you know where I am.” He sighed again, leaning forward onto his knees. “Are you okay?”

I shook my head, then nodded, then shrugged. “I have no idea.”

“That last part… You spoke aloud. It sounded as though you were arguing with someone.” He smiled weakly, standing once more. “It also sounded like you won.”

My own grin was hesitant, thin and painful. “Maybe not the war… But I think, maybe, the battle.”

He waved his hand, a circular seal over the door brightening and then snapping from existence. “Oh, that - I had to block the door,” he explained, when my eyebrow arched curiously. “You started screaming, and Barton tried to get in.”

On cue, the door flew open, and my archer bolted into the room, his knife brandished and ready. “Nat?” he questioned sharply, his head turned to me, but his gaze firmly on the wizard, who simply began to circle his hands to open a portal.

“I’m fine,” I murmured, and then, inexplicably, I sobbed. “I’m not fine. But it wasn’t him, Clint. It was… It wasn’t him.”

Strange turned to us briefly, his sympathetic gaze flicking between us both. “I will take my leave. Natasha… You know where I am, and I shall see you later this evening – no examination required, I promise. Don’t forget; no walking. Clint… Take her home. And look after this one; she’s been through enough. If you harm her, it won’t just be her you have to contend with.” A last long, pitying look at me, and a rub to the bruise forming quickly on his pale throat, and he was gone.

Clint was gentle as he could be as he manoeuvred me into his bedroom, but that didn’t stop me wincing at the pressure.

“I’m sorry, my love,” he whispered, bundling me into his arms. “Are you okay?”

I nodded hesitantly, leaning into his chest. “I’m okay,” I answered softly. “…Wait.”

“Hm?”

“Can you take me to the bathroom?”

“Ah. I forgot about that,” he admitted, chuckling, and placing a tender kiss to my hair. “Sure thing.”

He kept me in his arms, nestled lovingly against him, and I couldn’t help the soft purr of contentment that built in my chest. “What do I… Shall I leave? I’m not supposed to leave you alone, but I can… Stand outside?”

I rolled my eyes playfully as he placed me lightly on my feet, kissing his cheek. “I need your help. With my gown,” I added, as a panic-stricken expression crossed his face.

“Doesn’t it… Go up?”

“I want to see,” I explained softly, smiling weakly as he winced. “You don’t have to, but… I need to.”

He hesitated briefly, then placed a chaste kiss to my shoulder blade as he moved to stand behind me. “Together, Little Spider. Always.”

Fingers brushed my skin as he moved my hair away, slowly undoing the bow at the nape of my neck. I held the gown to my front as his arms slipped inside, hands gingerly finding my hips, his chin against my  shoulder. Our eyes met in our reflection and he nodded gently.

I flinched as the fabric hit the floor, taking in the macabre map of black sutures wound like rivers across my body, the flesh around shaded with blues and yellows. Between old and new, there was barely an inch of skin left unmarred and unmarked. The inside of my biceps were a furious red between the stitches, my abused arteries protesting their forced closure. The curve of my breasts were intersected by dividing lines, the nylon knotted beside each discoloured nipple. Further wounds trailed by abdomen, ending in a crooked, three-inch line where my pubic hair used to be. And beneath all that, there was bones. Miles and miles of sharp, protruding bones, my ribcage on display and hips sharp enough to cut glass.

You’re a fucking horror show.

I am what you made me.

I winced again, gaze flicking to my partner uncertainly.

His face was a mask of impassive emotionlessness as his eyes roamed my body, hesitating only briefly on each new stitch, before finally meeting my own once more. “…Well?” I prompted, throat bobbing in the mirror before us.

His hands traced my abdomen lightly as they snaked around, holding me in his arms as gently as he could. “What do you think?”

“I think…” I swallowed dryly, a low, fearful tremble working its way through my muscles. “I think I need help.” He nodded slowly, patiently, leaving me the opportunity to continue. “I think… It’s a terrible thing, what I’ve done to myself. And I think…” I took a deep, steadying breath, the shakes subsiding slowly. “I think I must be really strong to survive all of this. Stronger than I realise.”

He smiled at last, placing a gentle kiss to my cheek. “I agree… But there’s something you forgot.”

I frowned, turning in his arms carefully, my suture-tight muscles refusing to raise further than his waist. “What’s that?”

Hand finding my jaw, his lips brushed mine, sweet and loving. “As I believe I’ve said once before… You’re beautiful, Nat. You will always be beautiful to me.” His thumb skirted my cheek, catching a tear shed unconsciously, before kissing the damp spot.

“Now… Let’s get you to bed, little one.”

[bi-writes]

an eye for an eye | knight!ghost x f!reader

your husband bends to your will. men must learn from difficult lessons how far that bending goes.

type: a continuation of a hand for a hand, but can be read stand-alone (11.6k)

cw: 1600s au, dark!ghost, reader described as curvier/plus-sized, graphic depictions of war + violence, possessive!ghost, war-criminal!ghost, inaccurate historical settings probably, unprotected piv, cumplay, breeding kink, size kink, simon "i'd do anything for my wife no matter the devasting consequences" riley (18+)

Your husband has an insatiable appetite. Such a big man he is; he towers over you, so much so that you must tip your head back always to look up at him. You had to make many arrangements in your house to accommodate his hunger–a pantry stocked full of eggs and less fabric for your skirts.

Your house isn’t like others. Neither you nor Ghost have ever lived in luxury. When he showed you your home for the first time, you had shaken your head–you didn’t believe that such a large place was supposed to be yours, and even now, sometimes you feel like a stranger, out of place when the maids ask you what you want for supper or where you’d like to take your afternoon tea. You don’t like the fuss, the asking, the women that curtsy when you come near, concentrated over the creases in your skirts or the loose thread of your sleeve or the wispy hairs that fall out of your braids. You are told all the time that you must behave like a duchess, that you must poise yourself with your new title and your new money, and you must do the things that duchesses do–but no one says the same to your husband.

He is still allowed to sleep in the barracks. Lick the blood off his gauntlets. Polish his sword in the dirt. He’s still allowed to be everything that you cannot be anymore, he still lives the life he had before.

He still kills; and he is still very, very good at it.

Your queen told you in a letter that the king is very pleased. Ever since your union, Ghost has been quite the conqueror. Bloodthirsty and very determined, your husband has been taking his men across the water. He is not any less impressive off land. Not even the pirates have tried to negotiate; they bend the knee or taste the salt water. You breathe shakily when you read your queen’s letters—her praise for your husband’s conquests, how blessed your family will be and how valuable you are to the crown, how grateful she is that Ghost is no longer a fiend in court but rather a little more polite and a little quieter.

All for your sake. Ghost’s name is now your own, and he refuses to embarrass you now that you have it.

You won’t lie; the bodies that Ghost has stacked since you’ve been wed do not scare you. He’s doing it for you. He has never said it out loud, never told you so, but you know it. He wants to show you what kind man that he is, what kind of soldier—you know he’s trying to prove himself worthy. If he killed a thousand men to have you, how many will he slaughter to keep you?

He sends you letters of his own. Not many, but he does send letters, and while Ghost seems to be ineloquent and entirely too brutish, he has quite the voice when he writes.

To my wife,

The sun falls quicker here. I’d like to come home. Tell me of your day, and I will tell you of mine. There were a fleet of ships that came to meet us at dawn. When we sank three, they begged for us to spare the rest.

I have you to think about now. So I burned them.

Simon

A poet, your beloved.

He signs his real name in his letters. Your eyes skim over most of it–you don’t even blink when he tells you what he does to them. Sometimes he writes in great detail about the screams of a hundred souls, the way burning flesh smells, the taste of dirt in a new place when you know it is finally yours. He doesn’t like having secrets. He tells you all his thoughts, even if they might scare you, because you are his wife, and he has discovered quite quickly that you have been cut from the same cloth.

Even when he is home, and he tells you these things all over again, he can’t help the way his cock hardens when you merely blink and ask him if he has added any scars to his collection.

Ravenous, naughty little duchess, and you are all his. He knows he picked well–he knows, he knows he wasn’t wrong when he saw you across the throne room hiding behind his queen, he knows now that he was right about what he saw in your eyes.

You do hate when he’s away. You’re not used to the maids helping you dress, and you secretly abhor the help. That is why when you hear the shuffle of your house early in the morning, your heart thuds in your chest knowing he’s home.

The staff get antsy when Simon is around. He is very good at keeping an estate for someone that has never had to or ever been taught to, but he leaves the responsibilities with you and only you every time he goes. He doesn’t trust anyone else to do it, and every time he comes back, he makes you sit on one big thigh as he teaches you something new that you need to remember for when he goes away. He demands much of those he employs, and they are eager to please him. Whether it is because they respect him or are afraid of him, you aren’t sure.

Perhaps it’s both.

You sit up as the bedroom door opens. You smile, big and wide and sleepy as he steps into the room. He shuts the door with his boot, slipping his hood off, and you sigh as he grips the clasp of his mask and unhooks it. He tosses it onto the floor, bare-faced, and as he makes his way towards the bed, he sheds the rest of his clothes until he’s completely naked.

You cannot stop yourself from the shaky breath you take. He is all muscle and fat, strong and entirely too scary, but it’s hard to focus on what he really is when he stands before you like this. He has fat thighs, big shoulders, carved muscle of intense labor around his middle and along his biceps. He has large hands with calloused palms and split knuckles, and your eyes meet his own as he comes closer. He’s so gorgeous, even with a face like that. He has a long scar that stretches from one brow to his lower jaw, another that cuts his nose and splits his lip, but those eyes are dark and lovely, and you can’t help the warmth that comes over you when he catches you staring at him, closer, right to his cock that hangs heavy between his legs.

Just as he begins to lower himself onto the bed, you hold out a hand, giggling.

“Simon, if you think you are getting into this bed without a proper bath, you’re mistaken!” You laugh, and he raises a brow.

“Mmm…” He smacks his lips together. “Tha’ right, my lady?” He clicks his tongue. “This is my bed. ’s oll mine. Every blanket…every pillow…” He grips your ankle from under the covers and yanks you towards him. “And every part of you.”

You giggle again, shaking your head, “Please, Simon!” You push him away with your toes. “They only changed the sheets yesterday. You’ll dirty them…” You flutter your lashes. “Will you bathe if I join you?”

He grins wide, licking over his teeth.

“Can’t refuse an offer like tha’.”

You hold out your hand for him, and he takes it gently. You watch as he brings your knuckles towards his mouth, and you bite back a smile when he decides to kiss each one, slow. He tugs finally, pulling you up, and you wrap your arms around his neck as he hoists you up into his arms. You would worry about your weight normally, but Simon holds you so easily, barely even a grunt as he wraps your legs around his middle. You don’t waste another second, cupping his cheeks in your hands and kissing him softly.

It’s never just a kiss with Simon. He slides one of his hands up your back, into your hair, and you whine as he tips your head back just enough to slip his tongue into your mouth. Simon doesn’t just kiss, he consumes. What he did to get back to you, the things he endured, the places he has seen and the bodies he has buried and burned and scattered across the places he now calls country, it’s always to get back to this place.

To you.

“How’s my boy?” He asks when you pull away. He carries you to another room, to where the tub sits, and he rings a bell by the door to call the maids in. You snatch a robe off a hook and cover him with it as he sits with you, but all he does is put a few fingers under your chin and make you look at him again. “Oi. Asked ya question, luv.”

Your lip wobbles a little, and you look away.

“I…”  You wait until the maids have gone to fetch hot water to tell him. “I bled while you were gone. I…”  You smooth your hands over the robe, distracting yourself. “I’m…I’m sorry, Simon.”

You close your eyes as he leans close, resting his forehead against yours, and you shake a little as he lets out a warm breath against your lips. He moves a warm hand over your soft stomach, cupping you there, and you lean your head back a little at the tender touch.

“It will happen,” he says finally, and your mouth opens to respond, but he sticks his thumb between your lips to shut you up. He doesn’t want to hear you blame yourself. If it’s anyone’s fault, it’s his, for not being here with you, for not be able to take care of you. You give in, suckling on the salt of him, and he grits his teeth as he watches you. “I know. Seen it in m’dreams.”

Simon has dreams. Lots of dreams, but he tells you that they are not dreams, they are glimpses into something that has already happened. When you asked if he was some kind of seer, the kind that the king used to have at parties, Simon doesn’t laugh.

He says the dreams are why he knows he won’t die. Why he is never afraid, because he knows somewhere behind his eyes what’s to come even if he didn’t see the entire painting of it. It is why he knew he would marry you; it is why he paid you so much attention, why he knew he would win his battles, why he always knows whose blood it is in his mouth because he has tasted their death before and relishes in the knowing of it all, in the certainty.

It’s never I think, it is always I know, and Simon is nothing if he is not the most honest man that you know.

So if he says you will have his babe, it is as good as truth. As green as the grass grows beneath his feet, as blue as his sky, and as red as the blood that is caked underneath his nails.

When the tub is filled with water, you let Simon sink into it first. You kneel beside it, picking up a glass of oil, pouring it into your palms before sinking your hands into his hair. It’s gotten longer since he left, in need of a cut, but you smile when he leans his head back into your shoulder. You can feel his content as he relaxes into you, and you admire his physique as you use the warm water and scrub the mud and grime off of him.

“I missed you, husband,” you whisper, and he only lets you massage his hair for a few more moments before he grips you by the wrist and tugs you forward, right into the bath. “Simon!” you laugh, “my night dress—oh!—it’s ruined!”

“Too far away,” he mutters, practically ripping the silk off of you as he tosses it besides the bath. “Mmm…” He cups your breasts with two big hands, smoothing his thumbs over your nipples, and you whine a little as he pulls at them just enough to make them stiffen. “Y’should be naked when I come home,” he says lowly. “I’ll soil y’r bloody gown next time, m’lady.”

You giggle, and he smiles. A real smile. As real as he’ll ever give anyone, maybe the only one that anyone has ever even seen. He has never shown his face in court, and while it angers the women and irks the men, you revel in the fact that all of this is only for you.

Mine. Mine. Mine.

You kiss him softly. The water sloshes, warm and inviting, and sometimes you forget your life used to be anything but joy. A year ago, you would not believe that you would be here, titled, wealthy, in a stone room lit by candles bathing with a blood hungry ghost.

A year ago, you trembled whenever he looked at you. You cowered when you heard his footsteps. What a stupid little girl you had been. What a fool. She had no idea what she could have, the kinds of things she could hold in her hand.

Real power wasn’t being able to command a room with your words. Real power was being able to say anything and have it be believed as truth. Real power was making someone look in one direction and have them see what you see, even if what you see isn’t real.

He lays you down in your bed afterward and eats. Your wet hair soaks the sheets, but you can’t seem to be really bothered as he fits your legs over his shoulders and bends you at the waist, his mouth suctioned to your clit as he eats you slowly. One of his hands is spread out over your tummy, the other you can hear making a squelch as he fists his own cock. It’s slow and methodical, and he slides his tongue between your folds firm, catching what dribbles from you on the tip of his tongue before he swallows it and leans in for more.

He has eaten you in nearly every room in your house. Frightened the cooks tossing you onto the dining table, given a servant a scare as he ducked under your skirts in the library, had the gardeners fleeing as he dropped you onto the grass near the lake and disappeared with a frenzy to eat your cunt during sunrise. It’s maddening, the kind of need that Simon requires, but it’s hard to refuse when you feel so warm and bubbly and happy after he’s finished. A pampered princess you are, never lifting a finger, only awake long enough when he’s home to eat until you’re full and cum until you fall asleep again.

Maybe that’s why you’re not pregnant yet. Simon likes to be here, between your thighs, mouth fixed on your wet pussy until he’s practically exhausted himself with a sore jaw and lax tongue.

He kisses you sloppy after. Licking into your mouth, practically spitting onto your tongue, wanting you to taste—tastes so good, luvvie, don’t ya see, yeah?—wanting you to know why he’s so eager to be on his knees all the time.

You sniffle, a little dizzy, shaking your head.

“’s not what I really want,” is all you whimper, and he nods, because he knows, he always knows.

“I know, luv. I know wot ya really need.”

“I must be broken,” you sob, cradling his face in your hands, and he shakes his head.

“Not broken,” Simon assures you. He speaks so surely that it’s hard not to believe him. “It wasn’t time.”

“You can’t see the future, Simon! You don’t know!” You cry, and he snarls a little, shaking his head again.

“You listen t’me,” he growls. You shake a little as he grabs your face with one hand, fixing your jaw under his grip as he holds onto you firmly. “Wot I say goes. Y’r my wife, so listen t’me, and listen t’me good. Y’r not broken. Not time. Say it back t’me.”

Your lip trembles, and he rattles your head a little.

“Say it,” he snaps, and you hiccup.

“It’s not time,” you whisper, and he plants a fat kiss onto your tear-soaked lips.

“Just need my cock, luv,” he murmurs. “Tha’s oll. Just need me t’fuck it outta ya.”

You nod, pressing your face to his, and he tuts, reaching down and spreading your legs wide to accommodate him between them as he lays over you.

“’s oll y’need,” he repeats, and you nod again.

You have to take another bath in the same morning; and this time, you weren’t able to walk there.

You like when Simon is home because it’s quiet. The only one that dotes on you here is Simon. The maids do not dress you or do your hair or moisturize your skin. It’s always Simon.

You smile at him in the mirror as you sit at your vanity. He has a brush in one hand, and he’s using it delicately to detangle your hair how you like. His hands are practiced and gentle, and when he finishes, he leans over you as he starts to part your hair to braid it. He did not have sisters, but his mother had him always do her hair after she lost the use of her hands with age. You don’t know where his mother is, but you assume she is not here anymore, because he never invites you to meet her.

He oils your skin. He slips the robe off of you, revealing your damp skin from the bath, and he slathers oil in his hands before using it to soften your skin. He takes his time, smoothing those big hands over your shoulders, down your back, along your arms. You tilt your head back when he warms your breasts, squeezing and fondling your tits. He murmurs in your ear the entire time, and he has to fuck you with his fingers to quiet you when he stops because just his hands on your tits has you wet all over again.

He dresses you, too. Helps you slip into your undergarments, fastens the cage for your skirts over your hips. He ties them skillfully, and after he layers your skirts over the farthingale, he gets you into your corset. It’s intimate as he does this. Even with your wide skirt, he comes closer, over your shoulder, and he tugs at the laces at your back, pulling it tight with firm grunts. You sigh when he buries his face into the crook of your neck, his hand skimming over your breasts as they sit nice and perky between stiff fabric and whalebone.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “Fuck, unnerving…the way ya look…”

You close your eyes, “S-Simon, please…I’m already dressed…”

He chuckles, “I know. I know.”

But when he has to leave again, you nearly come with him. You fasten his armor for him, help him slip each piece of leather on and click every piece of metal into place. You tie his cloak and slip his mask on, and you try and duck your head when you flip his hood up, but he catches you, tilting your chin up.

He huffs when he sees your face. Tears sliding down your cheeks, lips wet with them, eyes all glassy and red. He draws you up onto your toes, pressing his mouth to yours through the mask, and you hold onto him tightly, digging your nails into his chest armor and threatening to not let go.

“I want to go.“

“No.”

“Simon, let me go,” You gasp, begging, gripping his hood in firm fists and not caring that his armor is cutting into your front. “Let me go with you, I can’t do this anymore, I want to go, I can do it.”

You aren’t sure if Simon underestimates you. You think it’s more that he does not want you to see him in a place where he is most true. Where he wears the least of a disguise. He does not know he wears it the least with you, and that you have already seen his blood and how it curdles under his skin. You like it that way. You like him angry…and mean…and terrible. You like him when his sword is dirty and his armor needs polishing and his mind thinks of nothing else besides war. He should know this by now. He should know that you see him and see what he is even more than his king, more than his men.

He couldn’t scare you, even if he tried.

“War is not where women go,” Simon snaps. His tone is harsh, even for you, and you stiffen when he grips you by the jaw and rattles your head a little. “Especially not one like you, my love. War would eat ya, eat ya fuckin’ whole. Look at ya…” He huffs, deep, sliding that gloved hand down your throat to slip it beneath the neckline of your dress and fondle your breast with a firm grip. “Beautiful. Meant for my lips…for these dresses…meant to be held in my hands, not bleed from stray arrows, because tha’ is surely the least of wot they would do t’ya if they knew ya were my wife. Now ya will wipe these tears, ‘n see me off, and then ya will come back inside like a good girl, ‘n you will wait for me here until I come back.”

Your bottom lip trembles, and you scowl up at him. Not indifference, but frustration, and Simon doesn’t think it suits you.

“I’m sick of waiting for you, Simon,” you spit. “It’s all I ever do, wait. Wait for you to come back, alive or dead, I never know. And don’t say you do this for country, that is a lie.” You shove him backwards, but he barely budges when your hands touch his chest, a rigid wall that does not give. “You do it because you like it. You’re a bloodthirsty dog, and all you do is bend to our king’s will.”

A lie, but you tell it anyways, because you want something, and he will not give it to you.

“That is my duty.”

“Your duty is to me,” you snap. “Kings come and go, but I will not.” Simon stills. He glares down at you from behind his mask, and perhaps this might terrify his men, but that you are not. You are his wife, and you are protected by that title alone. The only man to ever lay a hand on you would not live to see another second, himself included. “Now you will let me join you, or so help me God, Simon, I will not be here when you return.”

You do not expect the full-bellied laugh that leaves him. His armor shakes with him, and you grind your teeth, narrowing your eyes. He uses his thumb to force his mask up, and then he cups the back of your head and draws you in for a sloppy kiss. You resist at first, but when he feeds you his tongue, you melt. You kiss him back, letting him draw you closer, and you sigh as he tangles his fingers into your hair and cradles you with those big hands.

There is nothing more to say. Simon neither confirms nor denies, but you taste it in his mouth, his devotion. Not wrong, not right, but just so–he has many responsibilities, but you are the only one that will remain the same. One day, his king will die, and he will serve another, but the space you have made beside him will never change. Even when you die, because he knows you will go before him, there will never be someone else to fill it. You and you only, the woman he found and made his, the one he demanded lest he kill his own country for it, it will always be you. Soft and sweet, you are, but the Lord knew Simon could only have one woman, and he made it be you; the one spitfire enough to defy her own king because she trusted his love enough for it.

Would you commit treason to save his life? Would you watch a king die if it meant your beloved lived? 

Would he?

He thinks about what you have said when he takes his fleet across the water. He runs his tongue over his teeth behind his mask, breathing deep when he thinks about your proclamations of duty. Of change. Of what remains when other things move, of the kind of life that waits for him when he comes and goes with a king’s order. He thinks about how easily he is taken away from you, and he knows there is truth in what you feel. It is not really Simon that sacrifices, it is what he leaves behind, and that is you.

It’s never angered him before. He had accepted the fact, as early as your wedding day, that he would leave and come back, then leave again. It has always been the way of his life, come desire or not, so it bothers him that of all the things that surprised him in his life, it would be missing someone that shocked him the most.

Missing his wife. Missing the serene perfection of one woman, and the perfect place between her soft thighs. Every day that he finds himself between them is the best day of his life, he reckons, so now he feels bitter about staring at a freezing ocean amongst his men because he will go weeks without her.

Her. Her. Her.

He is bitter, yes, until he is not.

It comes in a letter from a messenger on horseback. They have been stationed in a foreign land for weeks now, watching slowly as the stone walls of a castle at their front crumples day after day from the stones filled with powder that ignite what is wood and break what is rock. The letter is sealed with wax, with the motif of a snake. It is given directly to Simon, whose name is scribbled in the letter, and when he reads it, he tastes ichor and smoke.

So the great phantom has come to seal my fate. I am not in the business of letting what is mine be taken. Even if you have brought your all, it won’t be taken from me.

I heard you have a beautiful new wife. I heard you paid for her in blood.

I shall do the same. I will hang your sword above our marriage bed.

Ghost is not someone that bends to the threats from foe he cannot look in the eye. Words are so empty. It is nothing like when he stands just a few meters apart from them, eyes fixed against one another, as they decide whether today they want to live or they want to die. The letter means nothing, but he’s surprised by the heat that bubbles under his ribs at the mention of his bride. He meant it when he said you were not meant for war, and that meant in this regard, too–nobody was allowed to talk about you, not like this, not ever.

When his king orders him home, Ghost crumples the note and tosses it into embers. He watches it burn, and then he orders his men to set to flame the ground around the stone walls.

So men like him can be goaded, it seems. His resolve is not as strong as he thought.

The weeks make you anxious. All you do is sit and collect dues and tell the maids which dress you want to wear and which you do not. It is peaceful and boring, and you wish Simon was here to make your days more exciting, but he is not.

His letters are the only things that keep you occupied, truly. He writes to you about war and loneliness, and you write to him about the mundane of domesticity and the ache he leaves behind. Sometimes, his letters come folded with pressed flowers he finds along the way, and you start to collect them, putting them away in small boxes or using them as bookmarks as you go through Simon’s library.

He has many books. His most loved books are those of war, of history, and you smooth your fingers over the pages he has dogeared and find comfort in reading the same words that he once did. You learn, as well. While in your studies as a girl, they made you learn arithmetic and the flowery bits of history and art, here in Simon’s house, you learn of strategy and weaponry and military tactic. Sometimes you disagree, and you write about these disagreements to Simon, and he writes back, pleased with your observations. He told you once that if you were a man, he would want you in that tent with him, beside him, deciding on which formations to take and when to strike. You responded saying that you could be that for him anyway. What did your sex have anything to do with whether you were right or wrong?

Simon agreed.

But I would never invite you here, dear wife. You have to understand that.

When your queen asks for your audience for dinner, you oblige easily; finally, you have something to do rather than add up numbers or sign a document on Simon’s behalf or read another fucking book.

You don’t want to wear all the costume your maids insist on, but you appease them after they repeatedly explain to you what your title means. With a drawn face, you let them tie your corset and layer your skirts, and you watch in the mirror as they braid your hair and drape large, obnoxious jewels over you. You grimace at the tiara they fit into your hair, and your elderly handmaid pinches your cheeks and tells you to put on a fair countenance, Your Grace, lest you make the Duke look ungrateful.

You bite your tongue from snapping at her. She should know that Simon would say nothing about your countenance; all he would do is fix whatever was bothering you until you smiled again.

You arrive early enough to have tea. Your queen is so excited to see you; she gushes when you meet her in the throne room, pulling you up from your curtsy so she can hug you tight, squealing. When you try to address her with a curt “Your Majesty,” she shakes her head, pressing her hands to your cheeks and giggling, “No need for formalities now. Call me Victoria.”

You hide your displeasure with a small smile. Now that you are no longer her lady-in-waiting, she allows you her name. Is it because she sees you more as equals, or because now you’re allowed to be somewhat of friends?

You must be some kind of friend. She sizes you up like you are one. She wears England’s colors this afternoon. A fire red dress adorned with gold accents, a dragon pin holding her shawl. She wears magnificent red and gold jewelry, but she’s looking at your dress, and you can see the slight twitch of her eye. You are wearing French lace, and she doesn’t like it. Or maybe she doesn’t like the color, the accents of navy blue and silver that you wear.

The skull motif that is woven into your tiara and printed on your coat and sewn into your dress. Does it insult her? That all your life, you wore nothing but browns and beiges and grays, were invisible to her, and now you represent your house, visit her as your guest, and bear an honorable name?

You were no one when you served her. Just a girl, no close family, no friends, just a distant uncle who gave you to the crown that hoped you could be of service. That was to be your duty for all your life–to serve the king’s wife until she wanted you no more or until she was gone. To cater to her every need and every wish, no matter the time of day or night.

Now you sit across her, more noble. Refined. Wearing a dress she despises, perhaps because she likes it more than her own.

Over tea, she gossips about the other ladies she has visit. You’ve heard this before, but you’ve never been included in the conversation. She talks to you, and she wants to hear your opinion, and you find yourself uneasy as you try to think of what to say. She is your queen, and you want her to like you. When you worked for her, you earned her favor by always warming up her jewels before she put them on, by making sure she had her tea ready in the morning at her bedside, by always holding the fan she so loved for when she inevitably had a hot flash. Now, as her friend, you weren’t exactly sure what to do. You suck in a soft breath and look at her, and then you purse your lips.

You think it best to agree with her. To be on her side. You might not be her direct servant any longer, but you still must fall under her favor. A queen’s favor can be just as powerful, especially if she occasionally has the ear of her husband.

“Well, that’s not very kind of her,” you say finally, and she laughs.

“No! She’s such a prude. I think her husband doesn’t sleep in her bed enough, if you know what I mean,” she winks at you. You giggle at that. “Speaking of husbands–” She pops another cake in her mouth. “How is yours?”

You reach up and tug at your necklace a bit, smiling nervously.

“Oh, uh…” You clear your throat, “He’s doing very well. I hear his latest campaign is quite the success. His majesty is very smart, heading for the east that way, I’m sure they will be victorious soon enough.”

Victoria smiles at the thought of her husband. His intelligence. She always used to talk to you about how many hours he worked, how she hated when he was away, how she wished he was home more so he could give her a son because she was so, so lonely.

“Wise words from the duchess, aye, my love?”

You jump a bit at the low voice from behind, and when you turn, you gasp, immediately standing and falling into a delicate curtsy. John Price waves his hand, coming further into the room, shaking his head.

“It’s alright,” he tells you. “Please, sit. You’re here as my guest.”

You stand and lift your head, trying to relax. You take a seat, smiling nervously, and Victoria smiles giddily at her husband. When he bends to kiss her cheek, she fawns, reaching for his hand and squeezing it before taking another piece of tart and eating it. John hums before motioning for one of the staff to fill your cup again with tea. He eyes you curiously, taking in your appearance. You sit up at that, performatively brushing off over the skull pattern on your corset. John runs his tongue over his teeth, smoothing a big palm down his wife’s long coils of hair.

“Since you’re here, I’d like a word, if that’s alright,” John says to you. His tone carries a little more authority now, and Victoria sighs, whining a little.

“John, please, she’s my friend. Can’t it wait–”

“That wasn’t a question, Victoria,” John bites. Her face falls a little. She swallows and tucks her hands into her lap. You’re reminded as you look at the slight wobble of her lip that there is no one truly above John Price, not even her. You keep your face neutral, but if you were invisible, you’d pity her.

What a shame her husband sees her as less than. How embarrassing. Your Simon would never. Your Simon waits until you finish speaking before speaking himself. Your husband kneels to take off your shoes, your husband tears your skirts to get a taste of you, your husband used his teeth to sever a man’s throat just to have your hand.

What did John Price do to get his wife? Who did John Price kill to have her hand? How many bruises did he earn around his knees on their wedding night from eating her out? As many as Simon, whose knees were black and blue by morning?

No, you suppose not. How unfortunate. How pathetic.

Victoria picks up her skirt and stands, pasting a big smile on her face. It doesn’t reach her eyes, and you can see the way her hands shake a little as she scurries off. She scowls as soon as she turns away from John, clearly annoyed.

“I’ll go check on dinner,” she says, but it is soft and unenthusiastic.

When she goes, the room falls quiet. At the nod of John’s head, the staff leave, and you keep still in your seat as John sits across from you, picking up one of the cakes in front of him and breaking off a piece to busy himself. He keeps his eyes on his task of cutting up the cake in small pieces, focused on his hands and how they work. You watch him carefully, steeling yourself.

You anticipate a conversation between man and woman, not a king and his lesser.

“Simon’s been away for some time. I bet that’s difficult for you.”

You straighten your posture, realizing what this conversation will be. By his tone, John seems to think you a bored, stupid housewife, perhaps. Uneducated. A woman, no thoughts in her head. You let your face relax, and you fold your hands in your lap. Maybe now is the time John should learn who you are and who you are not.

What you have become and what you no longer are.

“I do just fine, Your Majesty,” you say finally. You pick up a spoon and drop a cube of sugar into your tea, and you stir, picking it up to take a long sip. John is curious by your content. You have a quick tongue. “I could say the same to you, couldn’t I?”

John laughs. He narrows his eyes a bit at your clever response, taking a large bite of the cake and running a cloth over his beard. His eyes sparkle a little.

“So you know.”

“Know what, Your Majesty?”

“You know I gave Simon orders. And you know he didn’t listen to me.”

You purse your lips, but he sees the shine in your eyes. The lack of surprise. His face twitches a bit, and you shake your head. You blink slow, and it irks him to see you so calm. He is your king, and Simon answers to him, and you are his wife, so you must answer, too.

“I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about.”

“I could have your husband’s head cut off for treason for that, you’re aware, aren’t you?”

You tilt your head to the side. What an odd thing for John to say. What an odd thing for John to contemplate, since it would never come to pass. “Don’t be daft, my king. You wouldn’t want to do that.”

John slams his fist on the table, making the plates and cups rattle with his frustration, but you do not even flinch. You blink, stone-faced, and it makes his nostrils flare. He recognizes that glare, he knows it well. He has seen it before, stared it down many times in rooms just like this. Only now, he is not fighting for land, he fights for control of the one man that he has always been able to rely on. Simon has followed him into battles outnumbered by a thousand men, and only now he ignores an order? Only now he chooses something different?

“Now, let’s be civil, Your Majesty,” you say softly. You smile at him, leaning your head in your hand. “Is there something that you need from me? I have a feeling you might have encouraged this dinner just so you could see me in passing, so why don’t you just ask me what you wanted to ask me?”

John lets out a deep breath, leaning his elbows on the table, lowering his voice. He leans towards you, and you admire how blue his eyes are. John is quite a handsome king, but he does not captivate you. It has been a long time since John has tasted blood, and he lacks the edge that you crave dearly.

“I need him back here, is what I need,” John murmurs.

“My king, I couldn’t get him back here any more than you could, even if I wanted to.”

“Now who’s being daft?”

You scoff, leaning back in your chair. John is not a stupid man. He created a beast of a man, and he is trying not to poke it too hard. You shift, brushing down your skirts, and you let out a low breath.

“Why did he refuse?” You ask finally.

“What?”

“Why does he ignore your order to come back?” You ask again. “I can’t think of a lot of reasons why he would stay. So why did he ignore you?”

John clicks his tongue, smoothing a few of his fingers over his beard. He averts his eyes, looking out the tall windows, frowning a little at the grim weather. The weather is always grim here, but it irks him at the moment, makes him scowl a little harder.

“I was…informed that there was some sort of letter,” John explains. “Some threat.”

“I don’t follow. He gets lots of threats. And terrible letters.”

“Was about you this time, Your Grace.”

You close your eyes at that, shaking your head. Simon would never be so foolish as to be baited by baseless threats. He barely bats an eye when someone even in front of him draws his sword. He is so comforted by his ability to win, by his dreams and his visions that have not yet happened.

“That’s absurd,” you breathe. “Simon wouldn’t…”

John chuckles, but there is no humor there. “Wouldn’t he?”

“I still don’t understand what you expect me to do,” you roll your eyes, looking away. “Simon is…he’s not…he doesn’t listen. It’s why he’s good at this, isn’t it? He doesn’t really take orders, he’s…I…”

John has never complained before about the way Simon chooses to lead. Oftentimes, it is an order ignored that has made it so that he delivered another crown at John’s feet. Simon asks for forgiveness, not permission, and John has barely batted at eye at it. He sees Simon as some kind of distant son, but this refusal bothers him so?

John leans forward. “You need to understand something here, Simon is a rabid dog,” he spits. “And sometimes I let him off his lead, but this isn’t like anything I’ve had to deal with. I need you to call him back here.” He scoots closer. “England needs you to call him back here. To me.”

You narrow your eyes a little. England needs you to call him back? What kind of sick sense of patriotism is he trying to instill in you? John is stupider than he looks, to think a woman like you would show loyalty to country. You are loyal to your husband, and nothing else, because what has king and country ever really done for a woman like you except for dispose of you?

You wear Simon’s colors, not John’s, and you will wear them to your deathbed.

“If I do this for you, my king, then you owe me,” you whisper. He laughs again, no humor, and he picks up a goblet and fills it to the brim with wine. He drinks half before slamming it down onto the table, spilling it over his hand.

“Kings do not owe their subjects.”

“Quite right, Your Majesty,” you agree, picking up your napkin and dropping it onto the table. You stand, giving him a polite curtsy. “But I am not doing this as your subject.”

“Everything you do is as my subject.”

“You put your entire right to the throne on the back of one man,” you say softly. You are not accusing him, you’re reminding him of a truth. “Simon is why…he’s why your counsel still listens to you. He’s why your people are free from famine, why…why your taxes get paid on time, why your kingdom is still standing, no thanks to your father who wasted this place’s fortune on women and liquor.” You shake your head. “You have an eye for conquest, Your Majesty, but you lack the execution of any plan you conjure.”

You are not wrong, and John knows this, and it’s why he hasn’t spoken up yet or interrupted you. The man before, his own father, was a drunkard who spent all their money. He drank himself into the grave, and the only reason John stands before you now is because of Simon. A man who he fought beside, who he commanded, who once John’s duty became reality took up the mantle and finished what his father never could.

John would be in the next history book you read because of Simon, and it’s Simon’s name that will never be written. They do not bestow legacy to men who serve other men.

“Where…Where did you learn to speak to men this way?” John scoffs. “I am your king.”

You must have hit a soft spot. John is defensive now, and men only deflect and insult when they are cornered with the truth. They don’t like being held in front of a mirror.

“You are king because my husband made it so,” you correct him gently. “And Simon is a loyal dog, and that is good for your sake, because if he had any desire for your seat, it would be his.” You come closer, your heels sounding, and John glares down at you; but you glare right back because you are protected by your name and what you can do with it. John knows this, and it angers him, but he seems to have difficulty facing the truths of his own making. “But he is not your dog anymore. He’s mine.”

Your pen on paper is aggressive. You can tell because the splotches of ink are deep, bleeding black sinking into white as you put angry word to parchment. Not even a fortnight later, you are playing cards with Victoria, and you see Simon’s silhouette standing in the doorway, hood shadowing his masked face as he observes. When you look over your shoulder where John sits, and you meet his eyes, he looks away from you with a grim understanding.

Simon answers your call. Always.

At dinner, John is in better spirits. He drinks with a big smile, eats more than one plate, and he picks Victoria up by the waist to make her dance with him when he asks for the music to be played louder. Simon sits, fidgety, gloved hands moving in and out of fists as he watches you cut into your food and eat it with a blank face. He huffs beside you, his armor stiffening as he sits up straight, and you let your fork clatter onto your plate as you turn to glare at him.

“You were thinking with your cock, Simon,” you spit. “That is how men like you get killed.”

“You ‘ave no idea how men like me get killed because there are no men like me,” Simon growls. You roll your eyes, standing, and he grips your wrist angrily, tugging you close until you fall into his lap. You sigh, shaking your head, putting your hands on his broad shoulders and making him look at you.

“Maybe,” you whisper. “But I’m not wrong. It is how you’ll lose. You know better than that, Simon. To fight someone because they taunted you in a letter, it’s playing the fool.” You cup his cheeks, keeping his eyes on yours. “You don’t need me to tell you that, and yet here we are.”

He breathes slow, closing his eyes for just a moment. He thinks he came for this, just a little. For clarity. Reason. It comes from you in waves, and it’s comforting to hear. It is something he knew, and yet it only makes sense now that you have said it.

“I know,” Simon mutters. “I know. Y’r right. I’m sorry, luv.”

You ask him to apologize when he undresses you. You ask him to apologize again when he sinks into a hot bath with you. You ask him a third time when he is in your bed, a heavy weight between your thighs as he licks and sucks at the soft skin of your tummy. He begs, lowly, let me ‘ave it, and you will, but he has to say he’s sorry again.

“‘m sorry,” he breathes, sucking on your inner thigh, and you close your thighs around his head, forcing his mouth against your cunt.

“Again, Simon,” you whisper. “I wanna hear it again.”

“‘m sorry,” he slides a rough tongue between your folds, breathing shakily when he tastes the oil that he smoothed over your skin only moments ago. You taste so good, you smell so lovely, coming off of you like fumes blinding his senses so that nothing else but you makes any sense at all. When you open your eyes, you think about where you are, and you nearly come thinking about what you have wrapped around your finger.

Not even your king tells your husband what to do. Not even your king commands his men, they won’t listen, he’s not who they turn to when things go belly-up, it’s your husband, and your husband answers to you.

You weren’t sure about it until today. Seeing him when you asked him to come, it flooded you with something that hurt. You could tell from even so far away that Simon was salivating under that mask. You knew the only thing separating his mouth from your cunt were the other people around him (and they were not privy to seeing you naked).

It is such a thing to observe. John needed a lead on Simon when he was his dog. You need no such mechanism. Simon never strays, not with you. He sits proper when you ask, and he speaks when spoken to. He tears at unwanted flesh, and he comes when you call.

John cannot give him all that he desires. Perhaps he thought what Simon truly wanted was fame and fortune. Legacy. But like most things men do, John does not observe. He takes in only what is right in front of him, and he makes assumptions. Simon is not like other men. Fame and fortune do not matter. He does not care about legacy. What matters to Simon is what he can hold in his hands. The ground under his feet. The steel in his hand. The woman underneath him, spreading her legs, inviting him in.

You love Simon. You love Simon more than anything in the entire world, but it would be a lie to say that you are not at some advantage here. Simon is all-consuming. He is the pinnacle of duty and honor and everything that a man is supposed to be, but Simon is also weak. There is something that he wanted more than anything in the world, and now that he has it, he will do anything to keep it, and that makes him vulnerable. Subject to all kinds of new things. Revenge. Retaliation. Pain.

Manipulation.

Maybe you should feel bad about it. Maybe you should feel guilty, but it’s hard to feel anything like it when there’s a big bear of a man between your thighs slobbering on your pussy like dessert. It’s hard to feel anything but bliss when he’s tracing the letters of his name into your cunt and making you see stars and fucking you into the silk sheets like it’s the last time he’ll ever have you.

It is men who govern your world, and if this is how you must move in it, then so be it. You will not feel bad. You will not be sorry for doing what anyone else would do. John thought he could keep his hand there, muzzle his mutt, but you like him this way, and you’re certain John doesn’t fuck the way you do.

He’s mine.

It isn’t John that commands an army, it’s you; or maybe your cunt, but that belongs to you, too, so it is you, isn’t it? You’re the one that lets him inside, that whispers in his ear, that tells him things you know he wants to hear to make things move in your favor, so it’s you, right?

Not John. Not Victoria. Not their counsel. You. They have stepped on you your entire life. They have made you small and inferior and sad for all of your existence, and they gave you something feral knowing it could eat you alive, and now you are the hand that feeds, and they are forgetting that if they bite too hard, you have something that will surely bite harder.

A collar would suit him, you think. He would look so pretty. He already is, the terrible beast, prettiest thing you’ve ever seen (the necklace your drape over him does just fine, a pendant with his motif that you hope reminds him of you). You don’t care if people would say his face is quite ugly. It is, very much so, but you never see him this way. Whenever that mask falls, your stomach flips. He takes your breath away. His intensity, his raw form of love, the look on his face–there is nothing else in the entire world that will love you the way he loves you.

“You came back for me?” You ask. You have a leg tangled between his, and his fingers are between your thighs, a shadow of a smirk on his face as he feels the mixture of your cum and his. He grunts a little, and you tilt your head to look up at him, your chin on his chest.

“‘f course,” Simon mutters, and you kiss his chest gently, keeping your eyes on his.

“But not for John.”

He turns his head, looking down at you more intently, and he scoffs. You know it’s true, but you want to hear it, anyways. You want to hear Simon admit, unknowingly, that you are the tether.

“John is afraid, and I don’t listen to ‘im when he’s afraid. Makes bad choices.”

It’s almost adorable that this is what Simon tells himself. That he comes back for his own sake, and not for yours, even though they are one and the same, intertwined and inseparable.

“Simon,” you say softly, and he sighs, his eyes closing briefly when you kiss him gently. “You have to listen to your king when he asks you to come back. Making a…rash decision about war strategy is one thing, but…” You cup his cheek gently. “Make things easier for me, husband. If he asks you to come back, you come back.”

This time, at least. Just this time.

Simon snarls a bit, but you swallow it when you kiss him. You maneuver yourself over him, straddling his hips, and he grunts as you sink down on him. He swells hard again very quickly, releasing a deep breath as you give a slow roll of your hips.

“Make things easy for me, my love,” you whisper, and he leans his head back, putting two big hands on your ass and moving you with ease. “Appease your king, yes? For me?”

“Can’t say no when y’r pussy squeezes me like tha’, sweet’eart,” Simon groans, and you giggle, planting your hands on his chest and starting to move a little faster. You lean your head back, your mouth falling open, and you gasp when you sink down completely, your ass touching his thick thighs as you tighten around him. “Fuckin’ Christ–”

“I hate when you go,” you whine, digging your nails into his chest. He hisses, planting his feet on the bed, and he fucks up into you with a renewed fervor. “Hate when you’re not here, Simon, I-I miss you, miss this–”

“Nghh…fuck, I know,” Simon pants. “Can feel it. Feel you.” You squeal when he grips you by the waist and turns you over. He makes it seem so easy, tossing your weight underneath him, and your arms circle around his neck as you draw him closer, hanging onto him. “Y’r so fuckin’ pretty…”

“Simon–”

He kisses to devour. His jaw hinges wide to kiss you sloppy, breathing in the moans that you can’t contain. Simon always fucks so well, stretching your thighs as wide as they will accommodate so he can make room for the goliath of himself that he is. He suffocates, in a good way, and his cock never fails to stretch you for all that you are worth. Simon holds your jaw in place as he grinds into you, relishing in the wet smack of his hips against yours. The fat of you satisfies him. It makes him growl with delight when he grabs onto wide hips, your fat arse, the body that you hold that tells him you are fed and warm and content. It draws his grin wider, and it makes him drool thinking about having you again and again and again, until you beg him for reprieve and his heir sits in your womb.

Simon fucks for sport. He wants to see how stupid he can make you. He wants to know how long you’ll cry for, how fat he can make your tears. He wants to know how loud you will cry, how many times he can make you cum before you’re incoherent, he wants to know the extent to which he can use you that you will still be awake enough to say his name just one more time. Simon is not satisfied until he pushes your limits.

It is what a Riley does. They endure, and they eat, and they consume, and they take pleasure in the all-encompassing indulgement of things they have never been allowed to have. You are a woman, so he knows this will come easy for you. So often, he knows, women are not allowed to indulge at all, so he wants you to. He wants you to cry and moan and eat, and he wants you to do it bearing his name so that no one will ever tell you no.

Simon says no to kings, and they placate, or they die. His wife will be offered the same respect, and he’ll stand behind her with a sword to make it law. When you bear his children, he will expect the same of them–to give their mother utter devotion, lest they answer to his hand. There is no one above you, not God, not country, and certainly not blood. They will know what their father did to have you, and they will spill the same amount of blood to keep it that way. They will do it for you, and then they will do it for their own lovers, and if they don’t have the same sentiments, that love is not true, and Simon will not give his blessing.

Everything else is trivial. He knows this, understands it, because history repeats itself. It is cyclical, and you are right. Kings come and go. Sons die to other sons, fathers make bad decisions, and crowns are passed to bastards and back again, until lineage is merely spectacle and power changes hands often enough to lose generational merit. There is one thing that remains, and it is what you do while you are on earth, while you are standing on the ground you were born on. Even faiths change; when men find it suitable, they change the rules, and then you worship a different God, so Simon sees no point in staying loyal to any of it.

Instead, he is true to what he knows. To what he can see and what he can feel. With John, he remembers being a young man, fighting alongside him. He follows John, to an extent, because he knows what it is like to share blood with him on a muddy hill and take an arrow for him.

With you, time stands still. He saw you in a room, and he had to have you, and he brought nations to ruin to make certain no one would bat an eye when he asked for your hand. He saw you in a dream, too–he saw you laying in his bed of furs, wearing nothing but a tiara of his making, wet between the thighs because that is how it’s meant to be. He recognized you when he saw you that first time, and he doesn’t know how, but saying no to you, really saying no, will change that vision, and he couldn’t bear that.

Your voice echoes. You’re moaning, overstimulated, but he doesn’t stop. The hair around his cock rubs your clit too many times, and when you come around him, you’re a shaking, withering thing, back bowed and nipples pebbled. Your toes curl as you cry from the starry-eyed, hot pleasure, but he keeps moving, chasing something in the distance that he can taste, so close.

Yes, Simon ignored his king. Yes, Simon did not ignore you. Yes, Simon admits, he came when you called, and he doesn’t feel bad about it, he doesn’t care how it seems. He would do it again if he had the chance. John could give him the same answer as you in every timeline, but he will only move if the command comes from you, and yes, Simon knows it makes him a liability, but crowns come with costs, and this is the one John must pay.

Simon will fight any of John’s enemies, but he won’t fight fate. He won’t fight what has already been seen, and he won’t fight what he already knows will happen.

With Simon’s cock in your mouth, you can make him deliver on promises. Sucking on the girth of him, you can make him an honest man. Taking inside of your mouth what you can swallow, you can make Simon do your bidding, and it is a hard lesson that John learns.

“Do this for me,” you slobber against the underside of his cock, and Simon relents.

“Make me happy,” you say, swirling your fingers against your puffy pussy, and Simon kneels with an open mouth.

“Just this once,” you whisper with his cum on your tongue, and Simon seals his choice with his hands on your tits and the taste of himself in his mouth.

When you make eyes with John across the low lights of the throne room, he can’t help the way he admires you. You stand beside Simon, looking the essence of nobility and reverence in another intricate silver and blue dress. The train of your skirt glitters with delicate jewels hand sewn into the fabric, and the headpiece you wear adorns a skull insignia. Your corset has been tied just right, thanks to Simon’s hand, and your own fingers are clasped between his. Your corset and jewels are of exquisite detail–one of the newest designs from Paris, structured and elegant and accentuating every curve of soft skin.

You glow in the room. His wife must be wearing a dress just as expensive, probably more, and yet his eyes (and everyone else’s) cannot help but follow you. Your own eyes won’t leave Simon; you flutter your lashes whenever he looks down at you, big smile on your face, and even when there are people curtsying and bowing to you and giving Simon their gratitude between bites of cake and glugs of wine, your attention never really strays. 

John feels inadequate in his own fortress; suddenly, red and gold sicken him, and England tastes sour in his mouth.

In a few generations, John’s house will likely fall. He will make heirs that will fail him, he knows this. In a few centuries, his family will not sit in the same place, but a Riley will remain right where they are supposed to be. Banners of blue and silver will always fly. If Simon does not make sure of that, then you will.

It’s what happens when you force women like you to their knees. When they grow up invisible, always in the shadows, forgotten and sold to the next man who will pay a higher price, it’s what you learned to do. It’s all you’ve ever known, to make the best out of something terrible.

Simon is the same, in that sense. You understand him in a way his king will never be able to. Simon has nothing, and neither do you, and Simon was stepped on and berated and tortured to the point of no return. It is why blood does not scare him and why death doesn’t come knocking. Time will be the only thing capable of killing him, and everyone that stands up to him learns that when they eat his blade.

In the quiet of the evening, Simon undresses you. He sits behind you on the bed, fingers pinching the bows at your back and unraveling them. He traces your corset, thumb circling over the skull pattern of the belt around the small of your waist, and he tastes something warm in his mouth at the sight of it. You look so beautiful–more beautiful than he’s ever seen you maybe, decorated in his colors and wearing his motif and sitting so pretty.

“You wanna know something…funny?” You ask quietly. Simon finds the ties of your skirts and starts to undo them. He grunts in reply; he might sound standoffish, but you know he’s listening. “John…John made it…he makes it seem like you don’t really listen to him. He implied that…in the face of adversity, you might only listen to me.” You put your hands on the front of your corset to keep it from falling. “Isn’t that funny?”

“Wot’s so funny?”

You swallow, looking down. Your hands fidget, and you take a closer look at the ring you wear, the delicate gold band he gave you not so long ago.

“I…”

“Mmm…might be right, innit?” Simon snickers after a moment. You feel him stand, and you look over your shoulder as he peels his mask off and grins down at you. He tilts his head to the side, and you smile back at him a little. “Do anythin’ for ya. Disobeying a king…” Simon cackles, tearing your corset off, tossing it onto the floor as he walks you backwards. “Ignoring one…” He shrugs, “Oll in a day, love.”

“He can hang you for it,” you whisper. “Cut off your head. Cut off mine.”

Simon lays you back on the bed, spreading you out, climbing over you. You blink up at him, and he leans down, pressing his forehead to yours.

“I would ‘ave seen it. I would know.”

He would have seen it in a dream. It would have come to him in a reflection in a pool of blood on the battlefield. It would have come to him, the voices in his head, he would have heard them amongst screaming, or perhaps in the void that he finds his mind in when he’s between your plush thighs.

You can’t help the smile that graces your face when Simon kisses the curve where your jaw meets your neck. It is fun, you suppose. Fun to control the tides that set the courses of history. It is fun and almost unbelievable that a king bends to the will of one man’s wife just because it solidifies his name.

You wrap your hand around the twine that dangles from Simon’s neck. It twirls around your fingers, easy, solid. Simon’s eyes are dark, and they are yours, and when you smile, so does he, because this is where you are meant to be, forever and always.

“What if I want more?” You ask. Simon hums, low from within his chest, and you run your tongue over your teeth. “Did you see that in your dreams, Simon? Hmm? Do you know what I’m asking for? What it is that I really want?”

Simon smiles. A dark one, with teeth, and you know he hears it. What more means for a duke and his duchess. What more means when you have all the money you could ever want, all the land you could ever need.

What more means when you have climbed your way to the top and still desire more. More, more, more. There are not many steps left to climb. There are not many places left to take, not much more of the world that can really be yours, but Simon looks ravenous, and Simon looks hungry, and if you fuck him now, you’ll have him right where you want him.

When you tug on what hangs around his neck, Simon bends. Simon follows.

[kelsonius]

So I (25y/o caucasian female from the Netherlands) had this dream where I was a mixed race Asian/African American 50y/o male ghost who had died by hanging. The asphyxiation continued in this ghost form by coughing up nail clippings every few seconds that would choke me if I didn't continously take them out with my hands. Some weird creepy kid used the bunches of nail clippings to spell my real name, which prompted me to realise I was dreaming.

I woke up in a room that was implicitly my own but looked different, with the only light coming through a door cracked open on the other side of the room. In getting up to turn on the light I fell down in front of my closet, allowing me to see the dark space next to it. A person was standing there. I said "mom?" at which it turned into a red faced demon with a giant knife that stabbed me to death.

Anyone else ever have these weirdass dreams where they are an entirely different person?

[ladysternchen]

Yet Were Its Making Good, For This- A Promise

CW: graphic, CW: character death

Mablung sat unmoving before the door of the treasury, his axe resting on his knees, his gaze fixed unseeingly on the ceiling. He hardly ever left his guard-post these days, dutifully doing his Queen’s final bidding. Only in the wee hours of the morning, when he could be sure to be left well alone, he allowed himself the relief of tears, and would at times even nod off. Not that sleep brought him any true rest. It mattered not whether he re-lived all the evil that had happened in his waking memory or his uneasy dreams. There was no escaping either way. 

He screwed up his face against the pain, but could not hold back the soft wail of despair that escaped his lips, startling the little bird that kept him company out of its sleep. He reached up to pick the bird from his shoulder, its soft feathers warm and comforting to the touch.

“We need to send word to the Isle of Balar. Lord Círdan must learn of what has befallen.”

It were the first words that Mablung consciously remembered speaking, though he must have talked before, he only couldn’t recall it. Melian nodded.

“He must.” she answered thickly “And so must… Lúthien."

Mablung looked at the Queen in concern. She had not rested at all since Elu’s death, had left his side only once to take back the Nauglamir at the gates. Even now, as all of Doriath seemed to be busy, preparing to lay its King to rest, she sat beside him, her fingers clasped over his hand.

“I shall send messengers to Tol Galen also as soon as the burial is over. But I could not find it in my heart to deny anybody the possibility to say farewell.”

“Nor should you. There is naught Lúthien or Círdan can do, anyway. I would go to Tol Galen myself, but… oh Mablung, I can’t bring myself to. I still see Lúthien as a child, flinging herself into Elu’s arms, and I cannot bear to tell that child her father is gone. And the stupid thing is, that I am in truth telling a grown woman is no comfort at all, because what I fear even more than hurting her is that she might not care.”

Mablung tentatively reached out and pressed Melian’s shoulder.

“Nay, lady. Lúthien will be distraught. It was I who bade her and Beren farewell, when they left Doriath, and believe me, she left both of you with a heavy heart. She bears no grudge against Elu, nor does Beren. But even if they were, learning of his death would still be horrible for Lúthien.”

“All the more should it be I who tells her, but I … can’t. Also because then I would need to let her go again and…”

Her voice broke, and Mablung tightened his grip. He could well imagine that Melian, tormented by her grief as she was right now, could not face that final goodbye from her daughter on top of everything else.

“I rather think, my lady, that Lúthien might prefer not to hear such news from you. Seeing your pain will only hurt her more.” Melian pressed her husband’s hand once more ere she rose, looking Mablung straight in the eyes at last. 

“Take heed of the Silmaril, Mablung. The doom of Arda is woven around these jewels, and the one won must be guarded well. If it is, then there might still be hope, though I do not see it.”

“Neither do I. But I shall do so regardless. Guard it.”

They looked at each other in silence for a while, and Mablung slowly began to understand that this was another parting, another farewell. It did not surprise him, but it grieved him greatly all the same. 

“You are leaving us.”

Melian nodded.

“Dior will soon be King. Believe me, Mablung, I wished I could leave my grandson a realm that is better protected, and not lay that burden upon him and Nimloth, but… I have no more strength left, no power to repel the evil that is now engulfing all of Beleriand. And without Elu, I cannot hold the Girdle. I am of no use to my people any more, though they will likely not understand, will hold themselves abandoned by the Queen that once vowed to protect them.”

“They will understand. No-one who saw Lúthien die out of grief for Beren will expect you to… to overcome Elu’s death. No-one who saw you two so in love.”

It was true, Mablung thought. The Queen could not die according to the ways of her own kin, but this was probably as close to the death of the Firstborn as a Maia could get. She, like her daughter before, would succumb to the grief for her beloved. She would shed her body, and travel West as spirit alone.

Maybe his feelings had showed on his face, or Melian had gathered what he was thinking otherwise, for she managed a teary smile at last.

“I can never thank you enough for everything you have done for me, for us, for all of Doriath. Please take care. Don’t get yourself hurt.”

“Death shall be my reward, Queen Melian. I shall not leave Elmo, but other than that… I am tired, lady.”

To that, Melian said nothing, but wrapped her arms around him and embraced him, and he held onto her tightly. 

“We will meet again, Mablung. I promise.”

“I’ll hold onto that.” he mumbled into her black curls, and felt her tighten her embrace.

“And if it is through death that it should come to pass, if you meet Elu in the Halls…”

“…then I’ll keep an eye on him for you. And see that he gets himself in no trouble, as this seems to have become an unfortunate habit of his lately.”

Melian made a noise that was half sob, half chuckle. Mablung miraculously felt himself smile, too.

“And tell him I will never stop loving him.” she added, tears choking her voice once more.

“He knows. But I shall bear him your love anyway. I look forward to that.”

He felt himself getting drowsy in Melian’s arms before he could think or say any more, and woke again slumped against a pillar, carefully covered in his cloak. Melian was gone, and it did not need much scrutiny to work out that she must have engulfed him in her enchantment, so that he fell into a deep sleep. He was all alone. Or almost alone, he realised as something chirped softly, and he felt the movement of a small feathery body in his hand. He stroked the nightingale’s brown head with one finger, and it looked back at him with beady eyes. Mablung smiled. He could well use a friend right now, as Melian surly had known when she left him this little parting gift, and also, it felt comforting that one of her birds still remained within Menegroth.

It was by the frightened squawk of that selfsame bird that he was aroused, unsure whether he had only been reliving Melian’s parting in his thoughts or actually fallen asleep. There was uproar in the upper levels, that had afore been so quiet. He scrambled to his feet, still drowsy, but gripping the handle of his axe tightly. He knew those shouts, those noises- there was battle in the thousand caves, and Mablung was torn between his desire to find out what was going on, and whether he could do anything to prevent the city’s fall, and his sense of duty, which dictated that he stayed where he was, as was his lady’s bidding. Ultimately, though, he could not stand to stay put and wait, so he ran as silently as he could up the stairs to the higher levels, and found battle there immediately. 

A hot wrath rose in the pit of his stomach as he saw who the attackers were. Was it not enough that they had murdered their King? What for did they now return, they whom Mablung had once counted as friends?

The battle was fierce, but for Mablung, the end came swiftly. He had not fought long on that stairwell ere he was joined by Elmo, but even their combined efforts could not prevent the dwarves from getting past them, their true purpose only too clear. Giving chase, they caught up with them again before the very doors behind which the Nauglamir was kept. Mablung fought there as he had never done before, and Elmo beside him wielded Elu’s sword, but in the end they were overpowered. A dwarven blade caught Mablung in the chest and buried itself deeply in his ribcage. He would have yelled in pain, had he only managed to make any sound at all. Instead, hot blood sputtered sickeningly from his mouth as he fell, and he realised with terror that if not one of their attackers chose to finish what they had started, he would drown in his own blood.

The dwarves, however, had no interest in killing for good measure, but only in getting what they had been after from the start. So Mablung was forced to watch, as he lay on the floor coughing and retching, as Elmo was being slain, and the door to the treasury wrenched open at last. Frustration slunk into his dying thoughts. All this had come to nothing. How cruelly fate sought to mock him now, that he could not even revenge his King, his lord, his true love, nor keep the promise he had given his Queen.

But then something miraculous happened. As the light of the gem fell upon him, he suddenly felt a great peace, and a calm within him. He cared no more about the pain and the blood, nor about Elmo who lay beside him with an axe embedded in the back of his head. The light called to him, yet not in a sinister way. It was calling him home. And as his vision slowly dimmed, he realised with a well of emotion that Elu had died just like that, that he had looked into that same light, perhaps found that same comfort in his instant of death. Mablung had no air in his lungs to mutter a last vow as others had done before him, and people yet unknown would pledge in the future- that he would follow where Elu lead. Where you go, I go. Still, the mere thought was enough to put him at ease, was consoling him, as was the gentle voice of Námo that called him by his name. 

[auraguardians]

📝 - A private record ( Ex. Criminal, Medical, etc… )

DATA LEAK!! // accepting

It's a medical record from the hospital in Canalave. The extent of the injuries Riley sustained when he was eleven were never made public, but they are detailed here --- and anyone with any knowledge of medicine would wonder how the hell the kid survived.

he was suspected to have been alone for about half an hour before his uncle even found him, and it took another hour to get him to the hospital due to their remote location

he'd lost so much blood, he needed multiple transfusions

he also had to have a surgery to correct some of the --- it's listed as 'self-cauterization' but notes from the staff imply it looked less like a burn and more like his body started rapidly healing itself

there are notes about patient being 'delirious' at points during the initial recovery, having vivid hallucinations and occasionally not recognizing who, where, or when he was

he had to stay there for two weeks after his admittance, and needed to return for regular check-ins and physical therapy for several months after

the fact he's made a near-total recovery is a true marvel --- notes in the file also indicate this is mostly due to his body's remarkable healing aptitude

[ellecdc]

Part two of feisty slytherin reader where it’s just the boys being like kinda in love with reader and everything you can pick how reader responds

this ended up taking me way longer to complete than I thought it would! it also ended up way longer than usual. here's the lead up to our infamous poly!marauders x feisty!slytherin reader!!! 🫶

poly!marauders x feisty, fem slytherin!reader

p1 // p2 // p3

CW: head injury - not graphic or detailed but mentions blood.

“Okay Moony, if you’re going to help us win over Y/N, you should know she does not like dramatic public displays of appreciation.” James said sagely as he walked into their shared dorm room.

Remus spared Sirius a confused look from his seat in the chair, but from the way James was currently rubbing his arm Sirius had a pretty good idea of what just took place.

“Yeah, erm, I don’t think you have to worry about that with me, bubs. Thanks for the heads up though.” Remus added bemusedly.

“Let me guess.” Sirius taunted, rolling over onto his stomach so that he faced James. “The charmed roses following her around the halls wasn’t a hit?”

“No, but she did...” He sulked, pulling his uniform shirt off to expose a small albeit quite red welt on his upper arm.

“Awe, poor Jamie. Come here bubs.” Remus cooed at him, opening his arms to invite the boy into his lap. 

James obliged all too willingly and snuggled up to the werewolf like he was a small toddler and not a giant beefy man-baby. 

“Don’t mollify him when he’s out here botching our grand plans to woo the girl of our dreams.” Sirius said, causing Remus to roll his eyes and James to scoff indignantly.

“Well at least I’m working on it! What are you doing to woo her?” James retaliated.

Sirius offered him a wolfish grin. “Oh, I’ve got a little trick up my sleeve.”

You had to get out of the castle. You could still feel everyone’s eyes on you, ogling you like you were some kind of freakshow. 

You don’t know what kind of game those Gryffindor’s were trying to play, but you were not about to be the butt of whatever sodding joke this was.

Roses, really? Charmed to follow you around the castle as Potter smirked from the sidelines. Did he have any idea how humiliating that was?

       So, yeah. You walloped him. In the arm. With your fist. Hard. But what else were you supposed to do!? You’d confronted him and demanded that he end the charm and all he said was ‘you look so cute when your nose scrunches up like that’.

He and Black have always been a bother – seemingly having taken some kind of interest in you for whatever reason. Lupin had always been more reasonable; one would think that he’d have evened those two out during their relationship, but apparently that was an impossible task. You supposed it was because he was all but one man.

But lately, even he was starting to stare at you a little too long, smile a little too softly, find too many excuses to be in your vicinity. It was infuriating.

So, you were outside.

It was nice outside. 

Well, it was nice enough outside. 

You packed yourself some snacks in your book bag, two blankets and an extra jumper to go sit by the Black Lake. You figured you should be able to enjoy some peace and quiet out here on your own.

You unfolded one of the blankets to lay onto the ground before sitting on it and then laid the second blanket over your lap. You could hear other students on the grounds in the distance and the soothing sound of the water lapping gently against the shore. 

As luck would have it, a certain dog with long-black hair would set out to disrupt that.

“What are you doing here?” You asked the dog as it approached you calmly. You wondered for a moment if you should be scared before it stopped at the edge of your blanket to sit and tilt its head at you, his tongue falling out of his mouth haphazardly. 

He didn’t look too scary, ignoring his size.

You craned your neck to look around, checking if perhaps he was here with someone, but it appeared that you were, in fact, alone on this side of the lake.

You felt something cold and wet nudge your pinkie, and you turned to see that the dog had laid down beside you with his head between his paws, nose next to your hand.

“If I pet you, are you going to bite me?” You asked him. He answered by nudging your hand again and offering it a little lick.

“You better not have fleas.” You muttered as you scratched behind the dog’s ears. You would have sworn he had furrowed his eyebrows at your comment if dogs could do such a thing. You noticed then that the dog had startling silver-blue eyes. 

“Where are your people?” You asked, glad no one was around to see you conversing with a dog. He answered you by rolling over for belly rubs.

You scoffed out a laugh but acquiesced. “Fine, you can stay. But I came out here for peace and quiet, ‘kay?”

The dog seemed fine with that plan and let you read through two chapters of your book, only interrupting every paragraph or so for more pets. Eventually however, it grew too cold, and you decided to pack up.

Confirming your suspicions, the dog began to follow you towards the castle. You pretended like you hadn’t noticed or perhaps just didn’t care until you were near the greenhouses.

“For future reference, Black,” you said, turning to the dog who seemed to pause mid-step as you considered him. “I really am more of a cat person.” You smirked, turning to walk back to the castle alone.

“Here, let me get that for you.” James said, opening the door for you rather chivalrously in Sirius’ opinion.

“I’m not a delicate flower, Potter, I can open a door.” You muttered angrily, storming past him into the classroom.

James deflated a little as he followed you in, but perked up when Remus placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

“I thought that was very sweet of you, Jamie.” He placated.

James gave him a half smile in response. “Thanks Moons.”

“I mean, what are we supposed to do? What bird doesn’t like dogs!?” Sirius grumbled, opting to ignore James’ whining. 

“Don’t call her a bird, Sirius.” Remus chided.

“Probably didn’t help you’re a big ol’ mangy mutt.” James muttered petulantly.

“Oi!” Sirius called. “That’s not what you say when Padfoot snuggles you to sleep.” 

James had the good graces to turn a little red at that.

Their conversation was interrupted (quite rudely if you asked Sirius) by Professor McGonagall as she began the instructions for today’s Transfiguration lesson: turning buttons into butterflies. 

Sirius stole a concerned glance towards James to see Remus doing the same; they were horrified to see a mischievous look adorning their boyfriend’s face.

“Prongs...” Sirius warned, whilst Remus whispered a “remember what we talked about.”

But they both knew it was too late; there was no stopping him once James set his mind to something. 

Sirius is quite sure it was the fourth butterfly that did you in; you seemed to consider the first a fluke, the second was annoying, the third made you suspicious, but by the fourth you’d had enough.

With little to no warning you turned and lobbed a large hard-covered tome at the group.

“I don’t know which of you tossers are behind this, but it reeks of Potter. So help me gods I will gut you and string you up to the rafters from your intestines if you don’t leave me alone!” You screeched. 

“But how else will you know I’m crazy about you?” James pouted, causing you to groan exasperatedly.

“If you’re looking for some cutesy princess who will swoon at your sodding roses and butterflies, then you’ve got the wrong witch.” You spat.

Sirius smirked. “Oh, we have exactly the right witch.”

“I swear to Circe if you don’t leave me alone, I’ll sic Barty on you.” You threatened.

Sirius and James both scoffed whilst Remus smirked. 

“Please dollface, you insult me. I’m not afraid of Junior.” Sirius taunted.

You narrowed your eyes at him menacingly before realization dawned on you. “Fine.” You said simply, giving Sirius a distinct uneasy feeling. “Perhaps I’ll tell Regulus.”

Sirius slammed his fist on the table and leaned forward. “You wouldn’t.” He seethed.

You smirked deviously. “Just try me, Black.” You sneered in response. 

Did...did Sirius have a degradation kink?

Sirius was ashamed to admit that he had to take a very cold shower after that.

You had been sitting in the library trying to work on your Potions essay. You had felt fairly safe here seeing as the Gryffindor’s (at least the most problematic ones) had been sanctioned from using the library during quiet study hours on account of their typical foolishness.

Except one.

“Mind if I sit here?” Lupin’s lilting voice sounded from your right side before he sat down without waiting for your response. 

“Why bother asking if you were just going to sit anyways?” You grumbled. 

“Well, it was the polite thing to do.” He said, turning to face you. You held his gaze (his gaze, your glare) until he finally sighed. “I’ll leave if you want me to.”

You considered him for a moment. You couldn’t deny he was the least buffoonish out of the so-called Marauders though you’re not sure that amounted to much.

But he was quieter, kinder, softer around the edges. And he had been far more polite to you than his boyfriends.

“Are you going to flirt with me?”

One of Remus’ eyebrows (the one with the scar running through it, you noticed) raised expectantly as he considered you.

“Let me rephrase that.” You barked quickly, realizing your mistake perhaps a touch too late. “You may sit here, but if you flirt with me, I will stab you with my quill.” You punctuated your threat by blotting his hand which rested on the table with ink from the tip of your quill.

Remus smiled at the sight before returning his amber coloured gaze to yours. “Fair enough. I promise to try to restrain myself, but perhaps you ought to hold onto this hand for me just in case I slip up.” And he – the absolute sodding bastard – slid his left hand comfortably into your right.

You’d never seen someone make a move so assertively and smoothly before. There was nothing to say that any of this even affected Remus as he immediately turned his attention to his book. Was it hot in here? Your hand felt sweaty. Your throat felt tight. Your mouth was dry. Why didn’t you think to bring a bottle of water?!

“Erm,” you started, having to pause to clear your throat. “Just how am I supposed to get my work done with your hand in mine, Lupin?”

You had tried to sound threatening, but based off Remus’ smirk, you’d only managed to goad him further.

“You’re left-handed. Figure it out.” 

These boys were going to be the death of you if you didn’t end up killing them first.

“You held her hand!?” James screeched in their dorm room that night whilst Remus smirked to himself. Sirius would make fun of James for his dramatics if he wasn’t just a pissed off about this.

“I’ve been working at this the longest out of either of you, and she lets you hold her hand?” He continued.

“She doesn’t like dogs,” Sirius grumbled, gesturing to himself, “she doesn’t like James. But the werewolf? Really. No offence Moons because I absolutely get the appeal.”

James snapped his fingers as he had a eureka moment. “I’ve got it! Remus; bite me!”

“James!” Remus scolded. 

“It’s not fair.” James muttered as he fell onto his bed in defeat. “I’d be so good to her.”

Any ire from Sirius and Remus drained at that as they both moved to join their boyfriend on his bed.

“We know, bubs.” Remus conceded. 

“We just...have to give her time. I’m sure she’ll come around, yeah? I mean, with Remus’ smooth moves, my undeniable charm, and your muscles? We’re unstoppable.” Sirius added, eliciting a smile from Remus and a gentle chuckle from James, though his usual light was diminished.

“We’ve just got to be patient, Jamie.” Remus concluded, causing James to groan.

“Patience.” He spat spitefully.

“A 'James ADHD Potter' special.” Sirius winked before kissing any further protests away from James’ lips.

“We’ve got Moony on our team now, bubs. We’re unstoppable.” He whispered, truly believing what he was saying.

If anyone could break through your hard candy-coating shell to reach the chocolate inside, it was certainly Remus Lupin.

You’d had the lovely idea of sitting outside on one of the few sunny days that Scotland got to see this time of year. Unfortunately, it seemed that everyone else had the same idea too.

A few Hufflepuffs were playing with a charmed muggle football, kicking it back and forth between the two of them and chasing after it when it opted to fuck off on its own. You didn’t understand the objective of the game, nor did you care to.

Remus and Peter Pettigrew sat on a bench not too far off playing a game of Wizarding Chess that, from where you were sitting, looked like Remus was winning.

You got so caught up in watching Lupin’s game with Pettigrew - in the way that the tendons in his wrist and hands flexed as he moved pieces across the board, and the way that his honey blonde curls fell in front of his eyes causing him to have to blow air upwards so he could see the board - that you noticed something flying at you far too late. 

“Look out!” One of the dumb Hufflepuff’s shouted far too late as their charmed football soared into the side of your head, knocking you clean over where your head cracked painfully against a root of the tree you were sitting under.

You scrunched your eyes tight and tried to will your heart to start beating again and your lungs to cooperate, every part of your body seeming to have tensed out of instinct to protect itself.

“L/N! L/N! Come on, dove, open your eyes.” You heard a voice above you.

Why was the voice so worried? How long were your eyes closed? A gentle hand grabbed your chin and wiggled your head back and forth, causing you to hiss in pain.

“Sod...off.” You gritted through your teeth.

The voice chuckled and wiggled your chin once more. “There she is. Open your eyes for me.”

You hated being told what to do but decided to comply anyways.

You probably should have kept your eyes close because the sight made you feel dizzy for a completely different reason.

Hovering above your frame was Remus Lupin; his knees on the ground beside your elbow, one hand gripping your chin and the other gently moving hair away from your face and head.

“Atta girl.” He said with a smile.

“Get away from me.” You grumbled as you moved to sit up. Though Lupin hissed in protest, he helped you sit up nonetheless. 

“Is...is she okay?” a timid voice spoke from somewhere behind Lupin’s shoulder causing his expression to darken considerably.

“You stupid wankers are so dead.” You spat as loudly as you could manage, though in your current state – that wasn’t very loud at all.

Your message was received loud and clear, however, as the two Hufflepuffs took off in fear.

“My sentiments exactly.” Lupin muttered as he turned back to you, jaw still tense.

You snorted indelicately as you brought a hand to your head. “Please, don’t tell me you actually care about me, Lupin.”

You hissed in pain as your hand came in contact with something warm and wet and slightly sticky. You pulled your hand back in front of you to inspect, only for Lupin to grab your hand rather harshly and wipe the blood away with a handkerchief.

“Is it so impossible to believe that we could actually care for you?” He muttered quietly, eyes focused on your hand, pointedly avoiding eye contact with you. You watched as his curls bounced with each wipe of his hand against yours. You thought of his gentle hands brushing hair away from your wound moments before. You thought of him begging you to open your eyes. You thought of him being the first one at your side when you were hurt.

And you thought about Black finding ways to be with you even when you staunchly refused his company. You thought of him taking time out of his day to tell you how ‘smoking hot’ you looked that day, even though he said it every day before that, too.

And you thought about Potter who always held the door for you, saved you a seat even though you never accepted it, showered you in affection even though it was public and quite embarrassing. And you thought of the way he always had a smile to give you, even when you gave him no reason to smile at all. 

It wasn’t hard to imagine the three of them caring for anyone, quite frankly. Caring seemed to come second nature to those boys.

“No.” You admitted quietly. “It’s not impossible to believe that you could actually care. It’s just impossible to imagine why.”

He stopped rubbing at your hand and met your eye, seemingly contemplating what to say.

“Let’s get you to Madam Pomfrey.” He opted for. “Pete, let the boys know where I’ve gone when they’re finished with practice?” Lupin called over his shoulder.

“I can walk myself, Lupin.” You grumbled as he helped you up by your elbow.

“Yeah, yeah.” He grumbled back. “You’re not a delicate flower, we know.”

The two of you more or less muttered back and forth to each other the entire way to the infirmary, Lupin supporting more of your weight than he likely needed too but you didn’t feel the need (nor desire) to complain.

Madam Pomfrey was in the middle of looking after a first year Potions class who accidently set off an explosion of incorrectly brewed Cure for Boils which ultimately left each student (and Professor Slughorn) covered head to toe in painful boils.

“Mr. Lupin, if you could clean the wound for me. And Miss. L/N, drink the pain potion. Do not leave until I’ve had a chance to do a proper examination, okay?” She ordered as you positioned yourself more comfortably on the bed after she determined you weren’t about to die (or currently crying, as most of the first years were). 

You took the pain potion dutifully and placed it back on the table beside your bed before you startled at the sudden cold wet cloth on your head.

“You are not seriously doing this right now, are you?” You spat.

Remus’ eyebrows drew together as his hands continued on in their task. “You heard the matron; I’m supposed to clean it.”

“I can clean it myself, Lupin; I’ll conjure a mirror.” You argued, causing the scarred boy to scoff.

“I do what I’m told L/N, and quite frankly, the matron scares me more than you do.”

“I must be doing something wrong then.” You sighed, thinking you hadn’t said that loud enough to be heard, but a startled laugh escaped Lupin’s lips. 

“Why do you act so volatile?” He asked amusedly.

“It’s not an act.”

“I call bullshit.”

“Well, you call wrong, then, Lupin. I’m an arse and I find everyone exhausting. Deal with it.” You snarked sharply.

Lupin breathed a laugh through his nose. “Maybe we can find out what the hell your problem is over dinner sometime, then.”

Rotten bastard and his smooth talk...

“WHERE IS SHE!?” a voice echoed through the corridor just outside the entrance to the infirmary. Madame Pomfrey needn’t even look up from the boil she was currently draining of puss to know who she was about to scold.

“Mr. Potter, I will have you banned from this infirmary so fast if you raise your voice above so much as a whisper, do not try me. That goes for you too, Mr. Black.” She barked; eyes still focused on the first year’s arm in front of her.

Sure enough, a mop of curly hair, impossibly more wild than usual due to the flight on his broom, poked around the privacy curtains a second before it was joined by a fuming looking Sirius Black.

Potter’s eyes flew to where Remus’ hands were positioned on your head and your stomach lurched at what looked like tears pooling in Potter’s eyes.

“Potter...please, erm, please don’t cry?” You asked awkwardly, leaning away from Remus’ touch as you suddenly became very uncomfortable with this amount of attention.

“She’s alright, Jamie.” Remus sighed, pulling you back over to him gently by the shoulder and continuing his prodding at your wound.

“Who did it?” Sirius spat, arms crossed defensively across his chest and jaw tight as he stared hard at the wound on your head. You were horrified to admit to yourself that he was hot. You’d never really seen it before, how all the girls in your year (and other years) fawned over the long-haired boy.

But he was currently standing in front of you still adorned in his quidditch gear, hair pulled back into a low bun - though he had many fly-aways on account of his recent time in the air - his cheeks still dusted pink from the assertion, and he was currently fuming on your behalf.

Yeah...he was hot. 

“Easy.” Remus warned.

“Answer me!” Sirius spat back.

“Pads. I mean it, leave it.” Remus said with finality.

Your eyes darted nervously between the two boys currently staring each other down, but Potter’s eyes were still steadfast on you.

“Let me, Rem.” He finally said gently – the most gently you’d ever heard from the rambunctious boy as he gently moved Remus aside and took over.

“I’m okay, you know.” You offered, not liking how worked up these boys were currently over you.

“I know.” He agreed. “I just hate to see you hurt.”

“Why?”

“Why?”

“Yeah, why.” You pressed. James looked like you just asked him to calculate the distance between the galaxy of Andromeda and our solar system using the measurement of broomsticks.  

“I... I don’t want to see you hurt?”

“You want to see Snape hurt.” You countered, causing James’ face to harden.

“Snape’s a tosser.” He muttered darkly.

“I’m not any nicer than Snape.”

“See, Y/N. You’re so smart and lovely and perfect, but you are way off on that front.” James said through a laugh. “Snape is prejudiced, vindictive, and a racist blood supremist. You’re just combative.” He explained, punctuating the word combative with a gentle boop of your nose. 

You wanted to break his finger.

But that would be combative, and you would rather die than prove Potter right, so you opted to roll your eyes instead. 

“Did they even hang around to see if she fucking survived or did they just take off to avoid detention?” Sirius spat at Remus, not looking any calmer than he did when he arrived.

“They stayed.” You answered tiredly. “They took off afterwards, and not to avoid detention, but to avoid me.”

“And me.” Remus muttered quietly, looking dangerously close to going back out there to find them himself. 

“Did you threaten them?” Sirius asked severely, though you weren’t sure who exactly he had asked.

“Yes.” You and Lupin both answered exasperatedly. 

Sirius looked between the two of you before letting out a sigh. “Fine, but if I run into them, I’m hexing them into oblivion.”

“Not if I get to them first.” You growled.

Sirius’ face finally softened as he sat on the end of your bed and cautiously touched your ankle under the blankets.

“You sure you’re okay, Y/N?”

And you aren’t sure what did it. 

You weren’t sure if it was the softness you saw in Sirius that you were sure you could have never even imagined possible from a person, let alone someone related to the infamous Black family. Or if it was the eyebrows of Remus Lupin that were furrowed in concern as he dutifully watched his boyfriend finish plastering a bandage to your head, or if it was the unbelievable softness of James Potter’s touch – in complete contrast to his fast, rough, bouncing personality that you were usually subjected to.

But dammit, you felt a tear slip down your cheek.

You wiped it away quickly and nodded your head in yes.

You braced yourself for the teasing, the cooing, the dramatic displays of affection. But Sirius quickly stood and disappeared behind the curtains, James began pouring you a glass of water, and Remus reached into his bag for something.

Remus returned to you first, breaking off a square of chocolate for you. “It’ll help.”

You were too embarrassed to argue and took it, popping it into your mouth dutifully. 

“Here.” Sirius said as he appeared back at your bedside, handing you a vial. 

“What is it?” You asked, your voice taut with emotion.

Sirius’ eyes softened again as he offered you a sad smile. “Calming draught. You can’t have any more pain potion, but this might make you feel better.”

“And if not, maybe you can convince Moony to share more of his chocolate.” James commented with a soft smile.

You grimaced at the taste of the potion and chased it with the water James had poured for you.

“Thank you.” You admitted quietly, shame colouring your tone as you looked to your lap.

“None of that.” Remus said as he handed you another piece of chocolate.

You took it skeptically. “Why do they call you Moony?”

No one said anything for a moment, but you could tell that neither James nor Sirius were moving a muscle as they watched Remus who in turn watched you.

“Because of my lycanthropy.” He said plainly.

You looked at the various scars before you started to laugh. Sirius’ face drained of all colour while James visibly tensed.

“Of course you are. Remus Lupin. Named after a man raised by wolves and the lupus, or wolf constellation. Oh gods, it was predestined, clearly.”

“Are...are you laughing at me right now?” Remus asked incredulously.

“It’s a little funny...no?” You asked back.

He looked as if he were torn between laughing and crying. “I pour my heart out to you – my deepest darkest secret, and you laugh at me?” He asked again, some amusement colouring his features.

“I told you, I’m an arse.” You said with a shrug of your shoulders.

“Does it bother you?” Sirius asked cautiously from the end of your bed, face appearing impassive for all intents and purposes. 

“I don’t see why it should, it’s none of my business.”

“It could be.” Remus input.

“You don’t want me. I’m no good, Lupin.” You stressed, looking back down at your hands.

“Neither am I.” Sirius agreed.

“Me neither.” Remus added.

“I’m n-” James started.

“So what if the only one of us worthy of love and affection here is James?” Sirius said, cutting James off. “It’s not going to stop me from cherishing what I can get - deserved or not.”

You groaned and threw your head back onto the pillow, cringing at the effect the fast movement had on you and the pain that the movement elicited in your neck.

“Okay, what about this.” James conciliated. “You don’t have to agree to be with us, just give us a chance? The time of day? One Hogsmeade trip to let us fawn over you.”

You looked up at his deep brown eyes that felt so warm you wanted to make a home in them. Sirius, in all his bravado, looked pained as he waited for an answer, and Remus smiled encouragingly at you.

“Fine!” You acquiesced with a groan. “One Hogsmeade trip.”

Much to your chagrin, though not really at all, it ended up being way more than just one Hogsmeade trip.

Thank you to @unstablereader who gave us the library handholding prompt 🫶

[angelbarelywrites]

♡ mine | tommy hewitt x reader

♡ fandoms; texas chainsaw massacre remake/ the beginning

♡ characters; thomas hewitt

♡ reader; AFAB body description, second person POV

♡ cw; graphic sexual content, implied voyeurism, breeding kink, light daddy kink (just calling him daddy? wasn’t sure what to tag that )

♡notes; i feel the need to apologize for this one lmao. i didn’t intend for this to see the light of day but i felt we needed more smut around here and this was already sittin in my personal folder

i don’t know that I’ve ever posted detailed smut anywhere before? so lmk how i did, i still haven’t even asked to get my friend to beta read so I’m sure There’s Issues.

•┈••✦ ❤ ✦••┈•

“Oh fuck, baby,” You sighed softly, letting your head roll to the side as you ground on Thomas’ thigh - the mountain of a man pushing his leg up with a huff. Luda-Mae, Monty, and Hoyt had taken a rare trip to their cousins’ place upstate, and left Thomas and yourself in a…sticky situation.

It had already become a war of attrition with you living there, each of you testing the other’s boundaries as you tried desperately not to cross the line. Thomas was allegedly a good, Bible-following boy- and you a shy little virgin . But god, something about Thomas just made you crazy. You needed him- and you’d gotten so shameless that you’d let him do just about anything to you.

That’s what landed you there, trying to entice Thomas and only ending up a squeaky mess as you rode his thigh. He was steadfast for a man years pent up- seeming to find great pleasure in making you unravel without cracking himself. Of course, you had no idea of the hours he spent fucking into his own hand as he imagined you around him, stealing your panties from the laundry bin and palming himself to the sight of you splayed out sunbathing in the yard. Even now you seemed too hazy to notice his cock straining against his trousers, or his fingers dug into the couch to prevent himself from touching your body. The way he trembled as he felt you making a mess on him, the only thing between your slick cunt and his leg your already soaked lacy panties…

His laser focus was broken by something entirely unexpected. You whimpered and hid your face against his chest, mumbling “Daddy- please—“

He wasn’t sure if it was the phrase,the tone, or both that finally broke his resolve- but either way he pinned you against the floral sofa forcefully, snarling like an animal.

“T-tommy- what- I’m sorry—?” You squeaked, seeming utterly confused. Did you even know what you’d said to him?

He growled and quickly signed ‘Again’. You blinked, perplexed look quickly replaced with embarrassment. You whined and tried to hide your face but he snarled again and made you look at him. ‘Again. Now.’

“…daddy. Please. Please I need you. Please—“ You begged, panting weakly as you writhed uncomfortably and unsated.

He rutted against you quickly, moving and kissing your neck sloppily. “Mine,” He rasped quietly, a rare sound even for his partner “Mine. Mine. Mine.”

“Oh my god Tommy- please- I need you to give it to me- I wanna feel you inside-“

He made quick work of his belt, pushing your dress up carelessly and making just as quick a job out of ripping your undies clean apart.

You yelped but replaced the complaint with a blissed out, shuddering whine as he finally rubbed against your bare pussy. “Oh fuck…please- put it in-“

He grunted and pushed your legs back, leaning in to rest his forehead against yours as you felt his weight pressed against you. Even in this moment, he tried his damndest to be gentle, looking your face over for the slightest bit of fear or apprehension. “Tommy, please. Fuck me.” You whimpered out softly.

He pushed in carefully , having to stop only halfway in as you squeezed around him. He was huge, long and girthy and a painful stretch even with you relaxed. He gave a grunt and nuzzled you, hips twitching as he reached between you. Clumsily, roughly, he found your clit and slowly rubbed, purring in approval as you mewled out his name.

He was able to jerk his hips and finally bottomed out with a low groan, face buried in your neck. He held still, taking a ragged breath to try to regain control- but you didn’t want control. You needed him to lose it completely.

“Daddy, please. I want you to fuck a baby into me,” You murmured, letting a desperate whine leak into your voice. It was a bit of a long shot- but he was so possessive. Why wouldn’t he want to breed you?

Thomas’ eyes darkened at the thought and he gave a low noise you could barely classify as he pulled nearly all the way out and snapped his hips, setting a brutal pace.

“Oh god-“ You yelped, bracing yourself on his huge arms as he pounded into you, the entire couch creaking and slamming into the wall at the force. You lost any coherence you had as he again teased your clit, mind blank. You got exactly what you wanted, and it was too much in the best way possible.

You came first- you didn’t know if it was because of his stamina or because even in a frenzy he still needed you to feel just as good. You were almost crying as he continued, overwhelmed and overstimulated - and wrapping your legs around his waist to make sure he didn’t stop for a moment. “Baby please- inside- I want you to finish inside-“ You mewled out in your haze- but damn if you didn’t mean it.

That was all it took, unsurprisingly, for him to thrust one last time and fill you with a snarl. He peppered your face in soft kisses, giving a heaving sigh as he relaxed. You tried to move but he growled, keeping himself firmly inside of you. You blushed a bit as you saw his intense expression “You ah…you really liked when I asked you to knock me up, huh?”

He nodded, huffing at you.

“…you know we have all night to try again, yeah?”

He grunted and finally relented, pulling out and smirking at the sight of his seed dripping down your thighs.

“Tommy baby? I love you.” You sighed sleepily

He looked up quickly and seemed shocked. Man of few words that he ways- and never having dreamed he’d need to learn the sign, he took your hand and pressed it against his chest. Right above the heart. In your mind, there was no better way he could have said it; he loved you too.

[thinkinonsense]

i just listened to sabrina's new album and oh my god the song slim pickins is such a song that was written from daydreaming about lumberjack!logan, oh and the recent fic that you reblogged was just so yummy and perfect for that song especially the lyrics "a boy who's jacked and nice" like god having to settle down for less because nobody can be him 😭😭😭 need him expeditiously im afraid

it's slim pickins

lumberjack!logan howlett x fem!reader

cw: yearning!! fluff, tiny nsfw conversation (nothing graphic)

a/n: this request couldn't have come in at a better time because i'm seeing sabrina on opening night of her tour tomorrow night!! <3

masterlist

"am i just destined to be alone forever?"

another friday night in the hole in the wall bar outside of town. another date gone horribly wrong. your question hangs heavy in the air as you gossip to your best friend who's bartending tonight.

"you keep picking douche bags." she answers without missing a beat.

"well, that's fuckin' rude." you slur slightly, sipping on your third fruity drink tonight.

"well, it's fuckin' true." she smiles, looking over your shoulder at a group of men that walked in. "why don't you go talk to one of them? they look hot."

you spin around in your stool to see a group of lumberjack workers. these were the men that you worked with, you can't flirt with them.

"i work with those guys!" you hiss.

"sooo...?" she smirks.

both of you quickly end the conversation with the five guys approach the bar. the last thing you needed was for these guys to see the desperate and pathetic look on your face. quickly, you rummage through your purse for some cash to put down.

"what are you doing here, doll face?" a familiar voice asks.

you look up and see the most handsome of the men, in front of you; logan. twice your size, buff, toned, tan... god, you had such a crush on him. never in a million years would you go after him though, he's too good to want a girl like you. you were just a friend. he make small talk with you, laughed at your jokes, calls you little nicknames, and refills the coffee pot for you but thats what friends do, right?

"oh... um, i'm just-"

"she's been sitting here moaning and bitching to me all night about her horrible date." your best friend smiles then introduces herself to logan with a handshake.

"thanks asshole." you mumble under your breath at her, making logan chuckle.

"tough night?" he asks, looking down at you in a way that makes heat rises up your face.

"kinda, but i'll save you all the gory details." you admit, sliding off the tall stool a little ungracefully. "have a good night, logan."

"wait, doll face." he says, grabbing your arm to balance you. "wanna talk about it? i'm sure your friend here is busy."

the alcohol let him take you to one of the booths. all the other men noticed logan and you sitting together, definitely making mental notes to tease you both on monday.

"so, what's on your mind?" logan asks, taking a swig of his beer.

"it's nothing really..." your mouth says one thing but your phone says another; practically buzzing off the table.

"you sure?" he raises a brow.

"uh... yeah?" you sound confused as you peak at the notification. an annoyed groan falls from your lips as you slam the phone back down and sink into the booth. "why? why? why?"

"why what?" he squints.

"be honest, do i have dumbass written on my forehead?" you sigh, hazily looking over at logan. the question threw him off guard; unsure if you're joking or not.

"no." he answers.

" well, i sure feel like one. every guy i've gone out with is either the most obnoxious asshole i've ever met who's still hung up on his ex or he's absolutely perfect but he's just not ready for a commitment right now? what the fuck does that even mean?"

all of your drunk rambling surprised logan. at work, he's only seen your shy personality as you scribble down numbers and log them into spreadsheets. this was a completely different side of you.

"i know what you're thinking, 'why not just try dating a woman?'. well, i fucking would if this town wasn't stuck in the 50's, except the men aren't going to war in order to get away from you, instead they just run back in between their ex's thighs and pull that 'it's not you, it's me' bullshit."

it was getting harder for logan not to crack at your silly yet, adorable expressions as you rant.

"and the worst part is that they can't even get a woman to orgasm." you say a little quieter. logan stores that quote in his pocket for another time. "a few weeks ago, i literally had a man in my bed who didn't know the difference between their, there, and they're! i don't know who's stupider, him for not knowing or me for letting him give me the worst head in my life."

if you were even a little sober, this would be mortifying. sitting in front of your work crush and spilling pathetic details of your love life to him. if you were even a little sober, you would have notice his eyes turn dark and lustful under the dim bar lighting. logan couldn’t fathom that you were having trouble in your love life.

"sounds like it's slim pickins out there."

"you have no idea." you sigh.

"if it makes you feel any better, i don't think that you're stupid."

"you're just saying that to be polite. trust me, everyone thinks i'm an idiot for taking these guys back every time. im just like my mom, my sisters, my friends, and every other girl i know. we make up excuses for their shitty behavior because we are afraid to be alone."

logan could see tears forming in your waterline, about to roll down your cheek. it hurt him to see you so heartbroken over these losers. everyday at work, you came in like a ray of fucking sunshine. you didn't deserve to be treated like this.

"it's not your fault that those asshole don't know how to treat a woman." he sighs, leaning forward in an attempt to comfort you.

"i know, i know..." your voice was cracking and you didn't want logan to see you so vulnerable. suddenly, you rise from the booth. "thanks for listening, logan."

"where do you think you're going, doll face?" he asks, following you out the door.

"should head home." you mumble, pulling up the number of a car service about twenty minutes out.

"let me give you a ride home." he offers. "you've been drinking too much."

it's late, you're exhausted and heartbroken so, you let him help you into his truck. it's kinda old but full of character, like logan.

"what's going on in that pretty head of yours?" logan asks, breaking the silence in the car. "still sad?"

you shrug. "think i'm just going to become a nun."

he tried, he really did, but he had to laugh.

"sweetheart, there's no need to become a nun."

"well, i'm never going to find the man i'm looking for so, might as well join the sisterhood."

"what are you looking for in this dream man?"

logan's question has your eyes wondering over to where his left hand sets on the wheel and his right on thigh. the images of what his hands could do flood your fuzzy mind.

"j-just a good guy who's um, who's kind, jacked... respectful, good with his hands...."

it was shameless, your staring that is. logan worried you might get drool on the car seat, not that he would mind.

"hm... those seem like simple requirements there."

"apparently not." you giggle. "it's fine, though. i'm sure the nuns will be friendly."

"still thinking about joining the 'sisterhood'?" he asks, pulling up to your drive way.

"maybe... i'll give it twenty-four hours and if he doesn't come knocking on my door, i'll just buy a chasity belt and go off the grid with the nuns." your smile warmed his cold bitter heart. "thanks for the ride, lo. i'll see you monday."

as logan watches you fumble with your keys and make your way inside, he fights an internal battle over his feelings. he has had a crush on you since the day the two of you first met. by the end of the week, you had baked him some cupcakes, babbling about how you do this for all the new employees, which was far from the truth he later learned.

you captured his heart. even when he tried to burry his feelings for you, when logan looked at you, his world stood still for a moment. he looked forward to all your silly jokes in the break room or the ridiculous gossip you would tell him when he lingered outside of your office door. he couldn't let you slip away into the arms of another asshole who didn't deserve you.

before logan could comprehend what he was doing, his feet lead him up to your door, knocking twice. the wooden door opened and he knew he made the right decision.

there you were in your light blue and grey plaid pajamas with a cupcake in your hand and vanilla frosting on your bottom lip. logan had never seen you look prettier.

"hey? did i leave something in the–"

in the blink of an eye, logan’s hands reach up to caress your jaw, leaning in until his mouth engulfs yours. the taste of vanilla and alcohol surrounded both of you. forgetting the cupcake in your hand, dropping it to reach up and pull logan closer. kissing him was like drinking a glass of wine after a long day. no more stress or anxiety over anyone else’s bullshit. the two of you gasp against each others lips, catching your breath.

“i could be the good guy, you know?” logan pants, now forever addicted to your taste. “i could be the good guy for you.”

your heart fluttered as you stared up at his pretty hazel eyes, twirling a piece of his hair around your finger. this had to be a very realistic dream, thats the only answer to this.

“you would do that for me, logan?” your delicate voice could bring him to his knees, worshiping the ground you walk on.

“i would do anything for you, honey.” he whispers, leaning back in to kiss you again. maybe your dream guy wasn't as far away as you thought?