#the most pain I have ever been forced to endure

[stump-salsa]

Thinking back to 2021 when I had to sit in school fists clenched eyes watering teeth grinding as I listened to everyone quote invader zim right in front of me and I couldn’t say anything because they only knew the quotes from tiktok.

[swordgrace]

𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐃 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐍𝐎𝐖.

⠀ཾ༵ 𑁍┆ cregan stark x fem!healer!reader.

SYNOPSIS: serving as a healer on the frontlines of a war that is tearing the realm apart, you come to tend the wounds of the warden of the north. inspired by robb & talisa’s relationship.

anonymous request.

{ FORMAT: one-shot — requested by anonymous.

{ WORD COUNT: 8.2K.

{ WARNINGS: SMUT (mdni), fic is inspired by robb & talisa’s relationship, description of wounds/injuries, mentions of violence & war, canon-typical misogyny (cregan goes to the northern school of feminism), heavy mutual pining, both cregan and reader have experience, p in v sex, unprotected sex, all stark men have a breeding kink, size kink (cregan is much taller/bigger than reader), fingering (fem!rec), biting, breast play, hair-pulling, rain-soaked cregan, bed/cot breaking, lotus position, riding/cowgirl, gentle-ish sex, soft ending + aftercare

{ AUTHOR’S NOTE: Back with another Cregan fic! I absolutely love writing for him & this request was so perfect. This is taking place during the wars (HOTD S3). Thank you guys so much for your continued support and kindness, it means a ton to me! I hope you all enjoy! ❤️

𝐖𝐚𝐫 𝐡𝐚𝐝𝐧’𝐭 𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐡𝐢𝐦 — 𝐧𝐞𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐝𝐢𝐝 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡.

Yet, as he lay in his tent, feeling the bitter sting of what pain could bring, face-to-face with carnage, he felt some semblance of fear. It was the only time that a man could ever be brave, in the face of such strife. The Riverlands were occupied by Ser Criston Cole for some time, and in the name of the true Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen, Cregan Stark aimed to reclaim it.

The road to the Riverlands had been a lengthy one, hard on his force of Winter Wolves, greybeards that itched for combat. They were met with resistance at every turn after crossing the Twins, yet they endured, still a force of nearly two-thousand men.

More were on their way from the North, bannermen of all ilk and family called to-arms at Winterfell, to ride North and join his forces in the Riverlands. Despite his youthful age of one-and-twenty, Cregan was a fierce and proficient fighter, better than a great deal of the men under his command.

Struck by a stray arrow and slashed with a blade, he bared his injuries incredibly well — better than most. Cregan’s stalwart, hardened exterior served him well, never giving way to the pain he felt beneath. The arrow had gone clean through, thankfully. Much of his recovery was simply bandages and time.

He chafed at the notion of being bound to his tent for days on-end — he wanted to be with his men, helming any attacks, leading them to victory. He was useless here, abdomen wrapped in soiled bandages, laid-up and no good to anyone.

The healers who passed through all possessed older, wrinkled faces — men who had seen countless wars, perhaps thrice his age, acclaimed in talent and skill with the art of mending wounds and sewing bone together.

Imagine Cregan’s bewilderment when a young woman entered his tent one dismal morning.

You couldn’t have been much younger than him, clad in a tattered, coarse dress with a hem steeped in mud, white apron sullied with countless stains. Much of the cruor on your garments wasn’t your own, the blood of Stark men, men from White Harbor.

“Good morrow, Lord Stark.” The songbird’s lull of your voice had made him unusually calm, as if able to quell the growing tide of irritation he’d felt with his inaction. You brought with you a basket of supplies, tools of the trade that you had to scrounge around to get.

Men never looked upon a woman-healer with interest or a desire to teach — much of what you knew was from your own mother, or things you’d observed and taught yourself from piles of books at your disposal. Though, you found yourself excelling within your area of expertise.

Perplexed, Cregan watched you hawkishly, sluggishly sitting up from his bed of furs, a low grunt escaping him in the process. “My Lady,” He greeted with a nod of his head, muscles aching and sore from the clashes and skirmishes, coupled with time spent on the road. “You are a new face.”

Part of you wondered if he would take offense, given that you were a lady, but you decided not to address it. “I certainly hope that it isn’t a disappointment,” You mused, placing your supplies down at his bedside. “Other hands were needed elsewhere.”

He wasn’t disappointed in the slightest.

Cregan found you to be breathtakingly beautiful — it took one stolen glance for him to discern that. Your very presence seemed to flourish with warmth and amiability. It was a welcome change from the old men who poked and prodded at him, and he wouldn’t complain about being in the presence of someone his own age.

With a huff, he shook his head, wisps of chestnut tresses framing his visage. “Not at all,” He murmured, studying you with a thinly-veiled intrigue. “A welcome change.” Cregan replied, catching your amiable smile, as warm and as bright as the first inkling of springtime.

You had seen Cregan only in-passing, brief moments where you spotted the young Lord atop his dark steed, or stomping through muddied encampments alongside his soldiers. Now, up-close, you realized how young he really looked, with a youthful, babyish visage that did not match his stony expression or wisened, gray eyes.

“You say that now, but you’ll have to get used to me first, my Lord.” You mused, reaching for the first wrap of his soiled bandages. It was easier to make small-talk in the midst of situations like these — it often eased your nerves, gave you something else to think about.

Cregan moved his arms just enough, allowing you to unravel the crimson-crusted bandages. There was some momentary relief, without the scratching and irritation of coarse linen, wounds exposed to the lick of fresh air.

A steady exhale escaped him, and he watched as you discarded the bandages, fetching more from your basket, coupled with some strange poultice in a jar. He did not recall his former caretakers ever giving him something like that, and he refused Milk of the Poppy.

“How long have you had an interest in this?” Cregan inquired, genuinely interested in what led you down such a path. It wasn’t commonplace for a woman of your station, not in the slightest. He would never discourage it, but he was itching to know.

As you wrung out a cloth of hot water, you brought it to his left shoulder, thick and burly with muscle, gingerly swiping over the wound to clean it. “Many years,” You hummed, brows furrowing together in concentration. “My father didn’t like it, but I learned what I could from others.”

Cregan was the stoic sort, an indomitable mountain of a man who appeared so rugged and indifferent, yet he possessed a gentle hand and heart when away from wandering eyes. He listened attentively, soothed by the tenderness in your touch.

Becoming a Maester was something you’d desired in your youth, yet the Citadel never allowed for women to study and attain the position. You were left to your own devices, a life of healing and service to those who needed it most, and you were content with that. You would forge your own Maester’s Chain.

You then pressed the cloth against the still-swollen gash from the sword across his abdomen, the flesh around it somewhat angry and reddened. “You took quite a beating. I have no desire to see who was on the other end of your blade.”

A soft huff escaped him as he rolled his shoulders, dwarfing you completely in size and stature. Even for a man of his youth, he seemed imposing, larger than plenty of young men his age. “Best not to dwell on it,” He grunted, stormy hues following you wherever you went. “You are not a Northerner.”

The lack of a Northern accent gave it away, but you also spoke properly and eloquently, as if you had been raised somewhere with plenty of civility. “The Stormlands — I am from Bronzegate.” You replied, which happened to earn you a very threadbare smile from Lord Stark.

“A Southerner, then,” A twinge of amusement seemed interwoven with his gruff, husky timbre, a voice that you were rather charmed by. He was mesmerizing to listen to, Northern dialect and deeper voice marked by a stalwart calm. “What are you doing here?”

As you cleaned away the sluggish ooze of cruor, you ensured that his wounds were free of dirt or dried blood, inspecting them for infection. “Finding my way in the world,” You confessed, reaching for the jar of herbal poultice, a salve that you had made yourself. “As we all are.”

Cregan could respect your honesty and earnestness in knowing that you didn’t know what you were doing with your life — sometimes, he didn’t know, either. It was easy to forget oneself when tasked with the charge of leadership, easy to allow it to become a burden instead of a challenge.

Dipping your fingertips into the salve, you gently spread it across the wound on his shoulder, the strange concoction icy against his hot flesh. “What is that?” He questioned, the unusual smell of it stinging his nostrils. Whatever it was, it felt incredible.

“A salve that I made,” You chimed, clicking your tongue as you concentrated on spreading it thin, layering it across his skin. “It’s not something conventional. I exchanged certain herbs for others, and added something of my own. It takes the sting away, numbs the flesh around the wound.”

It did take the sting away, as you said, and soothed his wound at the same time. Cregan admired your ingenuity, charmed and ensnared by you. He hadn’t expected to enjoy your company as much as he was, which was always enough to draw some concern.

A union formed out of wedlock was a dangerous one, but these were perilous times, in the midst of war. He was bound to no one — he had no one. Gray hues silently appraised you, and whenever you got close enough, he could feel your sweet breath upon his flesh, smell the faint aroma of wildflowers and a dab of honey.

“If you are willing, I’d like to have your ingredients. It would be worthwhile for the rest of the healers to craft it, too. Do not waste it all on me.” Cregan rumbled, a soft sigh of relief escaping him as you spread the poultice all along the gash across his abdomen.

The instantaneous relief he felt made him relax, the tension unfurling within his shoulders. Once the salve began to dry just slightly, you took to bandaging him again, nearly chest-to-chest with him when you wrapped the linen around his torso.

Cregan’s jaw tensed, muscles tightening whenever you pressed closer, even if the action was a necessity. You felt the onslaught of warmth creep into your features, goosebumps cascading down your spine with the intensity of his gaze.

You happened to meet his smoldering stare for just a moment, butterflies swelling within the pit of your stomach, followed by a rush of heat that seeped into your very bones. “I will provide you with the list tomorrow.” You murmured, finishing wrapping up his wound.

The arrow puncture on his shoulder was something that you covered in a few layers of sturdier medicinal cloth, before wrapping it once to keep it stable. You had backed away slightly, the close proximity having made your nerves spark to life.

It was a warmth and intimacy that you hadn’t touched before, unfamiliar yet wild with curiosity. Perhaps you had a tryst with a young man back in Bronzegate, but never to this degree of intensity. Cregan gazed at you as if you were the only one to exist.

“I am finished here,” That was enough to shatter Cregan’s incendiary look, the heat dissipating from his gray hues. His visage resumed that stone-faced look, and he suddenly remembered himself and the bonds of propriety. “I will visit tomorrow with your list, if that’s all you need from me.”

He noticed how you straightened, posture somewhat rigid, fingertips stained in dried blood and cruor. You retrieved what supplies you had, placing them all back into your basket before you curtsied, as a Lady would before a Lord.

“You do not have to bow, my Lady,” Cregan assured, standing to his feet with a strenuous grunt. He was massive even when sitting before you, but seeing him upright and so close — Gods take you for the things you began to ponder and imagine. “I am grateful for your aid in these dour times.”

Cregan was as stubborn as an old mule, despite being so young. Rarely did he accept help from other people, preferring to do it all himself and be the guiding example, but this was something he was not practiced at.

“It is my duty, my Lord. It is a responsibility that I share for yourself, and for your soldiers. I pray that the Gods will usher you into a swift recovery, and victory.” That smile — Gods, you had a beautiful smile. It could melt even the hardiest of ice, bring exuberance and joy to those who had none. “I should take my leave.”

“Of course,” Cregan bowed his head, timbre gentle and akin to the roll of thunder before an encroaching thunderstorm. He retrieved his tunic from the foot of his bed, and before you could disappear from the tent, he cleared his throat. “What is your name, my Lady?”

You smiled, gaze dancing with a twinge of mischief and amusement as you chewed at the inside of your cheek. Lingering within the entryway of his tent, you took one, deliberate step backwards.

“I suppose you’ll have to learn that tomorrow.”

Sitting idly by while a war raged nearby had soured Cregan’s mood exponentially.

He had stared at the canvas canopy of his tent for so long that he began to lose count of the hours. It was only when his second-in-command harkened him to the war table, that he obeyed.

Green forces had stationed a battalion at The Trident, and the rest were attempting to seize Harrenhal from Daemon Targaryen and his Rivermen. Cregan intended on cutting off the battalion, ripping them out root and stem, effectively carving away a portion of Cole’s forces.

War was an ugly thing — killing a man never pleased him as it did some, but it was an unfortunate necessity. Ensuring that Rhaenyra Targaryen took her place upon the Iron Throne was paramount, an oath he forged with her son, Jacaerys Velaryon.

Cregan covered his wounds with his tunic and a fur cloak, knowing that the weight of armor would only hinder his recovery, and he needed to be prepared for what was to come. He spoke strategy with Lord Roderick Dustin of Barrowton, before taking his leave.

You happened to occupy his thoughts — a girl from Bronzegate, with a rosy, heartening smile and a demure nature, tending to his wounded men. Not a moment passed from last eve to now, an afternoon marked by grim, gray storm clouds, that he hadn’t thought of you.

It was improper, perhaps, to think so fondly of a young maiden out of wedlock, one he barely knew, but he couldn’t help himself. He was drawn to you — and he had a feeling that you felt the same, a mutual sentiment.

The massive tent erected for those wounded in battle was marked by an ivory canvas and the hurried pace of healers floating in and out. Cregan knew where to find you, and he had learned of your name from several of his bannermen.

He spotted you outside, washing your hands free of crimson, the ends of your sleeves just as tattered and wrought with blood that didn’t belong to you. Your tresses were pulled into a braid to avoid interference with your work, brow creased in concentration.

“My Lady.” He greeted you with that familiar timbre, husky and gallant. There was a warmth that radiated from him, both in his tone and physically, that enveloped you whenever you were in his presence. He was a man of few words, but you made up for it.

Surprise settled into your features as you regarded him with mild bewilderment. You weren’t expecting him to seek you out. “My Lord,” You exhaled, bowing your head in reverence as you wiped the blood from your hands with a rag. “What are you doing out of bed?”

Cregan enjoyed your concern, staving off a threadbare smile before he shrugged, wisps of chestnut tresses fluttering with the breeze. The air smelled of rain, an approaching deluge. “You never said that I had to stay.” He stated, looking towards your hands.

A huff of laughter escaped you, hands mostly free of any blood, your knuckles bruised and bearing some scrapes. “Are you feeling well enough?” You asked, head canting to one side. There was a quell in the battle for now, allowing you time to recuperate.

“I have been for some time,” Cregan sighed, brows furrowing together. “Old men wished for me to stay abed, and I heeded them, until now.” Two wounds wouldn’t stop him — there was something powerful about him, a determination to continue even in the face of agony or strife.

You couldn’t help but smile in spite of his stubbornness — you wondered how his men dealt with him. Many soldiers and bannermen that you had conversed with praised Cregan, with nothing but honorable things to say about him. He was regarded as stoical and resigned, patient and pragmatic.

“Let me have a look. It’s the least that I can do, considering you made the trek here.” You motioned for him to follow you, sweeping the canvas aside as you beckoned him into the wounded tent. There were scores of men in worse states than he — some of them brushing close to death.

Cregan stepped behind you like a massive wall of stone, a mountain of a man, his shadow casting itself over you. Some of the healers seemed surprised with his coming here, a handful being familiar faces that had tended to him when he was first wounded.

The space in which you operated was a great deal smaller, yet tidy and orderly. He sat down with a grunt atop the cot you gestured to, shrugging off his fur cloak. Part of him felt strange for being here, considering the grievous state of some of the men.

A roll of parchment lay atop your footlocker, a lengthy list of ingredients used in your medicinal salve, the one that Cregan had requested yesterday. He watched you scurry about, fetching fresh bandages and your mysterious poultice that seemed to do him a world of good.

Some of the healers looked upon you with thinly-veiled disdain and scrutiny, eyes of wizened men who believed themselves to be better than you. A woman doing such gruesome work wasn’t exactly proper.

“Your tunic,” You murmured, averting your gaze away from Cregan’s body as he removed the smoky-blue garment, revealing his herculean musculature. The more you studied Lord Stark, the more enamored you became — he was handsome and well-spoken. Stubborn, perhaps, but most Northerners were. “Thank you.”

Cregan thoroughly enjoyed watching you work — it was a captivating thing to behold, the way you navigated a wound with such care and precision. Your hands were disarmingly gentle as you shifted the linen wrappings away, exposing his shoulder to the brisk afternoon air.

The pain had certainly diminished, moreso in his shoulder than his abdomen. In usual silence, Cregan studied you closely, storm-colored hues appraising you, committing every detail to memory. There was something breathtaking about you, a magnetizing pull that drew him in, kept him enthralled.

He reveled in the sensation of your fingertips tracing around his wound, feather-light and delicate, leaving behind a trail of fire in your wake. “It’s healed wonderfully,” You murmured, brows furrowing together as you applied a dab of honey, a natural antiseptic. You placed the bandage back over it. “How does it feel?”

“Acceptable.” He grunted, though his tone seemed somewhat warped with amusement. Your lips twitched into a brief frown, as if he wasn’t telling the whole truth. “I am well enough. You needn’t worry, my Lady.” Cregan assured, resting his thick forearms atop his thighs.

A soft sigh left you as you circled around him, coming to stand before him with a tender expression. Your countenance still seemed furrowed with concern, but he neglected to comment on it.

Peeling away the linen bandages that clung to his abdomen, the angry-red swelling had nearly dissipated, and the gash remained, still healing. “The salve seems to have helped,” You fought hard to ignore the closeness between yourself and Cregan, mere breaths apart. “The swelling has gone down.”

The scent of your warm breath fanned across his visage, basking him in your saccharine smell. Even if your garments were well-worn and speckled in gore, he could still detect the aroma of wildflowers on you.

“You have my gratitude, my Lady.” Cregan uttered, a valiant attempt to relieve some of the lingering tension. It was something he rarely, if ever, experienced with a woman — especially one such as yourself.

“You know my name already, Lord Stark. You do not have to continue to refer to me as a Lady,” A twinkle of amusement lingered within your eyes, knowing that his bannermen had shared your name with him. “I am not of noble birth, I’m afraid.”

Cregan huffed, and he realized that you were clever. The wit and fiery spirit leapt out from you on occasion, and this happened to be one of them. “Honor and good pleasantries demand that I continue to refer to you as a Lady.” He replied, tender and deep, like the shaking of a mountain.

With an amiable smile, you changed the bandages around Cregan’s torso, applying your salve before discarding the old ones. “Don’t,” You chimed, tone softening to the lull of a songbird. “Call me by my name.” You stood, wiping your hands against a swath of clean cloth.

A low, rumbling ‘hm’ escaped the man, whose chestnut brows furrowed together as he ogled you — shamelessly, this time. There was a fond playfulness laced within your banter, something that Cregan wasn’t entirely accustomed to. “Cregan.” He insisted, establishing a firm foundation for your blossoming relationship.

“Cregan.” You repeated, his name sounding sickeningly sweet from your Southern tongue. The young Lord moved to tug his tunic back on over his hulking frame, musculature working in such wondrous ways. It was difficult to tame your wandering eye, heat crawling along your spine.

Ripping yourself from your trance, you busied yourself with something else. “The salve ingredients that you requested, I made a list.” You stepped towards the footlocker, retrieving the scroll of parchment as you offered it to him. “I hope that it will do some good.”

After having placed his thick cloak over his shoulders, Cregan grunted, the vibration spreading throughout his chest as he accepted the list. “This is noble of you,” He murmured, turning it over within his roughened hand. “The men here owe you their gratitude — as do I.”

Dismissive of his praise, you remained humble, politely curtsying before Lord Stark. “It is my duty, that is all. I will continue on for as long as I am able.” You didn’t like being thanked for healing — it was a passion that you chased after, a job that brought you joy.

“If there is anything that I can do for you as Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, name it — it will be done.” Cregan nodded, countenance bristling with a burning affection, one that wasn’t concealed in the slightest. Despite his stalwart demeanor, he made his fondness of you known.

A delicate hum escaped you, but nothing of importance came to mind. You didn’t want to make any demands of him, especially given the circumstances — he had little time to cater to a healer when war loomed overhead.

“If you insist, I would ask for a suitable stationary set,” Simplistic and curious, something uncommonly asked for. Writing was something you had no part in, but illustrations — that was a different story. “Do not toil over it, my Lo — Cregan. Your generosity is kind enough.”

Cregan nodded, taking it into consideration. “I will not toil over it,” He replied, peering over his shoulder toward a pack of healers. There were plenty of wounded men that required your attention more than he. “Consider it done. I will leave you to your work.”

You bowed again out of common courtesy, hands folded together as you offered Cregan another warm smile. “Of course. Should your recovery change course, please do not hesitate to return. I wish you good fortune in the battles to come.”

“Until next we meet.”

Bellflower flourished in moss-laden groves around the forks of the Trident, petals ranging from ivory to shades of cerulean and a light lilac. It grew in clutches, its blooms spherical and pleasing to the eye. Despite the deluge plaguing the Winter Wolves at every step, it seemed to slow Cole’s army down exponentially, too.

As dusk fell in a dark, cloudy gloom across the encampment, Cregan carried a bound bundle of bellflower in his hands, to be given to one person in particular.

It had only been two days since your last meeting in the healer’s tent, his wounds on the mend, no longer weighed down with bandages. The stationary you requested had been brought to your tent sometime the next day, after you had addressed it with Cregan.

It was intended to be a gesture of gratitude, something that he knew you would find favor in, but it was easily passable as a rite of courtship. The constant prodding of a marriage proposal was always at the fringes of Cregan’s mind — it was his duty to marry, and he had prolonged the process as much as he could.

With war tearing the realm apart, there was little time to consider a marriage — but a relationship, perhaps a budding bond, that was something he could make time for. Even in his duties as the Warden of the North, a champion for Queen Rhaenyra, there would be a lull, a calm in the storm.

Your tent wasn’t a far trek from the healer’s tent, smaller and humble compared to his own. It didn’t seem fair, given your importance and what you had contributed to their cause, but he didn’t dwell on it — not now, anyway.

To see the ferocious, stoic Cregan Stark carrying a bundle of flowers that seemed minuscule within his grasp was a most peculiar sight. His fur trappings and leather-and-chainmail bore the motif of the Direwolf, the sigil of House Stark, making him seem larger than he already was. His ancestral longsword, Ice, remained slung across his broad shoulders.

The glitter of candlelight cut through the dismal haze of rainfall around him, its orange glow pooling from your tent, closed-off for privacy. Through the sliver of canvas, Cregan could see you, hunched over your chair, moving a quill across parchment. You wore your hair down this time, visage framed by wisps of your tresses, brow creased in concentration.

Cregan stepped forward, announcing his presence with a noisy clearing of his throat. “My Lady,” He rumbled, standing just outside of your tent, chestnut tresses sticking to his skull from the deluge. “If I might have a moment of your time.”

Your surprise was palpable as you flung open your tent, with Cregan Stark standing before you, soaked to the bone and entirely unphased. Your gaze fell to the bouquet of bellflowers in his hand, features becoming hot almost immediately.

“Cregan,” You stepped aside to usher him in, getting him out of the storm. “I apologize if you attempted to summon me, I’ve been preoccupied.” Preoccupied with the wrong things, perhaps, but you felt horrible that he had walked all this way in a torrential downpour.

“An apology isn’t necessary,” Cregan assured, so tall and mountainous that he seemed to consume much of the space in your tent, scalp scraping the canvas above. “I merely wanted to extend my gratitude, for your diligence and steadfastness in my recovery.” He murmured.

Your lodgings were quite humble, your bed nothing more than a cot lined in fur blankets, pillows stuffed with linens to make it bearable. The rickety wooden chairs were ones you’d borrowed — it served as a place to draw, a series of candles sitting along your footlocker. The ground below was covered in layers of canvas and fur — perhaps more comfortable than the cot itself.

You offered him a polite smile, though the air seemed charged with more than just friendliness. “You’ve already extended your gratitude, my Lord. You needn’t do it again,” You replied, heart thrumming within your chest. “You are soaked to the bone. Why don’t you warm yourself?”

Cregan was plenty warm, his own metaphorical sun, blood running exceptionally hot — especially this evening. “There is no need,” He rumbled, jaw somewhat tense as he extended the bouquet of bellflowers to you, bound together with a thick cord. “Blooming along the Trident. I thought of you.”

Thought of you — did he do that often?

Gods, did you think of him — you thought of him at each waking moment, torturing yourself over him, the Lord of Winterfell. There were nights where you fantasized about him in such sinful ways that it left you gasping for air. It made your belly stir with butterflies, heat simmering across your flesh.

“These are beautiful,” Touched by such a simple gesture, you accepted the bouquet from him, moving to place it inside of a tall flask that once held one of your salves. Its mauve petals added a flair of color. “Thank you, Cregan.” Your voice was soft, barely above a whisper.

Every man in this dreadful encampment paled in comparison to Cregan Stark, who gazed down at you with such intensity that you feared you would melt away. Your breath hitched within your throat when he stepped closer — involuntary or not, you sorely yearned for the closeness.

Droplets of water rolled from his temples, chestnut tresses sticking to his forehead, garb damp from the rain. He smelled of the woodlands — pine and petrichor, intermingled with that of a natural musk. Those gray hues of his raked over you, drinking you in with a thinly-veiled rapture.

“There are other ways to express your gratitude.”

Your mouth moved before your mind could tell you to cease — speaking to your Lord in such an uncouth manner was grounds for trouble. You hadn’t fully realized the salacious implications of your statement until it sank in, and you became nervous. Before you could apologize, Cregan stopped you.

“Why do you think I came all this way, my Lady?” He rumbled, lifting his hand to cup your face, palm nearly engulfing half of your visage. Gods, you were beautiful — nothing short of perfection in his eyes. The bulk of his arm hesitantly reached out to circle around you, drawing you closer into his embrace.

That wasn’t the only reason — Cregan’s fondness of you had manifested into something uncontrollable, and you shared the same sentiment. Your feelings were now just as raging as his own, like a wildfire spreading across a forest, unchecked and unchallenged.

“Aren’t you cold?” You whispered, brought into the warm expanse of his chest, broad and taut with muscle. Even through his armor, you knew that he was indomitable. Though, for all of his physical intimidation and mesomorphic might, he was disarmingly gentle, this mountain of a man.

“No,” The husky timbre of his voice made goosebumps dance along your spine, causing you to shiver. “Not anymore.” He murmured, gaze silently asking to kiss you. He did not move, didn’t intend on acting until you decided to let sentiments flow freely.

It was you that kissed him first, seeking his lips with a desperation that rattled even you. Cregan didn’t hide his mutual desire, brows furrowing together as he reciprocated your kiss, using the leverage of his arm to lift you closer.

His lips were rough, icy from being in the damp outdoors, visage slick from the rainfall. It was a stark contrast to the softness of your mouth, pliant and plush against him, your body curvaceous and perfect within his grasp. He felt your palms press against his chest, drifting towards the nape of his neck.

Rain-soaked tresses glided through your fingers, curling inward to grip and pull, kissing him with such dizzying passion. In the slim space of your lodgings, with rain pounding above, it provided a gentle ambiance that only provided to the charged atmosphere.

Your hands shifted toward the clasps of his thick cloak, hesitating as you pulled away, looking to him for approval. If it weren’t for the many layers he needed to remove, you would’ve shed your dress already.

“Is this what you want?” Cregan needed your consent and assurance before continuing on, thumb drawing circles into your hip as he held you close. His voice had dropped to a near-growl, husky and thick with desire. It only served to stoke the growing fire between the both of you, cracking with a mutual need.

You nodded, nearly rendered breathless. “Yes,” Barely above a whisper, you felt his hands settle over yours, unclasping the metallic direwolves that loosened his cloak. It was all damp and soggy from the rain, and it felt good to be rid of it. “I need you.” You murmured, voice pitched with lust.

Cregan didn’t hesitate, hands unfastening his armor, buckle by buckle, piece by piece. Your hands sometimes joined in on occasion, loosening a strap or helping to take it off altogether. You didn’t move away, allowing each item to join the growing pile until he was left in his smallclothes.

He gently reached for the nape of your neck, massive palm caressing into the base of your skull, tracing along your silky flesh as he brought you in for a kiss. Even without his armor, Cregan was impossibly large, with a bulk and stature that dwarfed your own.

His mouth moved in-tandem with yours, each kiss blistering with passion, an eagerness that never exceeded into something rough. There was a domineering undertone to his actions, but never anything that would hurt you or scare you off.

Northern perfection, an immaculate wall of strength and muscle, yet so gentle — it rattled you to your core in the best possible way, filling your belly with molten heat. You kissed him fervently, until he stopped to kiss along your jaw, roughened lips finding the silky column of your neck.

The coarse, cloth ties that gathered at the small of your back became unraveled by you, loosening the periwinkle-colored garment until it sagged upon your body. You let it drop, your plain dress pooling to the ground in a heap of wrinkled fabric. You nudged it aside, letting it join Cregan’s armor.

Gray hues flickered across your naked flesh, beautiful beyond compare, a woman’s body that possessed the loveliest of curves. Cregan was swift to lower his hands, smoothing them across your sides, and then to your hips, shamelessly grabbing greedy handfuls of your derrière.

“I’ve never seen a beauty like yours before.” Cregan rumbled, mouth pressing soft kisses all along your neck, and then to the hollow of your throat. His calloused palms caressed everywhere they could, savoring the sensation of your velveteen skin.

You shivered at his reverent touch, lips parting as a soft gasp escaped you. Your hands held his biceps, thick and taut beneath your fingertips as a warm slick continued to mount between your legs. He hitched one of your legs around him, keeping you steady.

As he continued to savor your throat, mouth dragging from your neck to collarbone, his available hand stroked along your belly, tracing a path toward the heat between your thighs. Cregan searched for signs of hesitation or protest, but found none, thick fingers sluggishly slipping against your core.

“Cregan,” You gasped, a sharp inhale escaping you as you desperately held onto him, clinging on like a drowning woman as he toyed with your cunt. He deftly pushed past your folds, digits tracing along your slit in rhythmic motions, exploring your body. “Gods, don’t stop.” You pleaded, face pressing near his shoulder.

Teeth scraped along your throat, gently biting at your sensitive flesh as his digits found a steady rhythm. With two fingers stroking along your cunt, his thumb moved to nudge against your clit, circling around the sensitive clutch of nerves. He was silent, save for the rumbling sounds of his grunts.

Gently coaxing you towards your cot, Cregan didn’t stop to think about how feeble it was for two people. Nevertheless, he sat beside you, wood groaning and splintering in protest to the sudden amount of weight it bore. Sitting atop the furs, he collected you into his lap, slotting you against his thigh.

Tangling your hands into the hem of his tunic, you managed to maneuver it off with his assistance, all wisps of air stolen from your lungs at the sight of him. Seeing him in this light, full of desire with candlelight dancing across his skin, he was wonderfully handsome.

One palm cupped your hips, holding you close as his fingers resumed their previous ministrations, thumb seeking your clit. He touched you with such fervent passion, mouth clamoring for yours, lips unable to tear themselves away.

Each kiss left you gasping and heaving, wanting more of him, all that he could give. Your hands sought to drape themselves over his broad shoulders, threading into his damp tresses as you rocked yourself into his hand. The friction it created was delicious, a raging heat that crawled all over your body.

Thunder split the skies outside, rain coming down in a noisy deluge that pounded against the durable canvas of your tent. Cregan shifted backwards, the cot continuing to groan and creak beneath his bulk, threatening to snap into two if your ministrations continued.

You felt along the corded muscle of his shoulders, his skin unusually soft beneath your palms. With the relentless appetite of a wolf, Cregan kissed you again, pulling away just enough to kiss your collarbone instead. Thick digits continued to nudge against your cunt, threatening to push their way inside of you.

At a slow pace, he eased two fingers inside of you, stretching you just enough for it to be quite pleasurable. A whine of delight tore from your mouth, head rolling back enough for him to have unobstructed access. Teeth nipped at your collarbone, providing a sharp sting that flourished across your body.

He was gentle yet vigorous, digits sluggishly pumping themselves in and out of your tight cunt, thumb providing a burst of stimulation against your clit. Your warm, sweet breath fanned over him, mouth agape as a series of excitable pants escaped you.

Planting hot kisses just above your breasts, Cregan’s rough palm caressed from the swell of your hip to your chest, full and perfect, kneading into your breast. The entirety of your body felt so soft — like a plane of velvet, unblemished and left in some state of perfection.

Rocking yourself into his hand, a myriad of needy whimpers left you in droves, ones that occasionally tapered off into wanton moans, others left hushed. Cregan’s chest blossomed with a stoic grunt, the vibrations of it rattling you to your core.

“Cregan,” A fleeting sigh of passion escaped you, breathless and wanting, caught within a tempest of desire and carnality. Your digits touched him wherever you could, from the bulk of his shoulders to his biceps, thick and taut, and his face. “Gods, I need you.” You moaned, coaxing him in for a kiss.

Such a sentiment was mutual — Cregan did not know what depths of want he was capable of, and the carnal need he developed for you was intense. Though, it had also manifested into something else, transcending into affection and ardor.

He did not want to be parted from you after this.

His rough lips molded themselves to yours, kissing you desperately, until he stole every wisp of air from your lungs. He occasionally scraped his teeth across your lower lip, digits still working their way in and out of you, continuing to palm at your breasts.

Between the stimulation of his mouth and digits, you were already worked up, tangled within a web of desire as the cot groaned in protest again — and then snapped.

Only one of the wooden frames suffered damage, and Cregan was quick to shield you from harm, if there was any harm to begin with. He simply sagged further into the canvas, a look of mild amusement rising to his features. “The ground, then.” He rumbled, and you began to giggle, nose crinkling from the awkwardness of it all.

“I could’ve warned you,” You mused, affection dancing within your fond gaze as you kissed his jaw. “It would not survive with your muscles sitting atop it.” Cregan found it difficult not to smile, the gesture faint yet prevalent as he stroked along your spine.

“I will have it replaced.” Cregan grumbled, but you didn’t care in the slightest, the both of you relocating to the sprawling floor of thick, layered furs. It was arguably more comfortable than your cot would’ve been anyway. Drawing you back into his lap, he touched you everywhere he could.

The glow of orange illumination covered the both of you, however faint, aided by slits of clouded moonlight that poured in from the gap in canvas. You were beautiful — everything that he had ever wanted, caged within his arms, staring at him with a heated intensity.

He was mountainous, even when sitting, large and powerful enough to move you wherever he pleased. Your kisses became feverish, as if each entanglement would be your last, heart hammering within your chest with a flurry of excitement.

For a moment, Cregan withdrew, content to gaze upon your smiling visage, gaze sparkling with affection. He lifted his hand, cupping your cheek and jaw, allowing himself a moment to commit every feature of yours to memory. His next kiss was agonizingly slow in the best way possible, causing you to sigh with passion.

He needed to be close to you, chest to chest, savoring every inch of your silken flesh. Cregan had never touched something so soft before, drinking you in again with those tempestuous hues, as alluring as gray clouds before a thunderstorm.

“I want you inside of me,” You pleaded, lips parting slightly as Cregan’s jaw tensed, lust festering within him. Gods, what a wonderful mother you would make — the thought was fleeting, but it lingered like a thick fog, taking up residence within his mind. “Please.”

Cregan did not hesitate, hands joining yours as you hastily unraveled the leather ties of his trousers. He wanted to stay this way, sitting up with you in his lap, allowing him to look upon your face, ravage your skin as he guided you atop his length.

To match his imposing stature and wall of muscle, his cock was just as intimidating, causing your stomach to turn with a twinge of worry. Then again, you had become so worked up that pain seemed impossible. Cregan’s hands steadied themselves atop the swell of your hips, bringing you up enough to let his cock glide against your slick folds.

“As you wish.” He huffed, letting you find your way, the flushed tip of his length beginning to penetrate you. You moaned at the intrusion, able to feel the girth of it stretch you perfectly, just as his fingers had. Cregan grunted, guiding you down until you could go no further.

Strong enough to ease you along his length with his hands alone, Cregan seized the opportunity to kiss you. You were only a few breaths taller like this, slotted within his lap, hands finding their purchase atop his shoulders as you began to ride him.

Gods, he was big — enough for you to realize that soreness was an inevitability. Being flush against him, nearly chest-to-chest, was perfect, something so intimate and sensual that hot shivers rolled down your spine. Cregan guided you up and down upon his cock, ensuring that he went at a sluggish pace, more for your sake than his own.

Tangled sighs and low, heavy breaths wove together, forming a heated cacophony that filled the tent with your lewd activities. The feeling of his calloused hands sinking into your plush flesh was mesmerizing, leaving behind a wave of goosebumps that crawled across your flesh.

Mouths danced together and then clashed again, kiss after kiss of pure ardor, tongues becoming exploratory as you brazenly lapped at his lower lip. It was messy and hot, feverishly so, bringing the both of you to heel as you happily drowned within desire.

The sensation of his cock filling you completely, nearly kissing your womb, almost made you sob from delight. The friction of your bodies was a delicious thing, with your chest brushing against his, knees squeezing near his waist, hands gripping his shoulders. Your nails sank into the muscle there, countenance one of complete and utter pleasure.

Cregan untangled his lips from yours, finding the column of your throat, greedily kissing and nipping wherever he could. Your taste was ambrosial, skin delicate and saccharine beneath his mouth. You moaned, one hand moving to tug at his chestnut tresses, bringing your hips down upon his cock again and again.

The sluggishness of the repetitive motion was agonizingly wonderful — the pace was perfect, not rough enough in the slightest, but passionate, instead. You much preferred this, the intimacy and closeness of it all, the way in which heat radiated between the both of you.

You felt incredible, every fiber of your body burning for him, arousal thick and heavy between your thighs. “Cregan,” A noisy moan escaped you, grinding yourself against him, hips flush together. It was as if you were touched by hot embers, the heat raking across your body time and time again. “Cregan!”

A deep, trembling groan tore past his mouth, one that made your belly fill with liquid fire. You shivered within his grasp, feeling his lips clamor to the underside of your jaw, nose brushing against your chin. His cock throbbed with a sense of urgency, slick with precum.

He continued to guide you, hands descending from your hips to the pliant flesh of your haunches, digits sinking into your derrière. Despite the chill of the rain and song of the storm raging around you, Cregan kept you anchored, warmth radiating from him.

Your hands deftly roamed across his musculature, coming to plant themselves against the expanse of his chest, his heart thudding beneath your palm. “That’s it.” Cregan rumbled, kissing at your jaw before he finally coaxed you in for a passionate kiss. He wanted you to come undone for him.

The intensity of your release blindsided you, crashing into you like a wave breaking upon the rock. Your nails desperately scratched at Cregan’s chest, sinking into his collarbone as you bucked forward. He continued to guide you up and down along his cock until your legs rattled like leaves in the wind.

Cregan joined you, following suit as he reached his peak, forehead bumping into yours as he sought your mouth for a tender kiss. He swallowed your sweet moans, spilling his seed into your cunt. Hot ropes of his spend filled you completely, causing the both of you to sigh, a low rumble reverberating from his throat.

You very nearly collapsed within his lap, heaving with excitable pants, basking in the aftermath of your release. In an intimate gesture, you kissed his jaw, peppering his visage in soft kisses that only made Cregan pull you closer. “Are you alright?” He murmured, running a hand along your side.

“I am,” You smiled, palm reaching to cup his cheek. Cregan’s fingers wrapped around your wrist, pressing a kiss to the silky skin there. Thunder crackled overhead, followed by a flash of lightning, the onslaught of rain pounding overhead. “It seems you’ve no choice but to stay.”

A bemused huff left Cregan, who seemed more than content to share your tent. “Thank the Gods for the deluge, then.” He rumbled, continuing to kiss from your wrist to your hand. A shiver rolled down the length of your spine, aided by his affectionate gestures.

Removing yourself from his lap, you settled down to lay beside him on the floor of your tent, gazing up at the damp canvas. The Warden of the North descended to you, offering you a muscular arm to rest against, moving the furs around the both of you.

It was a comfortable silence, born in the aftermath of your lovemaking as you curled against Cregan, palm settling above his abdomen. “When do you ride next?” You uttered, referring to the raging war that you were both caught within. It was easy to not think much of it when you were with him.

“On the morrow,” Cregan murmured, chestnut brows furrowing together. He loathed the thought of leaving again, now that he had so much more to lose. His calloused digits idly traced around your shoulder, his other arm propped beneath his head. “We will fight hard, like Northerners.”

A subtle terror gripped your heart, foul tendrils sinking into every fiber of your being. You sat up just enough to gaze upon him, fingers drifting toward the slope of his jaw. “Promise me that you’ll be careful.” You uttered, stern as could be.

Cregan could not make such a promise — war was harrowing, and it was unpredictable. Instead, he reached for your face, holding you there as he met your gaze. “I will try,” A low rumble left him, gray eyes boring into you with devotion. “Should I fall prey to another arrow or sword, I will know who to seek.”

It was difficult not to smile, in spite of everything. You sighed, leaning in to kiss him, allowing gentleness and ardor to prevail. A low grunt escaped Cregan, gray hues fluttering shut as he drew you closer into the warmth of his musculature.

“I would certainly hope so.”

copyright @ swordgrace ; please do not copy/steal my work and claim it as your own. please do not translate my works onto other platforms.

[muniimyg]

𐙚₊˚⊹ boxer!jungkook (2) ⋆𐙚₊˚⊹

series m.list // taglist closed

boxer jk x neuro doctor oc

post match vibes

warning: mentions of stitches, needle, and blood

note: 2/5 parts for this mini series! thanks for the love w pt1! mwah

//

jungkook sits on the edge of the ever-so-familiar hospital bed.

his legs are spread, hands draped over his knees, and he fights the urge to shut his eyes as the overhead light casts sharp shadows over the planes of his face.

he can feel it—his blood dripping down the sides of his face. the fresh cut on his forehead stark against his skin and the throbbing almost makes him feel like shit. jungkook takes a deep breath and stays still as you prep the needle. though the sterile scent of disinfectant settles between you, jungkook is doing his absolute best to memorize the way you smell.

you smell so freaking good.

"i thought you said you were good at boxing."

your voice is light, but the weight of it presses against his ribs. he grins, dimples threatening to form despite the sting above his brow.

"i am."

"so i'm stitching you up because?"

his gaze flickers to you, dark and intent. "i've been lacking the motivation."

"to win?"

"to focus,” he confesses. “how long has it been, doc? 3 months? shit. haven’t been myself since then. every day i hoped someone would beat the shit out of me so i could have an excuse to see you.”

"so you got yourself beaten up just to see me? is that supposed to impress me?" you ask him unamused.

he shakes his head. "no, but my dedication to seeing you again is."

"do you ever take no for an answer?"

"did you even really say no to me, though?"

the air stills.

then, you exhale through your nose. pretending to be unimpressed at him before pressing the needle to his skin. as you wait for his reaction, you run through different comebacks.

but you're out of time. in fact, you barely had any.

jungkook doesn’t flinch.

it truly does impress you because this shot is a bitch. yet, you notice how his fingers curl into a fist against the sheets.

"it's okay if it hurts," you murmur. "it's not supposed to be painless."

his jaw flexes. 

"i can handle hits. stitches? easy."

"i never said you couldn't handle it. i said it's okay if it hurts."

jungkook isn’t sure what it is… but silence drapes over the room. like a heavy mist or early moving fog.

it’s thick and weighted. 

jungkook swallows. his throat feels dry. his mind races. 

all his life, pain has been an afterthought—background noise to the only thing that’s ever mattered; winning. to jungkook, if he isn’t bruised, battered, and bleeding by the end of a fight, he hasn’t fought hard enough. pain isn’t something to be acknowledged and dwelled on. it’s a consequence. a transaction. 

but now, here you are… speaking about it so simply and coated in acceptance and warmth. then, there’s also your motherfucking gaze. 

so soft. 

so kind. 

so present. 

all of these things mixed together make his stomach twist. he doesn’t know how to act. he does’t know what to say. he doesn’t know what to feel.

he wonders if this is what pain really feels like—not the kind he’s trained to endure, but the kind that sneaks up on you, curling around your ribs when you least expect it. he wonders if it’s because he’s spent so long numbing himself to it… or if it’s because, for the first time, he’s realized something worse than losing a fight…

losing the chance to keep seeing you.

because holy fuck. 

where have you been his entire life? 

seriously.

jungkook clears his throat, stretching out his fingers, forcing the tension from his knuckles. "so, doc," he starts, a smirk playing at his lips, "do you date doctors?"

you blink. "pardon me?"

"you don’t date patients, right? well, everyone is a patient at some point, but not everyone is a doctor. so, do you only date doctors?"

you almost laugh. 

almost.

"you just got seven stitches on your forehead and you're concerned about whether or not i date doctors?"

jungkook shrugs before dropping the most nonchalant information about himself; "i have a degree in nutrition, you know. used to specialize in sports nutrition. just wanted to give boxing a shot—"

"wow. i didn't know that. that’s really cool." you say, genuinely intrigued, "what school did you go to—"

"i won't quit boxing... at least, not yet... but if i ever do, just know that i can be a doctor too… if that’s who you date and shit."

“and shit?”

“and shit.”

this time, you do laugh. 

it’s so pretty. 

the sound of it and the sight of it—mesmerizing. 

it catches jungkook off guard. his eyes flickering over your face, lingering a second too long. he looks at you… he really looks at you and it’s like he just won the best thing in the world. like he’s a kid who won BINGO in his class for the first time and got to choose the scented eraser as his prize. 

he watches you and thinks; to have you is to win. 

you’re the only victory he wants. 

as he shifts forward to hop off the bed, your hands move on instinct, catching him before he can fully rise. your fingers press lightly against the firm muscle of his forearm, his skin warm beneath your touch. he stills at the contact, his gaze flicking down to where your hands steady him, then back up to your face.

for a beat, neither of you move.

the air shifts—thickens—his breath slowing as he watches you, unreadable. your pulse kicks up, just slightly, just enough for you to notice. but then jungkook smirks, lazy and knowing, the tension splintering just as quickly as it built.

"careful, doc," he murmurs, voice lower now, laced with something teasing, something else. "if you keep holding onto me like that, i might start thinking you care."

"you shouldn’t be jumping off like that so fast—"

"okay. whatever you say. hey, look at me," he says, voice quieter now, more deliberate. your fingers still against his arm. "i'm not bad looking, right? i have an education. i follow my passion, and it's going well—"

"again," you interject, "i just gave you seven stitches."

"again," he repeats, "i just needed a reason to see you."

"you requested me and refused to be treated by namjoon," you point out.

"exactly," jungkook smirks.

you bite your bottom lip, catching yourself before you react. suddenly, you’re aware of how close you are—his warmth pressing into your space, the scent of sweat and antiseptic clinging to him. his eyes are locked on yours, waiting, watching.

"___—"

"doctor ___," you correct, stepping back, straightening your coat, severing whatever was hanging between you.

"doctor ___..." he tests the words on his tongue, then nods. "i’d really appreciate it if you could reconsider the whole... only dating a doctor thing. honestly? i don’t mind school. i just don’t want to go back and be old by the time i get to your level… but if that’s really the only way you’ll go out with me—"

rolling your eyes, you brush off your coat, turning toward the door—just like last time. pushing it open, you pause before you step through. taking one final glance at him, you titl your head ever so slightly. 

jungkook mirrors you. 

"no, mr. jeon," you say, voice laced with amusement. "i do not just date doctors. in fact, i avoid dating them."

then, the door swings shut behind you.

jungkook exhales, pressing his tongue against his cheek, shaking his head as he lets out a breathless chuckle.

hope. 

that’s what this feels like.

he’s had victories before, ones that have left him bruised and battered, ones that have left him undefeated. but this? this is something else entirely. something he’s willing to lose for. something he knows, in the deepest part of his chest, he can’t afford to.

not this time.

not when it’s you.

[batboysanonymous]

Shadows Between Us (Pt. II)

Azriel x Reader

Summary: As Y/N wrestles with the pain of Azriel’s rejection, Nesta uncovers a dangerous way to break the bond. But some bonds are unbreakable, no matter how much they hurt.

Pt. I

Pt. III

Word Count: 1k

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The walls of the house seemed to close in around Y/N as she hurried down the hallway, her pulse thrumming in her ears. Azriel’s voice still echoed behind her, low and gravelly, tinged with something she couldn’t quite name.

“I didn’t mean for it to hurt you.”

The words had lingered, clinging to her like his shadows often did—unwelcome, unshakable. She shoved open the door to her room, the cool air hitting her skin like a slap. Her chest heaved as she tried to push the confrontation from her mind, but it was no use. His face, his voice, his shadows haunted her every waking moment.

Y/N pressed her back against the door, sliding to the floor as her breathing evened out. She felt like she was falling apart piece by piece, the bond a cruel thread keeping her together, forcing her to endure when she wanted nothing more than to break free.

She’d thought that maybe, somehow, Nesta would find an answer in those ancient books. That the words scrawled across the brittle pages could untangle the threads binding her to Azriel, freeing them both from this torment.

But every solution comes with a cost.

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Azriel leaned against the doorframe of his room, his hazel eyes staring unseeingly at the shadows curling and coiling at his feet. They whispered to him, voices too low for him to make out but insistent nonetheless.

Elain.

Her name flitted through his mind like a fleeting warmth, but it didn’t ignite the fire it once had. The soft smiles, the lingering glances—it was all… different now.

He closed his eyes, his head falling back against the wood with a heavy thud. The space Elain once occupied in his mind felt smaller, quieter. And Y/N—gods, Y/N—was everywhere.

She’d always been there, hadn’t she? On the training grounds, her laughter light and free when she sparred with Cassian. At family dinners, where her sharp wit rivaled Nesta’s. Even in battle, fierce and unwavering, her determination cutting through his chest like a blade.

Azriel groaned, raking a hand through his hair. He couldn’t—shouldn’t—let his thoughts stray to her. She was Cassian’s sister, his best friend’s family. And, worse, she was his mate.

The word felt like a brand, scorching him with its weight. He hadn’t wanted it. He hadn’t asked for it. But now, the bond sat heavy in the air, a faint hum he couldn’t quite ignore.

The way she’d looked at him earlier—her eyes filled with fury and heartbreak—made something crack inside him. He’d hurt her, over and over again, and still, she stood there, defiant and strong.

And yet, she hated him. She had every right to.

“Azriel,” Cassian’s voice broke through his spiraling thoughts, pulling him back to the present. His brother leaned against the wall, his wings draped lazily behind him, though his gaze was sharp.

Azriel straightened. “What?”

Cassian’s lips twitched into a humorless smile. “She’s breaking.”

His chest tightened, though he kept his face blank. “I know.”

“Do you?” Cassian pushed off the wall, stepping closer. “Because I don’t think you have a godsdamned clue what you’re doing to her. You’re the most calculating bastard I’ve ever met, Az. You know every move before your enemies make them, but when it comes to her, you’re blind.”

“I didn’t—” Azriel cut himself off, the words catching in his throat. “I never meant for this to happen.”

Cassian laughed bitterly, shaking his head. “You didn’t mean for it? You think that matters to her? You think she cares about your intentions when you’re tearing her apart every time you push her away?”

Azriel looked away, guilt churning in his gut.

“Fix it,” Cassian said, his voice low and dangerous. “Before there’s nothing left of her to fix.”

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Y/N sat at the edge of her bed, the book Nesta had left her lying open on her lap. The language was incomprehensible, the words twisting and curling in ways that made her head ache.

Nesta entered the room without knocking, her arms full of more books. Her face was pale, a bead of sweat sliding down her temple.

“You’ve been at this all day,” Y/N said quietly, closing the book.

Nesta’s jaw tightened. “I’m not stopping until we find something that works.”

Her voice was resolute, but Y/N saw the exhaustion pulling at her features. She reached out, placing a hand on Nesta’s arm. “You need to rest. We’ll figure it out tomorrow.”

“There might not be a tomorrow,” Nesta snapped, her voice cracking. She let out a shaky breath, closing her eyes. “If we don’t act soon, this bond will destroy you.”

Y/N swallowed hard, her throat burning. “It already has.”

The admission hung heavy in the air between them, the weight of it pressing down on her chest.

Nesta set the books on the bed, sitting beside her. “I think I’ve found something. But it’s… dangerous.”

Y/N’s blood ran cold. “How dangerous?”

Nesta hesitated, her fingers curling into the fabric of her dress. “It’ll sever the bond. But it could kill me in the process.”

“No,” Y/N said immediately, shaking her head. “I’m not letting you risk your life for this.”

“You don’t have a choice,” Nesta said fiercely, her eyes blazing. “This is my choice, and I won’t watch you suffer any longer.”

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Azriel was walking down the hall when it hit him.

A searing pain tore through his chest, and he staggered, clutching at the wall for support. The bond—the bond he’d spent months ignoring, dismissing—roared to life, a fire burning through his veins.

Y/N.

Her name tore through his mind, her presence flooding every corner of his being. The bond wasn’t just a hum anymore. It was a roar, a deafening, undeniable connection that consumed him.

He saw her.

Saw her curled on her bed, her face buried in her hands as Nesta sat beside her, gripping her shoulder. He felt her heartbreak, her anguish, her desperation.

And he knew.

He’d been wrong.

Elain had been a distraction, a mirage he’d clung to because it was safe. But Y/N—Y/N—she was everything.

Azriel stumbled back, his wings flaring as his shadows shrieked around him. He had to get to her, had to—

But when he reached her door, he heard Nesta’s voice, calm and determined.

“This will work. It has to.”

And then Y/N’s quiet response: “Do it.”

Azriel’s heart stopped.

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

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[gay-dorito-dust]

We NEEED Batfam with a s/o who is the kindest person to ever walk in Gotham City. I’m talking they have no bad bone in their bodies and ALWAYS see’s the good in other people.

Dick found you to be refreshing.

He found your pension for helping others, even the scummiest of individuals, into a better future. However he has seen how people could take advantage of a person unlike themselves out of greed, envy for their willpower to keep believing when they’ve all but given up, and anger that they still smile even when the situation is against them.

He couldn’t help but found your want to see Gotham be better admirable and how you’d wish to see the city better itself for the people that live inside it but Gotham was a city with no cure, nor wanted to be healed no matter how hard others have tried. This doesn’t mean Dick was apprehensive towards your dream, if anything he shared that vision with you as it was a dream he’d love to see com true one day.

‘You’re far too kind for a city like this sweetheart.’ Dick said once after he saw you give some kids from Crime Alley a generous amount of food and the money from your wallet/purse, smiling softly as you watched them run away with full stomachs and money in their tightly protected pockets.

You shrugged, looking at him with a soft glint in your eyes. ‘That might be true but that doesn’t mean I’m going to run away when the going gets tough or loose my way.’ You replied as you returned to his side, intertwining your fingers with his and squeezing. Dick smiles as he lifts your hand to his lips, kissing it before letting it drop between the two of you, feeling a lot lighter under your gaze as he found himself wanting to stay in this moment forever before Gotham soured even the most innocent of interactions you two shared.

‘Then I’ll gladly stand by your side and help you see this dream through, if you’re not giving up then I’m not giving up either, I promise you that.’ Dick vowed as he pulled you closer to him, kissing your temple, letting himself linger there as he embraced your warmth against Gotham’s bitter cold air that tried to separate you, for it knew that you two were a formidable force to be reckoned with. You sighed, leaning towards his touch and relishing how comforting it was.

‘I’d rather have no one else by my side than my dickie bird.’ You said softly as Dick pulled away to smile at you. ‘I just don’t want to see more kids suffer more than they’ve already have, whether it’d be by the hands of their parents or corrupt authority figures.’ You tell him as you looked back down the alleyway the kids ran down, smile wavering a little as you could only imagine the cruelty they suffered and at such a young age too. ‘They’ve already endured enough and they’re all the more braver for not letting it destroy their spirit.’ You add as you could only hope that those kids remember this small act of kindness and hold it to their chest well into their adulthood.

Dick looked at your fondly and found himself all the more amazed by you and your unending desire to see the better in people, fully believing that they can change whenever they felt ready to, even the most lost individuals can find their way back with the help of a guiding hand. People like you are what Gotham desperately needed to lead the city into a better and brighter future, you were able to find it within yourself to be kind and loving towards those that would spit at your shoes, letting them see that you weren’t so easily swayed to step away from someone in pain.

‘I’m sure they will,’ Dick reassured you by squeezing your hand, ‘it’s hard to forget an act as selfless and sincere as yours honey.’

‘Thank you Dick.’ You uttered softly as you cuddled yourself into his side, resting your head against his chest to listen to his calming heartbeat.

‘Just speaking the truth and from the heart.’ Dick responded as he kisses the top of your head, wanting nothing more than to make you happy just like you have been making him happy throughout your relationship. ‘This town will heal, it’ll be long, but it’ll heal in its own time.’ He adds as you both walked home to be greeted by your sweet baby Hayley.

Gotham will heal…just give it time and patience.

Damian found your kindness to be glaring.

It was a beacon for the weak to prey upon and your hope for Gotham was one that came from that, hope. Gotham was the city where hope and ideals for a better future came to rot and die and Damian couldn’t help but scoff a little because a person like you would never survive in this town, for the people of Gotham could smell your naivety from a mile away and hunt you down until you became like them.

Which was why Damian often found himself by your side and pointing his sword at the throats of those stupid enough to be enamoured by your bright, hopeful presence, even going so far as to cut them just to prove a point. ‘Back off cretin.’ He’d all but growl at them and watch as they scurry off like rats.

You’d look at him with the expression of an upset puppy as he sheathed his sword. ‘Damian.’ You groaned.

‘They’d only come back for more if you conceded to their whims my love.’ Damian replied calmly as he cupped your face between his hands, resting his head against yours to look deeply into your eyes. ‘And I do not intended for my beloved to be used by the miscreants that littler the street like discarded toys, bent out of use and lost all purpose but to kill the will of those that still believe.’ He could see the hurt and the disbelief in your eyes before the look of resilience took over your face as you smiled sweetly at him, taking his breath away.

‘Then I’ll keep believing for the people who can’t, won’t or have long since given up all hope that Gotham can be better than what they’re forced to believe as truth.’ You said and Damian couldn’t help but find your tenacity and determination to keep strong when all seems bleak and depressing admirable. However he couldn’t help but want to usher you away from the utter madness that he had seen with his bare eyes, keep you from ever seeing this town for what it truly was; chaos incarnate.

The town was constantly tearing itself apart and putting itself together again but by only using the worst parts of itself over and over again until it could do nothing but collapse in on itself, dragging everyone else down with it in the process, implicating a sense of darkness and despair that could leave even the most strong willed of people to wonder whether it was worth it and Damian didn’t wish for you to loose that light, nor hope for a better Gotham.

‘You are truly an enigma my treasure.’ Damian sighed as you kissed his cheeks, nose then lips quickly, making him smile softly as he closed his eyes to embrace your affection. ‘Stubborn yet sweet, kind yet headstrong, hopeful yet knowledgeable. That is the kind of person you are and I do not wish to see you falter to this city’s darkness, for a cage is not a place for a bird that is meant to be free from all restraints to it’s ability to fly.’ Damian murmurs as he kisses your forehead.

‘And I’m glad to have someone like you dami.’ You said happily as you admired his emerald eyes. ‘But I just wish for the betterment of the people here, doesn’t everyone deserve a second chance?’ You then asked as your hopeful eyes twinkled like the stars above, bright and vibrant, so unlike the eyes of everyone that resided in Gotham which were dull, lost and angry.

‘Not everyone my love.’ Damian counters, ‘rehabilitation can only take them so far before they realise that they can abuse the help given to them with the hope they’d do better once out, while that might be the case for some but there are those who see an opportunity to take from the giving.’ You sighed, still smiling at him as you recognised that he was equally as stubborn in his own views, just as much as you were stubborn in yours.

‘That is true but I just can’t afford to give up, not when this city is crying out for help but only receiving bloodshed and corruption.’ You reached out and rubbed his arms soothingly. You were too kind to a town that reeked of blood and violence Damian deducted from your first meeting, having found it rather childish and naive, but now he saw this as something that should be valued and appreciated while it could and Damian internally vowed to keep this light within you alive and burning for as long as he could.

For you were his hope just as much as Gotham’s.

Jason finds you to be the purest and sweetest soul amongst the piss and shit that made up the rest of Gotham.

The light in the dark for many, but unfortunately that means that you’d also attract the attention of people whom Jason saw as people who’d take advantage of a soul like you.

So much so that he would rest his hand on your wait and pull you away when some suspicious looking man walked up to you, hands cupped together with a pathetic look upon his face as he pleaded with you, never once looking at him because the punk knew he couldn’t fool him with his character so he went for you instead like a coward.

‘I’m pretty sure I’ve got some money I can spare-‘ you said sweetly as you tried to reach for your wallet/purse.

‘No.’ Jason said as he stops you and glares at the man who looked back at him with a face that only confirmed what he had already assumed upon seeing him; he was taking advantage of you for his own benefit and was pissed that Jason was guarding you from his schemes. ‘He can scrap the shit off of the pavement and feed himself with it.’ Jason adds as he proceeded to pull you away from the man who only spat near his shoe and slunk away into the alleyway, waiting for someone else he could take advantage of.

‘Jason!’ You exclaimed, wanting to truly help the man in hopes he’d change his ways for a more productive one.

‘You can’t think you can heal everyone chipmunk, then they’ll think they are entitled to everything you have and will want to take every piece of you until there’s nothing left for them to benefit from, where they’ll leave your body to rot until they can find a new soul to dig their claws into.’ Jason replied firmly but the moment he saw your saddened look he sighed and tipped your chin up with his finger. ‘Hey,’ he began softy, ‘a soul like you is unique, precious as a jewel, and you shine too brightly that you’ve become a beacon for the worst this shit town has to offer but I’m not going to let them.’ He finished as he kissed your forehead.

‘I just can’t expect you to protect me all the time.’ You retorted as you held his face between your hands, caressing his cheeks in a soothing manner and smiling as he melted into your touch. ‘I can’t help who I am, I just want the best for everyone and I can’t help but hope that Gotham heals itself for the betterment of its people.’ Jason couldn’t help but look at you lovingly as he brought you in closer to him so that you were pressed against each other, the closeness was enough to calm his thoughts.

You were too good to be true in Jason’s eyes and would far better in a city far, far away from Gotham in hopes that the poisonous town doesn’t seep into you, but you were not only kind but far too stubborn to do such a thing; especially when there was people to help and Jason couldn’t help but find beauty in your will to do right by the people, even the ones that he didn’t think were worth the tireless effort of saving but that was the kind of person you were and he loved you all the more for being true to yourself.

‘I’m not asking you to change. I could never ask you to stop being who you are because it’s people like you that Gotham needs most, not violence or hateful comments, just someone who genuinely wants to help for the sake of bettering a community who don’t have the resources to help themselves and be a guiding hand for the hopeless.’ Jason kisses you on the lips. ‘That’s the person I fell for, an absolute angel.’ He finishes as he cradled you even further against his chest as he felt you cling onto him.

You were far too sweet for a sour town like Gotham but Jason was going to be with you no matter what, an angel like you needs someone like him who can protect you from the corrupt and the evil that lurks beneath the surface, or shows their face proudly in a town where hope comes to die. Jason will protect his light, his angel, his cheeky little chipmunk who often steals his hoodies when they missed him for you were worth more than he’d ever let this putrid city know. He’ll protect what is his and wage war on those who seek to hurt his hope for Gotham.

[girllblogging777]

𝑇𝐻𝐸 𝑀𝐼𝑆𝑆𝐼𝑁𝐺 𝑃𝐼𝐸𝐶𝐸

↳ mattheo riddle x fem!reader (fluff, little angst)

↳ 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑑 𝑐𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑡 : 1,5k

𝑠𝑢𝑚𝑚𝑎𝑟𝑦 : you and mattheo reunite after two painful months of being away during summer.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

two months. sixty-five days. a thousand five hundred and sixty hours. that was the amount of time mattheo had spent away from you. two months of being secluded from the rest of the world, and from his own world, his girlfriend. two months of enduring the worst and most painful pain, both mentally and physically, inflicted by his father.

ever since he’d started at hogwarts, six years ago, mattheo had always dreaded the time he had to go back to the place others called “home.” despite the whispers and reputation that followed him at school, hogwarts was his refuge. it was the one place that gave him space away from his biggest enemy. because that’s what voldemort was to him, his enemy, not his father.

although mattheo rarely opened up about his family life. or the lack thereof, it was painfully clear for you what he was going through. you knew he would return to school with bruises on his body and scars on his heart, reminders of whatever horrors he had been through at the riddle mansion. the truth was, you had spent the entire summer in a state of anxiety, unable to sleep and feeling like a piece of your soul was missing and hurting. the fact that you couldn’t contact him gnawed at you and made you full of guilt and worry.

“you don’t understand ! if something happened, i would never know,” you had told his friends, who you kept in touch with during the summer. “are you sure he’s okay? i want him back, i can’t bear the thought of him going back there again.” you declared when they all tried to reassure you.

as you said your final goodbyes to your family on the train platform, your eyes wandered the crowded station, desperately looking for the familiar brown-eyed boy you craved like oxygen. one by one, your friends appeared, excited to be back here for another year at hogwarts. you forced a smile, hugging them and making small talk, while fighting to keep your mind off mattheo’s missing presence..

once on the train, pansy cornered you and began to share every detail of her summer flings. you listened politely, but eventually you excused yourself, heading away from your friends and wandering through the narrow corridor of the train. still no sign of mattheo. your heart sank a little more every time you passed through another compartment where he wasn’t.

finally, you found an empty compartment and entered it, sitting down and resting your head against the cool glass of the window. the rhythm of the train was comforting, and despite your best efforts to stay awake, your fatigue won the battle. “where are you, matt ?” you whispered, the words barely escaping your lips before you fell in a deep sleep.

the gentle movement of the train and the distant sound of voices in other compartments surrounded you as you slept, your body curled up on the wooden seat. the weight of the past few months, of sleepless nights and constant worry finally caught up with you, pulling you into a deep slumber.

you didn’t hear the compartment door open. you didn’t see the familiar figure standing there, hesitating, his breath catching in his throat as he looked at you for the first time in what felt like forever. mattheo’s heart ached at the sight of you, your face peaceful but marked by the signs of exhaustion and worry.

for a moment he just stood there, letting the reality of your presence wash over him. he had replayed this moment in his mind countless times during those two long months, as it was the only thing that kept him going. but nothing could have prepared him for the overwhelming rush of emotions now that he was here, seeing you again.

finally, unable to bear the distance any longer, he stepped forward. slowly, carefully and as if afraid to break the fragile peace of the moment, he knelt down beside you, his hand trembling as he reached out to gently brush a strand of hair away from your face.

the touch was featherlight, but it was enough to wake you up. your eyes fluttered open, the memories of your dreams slowly giving way to reality. and then you saw him. mattheo, his familiar brown eyes filled with something deep and raw, something that made your breath catch in your throat.

“mattheo…” you whispered, as if saying his name would make him disappear, as if he was just another dream. but he was real, he was here with you, cupping your cheek and brushing it softly with his calloused fingertips. “it’s me,” he murmured with a rough voice filled with emotions. “i’m here, love.”

you sat up with a pounding heart, your hands reaching out to touch him, to make sure he was real. your fingers traced the lines of his face, the familiar curve of his jaw, the faint bruises that were fresh on his skin. your eyes unconsciously filled with tears, and you couldn’t hold them back any longer. “i was so scared,” you choked out, your voice breaking. “i didn’t know if… i thought-“

“shh” mattheo whispered, pulling you into his arms, holding you close as your body shook with sobs. “i’m sorry. i’m so sorry.” you clung to him, your fingers digging into the fabric of his robes as if you could somehow keep him with you, keep him away him from leaving you again. your touch was hurting his bruised body but he didn’t budge, because your presence was worth all the hurt in the world. “don’t ever leave me like that again,” you pleaded against his chest. “i can’t lose you, mattheo.”

he held you tighter, his own eyes stinging with tears he refused to let fall. “i won’t ” he promised, his voice thick with emotion. “i won’t ever leave you again.” for a long moment, the two of you just held each other with nothing left but the sound of your breathing, the beating of your hearts in sync. you slowly pulled back just enough to look at him, your hands still cradling his face.

“you’re hurt,” you said softly, your eyes tracing the bruises, the dark circles under his eyes, the pain that was visibly there. “what did he do to you?” mattheo shook his head slightly, closing his eyes for a moment as if trying to block out the memories. “it doesn’t matter,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “i’m here now. that’s all that matters, i’m home.” because that was the truth, no matter how much time he spent back at the riddle manor, the only real home he had was you.

you opened your mouth to say that it did matter, that he couldn’t just brush it off like that and that you needed him to talk to you, but the look in his eyes stopped you. there was a darkness there, a pain that made your heart ache. you knew he wasn’t ready to talk about it, not yet. so you nodded, swallowing the lump in your throat. “okay,” you whispered, leaning in to press a gentle kiss to his forehead. “you’re home, baby.”

mattheo seemed to melt under your touch and closed his eyes, his arms still wrapped tightly around you as if he was afraid that you would disappear. but you didn’t. you stayed right there, grounding him and reminding him that you would never leave. “i missed you so much,” you broke the silence, whispering. “every day, every night… it was like a part of me was missing.”

“i missed you too,” mattheo admitted, his voice barely audible. words of affirmations were rare for him, so you cherished each one of his words. “it was the only thing that kept me going. knowing that i’d come back to you.” you looked into his eyes, seeing the truth in his words, the vulnerable side of him he didn’t let anyone else see. you rested your forehead against his, softly tracing the shape of his lips and trying to memorise every single feature of his face.

“i’m not letting you go back there again,” you whispered, your voice steady despite the tears that were about to fall again. “i want to be with you, always.” your boyfriend nodded and tightened his grip on you. “i won’t leave you again, i promise” he declared, a promise he intended to keep.

with that, he pressed a delicate kiss on your soft lips, both of you afraid to hurt one another. you kissed him back, reassuringly tangling your fingers in his curled hair as his hand found your waist, fitting perfectly like a missing puzzle piece. it was gentler than your usual desperate and hunger filled touches, but it meant everything, a promise that the two of you would only ever stay together and protect one another.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

a/n : woop woop here’s a little back to school motivation for y’all, once again highly inspired by a convo from character ai… i loved this request (please give me more !) likes/comments/reblogs are appreciated <3

tell me if you wanna be tagged when i post !

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[thediaryofaurora]

General HCs

Ticci Toby/Tobias Rogers

Sorry this took so long!! I’ve been contemplating writing one shots, but I feel like I should get the head canons out first. If any of you have any ideas for one shots (x readers, char x char, nsfw), my request box is open! I’ll get around to them as soon as possible. :)

- 5’11! Sleeper build and scrawny, but extremely strong upper arms. He’s not as fast as Kate and Brian, but he makes up for it with how long he can run. He never gets tired and can chase victims for hours. Lots of freckles, too!

- White with mostly German heritage. He doesn’t know very much German, just baseline stuff he learned from his mom. (Connie grew up in Germany until she was 15.)

- Medium brown hair and dark brown eyes. He’s pretty pale, but being outside most of the time he does have a slight tan, lots of freckles too.

- His dad was extremely abusive and would beat him, his mom, and his sister, it was rare for him to not be drunk. Toby killed him only a few hours after his father beat his mom to the point she was unconscious. He’d rather his mom lose both of her children and her abusive husband than endure so much pain, he cared about her more than anything. He didn’t want to sit idly by as he loses his sister and mother.

- His fingers are TORN up. Bites and picks at his nails, cuticles, dry knuckles, all of it. His fingertips and palms are also super calloused.

- Hangs out with Jeff and Ben most of the time. He’s closer to Ben and thinks Jeff’s a douche, but he puts up with him since sometimes the three of them have fun.

- He can be a jerk, but if you’re able to break past his shell he’s super sweet. He’s still sarcastic and snarky, but not necessarily mean. VERY smug.

- Had Jeff do a tattoo of Lyra’s birthday on his shoulder. It turned out surprisingly good. He was originally going to do her death date, but he felt like it was better to honor the time she was alive.

- Halloween junkie. He has a massive sweet tooth and loves autumn, so it’s the perfect day ever in his eyes.

- This guy DESTROYS in poker and blackjack. The few times his dad would spend time with him they’d play together. Even though he hated him, it meant a lot to him when he was little. Has the teeny tiniest gambling addiction, makes a bunch of bets with other residents of the mansion and usually wins.

- MIDWESTERN EMO BOY!!!! I will die on this hill. Music taste, clothing, all of it.

- His tics are pretty rare now that he’s older, but when he’s anxious they get bad.

- Exclusively wears comfortable clothes. Not because he gets uncomfortable, he could (and does) sleep in jeans and not be bothered. When he was younger he would always be forced to wear slacks, dress shoes, button ups, and ties for church or family gatherings. He HATED it.

- Him, Tim, and Brian are usually put on missions together. They’re all pretty compatible, and it’s nice to talk to just some regular ass dudes. Sometimes all three of them will go to run down diner’s if they finished their mission early, it’s the most normality any of them have in their lives.

- He and Tim bicker a LOT, but he secretly find comfort in it. He sees Tim as a protective older brother, rather than someone who just hates him. With how his dad treated him growing up, he thought all arguing was yelling and being aggressive, but Tim’s is more disagreement or annoyance.

- Almost knows how to play the acoustic guitar. He’s a quick learner, but he doesn’t have a crazy strong desire to get better at it.

- Pretty much always wears a big bandaid over his cheek gash. He’s not necessarily insecure about it unless he has a crush on someone, but it’s hard to eat or drink when it’s just open.

- He’s actually not to bad at soccer! Sometimes when it’s nice out him and Cody find a ball and play.

- Anywho, I’m in love with him.

Feedback and requests are welcome! Thank you for reading. :)

✩☆✩☆✩☆✩☆✩☆✩☆✩☆✩☆✩☆✩☆✩☆✩

[linkspooky]

The Next Gojo Satoru

As you've probably guessed I have a lot to say about this chapter. However, right away I want to start out by pointing out once again that the fandom is taking a mostly gojo-centric view of this chapter. Which I understand it's Gojo's body that's being puppeteered around and dehumanized in the exact same way that Kenjaku one of the sickest and most inhuman characters used Geto's body.

However I think it shouldn't be understated how shocking it is to see Yuta betray all of his values like this. The most human character who represents love in the cast has given up on the cast and betrayed someone he loves. So let's talk about what this all means for Yuta under the cut.

GOJO GETS AN F IN TEACHING.

I understand why most of the focus is on Gojo, because yes Gojo's body is the one being violated here. He's not even allowed to rest in death after fighting on the front lines against Sukuna to the point where his brain was hemmoraging in the middle of battle and he was brutally cut in half.

Considering how much horror Gojo experienced when he saw Geto's body taken from him and made into Kenjaku's pupet. Cosidering the horrible pain that Nanako and Mimiko endured just seeing Geto's body still moving around denied a good death (Nanako and Mimiko were tellingly willing to let go and not try to take revenge against Gojo for killing Geto because of their friendship even though Geto was their whole world, but they'd never forgive Kenjaku for taking his body). Considering that Gojo even went out of his way to say he wanted to kill Kenjaku / Geto on Christmas Eve again in order to give him a proper burial it's understandable how horrifying this update is.

This is also a series where the two main antagonists are parasites who take the bodies, and steal away all bodily autonomy from characters like Yuji and Megumi and then force them to do horrible things they would never do and bear witness to it, such as the slaughter at Shibuya, or the murder of Tsumiki at Megkuna's hands.

It's understandable how people had such a visceral reaction to this chapter. However, I think the fandom has a tendency to paint Gojo like he's the central victim of all of Jujutsu Society when he's both victim and perpetrator.

Gojo is someone who has only been regarded as the strongest his entire life, and been used as a tool to keep Jujutsu Society stable his entire life. Gojo is also someone who never tried to be anything other than the strongest, never tried to empathize with anyone other than those who were just as strong as he is, and who raised all of his students to be tools too.

To illustrate my point here's an incredibly similiar character from Tokyo Ghoul: Arima Kishou. They are so similiar that they're both white haired mentor characters to the protagonist, they're both the strogest in their respective worlds, and Gege straight up copied this section of panels from the Tokyo Ghoul Manga.

Arima is a breeding project, who was bred by the Washuu Family who mxies blood between humans and ghouls through a series of controlled marriages for the purpose of creating hybrid ghoul human children. Arima isn't the ideal hybrid they were looking for, but he was so ungodly talented he quickly rose to being the most powerful and well-respected investigator in the CCG.

However, this is how Arima reacts to the fact that his entire purpose in life was just to be a weapon to kill ghouls.

Arima loathes violence, he loathes being an investigator, he loathes himself most of all and designs his entire political revolution around him finally being killed by Kaneki - to punish himself and also to relieve himself of the burden of living a life where he was only meat to kill others.

Gojo on the other hand loves being the strongest, he lives for Jujutsu. Arima's death is tragic and nihilistic believing his life had no real worth because all he ever was was a weapon to hurt others, whereas Gojo died satisfied.

Arima's last battle against Kaneki is grim, silent, and tragic, he does everything he can to make Kaneki despise him, to force Kaneki to kill him by being the worst version of himself and when Kaneki still wants him to live he just slits his own throat because even if Kaneki forgives him he can't forgive himself. Gojo laughs his head off and has the time of his life fighting against Sukuna, and going out in a blaze of glory.

Gojo dies smiling, Arima dies finally breaking into tears after a life of pretedig to be cold and emotionless. Gojo's dying regret is 1) that Geto wasn't there to say goodbye to him, and 2) that he wasn't able to draw out all of Sukuna's strength. Arima's dying regret was all the pain and suffering he caused throughout his life and how he was never able to rise above his circumstances and be anything other than what he was born to be.

These two characters are incredibly similiar, they are both the strongest, and they were both made into tools by a dehumanizing system they were born into. However, their attitudes are entirely different. Gojo enjoys being strong, and yes part of it is that Gojo himself doesn't realize he's a victim or what society has groomed him into becoming, but the other part is just because it's an ego trip for him. Gojo doesn't see himself as the tragic victim his fandom makes him out to be.

If you were to transplant him into Tokyo Ghoul Gojo would be happily killing ghouls, and he would think killing ghouls is fun because he's the strongest and best at killing ghouls. This is the complexity that is Satoru Gojo, he has been dehumanized and put on a pedestal his ow life, but Gojo also enjoys being on that pedestal and won't ever step down from it willingly.

I'm not saying that Arima is a better person than Gojo. I think the fact that Gojo doesn't think of himself as a victim is tragic in its own right, because he lacks the self-awareness to actually grow and change as a person. In the end both Arima and Gojo believe they couldn't be anything better than what they were, and their only release is death which is just insanely sad to me because as long as the future exists people always have a chance to get better no matter who they are. To give up on the future, to see an early death as a good thing simply because you can't endure life any longer is one of the most hopeless things imaginable.

Gojo's not sad because he was born to be a tool exploited for society's benefit, he's sad because he was lonely. He doesn't even realize it's his own darn fault he's lonely, because not only has Shoko said that he's not alone she's always been right there, but this chapter we get a repeat of Gojo's students begging him to let them in and Gojo himself decided to draw that line between himself and others and thinking an enlightened, godlike being like himself can't possibly be understood.

All of this to say I think Gojo is the sole victim here, but he's the middle of a chain of of victimhood. I think ultimately the biggest victim here is Yuta, and yes I will not only play trauma olympics here I'm going to win.

If this chapter goes to show anything it's that Gojo has completely failed in his ideals of protecting the youth from the dehumanizing system of sorcerers that takes children and reduces them to cogs in a machine.

A lot of people criticize Jujutsu Kaisen for dropping basically all of its political elements and themes of reform in the second half after Shibuya, and while I understand the criticism I think Gege intentionally shifted away from politics because Gojo's political revolution was never going to succeed.

From the beginning Gojo's solution to reforming Jujutsu Society and it's habit of taking away the youth of children and raising them up instead as child soldiers is... to make stronger child soldiers.

This is Gojo's blindspot and it has always been Gojo's blindspot.

It's why Gojo is completely okay with someone like Mei Mei who at the best uses her brother as a human shield to get out of curse domains and has stolen his entire childhood away to make him own pet little shoulder, and at worst actively molests him.

It's why Gojo is stated in the databooks to have only taken an interest in Megumi and Yuta because they were strong.

Gojo understands that he's being exploited by Jujutsu Society, but doesn't understand you need to deconstruct unfair systems of power and exploitation in order to build something better. Gojo from the beginning only had one plan, and that was to replace the people at the top with his own allies who'd support his agenda. He just thought waiting for them to die out and the children to grow up was the more peaceful way of doing it.

Gojo's political revolution was doomed from the beginning and that's why we see him go back on his word this chapter and just slaughter everyone at the top. His choice of a new leader for Jujutsu Society is hardly better than the elders, the person who executed Gojo's teacher and tried to get all the children to kill Itadori early on. Good choice.

This is what Gojo said would happen though, if he just wiped everyone out at the top no real systemic change would occur because they'd just be replaced with someone who wasn't that differet. Gojo's just given up on the notion of lasting change out of pragmatism.

Which is why Gojo himself is not that different from the elders in the first place, not because he's a bad person but because he was shaped by that same society and he's the pinnacle of that society.

I think the thing is and this point often gets ignored - a lot of the choices the elders make are because of outdated traditions like choosing to oppress Maki and Toji just because they challenge the traditional notions of cursed energy.

However, some of the decisions they make are out of cold hard pragmatism. Gakuganji actually turned out to be right in his assassiation attempt against Yuji Itadori. If they had succesfully killed Yuji, then the massacre in Shibuya would have been prevented and likely Kenjaku's plans would have been pushed back. The elders didn't sentence Yuta to execution just to be cruel, or just because they're superstitious but because he's already had several incidents of nearly killing people because he can't control Rika.

It's easy to dismiss the Elders as evil because they're just faceless entities, but then we witness in this very same chapter the main characters making the same heartless decisions out of the same sense of pragmatism.

Gojo understands Jujutsu Society is flawed, but doesn't understand exactly why it's wrong. He doesn't raise his students to be independent free thinkers because then they might question him, he raises them to be very powerful because that's more pragmatic.

Here are the next generation of sorcerers who are going to bring about the change to Jujutsu Society that Gojo so desperately seeks.

Nobara Kugisaki: Dead

Hakari Kinji: His greatest ambition is to start a fight club

Yuji: Actively calls himself a mindless cog and just wants to kill whatever society points him at and tells him to kill.

Maki: Mass murderer.

Yuta: Just stole Gojo's body and said he had to become a monster i Gojo's place.

Megumi: Begging to be killed.

Inumaki: Tuna Mayo

Panda: Is a Panda

(Joke lovingly ripped off from @kaibutsushidousha)

I understand that fighting Sukuna takes precedence now, but do you think once the dust settles any of these characters are going to do anything to make lasting change?

Are we going to see anything for them at the end of the road other than a mountain of their fellow sorcerers corpses?

Gojo didn't nurture his students to grow into healthy adults, he raised them into stronger child soldiers and yes that's the pragmatic thing to do to help them survive in the Jujutsu World, but the elders make those decisions out of cold pragmatism as well.

MHA is also showing a story where the children are failing to learn from the previous generatio's mistakes, but it's far less frustrating to watch in JJK because it almost seems like that's the point?

Maki sacrificed Mai for the sake of becoming someone strong enough to reform the Zen'in Clan, only for her sister to die and Maki to slaughter the rest of her family failing in both her goals to reform her clan and protect Mai.

Yuji became the host of Sukuna in order to help others, because the total deaths of people in the world would go down if he ate all the fingers. Not only did that decision lead to the death of thousands in Shibuya, but he's even lost his role of being Sukuna's host to Megumi.

Yuta wanted to find a reason to live and a purpose in protecting his friends, and also wanted to pay back the man who saved him, not only is Yuta choosing to die in a way that breaks his friends heart he's also violating his beloved teacher's bodies.

There's a lot of arcs like this where characters fail in what they set out to accomplish, because like in most tragedies they don't try to grow as people they only care about getting stronger. It's the same choice over ad over again, a decision made of cold pragmatism that brings about their tragic ending.

I think it speaks to why systems like this perpetuate themselves, because it becomes so hard to hold onto your humanity that even trying gets you actively punished all the while people like Mei Mei crawl to the top. However, even if you throw your humanity away purely as an act of survival you're still helping perpetuate that system instead of fighting against it.

Anyway, that's enough hating on Gojo, onto the main event.

THE NEXT GOJO SATORU.

It's almost masterful how perfect the foreshadowing for this chapter's twist was. Yuta sharing a common ancestor in Sugawara with Gojo.

The irony that Kenjaku said out loud that someone like Yuta could never become Gojo, on top of the fact that Yuta's true power comes from detaining his loved ones soul. He's turning Gojo's body into a weapon the same way that he once used Rika's vengeful cursed spirit as one (he even channels her strength into a sword, the same way Maki uses the sword that Mai gave her life to create in battle).

The way that Yuji's first impression of Yuta from his powerful presence and cursed energy alone was calling him someone even creepier than Gojo.

The idea that Kenjaku has been trying to get his hands on the six-eyes for years, which is what led most of the fandom to theorize a possible Kenjaku return by stealing Gojo's corpse. The fact Tengen said the six eyes, himself and the star plasma vessel are all connected and one time Kenjaku killed the six-eyes from a child only for another one to appear right away.

Yuta being told he could never reach Sukuna's heights because he lacks the selfishness of a calamity.

Even Yuta trying to tell a nameless assassin Uro to be less selfish, only to be chastised by her for not understanding because it's impossible for someone as blessed as he is to know what it's like to not have a name, to not have a face, to not be someone important.

Now here Yuta is, not only is he making the selfish decision to use his teacher's body as a tool, he's also most likely in five minutes going to die in someone else's body, having sacrificed not only his name, and face, but also his personal values in order to become a monster.

This arc makes it seem like Yuta's gone against everything he's stood for, making his arc a complete circle from Jujutsu Kaisen Zero and that's kind of the point. Heck, even something as small as Yuta's decision to show mercy to Ishigori was rendered pointless because Sukuna immediately killed him soon after taking Megumi's body.

If Yuta's regressed in his character it's because Gojo's purpose was not to raise these children into healthy adults, but strong soldiers.

What happened to Yuta is a direct consequence of the way Gojo recruits these children, and the underhanded motivations he has behind those recruitments.

Yuta's decision to take Gojo's body is more tragic on Yuta's part then it is on Gojo's, because Yuta is a child, and Gojo is an adult.

It is sad that Gojo is all alone, that he's forced to become a tool to society, but Yuta shouldn't be the one who feels responsible for that. Gojo is supposed to protect Yuta, he's the adult, the teacher, the one with power and Yuta is the child. Yuta is not the one who should be making this speech because it is not Yuta's responsibility to do any of this - but Yuta thinks it is because he owes Gojo.

However, when Gojo recruits people it's with the unspoken implication that they now owe him. He wants them to feel indebted, because then they'll be easier to use as pieces in his intended political revolution. We see this blatantly with the way he recruited Megumi.

I'll make sure you and your sister don't starve but you owe me in the form of labor later on in your life.

Gojo saved Yuta because he thought Rika was powerful and the elders were foolish for executing a potentially powerful sorcerer for THE GREATER GOOD instead of teaching him to control his power out of fear. Gojo recruited Yuji, because someone with Sukuna's power and who could eat his fingers as a vessel had the makings to be an incredibly powerful sorcerer. Gojo didn't even think of Megumi until after Geto defected, and Gojo decided he needed to start making changes to Jujutsu Society.

While Gojo's pragmatism is understandable to a point it also poisons his more nobler intentions. Since Gojo expects payment in return when he sticks his neck out for people, because these children are assets first and children secod.

I think Gojo likes Yuta. I think he gets along with him well. Yuta clearly respects him as a mentor. He did in fact go to great lengths to save Yuta from execution. He was right that it was more ethical to teach Yuta to control his powers rather than execute him for the danger he might represet. He even gives Yuta emotional advice a couple of times.

However, if Yuta was just like a grade 4 sorcerer with no special talent I doubt Gojo would have blinked at his execution. He sees Yuta for his talent first, and his potential to become someone like him. If anythig there are clear comparisons to both Megumi and Yuta. They're both prodigies born with incredible techniques, but Yuta is a lot more receptive to Gojo's grooming than Megumi is who's too traumatized to function. Gojo's not just grooming Yuta into being a powerful sorcerer, but another version of himself.

So it's almost karmic that not only does Yuta basically turn his back on everything that makes Yuta himself (his love for people, his desire to live and be surrounded by others), he also does so by literally becoming Satoru Gojo and transplanting his brain into Gojo's body.

Because Yuta is despite possessing a similiar level of talent as far from Gojo as possible. Gojo is not well liked by his comrades, he's there because he's needed due to his power. Yuta on the other hand has everyone vehemently disagreeing with his backup plan in the event of Gojo's death because they don't want to lose him.

People need Gojo, they want Yuta because of the connections that Yuta has made with them and because they care about Yuta as a person. Gojo is someone who deliberately draws a line between himself and others because he believes the strongest can't be comprehended, Yuta only fights for the sake of being accepted by others because he needs their approval in order to live.

Yuta's now turned his back on those two things, his tendency to put his loved ones first, and his desire to live, both because he feels he owes Gojo.

This comes about because of two factors, number one Gojo helping him with the implication that this help means that Yuta owes him something which makes Yuta desperate to pay him back and therfore easy to mold, and number two Gojo's intentions to begin with to take Yuta and make another Gojo out of him. To make a successor who would carry on the same burdens that Gojo did.

Gojo succeeded one hundred percent in making his successor as opposed to Megumi who turned out to be too different from Gojo i the end. He took what make Yuta unique and ironed out all those wrinkles until he was left with someone willing to make the same inhumane, pragmatic decisions that Gojo was.

I think it's tragic that as much as Gojo wanted to make things better for the next generation, he basically led Yuta down the same road he did, to make the same choice to throw his humanity away along with all of his loved ones. Especially since Yuta started out in such a different place.

Yuta has learned to become selfish like Gojo, because selfishness is apparently now the only way to get by in this world. A cycle that has been started with the elders, and continued on with Gojo, remains unbroken as Yuta becomes just another link in the chain. Yuta's likely going to die in a stranger's body, leaving all of his friends behind to mourn him, but even if he lives what life will that be exactly?

It speaks to the arcs in Jujutsu Kaisen that they're all kind of circles at this point. We have this heartwarming goodbye of Rika telling Yuta to live, and Yuta's whole arc was to learn to try to live without Rika and make new friends, but it's now likely goig to end with Yuta dying a year after Rika finally moved on.

Choso was told to try living on as a human and Yuki even sacrificed her life to give him the opportuity to escape the fight, and he only lived a month longer to die right in front of Yuji's eyes.

Gojo put all of his hope in the next generation, but now not only did he put all the power in Gakuganji's hands but he ended up dying a year after Geto did just like Yuta will likely die a year after Rika.

I think these character arcs are turning out to be circles because the characters aren't actually doing anything to try to break the cycles that they're trapped inside of - they're only trying to get stronger. Which is why they end up resembling the actions of the villains, Yuji becoming more curselike, Yuta stealing Gojo's body the way Kenjaku did with Geto's.

It reminds me of a quote from Critical Role that I absolutely adore.

“I have just taken an audience with the Raven Queen who has snuffed any hope of my redemption, for which I am truly grateful. With new clarity, I can finally see my life as a series of compounding, poor choices.” Vax winces. “There was nothing I could’ve done to save my family, yet I still sold my soul in search of vengeance. Later I allowed Ripley to leave, knowing full well she was a greater threat to the world than the Briarwoods would ever be. I traded the world’s safety for the belief that I could murder my way to peace; that if I could be a greater horror, it would bring my family back. And once this lie was shattered I scrambled to find asolution, to make a deal, to undo my mistakes and balance the scales. I nowunderstand that there are no scales, there is no redemption, and no ledger that judges me good or evil. I am free to simply be myself and live with the terrible mistakes I’ve made."

Especially this sentence: I believed I could murder my way to peace; that if I could be a greater horror, it would bring my family back.

Maki is a character that I have not found all that interesting in a while because she committed such a huge mass murder, only for it to have no consequences in the narrative and never be mentioned again, but this chapter she suddenly became an interesting character again.

Maki who lost everything but gained strength, doesn't seem all that bothered by the loss. People compare Megumi's reaction to losing Tsumiki to Maki's reaction to losing Mai, but Megumi's reaction is much more interesting because it's always better to see a character be weak and fall apart then to be strong and power through things.

However, maybe the reason Maki hasn't experienced any grief at all towards Mai and has instead delighted in her newfound strength and independence is because of this, because she still had Yuta.

Maki is a character who's not really said anything other than exposition the past like twenty chapters, but now she's the most vocally against Yuta sacrificing himself for the greater good. Yet this is against Maki's own ideology of doing everything you can to be stronger, to win. Maki was always about individualism, not about friendship or the bonds between others, she severed her own bonds to be free. Yet, she can't stand to see Yuta do the same thing as her, to become more like her.

This might be the consequence of Maki's continued choice to value freedom and the power to achieve that freedom over all else. Now, the one time Yuta is trying to throw away the same things that she threw away she can't say anything meaningful or convince him to stop him.

Which reminds painfully of this chapter as well.

Mai killing herself in order to free Maki from cursed energy is an obvious parallel to Sukuna devouring his own twin in the womb, but the difference is in this situation Maki didn't want Mai to go, she begged her not to. However, just like with Yuta there was nothing Maki could ahve said or done by that point to convince Mai to stay. Maki has always chosen power over her sister, she's always abandoned Mai, so what exactly can she say to convince her that she cares more about Mai more? That her dream of defeating the Zen'in and having revenge against them isn't worth the price if it comes at the sacrifice of Mai?

Maki didn't want to abandon Mai, or for Mai to sacrifice herself, but tragically her every action indicated otherwise. It all comes down to this: I believed I could murder my way to peace; that if I could be a greater horror, it would bring my family back.

Maki seems to have achieved peace by murdering the Zen'in, but we see the same kind of circular arc that we have for Yuta.

Maki gave up on everything for strength, but Maki's not strong enough to finish Sukuna then and there, forcing Yuta to sacrifice himself the same way Mai did.

Maki can't talk Yuta out of making that sacrifice, or come up with any convincing argument with why he shouldn't because of all the choices she's made before this.

Maki chose to murder her way to peace, but it came at the cost of her humanity and growth and thus she's faced again with the exact same situation with Mai and she's forced to watch her heart be taken from her again.

It goes to show that we think these characters are getting stronger but they're actually sacrificing something vitally important.

These characters are just going to keep going around in circles and you have to wonder just when is it going to stop?

[divorceblogger]

I think the most difficult thing that armand struggles to come to terms with (re: his feelings about marius) is very much that marius seemingly steps into his life and performs actions that are, at a superficial glance, meant to be liberatory or empowering but are unequivocally very predatory if you start to dig into the meat of their relationship.

Marius rescues armand from starvation and sexual slavery at a point in his life when armand is actively entertaining thoughts of suicide. marius sweeps in, purchases him, and transfers him from abhorrent conditions of existence to a life of material comfort, although it’s not really a safe one, but at this point armand doesn’t necessarily have the ability to have a critical dialogue about safety with himself because he’s so glad to be rescued from slavery that he ascribes divinity to marius. he also receives an allowance and he’s taught swordplay. he’s taught swordplay. but what kind of harm could a child ever cause to a 1500 year old vampire?

And the material reality is that marius is not really interested in empowering armand at all. he actively fosters an unhealthy codependency between them, he withholds information about his nature, he performs sexual acts on him even when armand doesn’t necessarily comprehend that these acts are sexual in nature. he also strategises methods that he reasons are supposed to sexually liberate armand but these instances just contribute to the overall conversation on how he grooms him. armand is 15 years old when marius sends him out to brothels “to learn how to couple properly”. do you remember that he was supposed to be forced into prostitution. marius now offers him the illusion of sexual power by allowing him to experience sexual pleasure instead of offering it to predatory customers instead. but armand also says that he doesn’t enjoy the experiences at the brothels because he craves sexual relations with marius solely, to a point where he feels resentful about being asked to participate in these acts even when he derives sexual pleasure from them. he endures the experiences because his master gives him no other choice, but it’s also in these brothels that he discovers that sex doesn’t have to be associated with pain as it often tends to be with marius.

When he returns ‘home’ from the brothels he’s perceptive enough to understand that marius really sent him to receive a sexual education on marius’s behalf and attempts to replicate these acts on him. he unconsciously takes up the role of a sex worker, but again he’s a child, and it’s horrifying that he thinks he’s harassing marius by initiating sexual relations with him. it’s also not very surprising that when he does display sexual interest in other people marius emotionally shuts him off (because these experiences were never instituted with armand’s interest in mind) and these moments shape up to be very harrowing experiences for armand - he’s been taught to crave marius’s affection and never do anything that might displease him. armand often has to beg his way back into marius’s good graces and allow himself to be subjected to corporal punishment to achieve this. it’s terrifying that one of the first ideas the boys in the villa convey to armand despite the language barrier is that their master will never hurt him.

And the alarming fact about armand’s transformation is that vampirism serves to just further reinforce this abuse, even though, once again, it might seem like an empowering act. his newly acquired powers don’t change his reality - he’s still under marius’s control the whole time. he’s also further isolated from boys his age who share his interests, and his nights with marius are insular and suffocating. the corporal punishments continue. they’re now adjusted to account for his vampirism. “usual brain jarring blow” is a term floated in the book. marius calls armand’s coffin a “crib”. he very seriously asks armand if he’s ever been cruel to him soon after he transforms him. armand’s codependency with marius is in fact further reinforced by the vampiric transformation that marius carries out. so much of armand’s initiation into vampirsm is once again rooted in sexual instruction, once again evoking patterns of behaviour that are associated with grooming. it’s very in-character for marius to teach him the fundamental principles of seducing his victims before killing them. he also advices him to develop emotionally frigid relationships and never reveal his true self to the people he cares for, further establishing marius as the most significant figure in his life, as the person he constructs his entire identity around. how was he ever supposed to turn out well-adjusted?

[natsgrave]

THE SMALLEST WOMAN WHO EVER LIVED | natasha romanoff

and i don't miss what we had, but could someone give a message to the smallest woman who ever lived? i do not give permission for my work to be copied or translated on other sites. plagiarism is a crime!! masterlist whispers of heartache m.list

The night was dark, and the moon hung low in the sky, casting an eerie glow over the cityscape. Shadows danced across the abandoned warehouse where she had taken refuge, a place forgotten by time and society. The woman sat in a corner, her breath coming in ragged gasps, her body trembling from exhaustion and fear. Her name was Y/N, but she hadn't been called that in years. To HYDRA, she was known only as Subject 47.

For years, Y/N had been their pawn, subjected to torturous experiments designed to unlock her latent powers. She had been forced to use those powers in ways she could never have imagined, becoming a weapon in HYDRA's arsenal. But she had endured, biding her time, waiting for the moment when she could break free. That moment had come, and now she was on the run, trying to stay one step ahead of the organization that had taken everything from her.

The memories of her escape were still fresh in her mind: the alarms blaring, the shouts of the guards, the searing pain of the injuries she had sustained. But she had made it out, and that was all that mattered. She had to keep moving, had to stay hidden. She couldn't afford to be found, not now.

As she sat in the darkness, her thoughts drifted back to the years of torment she had endured. She remembered the faces of the scientists who had experimented on her, the cold, clinical way they had treated her, as if she were nothing more than a specimen. She remembered the pain, the isolation, the despair. But most of all, she remembered the moments when she had been forced to use her powers to harm others, to carry out HYDRA's will. Those memories haunted her, gnawing at her conscience.

She knew she couldn't go back to being the person she once was. That person was gone, replaced by someone who had been forged in fire and darkness. But she also knew she couldn't let HYDRA win. She had to survive, no matter the cost.

Y/N's powers were formidable. She had the ability to manipulate energy, to create devastating blasts of force that could level buildings. She could also control minds, bending others to her will. These abilities had made her a valuable asset to HYDRA, but they were also a constant reminder of the monster she had become.

She had tried to lay low, to stay out of sight. But it was difficult. Her powers were unpredictable, and sometimes they manifested in ways she couldn't control. And then there was the constant need for resources. Food, money, shelter— these were things she couldn't simply conjure out of thin air. She had turned to a life of crime, using her powers to rob, to steal, to survive. It was a dark path, but it was the only one she knew.

One night, as she was preparing to leave the warehouse and find another place to hide, she heard a noise. Her heart raced as she turned, her powers at the ready. A figure emerged from the shadows, a woman with a determined look in her eyes.

"Who are you?" she demanded, her voice cold and wary. "How did you find me?"

The woman raised her hands in a gesture of peace. "My name is Natasha," she said calmly. "I'm not here to hurt you. I just want to talk."

"Talk?" Y/N scoffed. "I don't have time for talking. If you're HYDRA, you won't leave here alive."

"I'm not HYDRA," Natasha assured her. "I know what they did to you. I know what you're capable of. I'm here to help."

Y/N narrowed her eyes, her suspicion evident. "Why should I trust you?"

"Because I've been where you are," Natasha replied, her voice softening. "I know what it's like to be used, to be turned into something you're not. But you don't have to keep living this way. There are people who can help you, who can help you control your powers, who can give you a chance at a new life."

Y/N's resolve wavered. She wanted to believe her, but trust was a luxury she couldn't afford. "How do I know you're not lying?"

Natasha took a step closer, her eyes filled with sincerity. "You don't. But you have a choice. You can keep running, keep hiding, keep doing things you hate. Or you can take a chance, and maybe— just maybe— find a way out of this darkness."

Y/N stared at Natasha, her mind racing. She had spent so long fighting, so long surviving. The idea of something better, something different, was almost too much to hope for. But as she looked into Natasha's eyes, she saw something she hadn't seen in a long time: hope.

"Alright," she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper. "I'll listen. But if this is a trap, if you're lying to me…"

"I'm not," Natasha interrupted gently. "I promise you, you're not alone anymore."

And for the first time in years, Y/N allowed herself to believe that maybe, just maybe, there was a way out of the darkness after all.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

Over the next few weeks, Y/N and Natasha grew closer. The walls Y/N had built around herself slowly began to crumble as Natasha showed her a different way to live, a way that didn't involve fear and isolation. They spent their days training, honing Y/N's powers with precision and control, and their evenings talking, sharing stories of their pasts.

One evening, they sat on the rooftop of an old building, the city lights twinkling below them. The air was cool, and a gentle breeze rustled their hair. Y/N sat on the edge of the rooftop, her legs dangling over the side as she stared out at the city lights. The memory she was about to share was one she had buried deep within herself, a wound that had never fully healed. But Natasha's presence, her understanding, gave Y/N the courage to finally let it out.

"It was one of the worst days," Y/N began, her voice barely above a whisper. Natasha's eyes gazed into her softly, curious about what she was about to share. "I had been with HYDRA for a few years by then. They had already started experimenting on me, trying to unlock my powers. I was in so much pain, all the time. But this day… this day was different."

Natasha sat beside her, listening intently, her eyes filled with empathy.

"They had me in this lab," Y/N continued, her gaze distant as she relived the memory. "It was cold, sterile. The walls were lined with equipment, and there were a dozen scientists there, all watching me like I was some kind of animal. They strapped me to a table, injected me with something. It burned, like fire coursing through my veins. I screamed, but they didn't care. They just watched, taking notes."

Y/N paused, her hands trembling as she clenched them into fists. Natasha reached out, gently placing a hand on her arm, grounding her.

"I could feel my powers surging," she said, her voice shaking. "It was like they had torn down a dam inside me, and the energy was flooding out. I couldn't control it. I couldn't stop it. They had these targets set up, and they told me to destroy them. I didn't want to, but the pain… it was unbearable. So I did. I blasted them apart, one after another."

Tears welled up in Y/N's eyes, but she forced herself to continue. "Then they brought in… people. Prisoners, they said. Enemies of HYDRA. They wanted me to use my powers on them. I refused. I begged them to stop, but they just laughed. One of the scientists, Dr. Zola, he was the worst. He looked at me with such contempt. He told me that if I didn't do as they asked, they would make the pain even worse."

Natasha's grip on Y/N's arm tightened, a silent offer of support.

"So I did it," Y/N whispered, the tears now streaming down her face. "I used my powers on those people. I saw the fear in their eyes, heard their screams. I tried to hold back, to minimize the damage, but it was no use. I could see what I was doing to them, the horror and pain I was causing. And all the while, Dr. Zola was there, taking notes, completely detached from the suffering."

Y/N's voice broke, and she covered her face with her hands, sobbing. Natasha pulled her into a hug, holding her tightly as she cried.

"It wasn't your fault," Natasha murmured softly. "They forced you. You were a victim, Y/N, just like those people."

Y/N shook her head, the guilt and shame overwhelming her. "I still see their faces, Natasha. Every night, the same nightmare. I can never forget what I did."

"You were put in an impossible situation," Natasha said firmly, pulling back to look Y/N in the eyes. "HYDRA did that to you, not the real you. The real you is the person sitting here with me, the person who has the strength to fight back, to survive. You are not defined by what they made you do."

Y/N nodded, though the pain was still raw. "I want to believe that. I really do. But it's hard."

"I know it is," Natasha replied, her voice gentle. "But you're not alone anymore. We'll get through this together. We'll find a way to make things right, to move forward."

Y/N took a deep breath, the weight of her past still heavy on her shoulders, but there was a glimmer of hope in her heart. With Natasha by her side, she felt a strength she hadn't known in years.

"Thank you, Natasha," she said quietly. "For listening. For being here."

"Always," Natasha replied, a small, reassuring smile on her lips. "We'll face this together, Y/N. One step at a time."

And as the night stretched on, they sat together on the rooftop, two kindred spirits bound by their pasts but looking forward to a future they could shape with their own hands.

"You know," Y/N said, her eyes fixed on the horizon, "I've never told anyone that before. Not even the other subjects."

Natasha nodded, her expression thoughtful. "It takes a lot of courage to share something like that. I'm honored you trust me."

Y/N glanced at her, a small smile playing on her lips. "You've given me a reason to trust again. I never thought I'd feel that way after everything that's happened."

They sat in comfortable silence for a while, the weight of their shared experiences hanging in the air. But a nagging thought had been bothering Y/N for days, and she knew she had to address it.

"Natasha," she began hesitantly, "there's something I need to ask you."

Natasha turned to her, her expression open and encouraging. "Anything, Y/N. What is it?"

Y/N took a deep breath, trying to steady her nerves. "How did you find me? I mean, really find me. I've been running for so long, staying off the grid. It doesn't make sense."

Natasha's face grew serious, and she looked down at her hands for a moment before meeting Y/N's gaze. "I understand why you're curious. The truth is, I was able to find you because of my past. You see, I wasn't always… on the side of the angels."

Y/N's brow furrowed in confusion. "What do you mean?"

Natasha sighed, her eyes distant as she delved into her memories. "I was trained by a group called the Red Room. It's an organization that turns young girls into assassins, into weapons. They took me when I was just a child and molded me into what they wanted. I was one of their best."

Y/N listened intently, her heart aching at the pain in Natasha's voice. "That sounds… horrible. I'm so sorry, Natasha."

Natasha shook her head. "It's in the past. But the skills they taught me, the connections I made— they're how I was able to track you down. I recognized the signs of someone trying to hide, because I've been there myself."

Y/N's eyes widened in realization. "So you used your training to find me?"

Natasha nodded. "Yes. But not to hurt you. To help you. I saw a kindred spirit in you, someone who had been used and discarded. I wanted to give you a chance to break free, to find your own path."

Y/N's emotions swirled within her. "Thank you, Natasha. I don't know what to say."

"You don't have to say anything," Natasha replied, her voice gentle. "Just know that we can face our pasts together and create a better future."

As the weeks turned into months, their bond grew stronger. They trained together, pushing each other to their limits, and spent their downtime sharing stories and dreams. Y/N found herself opening up more and more, revealing details about her life before HYDRA, her hopes and fears. Natasha, in turn, shared her own experiences, the pain and triumphs that had shaped her into who she was.

One evening, after a particularly grueling training session, they sat on the rooftop again, watching the sunset. Y/N turned to Natasha, her heart full of gratitude and something she hadn't felt in a long time.

"Natasha," she said softly, "thank you for everything. You've given me a reason to believe in myself again."

Natasha smiled, a warmth in her eyes that made Y/N's heart swell. "You've always had that strength, Y/N. You just needed someone to remind you of it."

And in that moment, surrounded by the fading light of the day, Y/N knew that she had found not just a friend, but a kindred spirit. Someone who understood her pain, her struggles, and her dreams. Together, they would face whatever challenges lay ahead, and for the first time in years, Y/N felt truly free.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

Months and months passed, and Y/N and Natasha became inseparable. Natasha taught Y/N everything from combat techniques to espionage tactics, sharing stories of her own childhood in the Red Room and even recounting funny anecdotes that brought laughter back into Y/N's life. The once distant and cautious Y/N now felt a warmth she hadn't experienced in years.

Y/N sat on the edge of her bed one night, staring at the ceiling, her mind filled with thoughts of Natasha. Every day, she found herself falling deeper in love with the woman who had not only saved her but also given her a reason to live again. Natasha's strength, compassion, and unwavering support had become a beacon in Y/N's life, guiding her through the darkness.

But with those feelings came fear. Y/N was terrified that if she confessed her love, it might push Natasha away. Despite Natasha being a trained assassin with an uncanny ability to read people, Y/N had managed to keep her feelings hidden. She didn't want to risk losing the one person who meant everything to her.

One afternoon, they were training in an abandoned gym they had discovered. The space was perfect for their needs— isolated, spacious, and filled with old equipment that they could use for their rigorous routines. As they sparred, Y/N couldn't help but marvel at Natasha's agility and skill. Even after months of training, Natasha still amazed her with her prowess.

"You're getting better every day," Natasha said, wiping sweat from her brow as they took a break. "I'm proud of you, Y/N."

Y/N smiled, her heart swelling with warmth. "I have a great teacher."

Natasha chuckled, but there was a hint of seriousness in her eyes. "It's not just about the training. It's about finding yourself, trusting yourself. And you're doing that."

Y/N nodded, feeling a rush of gratitude. "Thank you, Natasha. For everything."

Natasha's expression softened. "You don't have to thank me. We're in this together."

As they sat on the gym floor, catching their breath, Natasha began to share another story from her past, this time about a mission that had gone hilariously wrong. Y/N laughed, feeling the tension in her chest ease as the sound of Natasha's laughter filled the room.

"You should have seen the look on his face when the cat jumped out of the box instead of the intel we were expecting." Natasha said, grinning. Avoiding to mention any name.

Y/N shook her head, still laughing. "I wish I could have been there."

Natasha's smile faded slightly, replaced by a thoughtful look. "You know, Y/N, I don't think I've ever felt this close to anyone before. It's… different."

Y/N's heart skipped a beat, and she looked down, trying to hide the blush creeping up her cheeks. "Yeah, it's different for me too."

They sat in silence for a moment, the weight of unspoken feelings hanging in the air. Y/N wanted so desperately to tell Natasha how she felt, but the fear held her back.

One evening, they decided to take a break from training and relax on the rooftop of their safe house. The night was clear, and the stars were scattered across the sky like diamonds. They lay on their backs, side by side, staring up at the cosmos.

"Do you ever wonder what it would be like to have a normal life?" Y/N asked softly.

Natasha sighed. "Sometimes. But I think we make our own normal, don't you? Whatever that looks like."

Y/N turned her head to look at Natasha, her heart aching with unspoken words. "I think you're right."

Natasha met her gaze, her eyes searching Y/N's. "Y/N, is there something you want to tell me?"

Y/N's breath caught in her throat. The moment had come, and she felt both terrified and exhilarated. "I… Natasha, I—"

Before she could finish, a loud noise from the street below startled them both. They sat up quickly, their training kicking in as they scanned the area for potential threats. After a few tense moments, they realized it was just a group of teenagers making noise.

Natasha sighed in relief, then looked at Y/N with a small smile. "I guess we'll have to save the deep conversations for another time."

Y/N nodded, her heart still pounding. "Yeah, another time."

As they settled back down, Y/N felt a mix of disappointment and relief. The moment had passed, but the feelings remained. She knew she couldn't keep them hidden forever, but for now, she was content to cherish the bond they had, hoping that one day she would find the courage to tell Natasha how deeply she cared for her.

The night had settled into a comfortable stillness, the kind that Y/N had come to appreciate in her new life with Natasha. They had spent the evening on the rooftop, their bond growing even stronger with every shared story and laugh. But the moment of potential confession had been interrupted, leaving Y/N with a mix of emotions that she couldn't quite sort through.

"Hey, I'm going to run to the store to grab a few things," Natasha said suddenly, breaking the comfortable silence. "Do you need anything?"

Y/N shook her head, offering a warm smile. "No, I'm good. Just hurry back."

Natasha grinned. "Won't be long."

As the door closed behind Natasha, Y/N found herself alone in the quiet apartment. She tried to shake off the lingering thoughts of her unspoken feelings, instead focusing on the simple task of tidying up their training equipment, replaying the evening's conversation in her mind, wondering how she might finally confess her feelings to Natasha. She was just about to sit down and relax when she heard the door creak open again.

"Natasha, that was quick." she began, turning around with a smile. But her words died on her lips as she took in the sight before her.

Instead of Natasha, a group of several figures stood in the doorway, none of whom were Natasha. Y/N's heart began to race.

Steve Rogers, Captain America, stepped forward. His expression was firm but not unkind. "Y/N, we need you to come with us."

Y/N's heart raced, confusion and fear flooding her mind. "How did you find me? Who are you?"

Clint Barton, Hawkeye, responded calmly, "We're the Avengers. We need you to come peacefully. We don't want to hurt you."

But Y/N shook her head, taking a step back. "I'm not going anywhere with you."

Tony Stark, Iron Man, sighed. "We were hoping it wouldn't come to this."

"Y/N, please," Captain America urged, taking a step forward. "We don't want to fight you."

Without further warning, Y/N felt a surge of adrenaline. She couldn't let them take her. She had fought too hard, endured too much, to be captured now. Her powers, usually kept in check, surged uncontrollably as her fear and anger took over.

The energy crackling around her as she prepared for a confrontation. "I'm not leaving without a fight."

The battle began with a blur of movement. Y/N unleashed a blast of energy that sent Captain America flying backward, his shield barely absorbing the impact. Iron Man's repulsors fired in response, but Y/N dodged with agility, her movements a blur. Thor swung Mjolnir, but Y/N countered with a force field that deflected the mighty hammer.

Iron Man flew into the air, attempting to get a better angle for his attack. "She's fast. We need to contain her!"

Y/N responded by sending a wave of energy that disrupted Iron Man's flight, causing him to crash into a wall. He recovered quickly, his suit's systems recalibrating, but the momentary distraction gave Y/N the upper hand.

Captain America threw his shield, aiming for Y/N's legs to incapacitate her, but she leaped into the air, avoiding the strike and landing a powerful kick to his chest. He stumbled back but quickly regained his footing, his determination unwavering.

Thor charged at Y/N, lightning crackling around him. He swung Mjolnir with all his might, but Y/N created a barrier that absorbed the impact. She pushed back with a surge of energy, sending Thor skidding across the floor.

Clint shot an arrow aimed at disarming Y/N, but she deflected it with a wave of energy. Steve charged forward, his shield raised, but Y/N countered with a blast of force that once again, sent him skidding backward.

Tony, in his Iron Man suit, launched a series of repulsor blasts. Y/N dodged them with agility honed from months of training with Natasha. She retaliated with a powerful blast that knocked Tony off balance, sending him crashing into a wall.

Thor entered the fray, his hammer Mjolnir crackling with electricity. "Stay your hand, mortal! We mean you no harm!"

But Y/N was beyond reasoning. She unleashed a torrent of energy, attempting to fend off the god of thunder. The two clashed in a dazzling display of power, the air around them crackling with raw force.

As the battle raged on, Y/N's control over her powers slipped. She sent waves of destructive energy in all directions, causing the building to shake and debris to fall. The Avengers fought to contain her without causing her harm, but Y/N's desperation made her unpredictable.

In the midst of the chaos, Y/N caught sight of Natasha standing at the edge of the room, a look of pained determination on her face. Y/N's heart ached with a mix of relief and confusion. She was about to call out to Natasha, to tell her to run, when she saw Natasha raise her wrist, the Widow Bites charging with electricity.

"Natasha, no—" Y/N's words were cut off as the electric shock hit her. Pain surged through her body, and she collapsed to the ground, gasping for breath. She fell to her knees, her vision blurring as she tried to process the betrayal.

Confusion, hurt, and betrayal were etched across Y/N's face as she looked up at Natasha. "Why?" she whispered, her voice barely audible over the sounds of the battle.

Natasha's eyes met Y/N's, a silent apology evident in their depths. "Y/N, please. Just listen—"

Before Natasha could finish, Tony approached Y/N cautiously, his helmet retracting to reveal his concerned face. "I'm sorry about this." he said softly, before administering a knockout shot that sent Y/N into unconsciousness.

The last thing Y/N saw was Natasha's face, torn between duty and the bond they had shared. As darkness enveloped her, Y/N's mind swirled with unanswered questions and a profound sense of betrayal.

When Y/N woke up, she found herself in a sterile, secure room, her hands restrained. The cold metal of the restraints bit into her skin, a harsh reminder of her new reality. The stark whiteness of the walls and the faint hum of machinery around her brought back a flood of memories she had desperately tried to bury. Her hands were restrained, the cold metal digging into her wrists, making escape impossible. Panic set in, and her mind raced as she tried to piece together the events that had led her here. The fight with the Avengers, Natasha's betrayal— it all felt like a nightmare she couldn't wake up from.

Memories from her time in HYDRA began to resurface, unbidden and relentless. She could almost feel the cold, damp walls of the cells they kept her in, hear the echo of her own screams as they experimented on her, pushing her to the brink of insanity. The pain had been unbearable, but the psychological torment was even worse. They had stripped her of her humanity, treating her like a lab rat, an object to be used and discarded.

She remembered the countless nights spent in isolation, the darkness her only companion. The silence was oppressive, broken only by the occasional distant scream of another unfortunate soul. Y/N had learned to dread the sound of approaching footsteps, knowing it meant another round of torture or experiments. They had tried to break her, to mold her into their perfect weapon, and for a time, they had succeeded.

She could still see the faces of the scientists, their expressions cold and detached as they inflicted unimaginable pain on her. She had begged for mercy, for death, but they had only laughed, their eyes void of any empathy. The experiments had been brutal, designed to push her powers to their limits, often leaving her on the brink of death. They had injected her with unknown substances, subjected her to electric shocks, and forced her to endure endless physical and mental trials.

Her mind drifted to the times when she had been restrained, much like she was now, unable to move or defend herself. She could feel the tightness of the straps, the helplessness that had consumed her as she lay there, vulnerable and exposed. The scientists would talk about her as if she wasn't even there, discussing their next steps in cold, clinical terms. They had stripped her of her identity, reducing her to a mere experiment number.

The fear and anger she had felt during those years were now mingling with the sense of betrayal and hurt she felt towards Natasha. The two emotions intertwined, creating a storm of confusion and pain within her. She had thought she had found a semblance of peace, a way to move forward from her past, but now it all seemed to be crashing down around her.

Y/N's mind shifted to the happier memories she had shared with Natasha, the woman who had seemed to be her savior, her light in the darkness. The way Natasha had smiled at her, the sound of her laughter, the warmth of her touch— all of it felt like a cruel joke now.

How could someone who had meant so much to her be the same person who had deceived her so completely?

She remembered the nights spent talking with Natasha, sharing their deepest fears and dreams. Natasha had made her feel safe, cherished even, something she had never experienced before. The bond they had formed had been real, or so she had thought. The betrayal cut deeper because of the trust she had placed in Natasha, a trust that had been shattered in an instant.

The memories of their time together played in her mind like a cruel montage. Training sessions where Natasha had pushed her to be better, moments of laughter and camaraderie, the quiet evenings where they had simply enjoyed each other's presence. Y/N had opened up to Natasha in ways she had never done with anyone else, revealing parts of herself she had kept hidden for so long.

But now, all those memories felt tainted. She couldn't shake the image of Natasha standing there with the Avengers, the look of determination on her face as she shot Y/N with her Widow's Bite. The physical pain had been nothing compared to the emotional agony of realizing that the one person she had trusted had been sent to betray her.

Y/N's thoughts circled back to her time in HYDRA, the endless cycle of pain and hopelessness. She had endured so much, fought so hard to survive, only to be betrayed by the one person who had given her a reason to keep fighting. The feelings of helplessness and despair were overwhelming, threatening to consume her once more.

She could feel tears welling up, but she refused to let them fall. She had cried enough during her time in HYDRA, and she had vowed never to let herself be that vulnerable again. But the pain of Natasha's betrayal was too much to bear, reopening old wounds that had never truly healed.

Y/N closed her eyes, trying to shut out the memories, but they came flooding back with even greater intensity. The faces of the scientists, the cold, clinical environment, the pain, the screams— it all felt too real, too immediate. She had spent so long trying to bury those memories, to move past them, but now they were resurfacing with a vengeance.

She thought about the other subjects in HYDRA, the ones who hadn't survived. She could still hear their cries for help, their pleas for mercy. She had been one of the few to make it out alive, but at what cost? The memories of those who had perished haunted her, a constant reminder of the horrors she had endured.

Y/N tried to focus on her breathing, to calm herself, but it was a losing battle. The memories were too strong, too overwhelming. She felt like she was back in those cells, trapped and helpless, with no way out. The room she was in now felt eerily similar, the restraints on her wrists a cruel echo of her past.

The memories of Natasha brought a new wave of pain. She had thought she could trust her, had believed in the bond they had shared. But now, it felt like all of that had been a lie. Natasha's betrayal was a knife to her heart, twisting with every recollection of their time together.

Y/N remembered the times Natasha had held her, comforting her during moments of weakness. She had felt safe in Natasha's arms, believing that she had found someone who truly cared about her. But now, that sense of safety was shattered, replaced by a void of distrust and heartbreak.

She tried to reconcile the Natasha she had come to love with the woman who had betrayed her. It was impossible. The two images clashed in her mind, creating a whirlwind of confusion and pain. She had fallen in love with Natasha, believing in the goodness she saw in her, but now she couldn't tell what had been real and what had been a façade.

The tears she had been holding back finally began to fall. The memories, the pain, the betrayal— it was all too much. She felt like she was drowning, unable to breathe, unable to escape the torment of her past and the heartbreak of the present.

Y/N's mind was a battleground, the memories of HYDRA and her time with Natasha colliding in a cacophony of emotions. She felt the weight of her past pressing down on her, the sense of hopelessness creeping back in. The fight to survive had taken everything she had, and now it felt like she had nothing left to give.

As she sat there, restrained and helpless, Y/N's thoughts drifted to the future. She didn't know what lay ahead, whether she would ever be able to trust again, whether she could find a way to heal from the betrayal. But one thing was certain— she would never forget what she had been through, and she would never forgive Natasha for what she had done.

The pain of betrayal was a wound that would take a long time to heal, if it ever did. But Y/N knew she had to keep fighting, to keep pushing forward, even if it felt impossible. She had survived HYDRA, she had endured unimaginable pain, and she would find a way to survive this too.

The memories of her time in HYDRA, the torment, the helplessness— they were a part of her, but they didn't define her. She was stronger than that, stronger than the pain and the betrayal. And as she sat there, tears streaming down her face, Y/N made a silent vow to herself. She would find a way to move past this, to find her strength again, and to never let anyone break her the way HYDRA had tried to.

With that thought, Y/N closed her eyes, trying to find some semblance of peace amidst the chaos of her mind. The road ahead was uncertain, and the pain was still raw, but she was determined to keep fighting. For herself, for her future, and for the chance to prove that she was more than the sum of her past traumas.

Her closed eyes instantly shot opened when the door of the room opened, and Natasha walked in, clad in her black widow suit. Her expression was a mix of concern and determination. "Y/N, how are you feeling?" she asked, her voice soft.

What do you think? She wanted to spat but instead, Y/N sat in silence, her gaze fixed on the floor. She couldn't bring herself to look at Natasha. The betrayal cut too deep, and the words she wanted to say were lodged in her throat.

Natasha took a step closer, her eyes pleading. "Please, Y/N, talk to me."

After a long, tense silence, Y/N finally looked up, her eyes filled with pain and anger. "Why?" she asked, her voice trembling. "How could you do this, Natasha? After everything we've been through, everything you made me believe? Was any of it true?"

Natasha's face crumpled with guilt and sorrow. "I… I didn't want it to happen like this. I never wanted to hurt you."

"Then why?" Y/N demanded, her voice rising. "Why did you lie to me? Why did you pretend to care?"

Natasha struggled to find the right words, but they seemed to elude her. "It was my mission. But that doesn't mean what we had wasn't real. It was real, it was real to me!"

Y/N scoffed, bitterness lacing her voice. "Real? You were sent by someone who wanted me dead! Now tell me, Natasha, did you sleep with a gun underneath our bed?"

Natasha's eyes widened, and she shook her head vehemently. "No, Y/N. I never wanted to hurt you. I wanted to protect you."

"Protect me?" Y/N's voice was filled with incredulity. "By lying to me? By using me?"

Natasha took a deep breath, her own eyes filling with tears. "I did what I had to do. But my feelings for you were real. They still are."

Y/N's voice was a whisper now, raw with emotion. "I would have died for your sins, Natasha."

The words hung in the air, heavy and damning. Natasha was stunned, her mind racing to process the depth of Y/N's pain.

Y/N continued, her voice breaking. "I loved you, Natasha. Every day, I fell deeper in love with you. And now… now I find out it was all just a goddamn mission to you."

"No," Natasha said quickly, her own heart breaking. "It wasn't just a mission. You mean so much more to me than that."

"But it wasn't sexy once it wasn't forbidden, was it?" Y/N's voice was filled with hurt and sarcasm. "Once the truth was out, it lost its appeal, didn't it?"

Natasha shook her head, tears streaming down her face. "No, Y/N. Please, believe me. I… I love you too."

Y/N looked away, the pain too much to bear. "I don't know what to believe anymore. How can I trust you after this? You were the one person I thought I could rely on."

Natasha took a step closer, reaching out to touch Y/N's hand, but Y/N pulled away, the betrayal still too fresh. "I'm sorry, Y/N," Natasha whispered, her voice breaking. "I'm so, so sorry."

The room was filled with the sound of their silent tears, the weight of their shared pain too heavy to bear. And in that moment, both of them knew that their lives would never be the same again.

Y/N's heart ached with the weight of her emotions, "I want you to leave, Natasha."

"Y/N, please…"

"I SAID LEAVE!"

Natasha left the room, her heart heavy with guilt and sorrow. She wanted to stay, to explain herself further, but Y/N's shout had left no room for argument. As she stepped into the corridor, the weight of her actions pressed down on her, making it hard to breathe. She leaned against the wall, closing her eyes, trying to calm the storm of emotions raging inside her.

The mission had seemed straightforward at first: locate the escaped HYDRA experiment and bring her in. It should have been simple. But Y/N had become so much more than a mission. She had broken through Natasha's defenses, seen her vulnerabilities, and made her feel things she hadn't thought possible. Y/N had become her person, the one exception in her life of secrecy and deception.

Natasha walked through the sterile halls of the Avengers' facility, each step feeling heavier than the last. She made her way to an empty room, seeking solitude to process everything. She couldn't shake the image of Y/N's face, the pain and betrayal in her eyes. The girl she loved, the one who had seen her at her weakest, was now lost to her.

"Natasha," a voice called softly. She turned to see Steve Rogers standing at the door. His expression was filled with concern.

"Steve, I—" Natasha began, but her voice faltered.

Steve stepped inside, closing the door behind him. "I know this isn't easy for you."

Natasha shook her head, tears threatening to spill. "It wasn't supposed to be like this. She was just a mission, but she became so much more."

Steve nodded, understanding in his eyes. "Sometimes, the lines blur. You can't help who you care about."

Natasha sank into a chair, burying her face in her hands. "She hates me now. I don't blame her. I lied to her, used her. How can she ever forgive me?"

Steve placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "Give her time. She needs to process everything. And you need to be honest with her, even if it's painful."

Natasha looked up, her eyes filled with anguish. "But what if it's too late? What if I've lost her forever?"

Steve's expression softened. "You haven't lost her. Not yet. But you need to fight for her, Natasha. Show her that your feelings are real, that she's more than a mission to you." squeezing her shoulder softly, he added, "Who you are is not what you did."

Natasha nodded, though uncertainty still clouded her mind. She knew Steve was right, but the path ahead seemed so daunting. She had to find a way to bridge the gap she had created, to make Y/N understand that her love was genuine.

The days that followed were torturous. Natasha threw herself into training and missions, trying to distract herself from the ache in her heart. But no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't escape the thoughts of Y/N. Each night, she lay awake, replaying their conversations, the laughter they had shared, and the tender moments that had made her feel alive.

Natasha sat alone in her quarters, staring at the ceiling, trying to wrap her mind around everything that had happened. The sterile, cold walls seemed to close in on her, echoing her isolation and guilt. She had replayed her confrontation with Y/N countless times in her mind, each time feeling the knife of betrayal twist deeper. The mission had been clear-cut, simple even: locate and capture. But then she had met Y/N, and everything had changed.

She closed her eyes, trying to remember the first time she had seen Y/N. It had been a rainy night in a rundown part of the city. Y/N had been fighting off some low-level thugs, her powers crackling around her in a wild display of raw energy. Natasha had been struck by her ferocity, her determination, and the deep sadness that seemed to emanate from her. She had been assigned to neutralize Y/N, but instead, she found herself captivated by her.

Natasha's heart ached as she remembered their first real conversation. It had been awkward, filled with mistrust and guarded words. But over time, they had grown closer. Y/N had slowly let her guard down, allowing Natasha glimpses into her world, her pain, and her struggles. They had trained together, laughed together, and shared stories that had created a bond Natasha had never expected.

But now, all of that was shattered.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

Weeks passed and Natasha still feel the weight of her poor decisions pressing down on her like a heavy, unyielding burden. The guilt gnawed at her constantly, making it hard to focus on anything else. She had tried to compartmentalize, to push the feelings aside, but they refused to be ignored.

Because now, her person— Y/N— was filled with anger and betrayal, emotions that Natasha herself had caused. Every time she saw Y/N's face, the pain was still evident, a constant reminder of the trust she had shattered. Natasha had made a series of poor decisions, each one leading them to this moment of intense suffering.

In the quiet moments, when she was alone with her thoughts, Natasha's mind would wander to a life that seemed like a distant dream— a normal life with Y/N. She imagined lazy mornings in bed, laughing over shared breakfasts, evenings spent watching the sunset, and a future filled with love and happiness. But those dreams felt like they were slipping further and further out of reach.

She often found herself in a spiral of doubt and regret. Was what she did worth it? Was there any way to redeem herself in Y/N's eyes? The questions were relentless, and the answers were elusive. Y/N had become her everything, the one person who had seen the real Natasha and still loved her. And now, that love seemed impossible to salvage.

Natasha's thoughts often turned dark, filled with self-loathing and despair. It was a losing battle in her mind. On one hand, she was a hero, an Avenger dedicated to protecting the world. On the other hand, Y/N saw her as a villain, a betrayer who had shattered their trust. The dichotomy was tearing her apart, and she didn't know how to reconcile the two.

Everywhere Natasha turned, she was haunted by the decisions that led her to this point. She recalled the moment she first saw Y/N's file, the cold detachment she felt as she read about the mission's objectives. Y/N was just another target then, another task to be completed. But then the mission parameters blurred, and Natasha found herself drawn to Y/N in ways she hadn't anticipated.

She was not even supposed to tell and share stories, let alone her past life when she was still under Red Room.

But Y/N's strength, resilience, and vulnerability captivated Natasha, breaking through her professional detachment. She remembered the first time she saw Y/N laugh— a genuine, carefree laugh that lit up her entire face. Natasha had felt something stir within her, something she hadn't felt in her entire life: hope. Hope that there was more to life than missions and deception. Hope that she could find redemption through love.

But now, that hope felt like a cruel joke. Natasha was left to grapple with the reality of her actions. She had deceived Y/N, played with her emotions, and shattered her trust. The look of betrayal on Y/N's face was seared into Natasha's memory, a constant reminder of her failure. It haunted her dreams, turning them into nightmares where Y/N's eyes bore into her with unspoken accusations.

Natasha tried to lose herself in her work, but it was no use. Every mission, every fight, felt hollow without Y/N by her side. She replayed their last conversation over and over in her mind, dissecting every word, every gesture, searching for a way she could have handled things differently. If only she had been honest from the beginning. If only she had found a way to protect Y/N without betraying her trust.

The guilt was relentless, gnawing at her insides. Natasha found herself questioning her very identity. Who was she if she could betray the one person who meant the most to her? Could she still call herself a hero? The lines between right and wrong had become so blurred, and Natasha felt like she was losing herself in the murkiness.

She sought solace in her training, pushing her body to its limits in an attempt to silence her mind. But no amount of physical exertion could quiet the storm of emotions raging within her. Each punch, each kick, was a futile attempt to fight against the guilt and regret that consumed her.

In her quieter moments, Natasha allowed herself to imagine a different reality, one where she and Y/N were living a peaceful life together. She envisioned a small, cozy home, filled with warmth and laughter. She saw herself waking up next to Y/N, their fingers intertwined, the morning light casting a gentle glow on their faces. She imagined sharing quiet moments, stolen kisses, and whispered promises. But as beautiful as these fantasies were, they were also a painful reminder of what she had lost.

Natasha's mind was a battlefield, torn between the desire to make things right and the fear that it was too late. She replayed every interaction with Y/N, every smile, every touch, trying to decipher where she went wrong. She questioned her own worthiness, wondering if she deserved forgiveness, if she deserved Y/N's love.

Her nights were the hardest. Alone in her room, Natasha would lie awake, her mind racing with thoughts of Y/N. She would reach out to the empty space beside her, imagining that Y/N was there, her presence a comforting balm to Natasha's troubled soul. But the emptiness only served to deepen her sense of loss and regret.

Natasha's heart ached with a longing she couldn't quell. She wanted to reach out to Y/N, to beg for her forgiveness, to prove that her love was real. But she was paralyzed by fear— fear of rejection, fear of causing more pain, fear of facing the truth of her actions. The vulnerability that Y/N had awakened within her was both a gift and a curse, leaving Natasha exposed and raw.

In her moments of despair, Natasha would recall Steve's words: "Who you are is not what you did." But it was hard to believe those words when the evidence of her betrayal was so clear. She had hurt Y/N. The guilt was suffocating, a constant reminder of her failure.

Natasha's mind would drift back to their time together, to the small, intimate moments that had defined their relationship. She remembered the way Y/N's eyes would light up when she talked about her dreams, the softness in her voice when she whispered Natasha's name. She remembered the warmth of Y/N's touch, the comfort of her embrace, the way she made Natasha feel like she was worth something, like she was more than just a weapon.

But now, all of that felt like a distant memory, a beautiful dream that had turned into a nightmare. Natasha was left to grapple with the reality of her actions, with the knowledge that she had destroyed the one good thing in her life. The weight of her choices was crushing, leaving her feeling hollow and lost.

In her darkest moments, Natasha would wonder if it was too late to make things right. She questioned whether Y/N could ever forgive her, whether there was any hope of salvaging their relationship. But despite the overwhelming doubt, there was a small, stubborn part of Natasha that refused to give up. She clung to the hope that, somehow, she could find a way to prove her love, to show Y/N that she was more than her mistakes.

Natasha knew that the road ahead would be long and difficult. She would have to face her own demons, confront the parts of herself she had kept hidden for so long. She would have to earn Y/N's trust, step by painful step, proving that her love was real and unwavering. It was a daunting task, but Natasha was determined to try.

As she lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, Natasha made a silent vow to herself. She would do whatever it took to make things right with Y/N. She would fight for their love, for the future she had once dreamed of. It wouldn't be easy, and it might take a lifetime, but Natasha was willing to give it her all.

With that thought, Natasha finally felt a small sense of peace. The guilt and regret were still there, but they were tempered by a newfound determination. She would prove to Y/N that their love was worth fighting for, that she was worth fighting for. And maybe, just maybe, they could find their way back to each other.

As the first light of dawn began to filter through the window, Natasha sighed and stood up, pacing the small room. She knew she had to try to explain everything to Y/N, even if it seemed impossible. She couldn't just leave things as they were. She owed Y/N the truth, even if it hurt.

Taking a deep breath, Natasha left her quarters and walked towards Y/N's room. The halls were quiet, the soft hum of the facility's systems the only sound. As she approached the door, her heart pounded in her chest. She hesitated for a moment before knocking softly and entering.

Y/N was sitting on the edge of the bed, her eyes red from crying. She looked up as Natasha entered, her expression guarded. The sight of Y/N in such pain made Natasha's heart ache even more.

"Y/N," Natasha began, her voice trembling. "I know you don't want to see me right now, but I need to explain."

Y/N's gaze was cold. "Explain what? How you lied to me? How I was just a mission to you?"

Natasha shook her head, tears welling up. "No, Y/N. You were never just a mission. Not to me. Let me tell you everything, from the beginning."

Y/N crossed her arms, clearly skeptical but willing to listen. "Go on then."

Natasha took a deep breath, gathering her thoughts. "When I first found out about you, I was assigned to the mission. It was supposed to be simple— locate you and bring you in. But from the moment I saw you, I knew it wasn't going to be that straightforward. You were different. You were fighting off those thugs with such determination, and I saw something in you that I couldn't ignore."

Y/N's eyes softened slightly, but she remained silent, letting Natasha continue.

"I watched you for a while, trying to understand you," Natasha said, her voice filled with regret. "I saw the pain you were in, the loneliness. I couldn't just complete the mission and hand you over to people who would hurt you. So I made a decision. I approached you, and I tried to get to know you. And the more I got to know you, the more I realized how special you were."

Y/N's eyes filled with tears, but she still didn't speak.

Natasha took a step closer, her voice pleading. "It wasn't supposed to happen like this. My feelings for you are real, Y/N. They always have been. I love you." Natasha continued to confess her feelings, her voice raw with emotion. "Y/N, I know I hurt you. I know what I did was unforgivable. But please, believe me."

Y/N finally spoke, her voice trembling with emotion. "How can I believe you, Natasha? After all the things you did?" Y/N's eyes blazing with anger. "Is this the goal, Natasha? Breaking me? Rusting me?"

"No," Natasha answered quickly, shaking her head. "No, that's not it at all. Let me explain everything." Natasha felt a lump in her throat. "I know I've given you every reason not to trust me, but I'm begging you to believe me. I couldn't just let you die, especially not at HYDRA's hands. They're still after you."

Y/N's voice was filled with bitterness. "I just died inside. And it's because of you, Natasha. You killed me, you sleeper cell spy."

Natasha flinched at the harsh words, feeling the weight of her guilt. "I'm so sorry, Y/N. I never wanted any of this to happen. If I could go back, I would change everything. I'd never do this to you and… and I'm not what I did. Believe me."

Y/N's laugh was cold and sarcastic. "You are what you did, Natasha."

The words echoed in Natasha's mind, clashing with Steve's voice reminding her that who she is isn't defined by what she did. But Y/N's words felt truer in this moment, cutting deeper than any physical wound.

"I'll forget you, Natasha, someday," Y/N said, her voice chillingly calm. "But I'll never forgive."

Natasha's heart shattered at those words. She had known that repairing their relationship would be difficult, but hearing Y/N's definitive statement felt like a death sentence to her hopes.

Y/N continued, her eyes cold and unforgiving. "You're the smallest woman who ever lived."

Natasha stood there, speechless, the weight of Y/N's words pressing down on her like a physical burden. She wanted to fight back, to prove her love and remorse, but the pain in Y/N's eyes told her that it's a bit too late.

three days in the making!! ( became four since i added a few things today, lol ) how was it? was it worth it? i think so. i love tsmwel soooo much!! been playing it over and over and over again. i mean, isn't it obvious? ( 9.361k words… ) let me know what you think and enjoy reading!

if i said best ttpd song, you say what??

[mossygirl333]

Could I request for Oatmeal Cookie - "You're a virgin? Don't worry your pretty little head about it, I'll teach you." With Astarion please? With female reader if you don't mind!

An: All I write is F!reader, don't worry girl. Gotta love Astarion man, I'm such a slut for him 😭

Astarion x F!human!reader

Cw/Tw: feeding turned into sex, mentions of blood and pain, slight masochism (hair pulling, blood drinking, forcing into positions), fingering, p in v, unprotected sex (pull out game is weak), virgin!reader, inexperienced!reader, squirting, multiple orgasms

SMUT UNDER THE CUT!!

Astarion was mean, but undeniably charming. You needed him, he picked your locks and made witty banter and he made your days a bit funnier. Keeping you on your toes.

But that soon spiraled into something different. Something new, and it was weird at first. Having a vampire spawn around you was nothing you've ever dreamed of, and before you met him you assumed it would've been a nightmare.

But when he sunk his teeth your neck, heart racing and veins throbbing to feed him, there was a fire inside of you. An itch, you couldn't quite scratch.

You felt aroused.

It was an embarrassing thing to go through, but you couldn't tell him to stop. He needed the blood more than you did. And he would ask for an explanation. You liked him, but the thought of him knowing that about you was mortifying.

-

-

The warm air of a summer night was a welcome to the blistering heat you had endured earlier. The soft breeze carrying the smell of fire smoke and tender meat. But that was your dinner, Astarion was having something different.

"Darling, I am positively parched and wish to whisk you away for a little one on one, please?" He murmured in your ear, voice sultry and saccharine. A barely repressed shiver running up your spine.

"Of course." You murmur back, his cold slim hand holding your gently as he leads you away from the rest of the group.

Ducking into his tent, his hands trailing down to your waist. "Get comfortable of course, dont want my juice box to be in too much pain." He Snickers. Juice box, you couldn't tell if he was flirting, being patronizing, or both. Probably both.

You shuffled over to his bed roll, timidly laying down as his sharp eyes watched over you. Ruby and gleaming in the low lamp light, staring at you like you were the most delicious meal he's ever laid eyes on.

Maybe you were.

You shook away the thought and laid down, baring your tender flesh to him. The soft thump of your blood in your arteries growing louder in your ears.

He settling down beside you, tenderly tilting your head up more. Licking his fangs once he dipped down, pressing a tender warm kiss to your jugular.

You swallowed thickly and his fangs sunk in. Sharp and throbbing, a dull ache settled in your neck. Panting slightly as he gulped it down obscenely, his hand digging into the fat of your hips.

Sliding up, his other held your neck and head in place, moaning against your skin. Warm blood gushing out to meet his wanting maw.

Thighs tremble, his desperate noises filling your head. You try to tell yourself it's just the blood loss but you can't deny it.

He pauses, pressing into you. The bulge growing in his pants the longer his drinks, your eyes widening as your hands shoot out to grab his shoulders.

Rutting against your side, eyes rolled back in pleasure as he finally gets his fill. Kitten licking the wound in your neck. "Oh my sweet love..."

You shudder, squirming slightly. Thighs clenching together, his cock pressed against your pelvis. He pauses, meeting your eyes finally.

"You taste divine." His lips push against yours, the taste of your blood tangy in your mouth. Coating your tongue, made you want to recoil. But the warmth returning to his body, and his soft lips made you stay.

You pull away finally as he cracks open your legs, nestling his knee between them. "I- I've never done this before.

It was almost embarrassing to admit. A flush warming your cheeks, his heated eyes settling onto yours.

"Oh?" He chuckles, sliding his hands up your trembling thighs. "oh. You're just a pretty little virgin huh? Don't worry that pretty little head, I'll teach you."

A wave of heat rolls down your body, a weak gasp leaving your lips as your underwear goes slick. Squirming as his slim fingers quickly undo the front of your pants and rip them off in one movement. Tossing them aside, palms digging into the fat of your legs.

Trembling in his grasp, you weakly whisper. "What are you gonna do?"

He chuckles, gently looping your underwear and shimmying them down. "M'gonna finger you darling. Get ya nice and stretched out so you can take me."

Your eyes practically roll back, the warm air hitting your heated cunt. Twitching and clenching around nothing as his nails trace your slick folds. Before sliding in two fingers.

"Fuck...you're so wet baby. My fingers just slide right in."

You whimper, the pads of his fingers searching for the gooey spot inside of you. Clenching around his fingers, obscene sounds of his digits pumping in and out. It filled your head, made you dizzy, huffs of air leaving your lips without you trying.

His thumb comes up, swiping against your clit. The nerves shooting off and making your hips jerk, an obnoxious whine leaving your lips as your head rolls back.

Eyes rolling back, he curls up his fingers. Sliding and pressing against your G-spot before coming back to pump in and out. "Oh, oh my dear, that feels good huh?" He whispers in your ear.

Eyes shut tight now, you could feel the coil starting to tighten inside of you. "Y- Yes...you make me feel so good." A moan leaves your lips, loud and higj-pitched, growing louder and more desperate as that delicious edge grows closer.

You can barely brace yourself before it snaps, a splash of wet hitting his palm. You pant, peeking open your eyes before trailing down to meet where he was looking at. His palm and wrist slick.

You squirted.

A flush enters your cheeks, embarrassment starting to swirl until you realize why he's looking. Heated eyes finally meeting yours.

"Sit back. Now."

You immediately go to do it, his hands ripping your thighs apart. Pliant in his hands. You hitch, his fingers desperate to get his bulging dick from his pants.

Finally opening it, it comes up to slap his stomach. Smearing pearly precum across his toned stomach. He shudders, pulling you towards him and pressing his chest to yours. Tip red and dripping, it bumps your clit. Knees digging into his sides.

He slides in with one fluid motion. The stretch burning slightly, feeling full. His face drops to your healing neck, nose breathing in the blood as he thrusts. Slamming into you desperately. "C'mon sweetheart. Squirt on my cock, you can do it."

You whimper, nails digging into his shoulders. He bites you against, slicing into your skin as his hands stay heavy on your fat hips. Huffing as he gulps down your blood, gushing down his chin and into your chair. Balls slapping against your plump ass.

Your head hits the ground and his free hand comes up to cradle it. Sharp nails digging into the back of your head, pulling at it to drink more. "You are such a beautiful creature." You groans into your skin, going faster and faster. Bruised blooming on your skin as you bounce. Hiccuping out cut off moans and whines.

The coil snaps again, rushing over him as your cum splashes onto his lower belly. Dizzy and delirious he cant pull out. Ropes of thick cum coating your insides.

Going limp in your arms finally, holding you as he licks clean your neck. Skin warmed up from his dinner.

Your arms wrap loosely around him, nuzzling your face into his temple. Forgetting all about the dinner waiting outside for you.

[yurozo]

uxoriousness/meritoriousness

╚══ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══╝ leon kennedy x fem!reader

summary: following a recent outing to spain, leon indulges himself in the chaos of the theatre as a temporary reprieve. what he doesn't expect is to find you, a duke's daughter which captures his attention.

tags: fluff, romance, fem!reader, no use of y/n, early modern century britain, knight!leon (?), terrible flirting on leon's behalf.

a/n: it's 18th century britain leon babey! i attempted at making it as accurate as possible, but i did push flexibility in prose and conventions. i'm thinking of making this about five parts, so please let me know if you want to see more! <3 side note: uxuriousness is an 18th century term to be excessively fond of your wife, and maritiousness is a less common word to be excessively fond of your husband. ;)

part 1, part 2, next parts coming soon!

╚══ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══╝

Leon Kennedy, from the period of his last excursion to Spain, was admitted a frequent visitor to the theatre. Not particularly for the novelty of it; in truth he had no interest in watching the actors sing about their prose, but instead for the solitary comfort the booth often provided. To lounge in a padded chair and lose oneself to the idle chatter of the audience below bestowed a barrier that subsided his reserves, his tiring thoughts of blood staining his sword and the cracking of ribs as his weapon sinks between them. 

Certainly not for another more pervasive reason. Most definitely not the Lady sitting in the booth across the orchestra, watching the play with rapt interest. 

You had become a recent obsession of his, watching every slight change in expression that you wore so freely. Distaste at every nobleman vying for your affections, wistfulness at the chaste kiss between two actors, dejection when the curtains came to a full close. A painful curiosity ignited at your countenance and he could hardly withdraw his eyes from your person until the performance had concluded. Several weeks had passed in this kind of intercourse, content with being an unacknowledged admirer and not letting himself be overcome with more powerful considerations. 

That was until he spotted another man in your booth, desperately pleading with your hand in his rigid grip, and that same revulsion in your face, which propelled him upwards. He forbore any immediate inclination to withdraw his sword and allow him the same fate he willingly gave to his enemies for even daring to grab you without permission. 

His manners were very much admired in his circle, with many honoured with such an attention as his. It is for this reason that he is sure no true gentleman should ever dare force himself upon a woman, and especially not someone with a countenance more touchingly beautiful than he had ever dared to imagine before. 

In descending the last steps of your booth, however, your foot faltered and while Leon hastened to assist you, the man’s grip could no longer sufficiently engage to confine. While you were not materially hurt in your fall, it was reason enough to refuse any gracious acknowledgement from the other man. 

“My lord,” Leon derided, standing in the gap between the two. “I believe your presence is wanted elsewhere.”

The man remonstrated, and represented the serious danger that threatened from so rash a proceeding. “My lady,” said he in a solemn voice, “Sir.”

The man quickly departed, as the waning patience of Leon could clearly not have endured the repeated attack on another persons honour. But these cogitations were but of short continuance; they vanished with the appearance of your hand, waiting for his to assist you. He does so, pulling you gently to him, and greeted you with a softness oft unfamiliar to him. 

“My lady,” Leon said, folded in a deep bow; “I am sorry, exceedingly sorry, that you may have been given uneasiness.”

He wanted so desperately to bring your hand upwards, to brush his lips against the soft unscarred skin of your knuckles. But he is noble in heart, and too afraid to break convention in a manner of all people, so he acquiesced himself to squeeze it once instead. The accomplished mind of his was more likely to succeed in silent attentions than by a formal declaration of his sentiment. 

“Any such sentiment was easily quelled,” you responded, the gentle remonstrances in his favour becoming more pleasing and more convincing. “Thank you, Sir, I felt nothing but surprise at your sudden appearance.”

“Your surprise could not be greater than mine in being noticed by you,” said he, hesitating ever so slightly in his forwardness. “My lady.”

A hint of flush coloured your mottled cheeks that retrimmed the flame building with an ardent fire. “Allow me to thank you, Sir,” you said, retracting your hand from his. “If you are not diverted, to join me.”

The present confliction of passion seemed endless; he had already formed an inkling of affection for someone so far out of his station to even consider a proper courtship, and yet the very idea of never feeling that warmth in his palm again ached fiercely. Perhaps it was simply due to the long stretches of time in which he received none at all, but the crime of engaging in a past attachment was severer and more painful than he had imagined. Your hand was gentle in a manner that he is not, uncalloused where his are weathered from a swords grip.

“I shall,” he replied, allowing for you to seat yourself first before he followed, a timid eagerness in his step. 

Leon seized the opportunity thus offered, attempting to converse with you, while he was yet considering what he could say, that might interest and withdraw you from this severe reserve. From the style of your dress, he imagined that you were a person of honourable, yet modest personality, who exhibited an air of comfort in the midst of his usual experience of strict upper-class nobility. 

It was something about you, he decided, that circumstance had punished him gravely with your presence. He could not remember a true life without it, for all manner of previous happiness seemed finite in comparison. In fine, you were both infinitely charmed with each other, although you lacked the nerve to voice such affections. 

“Are you engaged, my Lady?” he said, in a tone much too hurried for the quiet air of the booth. His brow pinched at the suddenness of the intrusion, at the lack of care in his tone that may have painted him impatient, or at worst, rapacious. 

“I fear not,” you laughed, and what a wondrous sound it is. Had you been able to encounter his eyes, you may have seen how well the expression of heartfelt delight lightened them. Feeling all the more common awkwardness and anxiety of the situation, now forced yourself to speak. “Are your affections taken by another?”

“No, my Lady,” said he, “present company excluded.”

You coloured and laughed at his reply, and any guilt of his previous misstep is comforted by the brightness of your gaze, cast upon him of all people. Should the divine have asked him now to give all of him to you, he would have gladly obliged in that very moment, forfeiting all mortal possession and any semblance of self in your honour. 

“Are you enjoying the play thus far?” you started, still flushed of the affectionate gallantry that he bestows upon you.

“I do not recollect that I am.”

“You do not enjoy romance?” 

“I certainly have not the passion which some people possess,” said Leon, “but I am not steadfast in my conviction.”

You turned to him then, proceeding all the particulars of the romantic genre, and would shortly have recited some very plentiful dictation had Leon not interrupted you once more. 

“I have never met anyone of such true enjoyment,” he observed, cutting your speech not out of malice, but of something else entirely. Curiosity, or even sensibility, for he had received all your intelligence with the forbearance of civility. 

“Exceedingly so,” you answered, “but I honour your sentiment.”

“My sentiment has changed,” he admitted so fondly, that he feared every fault of his would come to light, “in the presence of such knowledgable company.”

When Leon looked upon you again, surreptitiously enough that you do not notice the length of which he watches you, you watch the two actors embrace each other with welled eyes. Even if Leon never considered himself a poet, surely he could manage a soliloquy that encapsulated the joy in basking at your presence much better than any writer. What fascinating sensibility that you wielded so easily, the same way he holds his weapon, freely and without uncertainty. 

The curtains drew shut only moments later, uproarious cheering filling the theatre chambers so any further conversation is halted in its vibrance. You clapped politely beside him, assuming an air of graceful satisfaction, and he clapped in turn, if only to momentarily revel in this moment. Never had he felt so beguiled by a story, attention so pulled by the audience as he did now, supposing that memorizing every detail would supply further dialogue to engage your consideration. 

While the audience continued their remarks on the performance, mixed with them many instructions of execution and taste, Leon stands from his seat. Despite the initial surety of his action, a hint of trepidation in his expression gave way to his inability to end a happiness so supreme as to efface all impressions of the past. 

“It has been a very agreeable day,” you said to Leon, allowing your hand to be lightly grasped in his. “Never has a play entranced me so. I hope we may often meet again.”

“As do I,” said he, and gave you a final bow, just so you could not see the torment in his expression. Would you let me permit you home, is what he did not say. 

“Goodbye, Sir-” 

“Leon, my Lady.”

“Goodbye, Sir Leon.” The traces of an unbidden smile once again rises, for now you had a means in which to contact him further, to call upon him the next time you waited his presence.

“I am your humble servant,” said he, trembling with anxiety and sinking with despondency, remained for a moment to gaze upon you, unable to take leave yet irresolute what to say that might prolong the moment occurring. 

They took leave of each other; you back to the obligations of the family which expects your maintenance, and he to the tavern to drown the remembrance of his disappointment.

[girlactionfigure]

let Anne Frank rest

NOVEMBER 11, 2024

THIS IS DISRESPECTFUL

ANNE, MARGOT, THEIR MOTHER, AND FATHER WERE ZIONISTS

Here’s the thing: we have absolutely no way of knowing how Anne Frank would feel about today’s Israel-Hamas war, because her life was brutally cut short by the Nazis at just 15 years old. Is it possible that she would be attending pro-Palestine marches and donning keffiyehs? Sure, it’s possible. A minority of Jews do that.  

Here’s what we know for sure: in her own famous diary, Anne Frank wrote that she was interested in Zionism. Her sister, Margot Frank, was an ardent Zionist. She joined the Dutch Zionist youth club in 1941, and hoped to make aliyah (immigrate) to Mandatory Palestine, where she planned on becoming a midwife for the Yishuv (pre-state Jewish community in Palestine).

Otto Frank, the only family member to survive the war, was very, very strongly pro-Israel, particularly after the Holocaust (whereas beforehand, he was slightly more ambivalent, though never anti-Zionist). In fact, in the 1970s, Otto had a disagreement with the Anne Frank House, as he demanded that the museum’s statutes explicitly affirm Israel’s right to exist — a right much of today’s keffiyeh-wearing pro-Palestine movement doesn’t accept.

We don’t know how Anne would feel today. But we do know how most Holocaust survivors feel. Not only do most Holocaust survivors -- like most Jews -- support Israel, but 49% of today’s remaining 245,000 survivors live in Israel. It’s even possible that Anne may have moved to Israel had she survived the war; after all, Israel absorbed nearly 400,000 Holocaust survivor refugees between 1946-1952, including Anne’s childhood best friend, Hanna Goslar.

APPROPRIATION OF OUR TRAUMA, AGAIN

I’ve talked about Holocaust inversion on this account for years. I have numerous posts on it, with more coming. But perhaps I haven’t made this explicitly clear yet: Holocaust inversion -- that is, the depiction of Jews and/or Israelis as Nazis, crypto-Nazis, or “worse than the Nazis” and the Palestinians as the “true” victims of the Holocaust -- is a blatant appropriation of the Jewish people’s worst collective trauma.  

That is not to say that Palestinians don’t endure pain. Of course they do, and pain and trauma can’t exactly be quantified. But this obsession with stripping Jews of our very unique, deeply painful experience and placing it onto someone else is deeply offensive. At a certain point, it almost looks like these people have Holocaust envy, which is bizarre and frankly deeply disturbing.  

Why would you want this? For six years, the international community stood by as nearly 70% of Europe’s Jewish population was exterminated in the most industrialized genocide in human history. Countries all over the world shut their doors to Jewish refugees. The Allies refused to bomb the death camps and the railroads leading to the camps, despite the desperate pleas from the Jewish community. In 1939, there were 16.6 million Jews in the world. Today, 85 years later, we just scrape 15 million. This is not what has ever happened to Palestinians, whose population has not decreased by even half a percentage point since 1948, not even since October 7, and not even in Gaza (as there have been more births than deaths, according to Hamas and Save the Children). 

Even more infuriating? Not even did Palestinian Arab leadership collaborate with the Nazis during the Holocaust -- and in 1948 -- but public opinion polls from the time period demonstrate most Palestinian Arabs favored Nazi Germany. Enough. You don’t get to take this one from us, because your ancestors, too, were complicit during the Holocaust.

STOP IMPOSING IDENTITIES ON JEWS

As I explained in a recent post, antisemitism can arguably be divided into two categories: (1) “Nazi antisemitism,” which seeks to eliminate Jews physically, and (2) “Hanukkah antisemitism,” which seeks to strip Jews of the qualities that make us Jewish. In other words, forced assimilation.

Anne Frank was a Jewish child. She was born in Germany and later became Dutch. Never in her lifetime would she have worn a Palestinian keffiyeh, because at the time, the Palestinian keffiyeh was the official uniform of British officer Sir John Bagot Glubb’s “Desert Patrol,” comprised of Palestinian and Jordanian Arab Bedouins who were loyal to the British police force in Mandatory Palestine. Since Anne Frank was neither a Bedouin nor a member of Glubb’s Desert Patrol, putting the keffiyeh on her -- a murdered child -- is nothing but imposing an identity on her that isn’t hers.  

Maybe this sounds dramatic, or like it shouldn’t be a big deal. But this is also part of a larger pattern of Palestinians appropriating Jewish historical figures and claiming them as their own (the Jesus comes to mind).

And this is not a matter of doing this just to historical figures, but to living, breathing Jews. For example, several of the released Hamas hostages testified that Hamas threatened to forcibly convert them to Islam, much like their ancestors once did to ours when they conquered the Holy Land from the Byzantines in the 7th century.

IF YOU ACTUALLY CARED ABOUT ANNE FRANK, YOU WOULD CARE ABOUT THIS

On November 7, 2024, a premeditated pogrom took place in the streets of Amsterdam -- Anne Frank’s Amsterdam.

Thousands of pro-Palestinians supporters ambushed Israeli Maccabi Tel Aviv fans as they were leaving a Maccabi Tel Aviv-AFC Ajax soccer match. Much like on October 7, the perpetrators live-streamed themselves stabbing Israelis and Jews, running over Israelis and Jews, throwing firecrackers at Israelis and Jews, and beating Israelis and Jews to a pulp, as the Amsterdam police looked the other way. They stole their phones and passports, and for some time, some of the victims were missing. Jews tried to hide in a canal, in boats, in a KFC, and more, just like the Franks hid in an attic. The perpetrators forced the victims to shout “free Palestine!” They attacked not just men, but women and children. Not all of the victims were Maccabi Tel Aviv fans, or Israelis, but all of the victims were Jews -- or perceived to be Jews.  

Of course, it wasn’t long until antisemites -- and the mainstream media -- spun the event, which, again, had not only been premeditated, but the perpetrators had dubbed “a Jew hunt” (in fact, it was so premeditated Israel had forewarned the Dutch police). They said it was simply soccer hooligans brawling, or that it happened because the day before, a few Israelis had torn down a Palestinian flag, or because some of the Maccabi fans had chanted racist chants. In this regard, they’re in terrible company: every pogrom in history has had its “justification;” sometimes the justification is based on a true event; other times, it’s pure fiction (e.g. blood libel). Kristallnacht, the pogrom that marks the beginning of the Holocaust, was excused because a Jew killed a German diplomat in Paris.

Are some Maccabi fans racist? It seems so. That’s no justification for an attempted lynching. Imagine if Jews tried to lynch pro-Palestinian protestors every time they chant antisemitic chants (“globalize the intifada,” “Khaybar, Khaybar ya Yahud,” for example), or every time an Israeli flag or hostage poster is torn down. None of us would have jobs, because this happens daily, multiple times a day, everywhere in the world.

For over a year, Dutch Jewish community leaders have warned of a hostile, dangerous environment for Jews in the Netherlands, and in Amsterdam more specifically. The Central Jewish Consultation, the official Jewish umbrella organization in the Netherlands, defined the November 7 mob attacks as a “pogrom” and tied it to the growing antisemitic climate in the country, which existed long before any Maccabi Tel Aviv fans showed up in Amsterdam.

As usual, however, antisemites are tokenizing the words of fringe Jews whose views are not representative of the community. 

The Chief Rabbi of the Netherlands also issued a damning statement, noting the hostile, antisemitic climate in the country.

The above is true. But this is not a one-off event. The Netherlands has been failing the Jewish community for a long, long time. These situations don’t escalate out of nowhere. Instead of offering us your apologies and condolences after the fact, take decisive action.

For a full bibliography of my sources, please head over to my Instagram and  Patreon. 

rootsmetals

another post I started working on before November 7 that suddenly became very relevant…

[apricityxoxo]

Help and Care

✧.* Simon "Ghost" Riley x Fem! Reader

✧.* wc 5,786 (teheeheee)

✧.* summary: he definitely didn't need help, he doesn't need someone to care for him. no one has ever helped him before, and no one ever cared so why would they start now. he doesn't care, he definitely doesn't need help. so why does he keep ending up in the infirmary with the beautiful nurse? and why does he keep coming back to you?

✧.* contents: fluff, a bit of angst, and a sprinkle of suggestive dialogue

here's the whole story! it took me a while but I hope you all enjoy it, sorry I'm a perfectionist. I had a lot of fun writing this but let me know what you all think. i might write a pt 2 to this idk. Also pls excuse the medical and military inaccuracies

enjoy

Help. He hates help. He can’t stand it. When others look at him, when he looks at himself, he doesn’t see himself as someone dependent on others. Why else would he enlist, he didn’t need help, he learned that the hard way. No one ever helped him and he adjusted, so why would he need help now? People are dependent on him; they rely on him. When someone is injured, scared, or dead it’s up to him to fix the situation, to solve the problems of others, to carry the fallen.

When Price told him to go to the nurse he was upset, actually, he was pissed. He was not a child who scraped his knee playing football at school. He was a soldier; he was more than a mere man. He knew how to endure, he knew how to carry his weight, and he knew that he didn’t need to see the nurse. He knew what was wrong with him, he just bruised his ribs. He didn’t need some old woman with a bad attitude to tell him what he already knew.

He endured and he resisted the pain for exactly two weeks, but the pain was only getting worse. He was confused and didn’t know what to do, he hoped that no one had noticed and he didn’t want people to start. He didn’t want questions or concerns, he wanted relief and nothing more.

He thought no one would notice and he was so wrong.

Training.

Simon hated training the new recruits, they were cocky and they didn’t know their place. They thought after joining and passing the initial physical exams, they were done.

They were most definitely not done. They needed to adjust, physically and mentally, to fit in. Many people think the initial physical and mental exams are where new recruits break, no they break here, during training…with him. He hated it but knew why Price asked him to do it.

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Price usually did rounds during training, he watched the recruits and the techniques of the other task forces. The smell of sweat, dirt, and blood filled his system and that smell drew his attention to Ghost. Today he felt the need to check on Ghost and see how he was doing. Ghost was a good teacher even though he didn’t realize this, Price did though.

Ghost was mean, harsh, and disciplined, and the people he taught tended not to last long, however, the ones who did turn out to be great because the one thing that Ghost teaches best is endurance.

When Price was watching him train, he started to get upset and confused. This was most definitely different from the big and bad Ghost he was used to. He thought at first that "maybe Ghost was pulling his punches?" When he paired Ghost up to train some of the rookies, he thought maybe Simon was finally going soft.

Usually after training, the rookies would be sore, and in pain, sometimes they might even need to be excused to nurse. However, these past few weeks the rookies have been surprisingly...fine. Maybe even better than fine and it's been making them cocky, it's boosted some of their egos.

It would probably boost his ego too, Price chuckled. If he were to beat the big, brutal, scary Ghost while still a rookie. However, they are starting to get obnoxious because they are taunting and boasting, which is certainly something that Price could not have. It was starting to piss him off. Price was going to tell Ghost that if he didn’t put these pricks in line, there were going to be consequences.

That was the plan, but then he took a closer look and that’s when he saw it.

He saw the way that Ghost taking more hits than normal, he was slow to react and he was even slower to respond. His stance was off as well, usually his form made him feel like a giant among men but now he looked like he was shrinking himself, like it was his first day of training. Ghost wasn’t pulling his punches, he wasn't holding back, he was weak.

Now he was pissed.

Price knew.

Price knew exactly why Ghost wasn’t as strong as he usually is, why his punches aren’t as powerful as they normally are. Ghost was a disobedient bastard and Price was pissed.

“STOP! That’s enough training for today, soldiers.”

“Ghost, come now!”

“Yes, Captain” Ghost replied in his thick Manchester accent.

“The hell is wrong with you Lieutenant!”

“Nothin' Capt’n, I'm just-”

“You’re just hurt, did you go to the nurse?” Price knew the answer.

“I didn’t feel the need to go to the medical facility Capt’n”

“You didn’t feel the need to go?” Price asked Simon and looked at him like he was crazy. Since when did his soldiers feel the need for an opinion?

“If you don’t get your ass to the medical facility right now, you’re going to be training these pricks for three months straight. You understand?”

“Yessir!”

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Unbelievable!

He doesn’t need to be here. As he walks to the nurse’s offices, he feels everyone's eyes on him. He’s rarely ever here and because of that it draws the eye, lots of them. He thanked his balaclava every day because without it, based on the face he was making, some might think he was actually nervous.

He doesn’t want some old hag telling him what to do and degrading him for not coming sooner. Some old nurse or doctor telling him everything he already knows just to insult him and show off their vast vocabulary just to try and make him feel small. that’s what they all do, that’s what his father did.

He approaches the front desk and the older woman tells him to go to office number 222. He makes his way over, navigating the hallways,  and he finds the office. The sign is decorated with small pink flowers and a white cat with a red bow. He resists the urge to roll his eyes.

Before he goes and knocks on the door, he dries his palms on his pants, desperately hoping to get over this.

Knock-knock.

Some time passed but then he heard a soft voice say…

“Come on in”

He opened the door and he was surprised that the soft voice matched a beautifully soft face. A face with beautifully unique features that worked together in harmony to make the beautiful woman that sat before him.

God damn.

Those were the only words on his mind.

It wasn’t an old woman who looked like she had a chip on her shoulder and carried a deep grudge, nor someone who looked like they were going to insult him… no. definitely not.

It was a young woman.

A beautiful young woman.

A beautiful young woman with the most inviting features. Absolutely gorgeous, he’s never seen a woman this beautiful ever on this base. He feels like she doesn’t belong here, her face is an exact contrast to the environment he surrounds himself every day. He has a million questions he wants to ask her, and he feels the strong urge to get closer to her. He’s such a creep. He doesn’t even know her name.

He feels his mouth goes dry and his hands sweat. Gross. He hasn’t felt this way since Secondary School, he feels like a dork and he doesn’t know what is wrong with him.

“Good afternoon, how can I help you!” Her voice was cheery and if he was a little bit more nervous, he wouldn’t notice the shock on her face and the tremble in her voice. He was used to that reaction; it was probably due to his appearance. her voice matched her face and he felt his heart beat faster, he finally was going to die.

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He was just staring at you, he was just looking. You’ve heard rumors of him, of his personality. The big bad Ghost, the professional killer who lacks mercy for anyone. He was just staring at you and it was freaking you out. What’s wrong with him, why is he here in the nurse's office? Did he hurt someone? Or worse…

He’s still staring.

“… excuse me, is everything alright?”

“Erm…yeah, sorry” he responded and if your mind weren’t running a mile a minute you would have heard the way he sounded nervous.

He clears his throat and then replies “Captain Price has recommended I take a visit down here.” God his voice was so deep. He was so smooth, he had a thick accent that wasn’t like any of the others you heard on base. His voice was not at all soft but the way he spoke made something bubble inside you. 

Wait. ‘take a visit down here’

Oh. He needed help. 

“Oh… okay sir, what seems to be the problem?” You try your best to put on your customer service voice and hide the fact that you're wondering what this man might need help with. 

“Erm… last deployment I bruised my ribs real bad, don't know how…”

You try to listen, you have to pretend to do so. You're writing as he describes his symptoms. He has stomach pain, difficulty breathing, tenderness in his abdomen, and bruising. He describes his symptoms and you feel so bad for him and at the same time, you feel disgusted in yourself. 

Disgusted because instead of being focused on how he describes his pain, you focused on his attractive ass voice. You can't help it, you're just a girl. 

No, You need to remain a professional.

“Okay Lieutenant Riley, if it's all right with you, I’d like to examine your abdomen.”

“Yeah… that's fine” he sounds hesitant you feel bad… you feel like you need to reassure him.

“Don't worry lieutenant, I'm sure everything is going to be just fine.” you try to reassure him and when you do, you unconsciously give him a soft smile.

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Well, you have to ask him to take off his shirt. That was something that didn't occur to you. He doesn't have to comply, you could do the whole checkup with his shirt on. You hope he doesn't so you save yourself from embarrassment. 

“Sir, if you do not mind, may I ask you to remove your um… t-shirt?” you ask, trying your hardest to remain professional. It's completely reasonable for a medical professional to ask a patient to remove their shirt when they had an abdomen injury.

“You don't necessarily have to I'm sure I can find a way to…”

“I don't mind” Lieutenant Riley cuts you off as he agrees.

He sits on the examination table and removes his shirt.

You think you just died. You are short of breath and you think you died because there's an angel right in front of you. If you were anywhere else you would admire his powerfully built body, but you were more concerned with the bruising on his stomach.

You feel and you touch his body, extremely concerned about his well-being. His stomach was black and blue, his stomach was sore, and he could barely bend over. 

You were worried but also shocked because this man worked and trained in such a condition for about a week. You knew of Simon Riley and you knew of his reputation and this just supported the fact that he's an absolute abled-bodied unit… it was almost scary.

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“I believe you have a few broken ribs…sir.” You say almost scared of his reaction. He needed x-rays, actually he needed time off. 

“I'll recommend you an off-base X-ray Tech to take pictures of your abdomen, I also recommended to your captain that you take time off to heal. After we get your x-rays, I recommend you visit me every two weeks so we can look over your progress ” You tell him, distracted as you look over all your notes.

“Oh ok, every two weeks, and how long will it take to heal…” Luitenent Riley asked, he sounded nervous and you started to feel bad for talking to him so nonchalantly about his condition.

“Um should take about two months to heal. Ribs tend to heal rather quickly, however, since they weren't treated earlier it might take a while longer. Don't worry I’m sure you'll feel better rather quickly.” You try to give him a little bit of comfort. You give Luitenent Riley instructions, stating how to take care of himself and treat his injuries. 

He collects his stuff and is getting ready to leave before he turns around looks you up and meets your eye. 

“Thank you so much luv, ‘preciate it.” He tells you, in a soft accented voice.

“It's not a problem Luitenent.” You tell him and you feel your heart pick up its pace.

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Week 2 

He was supposed to visit today, you were expecting him today. You had all of his notes laid out and you were just waiting. 

Waiting.

Waiting. 

Other patients came and went but you were still looking forward to one specific client. The first time he visited you had no time to admire his large and confident stance when he walked into the room. He walked into the room with utter confidence as if he knew it would have an effect on you.

AND GAHHH LEEE

When he removed his shirt, you don't know how you controlled yourself. You knew he was a big man with a hefty build but you were not expecting what you saw. Your eyes were blessed with a solid, broad-shouldered, athletic man.

The literal definition of manly, if he wasn't in the military you were sure he would be off somewhere chopping wood or something. If you weren't at work you're sure you would be lying in bed kicking your feet.

When he spoke to you he had such a deep and low baritone voice that was heavily accented. You never had a thing for accents but he was something else completely. Low and intimidating, his language was professional but you could tell that he was trying not to curse and use slang. It's embarrassing to think about the things you'd do to hear him, swear or even say your name. In your head you know you’d sound like a rabid dog if he’d said it in that attractive ass voice-

Then you hear your name and think you might die. Actually, it was your last name and your medical title. But still—

It’s him.

He’s here. 

Remain professional! you scream and shout at yourself.

You greet him and try to make small talk, asking him how he’s doing, how he’s feeling, and what he’s been doing with his time off. It's hard, he's such a beefy and attractive man. You can't even see his face but based on just the way he walks, you know he's fine. 

Admittedly, working on this base that’s far away from your home made you forget how to act around an attractive man…

“Been reading too, I'm trying to distract myself. If ya have any recommendations just let me know.” he interrupts your thoughts and you relate to him. It gets boring between deployment he tells.

“What do you usually do between deployments?” you ask, sincerely.

“Train, train myself then train with others.” He replies.

You don’t ask anything else, you know that he must miss training every day. The way he says it makes you feel bad. You know many of the soldiers find solitude when they work on themselves and train. It calms them and helps them recover, it's almost a form of therapy. Simon can't do that, not with his injury. You feel a pang in your chest. 

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You go over his notes and x-rays. You give him a checkup and note that he’s healing rather quickly, based on the other scars you know that this isn’t his worst injury. 

You catch his eyes when you are going over everything with him and explaining your notes to him. He’s looking at you with his golden green eyes, staring you up and down. You feel sort of embarrassed because you don't feel cute at this moment. You didn’t put makeup on in the morning, just gloss on your plumped lip and curled your eyelashes. Your wash day is coming up too so you wrapped your hair in a colorful scar today.

The way he looked at you was the way men would look when you would walk into a club. When you had a full face and your hair was freshly done. When you had a tight and short dress that would accentuate your beautiful curves. When you knew that you looked stunning that's the way he was looking at you, right now.

His visit was finished and you put the date for the next visit in your calendar. Before he leaves he thanks you.

“I don't like doctors but I appreciate all you've done for me, miss.”

“Thank you Luitenenent, if you ever need a book recommendation you can always come see me.”

“Thank you.” He tells you and even though you can't see his face, you feel a smile radiate off him.

You feel like he’s such a kind man.

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Week 4

Today, on his next visit, he’s not as kind.

You know why. You can tell that he's antsy, that he wants to get back to work. He’s rushing the process and wants to do everything you told him not to do. He wants to disregard all the instructions you gave him. You’re used to that, soldiers want to get back to their daily routine and they’re itching to do something strenuous during the healing process.

You would be fine with that if it were not for his shortness with you. He was annoyed and that was completely acceptable but there was no need to be curt and downright rude to you.

His answers were short. After each question, while trying to make small talk he replied with a ‘Mmhmm’. He didn't make eye contact with you and when you would suggest activities for him to try and distract him, he would roll his eyes and brush it off. 

He didn't want to chat and you feel like this is not the same man, who came to visit last time.

Today’s visit was short, there was clearly no need for small talk on his end and no time for the flirting you wanted to do. 

You did yourself up today too and now that you think back at it, it feels like a waste of time. You enjoyed the visit you had with him last time you were looking forward to today's visit. However, that feeling quickly dissipated, when Luitenenent Riley came in with a bad attitude and short tone. You had no time for this today, you think you even returned that same energy. So the visit was short and he left with a slammed door following behind him.

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Lunchtime came around and you were most definitely looking forward to it. After a long day, that wasn't even over, all you wanted to do was eat. You grab your book and sit in your designated corner to eat in the loud cafeteria.

You feel relaxed when you start eating and open up your book. The loud cafeteria with the chatter of men and women surrounds you. It's kind of calming when you think about it. The laughs, small talk, and clattering cutlery fade in the background around you. This is just what you need after such a long and tiresome day. 

You try to focus on your book but then you are interrupted by someone clearing their throat.

“Is this seat taken?” You glance up from your book, you find him standing there, his presence commanding attention even in the busy room. Lieutenant Riley is looking down at you with a food tray in his hands. He refers to the seat across from you and you shake your head no. You try to avoid eye contact when he sits down, still feeling annoyed from earlier. 

He lifts his balaclava over his mouth and you both eat in silence. There’s a growing tension around you both. 

You eat your food and busy yourself with your book, however you can feel him looking at you. He ate in silence, his eyes occasionally meeting yours before darting away.

It was irritating.

Earlier he was being rude and barely talking to you and now he was acting timid, the audacity. You started to pick up the pace and eat your lunch faster.

Then he interrupted his silence with his deep sultry voice.

“I wanted to apologize for my behavior earlier. I was disrespectful to you when you were only trying to help. I'm sorry. I've honestly been sick and tired of sitting around and doing nothing that I took out my anger on you and for that, I apologize.” It sounded like he practiced this. It makes you smile thinking about the Ghost practicing an apology in the mirror. You can just imagine him practicing and it warms your heart that he put this much energy into an apology.

“Thank you for your apology.” You reply in a soft voice.

There was silence for a while but it was interrupted by your voice.

“Um…I know it's hard, not being able to do the things you used to be able to do. I'm sure soon you will be able to get back to your routine and do everything that you want to do… and more. If You need to talk to someone, you can always come and see me. ” You tell him, a bit timidly. All you want to bring comfort to him and reassure him.

“Thank you,” he replies.

“No problem Luitenent” you respond.

“Call me, Simon.”

That was the end of the conversation. There was a soft smile on your face, and you both sat in a comfortable silence, taking quick glances at each other.

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Week 6

This next visit was much more casual than the previous two. Throughout the whole week before this upcoming visit, he’s been stopping by your office. 

In the beginning, he would just stop and say hello and indulge you with some small talk. Nothing more than checking in on you and asking how your day was. However lately, he’s been getting comfortable here. He’s claimed the large decorative leather chair in the corner of your office, closest to your desk. 

He would just sit there and talk to you about anything and everything. Conversations went from favorite foods to his most recent reads to how long you’ve been an RN. 

The other nurses in the building have gotten used to his presence in your office. When they come to visit or drop something off, his presence doesn’t throw them off anymore.  They’re used to the large man sitting comfortably in your office. 

Today was no different, he stopped by in the morning and you both got to chatting. An hour went by when it felt like mere minutes. Time flew by so fast that you almost forgot about his checkup.

“Oh!” You exclaim. “I'm such an idiot, I almost forgot why you were here Simon.” you shoot up from your desk and walk over to the examination table, slapping it twice with a big grin on your face

“Alright Simon, let’s get this over with!” You sell him with a large smile on your face. 

Simon slaps his knees and pushes himself off of the deep and comfortable chair. He makes his way across your office looking at all of the flowers around your office and the Sanrio Characters you have scattered around. 

When he gets to the examination table, just as you're about to move out of the way, he grabs your waist and moves you to the side. He lets his hands linger and he makes eye contact with you as he sits on the chair. 

You're certain he’s smiling under that stupid balaclava.

Cocky bastard. 

You clear your throat and attempt to focus on your work. The checkup only lasts a few minutes, he’s getting so much better. You would be so excited to tell him that he can start getting back to his normal routine, but you're distracted.

Distracted because he’s so touchy. First, he touches your waist, he must know that it has some sort of effect on you because then he touches your clothes. 

During the checkup when you need to do something basic and mindless, he grabs the corner of your coat and rubs yours between his fingers. When you speak to him he’s doing the same with your black scrubs.

“You can start getting back to your regular routine, like training and stuff. Don’t rush it or anything, just …baby steps'' you say, you move yourself to stand in between his legs.

“That right?” He asks but he’s not focused on what you say. He’s focused on your plump lips and you think it’s turning you on. His eyes slowly make their way back to your eyes. 

“Mmmhhh! But nothing too rough.” You reply looking back at him. You feel his hands make their way up your waist. 

“Not even a little rough?” He asks. You both start to lean closer and he takes one hand off of your waist and takes it toward his mask. 

Oh god! What is he doing? Is he going to show his face? Kiss you! Or maybe—

Knock Knock

The loud knock draws your attention away from Simon and you pull yourself away from between his legs.

You clear your throat and attempt to fix yourself even though you two have done nothing. 

“Come in!” You shout, voice cracking a bit. 

One of the more intimidating on-field military nurses enters your office. Unlike you, this nurse is trained for the field and it shows. She is tall with broad muscular shoulders, and she confidently walks into the room with a skeptical look on her face. 

She takes a look at both you and Simon before addressing you. Telling you that your presence is wanted somewhere else. 

“Oh okay… I’ll be there in five ma’am.” You reply and she makes her way out of your office with a raised eyebrow at Simon. 

“Okay, Simon! your next check is in two weeks and that’s your last one, congratulations.” You address Simon trying to make it seem like you don’t remember the moment you two had before you were interrupted. Simon stands and makes his way over to you, stops right in front of you, and towers over you. If he was anyone else you’d give them hell for popping your personal space bubble.

“Alright…Can I see you tomorrow?” he asks, looking down at you. 

“Are you injured?” You ask sarcastically. 

“Got a paper cut. That’s what I get for reading” He shows you his thumb and starts to chuckle. You laugh right along with him. You look up at him and nod, you smile while biting your lip. 

“See you tomorrow Si”

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Week 8

Two months.

He’s known you for two months and he still doesn’t know how to act around you. This past month he’s seen you almost every day constantly visiting you. He feels like every day he’s getting to know you better and better. You’re a genius, graduating high school and college early which explains why you're so young. You love this little Japanese cat thing that’s called Hello Kitty. Your favorite flowers are tulips, and that’s something that stuck out to him. 

Tulips stuck out so much that he used his last day of time off to go out off base and buy you some. Today is his last official visit with you but he most definitely doesn’t want to make it his last time seeing you. He wants to see you more, a lot more. He wants to see you outside of work, he wants to see you outside your work clothes. He wants to see you in jeans, a dress, in his bed—

He shakes his head, trying to stop himself from thinking like that. It’s disrespectful to you, he hasn’t known you for longer than a couple of months, and he can’t think about you that way. 

It’s hard not thinking like that. He thinks about his third visit with you, when you both were rudely interrupted. He thinks about what your waist feels like, what your face looks like. He thinks about it often, especially at night–

He cringes at himself, he feels like a teenage boy who’s never touched a woman. 

He tries to distract himself by looking at the tulips he bought for you. They’re closed and pink with long green stems. They’re beautiful just like you. He doesn’t understand, how someone can be so effortlessly beautiful. 

When you wear makeup or no makeup: beautiful. When you have your hair down and natural, sleek and bone straight, or up in braids, buns, or a scarf: beautiful. He can’t begin to comprehend it. 

Not only are you beautiful on the outside you have the personality of a goddess. You’re kind and compassionate but not afraid to snap back when someone gets out of line. That’s what makes him nervous, the doubts start flooding his mind. 

He’s still staring at the tulips when Soap enters his room. Unannounced. 

Soap comes into his quarters and scatters around the room. He looks in draws and under furniture, he's scattering stuff around as if he lives here. He is tossing his stuff around and looking in places he shouldn't be. Ghost hasn't even looked up, hasn't even acknowledged his presence. Ghost rolls his eyes so far back into his head when he hears Johnny whining to himself. 

“What’re ya lookin’ for Johnny?” He inquires in an irritated tone. 

“Lookin’ for my char–” He cuts himself off as finally looks up at Simon. He sees Simon slouched over his bed looking at the pot with pretty pink tulips and a wide, knowing, mischievous grin appears on his face. He looks like the Cheshire cat.

“Look at you Simon, those for that bird you've become so fond of…”

“Watch it Johnny” Ghost finally looks up, he's not pleased. Johnny continues like a mindless, careless, idiot.

“I've heard the rumors, some field nurse says she saw you two in her office…alone. Good on you Riley. Yer getting old now, ya deserve something like that. Herd shes a beauty too. ” He laughs obnoxiously at his own jokes. He slaps Ghost on the hard on his back and continues searching around his room

Ghost sits in silence for a while, thinking about Johnny’s words, he knows that he is joking, he’s not serious.

‘“Whatdya mean by I deserve something like that?” He finally inquires, the question was practically running around his mind. Johnny continued searching around the room as he answered his question.

“Well you know, ya have had a hard life. Yer always helping people, always trying to be the best, and ya never really had that soft life. I know ya don't think it but yer a good man and you deserve a good woman. We don't live forever so think ya should take the risk and do what you have to do… Are you sure you don't have my charger? He asked after giving some of the most meaningful advice that he'd ever heard.

“Get out,” he replied annoyed by his short attention span.

“Maybe Gaz has it,” he says and leaves the room as if nothing happened.

Those words resonate with Simon and he thinks about them for a long time. The time of the appointment was getting closer and closer. He couldn't stop thinking about it, about what he was going to say to you. He wanted to make it meaningful, he wanted to ask you out on a date. 

He wanted your friendship to continue and he wanted your relationship to grow and become more and more personal. He hasn't done this in a long time and he wanted it to mean something. 

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚⋆❀⋆˚୨୧⋆｡ ˚⋆

15 minutes.

He had 15 minutes to figure out what the hell he was going to do.

As he made his way down the familiar hallway toward your office, every step seemed to quicken the pace of his heartbeat. The clock was counting down, each second would go by, getting closer to the moment. In his hands, he held a bouquet of vibrant tulips. He knows that he is catching the eyes of the people around him but each person he passed seemed to fade into the background.

It felt like when he visited you the first time, his hands were sweating and he was nervous. He says ‘hello’ to the woman at the front desk. Even though her attitude has always been rude and uptight however he thanks her every day for sending him to office number 222. The number that completely changed his life.

Now, standing just a few steps away from your door, his mind blanked, and his carefully rehearsed words were completely forgotten. Doubt starting to flood his veins. His hands are sweating again, and his heart is beating a mile a minute. He doesn't know if he can do this, he feels like it is a mistake but his feet won't stop. 

They won't stop because even though his brain is telling him to stop, his heart won't let him.

It's been years since he's ever felt this nervous, he felt like he was going to have a heart attack. He finally arrives in front of your door and holds the flowers behind his back. He gets ready to knock and says a silent prayer to whoever or whatever higher being is listening.  

He knocks.

He waits a beat and then he hears your beautiful voice say “Come on in.”

Right as you say that without thinking Simon impulsively rips off his balaclava off his face and opens the door. He watches as you slowly look up and he swears he sees a natural glow around you. 

“Hi, how can I help you?”

He doesn't respond, instead, he slowly brings the tulips to his front and presents them to you with a soft smile. You look at the man and he watches as you raise an eyebrow, it's like he can see the clogs turning in your head. Then he sees the pieces being put together in your head and your face lights up.

“Simon?” You ask with a gorgeous smile.

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚⋆❀⋆˚୨୧⋆｡ ˚⋆

giggling and kicking my feet

[moeitsu]

Logan Howlett (Wolverine) Lore part 2 :)

Wow! You guys really appreciated my first post about Logan's backstory/lore and I'm grateful for all of your feedback!! Here's the link to part 1 if you're interested :)

I'm so happy to see all the love he's getting, its actually surreal to be a part of this fandom again and seeing all the new Wolverine content! The fanart and fanfics are literally my life-source rn. You don't even wanna know what my tiktok saved folder looks like....

You guys asked for more so here is part 2! It's not as organized as the first part, apologies. I'm using both the movies and comics here. Some stuff isn't confirmed but generally accepted in the mcu.

════ ⋆★⋆ ════

Wolverine first appeared in The Incredible Hulk #180. He was supposed to be a mutated human/animal but the idea was later scrapped.

He was approx. 197 years old when he died in the movie 'Logan'

There's multiple different deaths in the comics but I wont get into that.

Logan is 5'3"- 5'5" (short king)

He has black hair and blue eyes

Before the adamantium, he weighed 196lbs (88kg). After the binding he was 300lbs (136kg)

His body is poisoned by the adamantium metal as it breaks down over time. Requiring him to be in a constant state of regeneration, which begins to slow down as he ages.

Without the metal he probably could have lived a lot longer.

Logan has a fear of water, or rather, drowning. It’s one of the only times can’t regenerate. It would cause his death.

The Weapon X program is also responsible for this fear since he was submerged under water for a long period of time for the binding.

The metal in his body also makes him so heavy it would be very difficult for him to swim.

In the comics Logan temporarily loses his healing factor due to a virus created by Dr. Abraham Cornelius. (Weapon X scientist) This event leaves him vulnerable for the first time in his life, forcing him to confront the reality of his mortality.

His healing ability greatly affects his mental state. Logan can quickly recover from physical damage, but he still feels all the pain. His ability to cope and endure despite the overwhelming suffering is central to his character.

Logan has an acute sense of smell. He can track people and objects across a great distance. It’s so precise that he can identify people’s emotional states such as fear or anger. Even when someone is lying.

Logan was sensitive, shy, and timid as a child.

The first person he ever killed was his biological father.

After killing his father he ran away from home with his friend Rose. (a hired companion to help care for him when he was young). Unfortunately, Logan accidently killed her during a fight.

Logan speaks several languages, due to his extensive life and travels. He speaks English, Japanese, Russian, Spanish, Chinese, Cheyenne and Lakota.

He’s actually an incredibly smart guy, don’t let him fool you.

Despite his love for alcohol, Logan’s healing factor makes it nearly impossible for him to get drunk.

Logan brews his own beer in the Origins comics. (we love a domestic husband)

On Logan’s birthday every year, Sabretooth seeks him out just to beat him up as a twisted "gift." Sabretooth calls this tradition "birthday beatings."

Spider-Man and Wolverine have teamed up a few times in the comics and they are a hilarious pair.

Logan's "berserker rage" is not just a result of his animalistic mutant powers. But stems from his deep psychological trauma. This side of him only emerges when he is pushed into extreme emotional or physical stress.

At one point before he escaped the Weapon X experiment, he was hired to kill Charles Xavier.

Logan's wife Itsu and son Daken were allegedly killed by the Winter Soldier, however it was later revealed that his son actually lived and had been consumed by hatred for his father. Logan was forced to kill his own son before he could cause more harm.

This act is one of, if not the most painful moment in Logan’s life, as it represents his ultimate failure as a father.

Logan blames himself for Jean Grey’s death.

He lived a majority of his life without his memories. Having no idea who he actually is.

Despite his involvement with the X-Men and his many close relationships he often feels like an outsider. Like he doesn’t belong anywhere. He isolates himself because loneliness is a familiar feeling.

Logan prefers the solitude and sanctity of nature. He loves the outdoors and has a lot of respect for the natural world. Often retreating into the wild for his own peace.

In one comic he baby sits Luke Cage and Jessica Jones daughter. Danielle Cage.

He can be quite playful at times with the younger mutants. For example, building a snowman with Jubilee.

Logan dreams of a normal life. He dreams of having a family with a wife and children and leaving the violence behind.

[ponderingmoonlight]

(y/n) comforting her husband Gojo after he was forced to kill his best friend

Pairing: husband!Gojo x reader

Word Count: 1k

Synopsis: The man who seems goofy all day, who never takes anything serious breaks down in his wife's arms after he killed his best friend.

Warning: hurt/comfort, death of Suguru, just a lil oneshot from that anon request I received yesterday, like/comment/reblog if you enjoy <3

„Satoru“, you whisper softly into the night, his frame standing in the door of your shared apartment.

You weren’t able to get there on time, to be there for him when he needed you the most. While you were out there fighting curses, Satoru was forced to kill his best friend. Why? Why does he have to endure this never-ending pain, the torture of being the strongest? Wasn’t it enough that he lost his best friend? Why on earth did all of this happen? You can't even imagine how horrible he must feel.

“Oh, hey babe! Hope you’re doing fine!”, he greets you with a wide smile, his blindfold hiding the pain in his bright blue orbs from the world.

You can feel your heart shatter inside your chest. He is never able to be sad, never able to show how he truly feels. Not even when he’s alone with you, his wife, he lets go of his façade. And while you were always able to accept the stinging fact that he’ll never let you see everything, this doesn’t seem to be enough tonight.

“How are you feeling?”

He simply shrugs his shoulders while letting himself drop onto the couch next to you casually.

“Definitely better than the rest. Damn, have you seen how beat up the kids were? Oh, do you remember that one curse who-“

“Satoru”, you interrupt him softly.

Gently, you caress his cheek the way he always loves, watching as the wide grin on his face disappears with every skilled stroke of your hand.

“You know that this wasn’t what I meant.”

He lets out his breath, body suddenly so firm against your touch that he seems to tense every muscle in his body.

“So there’s really no way out of this conversation, huh?”, he mumbles.

The man right in front of you isn’t the Gojo Satoru everyone loves and curses at the same time. No, at the moment he isn’t the strongest, the teacher, the savior.

At the moment he’s just Satoru.

“Come on, take that mask off.”

Gradually, your fingers open the knot of his blindfold. You wait a second, give him the chance to protest against your actions. But when he stays silent, you slide his blindfold off his gorgeous face, revealing the heaviest eyes you’ve ever seen.

“I’m tired, (y/n). I’m so damn tired”, he finally gives in with low voice.

You have to swallow hard, concentrate all your composure on not breaking down and cry. His eyes don’t shine as bright as they usual do, the dark circles showing more than urgently that Satoru is far beyond being exhausted.

“I still don’t get why he did all that shit, why he had to die today”, he continues, resting his head against the couch while plainly staring at the ceiling.

“And that I’m the one who finished him. He’s my best friend, (y/n). The one and only…”

“None of this is your fault-“

“Is it really, though? I should have been more attentive back then, should have been there for him, I-“

“This is not your fault”, you insist.

No, you simply can't allow him to talk about himself like this, to load even more responsibitly on his very own shoulders.

“Who says he wouldn’t have chosen this path even with you by his side? Who says you would have been able to stop him? Suguru was surrounded by friends and horror, had multiple chances to change his mind. He knew that this would happen someday, he was ready to die for this. None of this will ever be your fault, Satoru.”

“And what about all the others? Yuta, Maki, Toge and Panda almost getting killed, Haibara, the countless sorcerers who lost their lives. All these non-jujutsu sorcerers who died because of me. How long will it go on like this? And what if I’ll snap just like Suguru did? I…I can’t do this anymore.”

He lets out a shaky breath, eyes on the brink of overflowing with tears. Never in your life have you seen your husband this vulnerable, brought down by life itself. And the worst is that you can’t help him. No, there are no word that could take away his pain. There are no words to comfort him over his best friends’ death, over the countless other people who died because he’s alive.

“There is nothing I can say to cheer you up”, you finally admit.

Gently, you sit on your knees and bend over him, hands cupping his cheeks.

“But even though you don’t deserve this, even though you feel like you’re worthless I want you to remember that you are loved. Haibara loved you, Suguru loved you until the very end and I do. I will love through no matter what, I’ll stay right here by your side through it all. You don’t have to hide your tears from me, you don’t have to pretend that you’re fine when you’re far away from being fine.”

“I’m not, (y/n). I’m so far away from fine that I feel like I’ll never be happy again”, he mutters with trembling lips.

Just before a tear falls down his cheek you catch it with your finger.

“And it is more than natural to feel this way”, you reply softly.

“Do you think…Do you think he was my friend until the end?”

“Oh, he definitely was. Even though you didn’t have the same opinion, Suguru will always be your friend.”

He gifts you a small smile when another wave of tears haunts him.

“Can you hold me please?”

Your husband doesn’t have to ask twice. You let yourself fall against his chest, caress the back of his head while he swallows you with his arms, presses you firmly against his body while crying his heart out.

“I love you, (y/n). God, I love you so much”, he mutters against your neck, covers you with tiny kisses until you don’t know how to breathe anymore.

“I love you too, babe. Let’s just stay here for a while.”

“Yeah. Staying here sounds good…”

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