#Steady Diet of Nothing

[guerrilla-operator]

Fugazi // Latin Roots

Tracing your father's footsteps In your mother's shoes Going up and over And across all your Latin roots

[napunk-history]

Fugazi

Steady Diet Of Nothing (1991)

[big-low-t]

[closetofcuriosities]

FUGAZI x MOSQUITOHEAD BOOTLEG TEE

[wildmansters]

Made a meme for every time this 28 year old I know makes dramatic posts about aging.

[hannibals-favourite-meal]

.⋆｡What I Cannot Give You｡⋆.

Steve Rogers x plus size reader

After sleeping with your boyfriend for the second time, you find out that he’s never cum with you- but his ex says that he always did with her

Warnings: smut, angst, insecurities, feelings of inadequacy, misunderstanding, inability to finish (on Steve’s end), ooc!Sharon, mentions of diets, comfort

WC: 2.3k

Minors DNI

Library- @hannibals-favourite-meal-library

“Alright, what’s going on?” Numbly, you looked up from your cold cup of tea to meet the piercing green eyes of your best friend. Natasha was almost glaring at you as she stood with her hands on her slim hips, quite obviously having been watching you for some time.

You swallowed thickly. “Nothing, nothing’s wrong.” Her scowl deepened.

“That’s not what I asked now was it?” Your stomach flipped and you squeezed the teacup even tighter. “But now that you’ve said that, what’s wrong? And don’t you dare lie to me, I’ll know.” 

You should’ve known that Nat would spot your unease from a mile away, you should’ve just stayed in your room. But the need for food and a distraction from your thoughts had been too great of a temptation. Your vision blurred with tears as you pitifully shook your head. 

Suddenly, all the exasperation was gone from her expression and she was kneeling before you, one hand on your knee, the other on the arm of the couch. “Hey, hey don’t cry.” You whimpered loudly, now unable to stop the onslaught of emotions.

“It- it’s fine. Everything’s fine.” With a free hand, you furiously wiped away the fat tears that were now rolling down your full cheeks. Natasha sighed heavily and pulled the cup from you, placing it on the coffee table behind her.

“Was it that commercial about the cat and the raccoon again?” She teased though her tone still held some strain of wariness. 

“No.” You groaned tearfully, making Nat smile warmly at you.

“Then it can’t be so bad can it?” Moving gracefully, she plopped down on the couch cushion next to you, taking your shaking hands into her steady ones. “Did something happen with Steve?” The watery look you gave her in return was all the answer she needed.

“Stevie!” You cried, your head tossed back in pleasure. It was overwhelming, overpowering, it was everything. The man above you groaned as you tightened around him once more, practically strangling his cock with the force of your orgasm.

Your nails scraped down his muscular back, leaving behind bright red lines that would disappear before dawn even broke the horizon. “Feels so good!” Your sobs echoed through the room along with the wet slapping of skin as his hips met yours.

Blonde hair brushed against your nose as Steve buried his face into your neck, lathering your burning skin with even hotter kisses. “That’s it doll, one more time for me please.” And as the fat head of his cock hit that spongy bundle of nerves inside you, you obliged him. Though less powerful than your previous three, your soft body still tensed with ecstasy and your mind went hazy.

“Good girl, my good girl.” Steve muttered softly, laying one last gentle peck to your shoulder before he pulled himself away from you. “Did you have a good time?”

You rolled your eyes with a smile. “I can’t feel anything below my hips, does that answer your question?” He chuckled and kissed the tip of your nose.

“Alright, no need to be smart about it.” As gently as he could manage, Steve sat back on his haunches and slowly pulled out of you. You whined at the sudden emptiness of your cunt and the soreness that came along from having his massively thick length inside of you.

But there was no other sensation after that, no telltale feeling of cum inside of you or drying on your thick thighs. Furrowing your eyebrows, you looked at your boyfriend. “Did you finish?” The question came out more shaky than you intended but Steve seemingly didn’t notice.

“No but you did and that’s all that matters.” He dismissed as he stood up from the mattress. You sat up on your elbows, not done with the conversation just yet.

“That’s the second time it’s happened and we’ve only had sex twice.” You pointed out but Steve just sighed.

“It’s fine, it happens sometimes. I’m just happy that you felt good. That’s more than enough for me. Now stay there so I can clean you up.” And as he walked to the attached bathroom, your heart sank and a pit began to grow in your stomach.

“Stevie.” You started but quickly stopped as his blue eyes bore into you. Rage oozed from them like lava, stunning you into silence.

“That’s enough. I told you it’s fine, I won’t be having this conversation again.” With tensed shoulders and clenched fists, he left the room leaving you lost and feeling far more empty than ever before.

“Okay so he didn’t finish but you did. I see no problem with that, it would be the opposite for most guys.” Nat shrugged, a lean arm around your shoulders as she continued to comfort you despite her apparently dismissal of the whole thing.

You huffed, now more frustrated than distraught. “That’s not the point.” You tried to yank away but she held strong, easily pinning you back down onto the couch.

“Then what is?” She implored.

“That I’m not enough for him!” You cried. “That I’m not pretty enough or good enough in bed to even get him to cum! There has to be something wrong with me and he’ll figure that out soon enough and leave me.” Fear and sadness filled your heart as you spilled out your deepest fears to your best friend who was now stunned unto silence.

“He’ll find someone better, just like everyone else did.” You bit down on your lip as more tears rose to the surface. 

“Pcholka-“ She started but was quickly interrupted by another person strutting into the communal living area.

Sharon Carter, the very personification of everything that you wished you could be, was smirking devilishly as she strolled past you and Natasha, apparently heading for the kitchen. You held your breath as she gracefully walked by, her high heels (which weren’t needed for her job) clacked against the expensive flooring. 

“Don’t mind me ladies, just getting myself a protein shake. This new diet is a killer I tell ya but it’s so worth it.” Her smirk made you shrink into yourself but Natasha’s firm grip kept you from escaping. 

An uncomfortable silence settled over the room as Sharon flitted about the kitchen. Until she finally began her walk back out. You breathed a sigh of relief as she passed by the couch once more but right as she reached the door frame, she turned back and made eye-contact with you.

“Oh Steve always finished with me.” Your eyes went wide with shock. Sure there had been rumours that your boyfriend and the CIA agent had been involved but nothing more ever came out of it so you always just dismissed it as office gossip, until now. “Every. Time.” She said, rubbing even more salt in your already wounded ego.

“No one fucking asked you Sharon. In fact, why are you even here, weren’t you reassigned because of your fuckup in Bosnia?” Natasha snarled, her eyes narrowing on the other agent. She twisted her body around, giving you the opportunity to rip from her grasp and make a run for it.

Nat called out your name but all you could focus on was the way that Sharon smirked at you, her bright eyes alight with an evil plan and you wouldn’t be sticking around to watch it play out, not when you knew that she would be successful.

——————

Being the completely understanding and perfect boyfriend he was, Steve could be easily avoided with a simple text that you weren’t feeling well and needed some alone time. He would always ask if you needed anything and you could tell that he was curious as to why you weren’t letting him come take care of you but he respected you too much to pry any deeper.

Natasha hadn’t been so easy to avoid but your stubbornness won out over hers so she had left you alone, just like you wanted. It was easier being alone with your thoughts than having her try to convince you that what you were feeling was stupid and a total misunderstanding.

Groaning, you threw your phone across the bed. The screen was still bright with the Cosmopolitan article about ’10 Tips and Tricks to Make Him Go Crazy For You’, all of which seemed very expensive in the case of toys and lingerie or positions that you were not nearly flexible enough to pull off.

Maybe it was hopeless, you already knew that you weren’t good enough for him so what did it matter if you couldn’t get him off. You were barely even together in the first place, it wasn’t as if you were already in love with him and breaking up would devastate you.

You rolled over onto your side and curled into the pillow that miraculously still smelt like him, squeezing it tightly to your chest. This feeling was familiar, the drop of your stomach, the stutter of your heart like you were at the precipice of a cliff and unable to stop moving forward. 

And all you could think about was the disgust and the anger in Steve’s eyes that night. It was like in that moment he also figured out how one-sided the relationship was and he hated you for it.

“Doll, I know you’re in there.” Your body snapped up, your muscles pulled taut with anxiety. “You don’t have to open the door, I just want to know if you’re ok. Nat said you were having a tough time.” 

“I’m fine Steve, just having a moment.” You tried to dismiss but the dry crack of your voice had him opening your door and slipping inside. 

In the dim light of your bedroom, Steve’s figure was imposing, his sheer size creating a void in the space. Your heartbeat pounded loudly in your ears as he gently shut the door behind him. “You only ever call me Steve when something’s wrong.” His steps were featherlight as he cautiously crept closer.

“Steve-“ 

“See, there it is again. I’m your Stevie not Steve.” He whined playfully, making a ghost of a smile dance across your lips. The mattress dipped under the weight of one of his hands as he planted it by your wide hips, giving you enough space to be respectful but close enough that you could feel the heat of his skin through your pyjamas.

He leaned closer as if going in for a kiss but you stopped him with a hand to his strong chest. He paused for barely a second before he pulled your hand away and brought it up to his lips. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Your eyes dropped to your lap, you could guess what was coming next. ‘It’s not you, it’s me’ or ‘I just think we’re better off as friends’. But instead of the breakup you thought was going to happen, Steve hooked a finger under your chin and guided your gaze back to him.

“Is this about the other night? I told you that you didn’t have to worry about that.” He tutted as his thumb gently caressed your jaw. You hesitated nuzzling into his touch, still too hurt to want that comfort.

“But why would you even be with me if I can’t make you feel good?” As soon as the words slipped from your mouth, you regretted them. Steve’s expression turned stormy and suddenly, his grip became tighter until your jaw ached from the force of it.

You could see the way the vein in his neck twitched as an angry flush crawled up his cheeks. You knew he wanted to yell, to lash out at you but he quickly swallowed down his anger, taking a deep breath before he spoke again.

“You do make me feel good. You make me feel amazing, both in and out of the bedroom. You’re gorgeous doll, and smart and funny and caring. I’m with you because of that, not because I want to just get off. I get pleasure from your pleasure.” He cooed, leaning forward to rest his forehead against your own.

His breath fanned across your lips as his other hand finally cupped your hip beneath your oversized shirt. “Sharon told me that you always finished with her.” You whispered, your fingers curling into the compression shirt he wore.

His pecs rippled with your touch, his heartbeat strong beneath your palms. “I can’t cum, doll. Or at least I can’t anymore.” Taking a shaky breath, he continued.

“I don’t think I’ve cum since before the serum.” His voice was soft, ashamed. His broad shoulders dropped as he finally admitted the truth. “It did something to me that no one has been able to figure out yet but we’re getting closer.”

“But Sharon-“

“I faked it with her. Every time.” At your puzzled expression, Steve smiled softly. “I always wore condoms so she couldn’t tell and besides, it was only a couple times before you were even around. I haven’t thought about her since the moment you walked into the tower on your first day.”

Only now did you melt into his hold, letting him pull you closer as he endeavoured to comfort you. “You’re all I want, all I need. I promise.” 

“Really?” You whispered, your lips drawing closer to his. The corners of his eyes scrunched as he smiled back at you.

“Really. As long as you don’t mind that I can’t fill you up with my cum, mark you from the inside out.” He growled playfully. Heat rushed to your cheeks at the dirty talk, your mind now filled with images of just that.

“Stevie!” You yelped but was cut off by his lips pressing against yours. Your heart skipped a beat as he held you tighter, the kiss quickly becoming far more passionate.

“That’s my good girl.” 

Marvel Masterlist | Main Masterlist

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[valorascult]

⭐️ RESET ⭐️

——————

- delete contacts you no longer speak to, old notes on phone, playlists you no longer listen to. 📱

- unsubscribe from podcasts, channels, music, remove apps & accounts that you no longer absorb. (replace these things with content the person you’re becoming would consume) 🎵🤍

- go through your wardrobe & create a donate, sell, & keep pile. don’t keep things you haven’t worn in months. before purchasing something, ask yourself if you’ll use it more than 5 times. for every item you bring in, 2-3 items should leave. 👚👙👟

- start adjusting your diet to fit your personal goals. remember that slow motion is better than no motion + discipline is necessary. don’t force yourself to get healthy / fit in one week this is a steady win - avoid burnout. writing your goals every week helps. ✍🏼🍳🍎🫐🥑

- practice detachment. i don’t mean from emotions & becoming ‘stoic’ but from materialistic objects, remove yourself from labels, become nothing so that you may become something. detach yourself from people that no longer serve you, stop dwelling on the past; there is only ‘right now’. detach yourself from the future, it is not promised & only creates anxious emotions. 🧠🫀🦶🏼

- learn to become comfortable with the uncomfortable. train yourself with breath work. I recommend pranayama, morning & night. I used to be anxious about anything that is ‘new’ until I started simply breathing properly & quieting my mind first thing when I wake up, I swear by it. 💆🏼‍♀️

- journal morning & night. track your mental + emotional patterns. write down why you feel a certain way & if you don’t know why, break it down instead of looking at the bigger picture. 📓

I could list more but I will end it here. There are levels to a reset. (lvl 1)

[bless-my-demons]

Redamancy: Chapter Twenty-Nine

Series Summary: What happens when your soulmate is a vampire that struggles to maintain a diet of trying not to kill you? Common sense says run for the hills, nothing is worth your life - but my heart is whispering why not, what’s there to lose?

Warnings: does a handsy Jasper need a warning?

Notes: oh my god it’s been so long, I’ve been eating myself up over not posting. I’ve been working myself to death, but I’ve finally got a long weekend off and so I used it to get back to what makes me happy - this story! Omg I hope you guys love it🥹 I also have to go through and update my taglist later tonight, so bear with me on that until I add it!

Word Count: 1500

Series Masterlist

• April 3rd, 2006 • Forks HS •

Reader

Tingly.

That’s the state of my body this morning, the state of my mind.

Not only am I riding an emotional high from our conversation this weekend, but my dream last night… Good lord, that dream.

I can feel the echoes of his fingers on my skin, the coolness of his lips, the wet trail they would’ve left behind… the solid weight of what surely his body would feel like, pressed against mine. I can imagine all of what it would be like vividly, to be under him, to get carried away, to just explore-

“You alright, darlin’?”

His voice jolts me from the day dreaming stare I had on the locker before me, caught red handed. To make matters worse, that deep southern tenor questioned me inches from my ear, causing a blush to heat my cheeks to an almost uncomfortable degree.

“Perfectly fine, why?” I immediately busy myself within my locker so that I don’t have to face him right away.

“You do remember that I can feel you, right?” His voice is low and his hands find my hips tenderly, but the air changes around us.

My heart rate skyrockets, this is dangerous. His fingers flex against me and the death grip I have on this book in my hands turns my knuckles white.

“Jasper-” his name is a whispered warning, but also a plea.

“I know.” Instantly a cooling, soothing balm blankets our tension and I release the tightness in my chest. Leaning backwards into him I just feel tired all of a sudden, like I had run a marathon. “Let’s get out of here.”

His request sounds more like a demand and I twist in his arms, “Is that a good idea?”

“Darlin’, I don’t have many of those these days.” His mouth quirks up in a lopsided grin as he shoves all of my school supplies back in my locker, shutting it and tugging me along behind him towards the student parking lot.

Jasper

Something is on her mind, something dangerous. Something I absolutely want to know, something I’m not sure I have the strength for, but I can’t help it - it’s her.

I’ve never been more thankful for an overcast day with no rain: perfect motorcycle weather. Come to think of it, my sister had a knowing look in her eyes as my siblings all piled into their respective vehicles as I straddled my bike this morning. A decision that currently led me to now: Y/n and I leaving school before midday.

Those thoughts I interrupted earlier have her quiet, but her emotions are raging and it is driving me insane. Curiosity, need, nervousness - a dangerous concoction begging to overtake my rational mind. Separating myself from her feelings is almost impossible at this point, she is so well ingrained in me.

Finally arriving at my thankfully empty home, I shut my motorcycle off and offer a steady hand to help her dismount. Swinging my own leg over, I turn towards her and lean against it, observing her for a moment with crossed arms.

“What?” She makes eye contact as she struggles with the chin strap of my helmet.

Grabbing the helmet by the chin piece, I gently tug her forward between my legs, “Tell me.” I lace the command with neediness to encourage her to be pliant.

And judging by the way her lips part behind the dark visor, the immediate dilation of her eyes, and the weight of her hands settling on my thighs gently, I might’ve laid it on a little too thick.

Chuckling, I free her from my helmet and riding jacket. By the time I finish, she seems to snap from the daze and her hands clench on top of my legs.

“Not fair, Hale.” Feisty this morning.

I lean forward towards her ear with a grin as I stand from my bike to put away the gear, “All’s fair in love and war, sweetheart.”

Reaching to swat my chest, I grab her hand gently before she could injure herself.

Pausing as I hang my jacket up, her teasing response sends excitement through me, “Two can play at that game, baby.”

Stepping into my room, I realize too late what has her curiosity: my desk. Well, the art that occupies every inch, my art.

“What is all this?” Leafing through pencil sketches of my favorite hunting spots and pen etchings of my family at random moments, she gets to the important ones hidden below. Her breathing hitches and I know she’s found them, the ones of her.

Some are in pencil, some are in random felt-tip pens, but my favorites? Those are charcoal. A decently basic medium, but I feel like it captures so much more than anything else ever could. Maybe it’s because I use my fingers to smudge and shape her perfect curves and lines, but it radiates emotion in sweeping gestures and subtle shading - something that’s hard to capture with anything else.

“There’s-” awe, shock, surprise, they all shuffle through her and I’m on edge, waiting to hear her thoughts. “There’s so many…”

I watch her carefully examine each one and I smile when she chuckles at a few - some of her at school, some of her here in my home, moments I not only committed to memory, but to paper.

“Now you know what I do with my free time.” I smile through the minuscule anxiety that bubbles up at her seeing my secret hobby. Everyone in my family knows I draw, but they haven’t seen my drawings.

“Jasper…” I can tell she’s getting emotional, but a part of me is excited for her to see my innermost thoughts on paper, to see herself through my eyes - the unaltered beauty she contains.

“You haven’t even seen the ones I cherish the most.” Opening a familiar sketchbook buried under many other drawings, I reveal my favorites. “The very first ones.”

Her breath hitches, running a reverent finger down the first page. It’s the very first moment I saw her, crouched, scooping up papers on her first day of high school in Forks - absolutely radiant.

“You were a vision that day. A beautiful tornado that wrecked my world, I tried to capture every detail from memory because I never want to forget-”

Her hand finding my cheek breaks me from my explanation and my eyes find her watery ones, mouth open, searching for words clearly hard to get out, “Jasper…”

“I love you.” My confession steals her breath completely this time, the first time I’ve uttered these words aloud and it feels absolutely right. “I’ve loved you since the moment you hit me with that door. I knew I was absolutely ruined for anyone else and I wouldn’t have it any other way.” Tilting her chin up with the tip of my finger as it wobbles at my confession, I smile, “Say something, darlin’.”

“I love you, too.” Now it’s my turn to go wholly still. “I knew from the moment I saw you I’d never be the same, I was yours-”

I couldn’t wait another second, I closed the minuscule gap between our mouths to seal these confessions. I love her and she loves me. Me.

Tilting her head back slightly as I cradle her, I take my cue to deepen the kiss, to pull her closer carefully. Groaning into her mouth, fuck I can’t get enough of her. Trailing kisses down her jawline as she tips her head to the side for much needed air, her gasps drive me to lift her onto my desk.

“Jaz…” her breathy plea of my nickname freezes me, panic seizing my actions.

“I am a gentleman, but only just barely.” My voice is gravel in my own ears, breathed down the slender column of her throat.

A shiver from her causes me to clench my jaw and attempt to gather myself.

“Maybe I don’t want a gentleman right now.” Her whisper damns me, it fucking sets me on fire.

A slamming door downstairs straightens my spine and my hands abandon the exploration of her. Fuck, my family’s timing couldn’t be better, but also worse.

“Honey, we’re home!” Emmett’s booming voice echoes up the stairs and immediately I know he knows, he can probably smell it.

Huffing, I help her regain her footing and straighten her clothes from the rumpled mess my hands made of it. I also take half a thought to smooth her arousal, a damn shame-but a necessity if we’re to face my siblings for the rest of the evening.

“Fucking Emmett.” Her frustration draws a chuckle from me as we make our way downstairs.

“I heard that!” My brother’s response causes her to roll her eyes at me playfully and I shake my head, my heart weighing much fuller in my chest as she plucks its invisible strings with her shit-eating grin.

Next

Taglist part 1:

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[stillfoodforguys]

While I fell asleep in this hulking man’s arms, I still couldn’t believe he chose to hit on me at the club. I was obsessed with how many parts of his body were so round and firm, and spent a long time groping the muscular padding around his arms, chest and belly. His balls were just as huge and heavy too, full of a load that he was more than happy to pump inside of me before the night ended.

Even in my dreams, I could feel his powerful embrace around me. I imagined it growing tighter and warmer, an intense sweat slowly breaking through my skin. But something began to feel wrong, as the embrace became painful and the liquid coating my skin got thicker and stickier. The panic abruptly woke me up, yet nothing about my situation changed.

Whatever had hold of my upper body was throbbing with a steady rhythm. Each time it contracted, it felt like I was being dragged deeper into the source of the sweltering heat. After a moment of struggling to try and break free, I discovered what was happening when a massive pair of hands took hold of my legs to steady them. I was being devoured by the beefcake who lured me home, who had savoured swallowing his unaware prey up to this point.

Now that I’d started squirming, he decided to cram my legs down his throat as fast as he could, each mighty gulp forcing more of my body through his gullet until the entire contorted mess was contained within his bulging ball gut. He slapped his abdomen as he finished, making it rumble loudly before a meaty belch erupted from his mouth.

It was no wonder he was so huge if his diet consisted of other men, and I was just one of many that he’d made an easy meal out of to fuel his growth.

[novaursa]

hi!! could i request a targaryen! reader x jacaerys velaryon.

reader is daemon and laena velaryon daughter, she’s the epitome of daemon when he was in his prime (crazy daemon) but got her mothers looks. she’s betrothed to jace not baela. the scene when the dragonseeds meet jace and ulf blatantly disrespects jace, she enters the room and steps in. she looks down on him like someone below her to remind him his place, both jace and her do. especially threatens that her dragon (maybe oc dragon of balerion or cannibal) has a particular diet of eating his own kind, she’ll turn a blind eye when her dragon starts eating silverwing, leaving ulf back being a dragonseed in the slums where he belongs. then the dinner scene too!, not to forget hugh too, even though he doesn’t do anything just a mere threat. not addam though loves her uncle 🫶🫶

you can choose however you want it story to be structure you have full autonomy🫶🫶

Wayward Daughter

- Summary: When Ulf disrespects Jacaerys, you remind him of his place.

- Pairing: cousin!reader/Jacaerys Velaryon

- Note: The reader is Daemon's and Laena's oldest daughter, she is bonded with Cannibal.

- Rating: Mature 16+ (just to be safe)

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround

The wind howls as you stand with Jacaerys atop the rocky outcrop of Dragonstone, your gaze drawn toward the towering peaks of Dragonmont where the dragons circle high above. The skies are turbulent today, a reflection of the tension that hangs in the air. Jacaerys stands beside you, his posture straight, though there’s a flicker of unease in his dark eyes. You feel it, too. The Dragonseeds—those commoners and bastards who claim Targaryen blood and now seek the right to mount dragons—have arrived. And with them, comes trouble.

The Cannibal stirs behind you, a deep rumble vibrating through his massive chest, his black scales blending with the stormy sky. The others might flinch in his presence, but you’ve known him all your life. He’s wild and uncontrollable to anyone else, but you’ve forged a bond with him like no other. His dark and dangerous energy is a mirror of your own, a reflection of what it means to be Daemon Targaryen’s eldest daughter. Where Jacaerys holds the warmth of his mother’s love, the steadfastness of duty, you are a flame lit by a different fire—wild, unpredictable, fierce.

Ahead, the Dragonseeds approach, two of them standing out from the rest: Ulf the White and Hugh Hammer. Ulf’s silver hair shines under the fading light, but it is his swagger that grates on you. There’s something in the way he carries himself, a man too confident for someone who spent most of his life in the slums of King’s Landing, now reaching for power he has never earned. Hugh, on the other hand, stands a little to the side, his dark eyes flicking between you, Jace, and Ulf, as if he knows trouble is brewing.

"Your Grace," Ulf greets Jacaerys with a smirk that barely conceals his contempt. He steps closer to Jacaerys, reaching out as if to touch him, to invade his space. "Such fine hair you have, my prince," Ulf says, his voice dripping with false admiration as his fingers graze the edges of Jacaerys’s dark locks.

The brazenness of his gesture sparks a fury within you. Jace’s jaw clenches, but he remains still, trying to hold his composure. You, however, are not one to allow such disrespect to go unanswered.

Without a word, you step between them, placing your body protectively in front of Jacaerys. The look in your eyes is one of warning, as sharp as the point of a sword. Ulf’s smirk falters when he meets your gaze. He may think himself bold, but he hasn’t yet faced the fury of a Targaryen woman with the blood of Old Valyria running hot in her veins.

“If you ever touch him like that again, Ulf, I will feed Silverwing to Cannibal piece by piece,” you say, your voice low and venomous, yet steady as steel. “And when there’s nothing left but bone, you will be sent crawling back to the slums of King’s Landing where you belong.”

The threat hangs in the air like the scent of wildfire. Ulf blinks, his smirk wiped away, replaced by something like fear as he glances at the looming shadow of Cannibal behind you. You don’t move, holding his gaze until he looks away, defeated. He shifts uncomfortably, taking a step back, the bravado drained from his face.

You spare a glance at Hugh Hammer, his hands open in a gesture of appeasement. Unlike Ulf, Hugh is no fool. His eyes meet yours, and he inclines his head in a small nod, acknowledging your warning without the need for words. He knows Ulf was out of line, and he has no desire to provoke you or Jacaerys further.

“I meant no harm,” Ulf mumbles, his arrogance melting under the weight of your stare. He steps back again, his hands raised as if to show he’s harmless. “Just a jest.”

“There is no jest in disrespect,” you snap, still holding your ground. “Jacaerys is your prince, and you will show him the respect he deserves, or you’ll answer to me.”

Jace’s hand brushes yours lightly, a silent gesture of gratitude. His eyes flick to you with a look that says more than words ever could. Though he could stand up for himself—and does, more often than not—there is something deeply satisfying about the way you step into the fray for him. He is your betrothed, your equal, but in this moment, you are the one with fire in your blood, unafraid to burn those who dare disrespect what is yours.

“Enough,” Jacaerys says at last, his voice firm as he steps forward, reclaiming his space. He doesn’t need to say more; the point has been made. Ulf and Hugh both bow their heads, though it is Hugh who seems more genuine in his respect.

As the Dragonseeds shuffle away, Jacaerys turns to you, his expression softening. “You didn’t have to do that,” he murmurs, though there’s a hint of amusement in his tone.

You shrug, a smirk pulling at your lips. “Maybe not,” you admit. “But I wanted to.”

He chuckles, the anomasity of the moment easing. “I’m beginning to think I should fear you more than I fear Cannibal.”

“Good,” you say, your smile widening. “You’re learning.”

The two of you stand in the fading light of Dragonstone, the storm clouds swirling above. 

And anyone who dares to come between you will face your wrath.

The hall of Dragonstone is filled with the low hum of conversation as you enter, your eyes scanning the room where the Dragonseeds have gathered. The flickering light of the hearth casts shadows across the ancient walls, the scent of roasted meats and spiced wine lingering in the air. At the head of the table, Jacaerys sits beside you, his gaze steady, though you can sense the tension in his posture. This dinner is meant to solidify alliances, but with men like Ulf the White at the table, it feels more like a test of wills.

You take your seat beside Jace, your attention briefly drawn to Addam of Hull, who sits across from you. His eyes are sharp, observant, but there’s an easy manner about him that sets him apart from the others. Addam is different. He carries himself with a quiet dignity, a reflection of his true lineage—though unspoken, you know well enough that he’s Corlys Velaryon’s son, a secret that sits heavy in the air between you, though neither of you have ever addressed it.

Ulf sits a few chairs down, his posture languid, as if he believes himself the lord of this table. His pale eyes flick toward you, and you can see the resentment simmering beneath the surface. It’s no secret that Ulf has never forgiven you for the way you put him in his place earlier. Good. You have no intention of letting him forget it.

The conversation is polite, if a bit strained. Rhaenyra, seated further down, makes an effort to engage the Dragonseeds, offering words of gratitude and hope for the future. But your focus shifts when Ulf, with that insufferable grin of his, leans back in his chair, his goblet of wine raised as if he’s already claimed a victory.

"Seems the prince and his lovely bride-to-be have more fire in them than I thought," Ulf says, his voice carrying just enough weight to draw attention. His eyes flick to you, lingering just a little too long, the implication behind his words hanging in the air. "Targaryens always were a fiery bunch."

You feel Jace stiffen beside you, but you remain calm, a slow smile tugging at the corners of your lips. You relish moments like this—when men like Ulf think they have the upper hand, only for you to remind them who they’re truly dealing with.

“Oh, Ulf,” you say, your tone light, almost playful, “it’s not just fire we have in our blood. It’s power, something you seem to misunderstand.” You pause, letting the words sink in, then take a sip of your wine. “But perhaps that’s why Silverwing tolerates you. She must sense the need for something stronger in your bloodline.”

The remark lands as intended, and you see the flicker of irritation flash in Ulf’s eyes. His hand tightens around the goblet, but he doesn’t respond right away, perhaps knowing better than to provoke you any further in front of the gathered company. Instead, he shoots a sidelong glance at Hugh, who remains silent but clearly uncomfortable with the rising tension.

“Careful, Y/N,” Ulf says, trying to keep his voice steady, though you can hear the edge to it. “Not everyone at this table shares your sense of humor.”

“Good,” you reply, raising your goblet in mock toast. “I wouldn’t want to be misunderstood. And let me make myself perfectly clear, Ulf, if you think for one moment you can match me in wit, let alone in power, you’ll find yourself sorely disappointed.”

There’s a low murmur from those seated nearby, eyes flicking between you and Ulf. But before the tension can escalate, Addam speaks up from across the table, his voice calm, cutting through the growing unease.

“Ulf,” he says, his tone firm but not unkind, “let’s not forget why we’re here. This war requires unity, not division.” He glances at you briefly, a knowing look in his eyes. There’s no fear or contempt in his gaze, only understanding. Addam is smart enough to recognize what’s at stake, and perhaps that’s why you find it easy to respect him, unlike Ulf.

You give Addam a small nod, acknowledging his attempt to smooth things over. There’s something about him that you can’t help but admire—his steady demeanor, his quiet strength. It’s no wonder Corlys holds him in such regard, bastard or not.

“Of course,” you say, your voice softening as you turn your attention to Addam. “We’re all here for the same cause, after all. It’s not every day one has the chance to fight for a true queen.” You smile at him, the warmth in your tone genuine. Unlike Ulf, Addam has earned his place here.

Addam returns the smile, though his eyes remain sharp, ever watchful. “A true queen indeed,” he replies, lifting his goblet in a respectful toast. “To Rhaenyra.”

The tension at the table eases somewhat, the air growing lighter as the others follow Addam’s lead and raise their goblets in agreement. But even as you join in the toast, your eyes linger on Ulf, watching him closely, waiting for any sign that he might try to push you further. He says nothing, his gaze fixed on the table in front of him, though you can still feel the undercurrent of his resentment.

The rest of the dinner passes without incident, the conversation flowing more easily now, but you keep your focus sharp. Ulf may be cowed for now, but men like him don’t forget slights easily. You’ll be ready when he tries again.

As the meal winds down, you lean closer to Jacaerys, your hand resting lightly on his arm. “We’re surrounded by would-be dragons, but not all of them are worthy,” you murmur quietly, your gaze shifting toward Ulf, who is still sulking in his seat.

Jace follows your gaze, his lips curving into a small, wry smile. “I trust you to remind them of that,” he says, his voice low, only for your ears.

You smile in return, feeling the weight of the moment lift slightly. If the Dragonseeds—or anyone else—wants to challenge you, they’ll find themselves facing not just one dragon, but two.

[deliciousangelfestival]

Nothing Has Changed - 15

Summary: Returning home for peace, you're faced with your tormentor, Bucky Barnes, who is now involved in your family's business.

Character: Bucky Barnes

Warning: Angst, Tragedy.

Author Note: From the last poll, the series that you want to see updated is this one. I hope you enjoy this update.

Nothing Has Changed - Series Masterlist

Main Masterlist || support: Ko-fi

Thank you to anyone who gave a like, reblog, and left a comment. It motivated me to write more. 💖💖💖

“Just like your father. Dishonest to the core,” Lydia sneered, her eyes narrowing as she glared at Bucky.

He exhaled sharply, folding his arms. “How could he ever marry you? And how did I end up with a mother like you?”

Without warning, Lydia snatched up the magazine and flung it at him. Bucky moved effortlessly, dodging the flying object with ease. “You threw me in jail, and now you disrespect me? I can’t believe this is my life,” she spat, her voice seething with resentment.

Bucky sighed, but there was no sympathy in his eyes. He walked over to the coffee table and sat down on the edge, directly facing her. His movements were calm, controlled, but Lydia could sense something had shifted in her son—something dangerous.

He raised three fingers slowly, holding them in front of her. “Three times,” he said coldly, his voice steady and low. “If you push me past three, I’ll send you back to jail. And from what I hear, the food there does wonders for your diet.”

Lydia’s face twisted with rage, her jaw clenched so tight that her teeth ground together. She stood abruptly, practically trembling with fury, but she said nothing. Instead, she shot him a glare, turned on her heel, and stormed out of the room, her footsteps echoing loudly as she left.

Bucky watched her go, his jaw tense, his hands tightening into fists. The room was quiet again, but inside, his thoughts were turbulent. How did it come to this? How did everything get so twisted?

For years, he had been blind—blind to the lies, the manipulation, the way his mother had used him as a pawn in her schemes. He had fought to protect her, fought for a family that had never truly existed. Now, he saw her clearly, and the bitter truth burned like acid in his veins.

🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀

The situation in your house wasn’t much better. Despite Tom’s insistence that he was fine, you could still see the tension in his eyes, the way his hands fidgeted, unable to relax. His panic lingered beneath the surface, though he kept trying to mask it with forced smiles and shallow breaths.

Then your phone rang. The screen lit up with a name—Alan, Harlan’s oncologist. You took a steadying breath before answering.

"Hello, I’m sorry I just saw your text," Alan's voice crackled through.

“It’s alright, I know you’re busy,” you replied, trying to keep your voice calm even though your mind was racing.

“That’s true, I barely get enough sleep. I’m really sorry about your father,” Alan offered.

“Thank you,” you murmured. “Did you see the photo I sent?”

“I did. From the photo alone, I can’t tell exactly what’s in the pill. But one thing did catch my attention,” Alan said, his tone shifting slightly.

Your grip on the phone tightened. “The doctor’s name?”

“Yes,” Alan confirmed. “Tony Stark. I’m really surprised he’s practicing again, considering everything.”

Your heart began to pound, a sudden unease creeping in. “What did Tony do?”

Alan sighed on the other end. “He’s been involved in some serious controversies. He offered treatments to patients who didn’t need them—overcharging, committing insurance fraud, manipulating patients for financial gain.”

Tony Stark? You felt a chill run down your spine. You glanced toward your father’s bedroom, your thoughts spiraling. Could Tom have been misdiagnosed?

“Alan, what if my father’s been misdiagnosed?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

“If I were you, I’d get a second opinion immediately,” Alan advised, his tone firm. “Come to my clinic anytime. I’ll personally check on your father, and bring his medication with you.”

You exhaled in relief, trying to steady your shaking hands. “Thank you, Alan. I really appreciate it.”

He chuckled lightly. “It’s my pleasure. After all, you and Harlan helped grow my portfolio quite a bit.”

You forced a smile, though it didn’t reach your eyes. “Thanks again. Would tomorrow work?”

“Of course. Anytime,” Alan replied before you both wrapped up the call.

Quietly, you moved toward your father’s bedroom door. You eased it open just a crack, peeking inside. There was Tom, frail and fragile, a shadow of the man you once knew. Is this really cancer, or has he been subjected to unnecessary treatment? The question hung heavy in your mind, twisting your stomach.

The next morning, you stood by the car, loading a suitcase into the trunk. The air was tense, and Tom, leaning against the doorframe of the house, still looked uncertain. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, clearly hesitant.

“Daughter,” he started, his voice wavering. “Our doctor is good. He has so many certificates and awards…”

You gently led him toward the passenger seat, your hand firm but comforting on his shoulder. “Having certificates and awards doesn’t mean the diagnosis and treatment are 100% right, Dad. If that were all it took to be a doctor, everyone would be cured,” you said softly but firmly.

Tom sighed, unable to argue. He nodded and got into the car, his hands fumbling with the seatbelt. It dawned on him then that this was the first time he’d ever been in your car, the first road trip he’d ever taken with you.

After making sure everything was packed and ready, you moved toward the driver’s seat. Just as you reached for the door handle, a familiar sound caught your attention—the low hum of a car engine. You turned to see Bucky’s car pulling up to the driveway. He parked hastily and stepped out quickly, his face a mixture of curiosity and concern.

“Where are you going?” he asked, his gaze flickering between you and your father.

You didn’t meet his eyes, not wanting to reveal the real reason. “Just a road trip,” you said with a casual shrug. “I realized I never had that moment with my father.”

Bucky studied you for a moment, his expression unreadable. But then he nodded. “Alright. Safe trip, guys,” he said, his voice softening. “I’ll take care of the house while you’re gone.”

“Thank you,” you responded, offering him a small, appreciative smile before slipping into the driver’s seat.

As you drove away, you glanced in the rearview mirror. Bucky stood there, watching your car disappear down the road, his figure growing smaller in the distance. There was something in his eyes—something he wasn’t saying. You couldn’t quite place it, but it lingered in your thoughts as you drove farther from the house, from him.

🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀

You and Tom entered the clinic, immediately struck by how different it was from the small-town hospital you were used to. The walls were pristine, the furniture modern and sleek, and the air felt fresher, almost too clean. Tom's eyes darted around, taking it all in.

“This place looks expensive,” he muttered under his breath, clearly uneasy.

Without looking up from the magazine you were idly flipping through, you gave a small smile. “It is. This doctor has treated presidents, actresses, athletes. He’s the best we’ve got,” you said casually, letting that sink in.

Tom’s eyes widened a bit at the thought. He glanced at you, as if seeing you in a new light. You had really gotten far since leaving that small town—much further than he’d realized.

Moments later, a nurse walked into the waiting area with a clipboard in hand. "Tom L/N?" she called, scanning the room.

Tom stiffened, his grip tightening on the arm of his chair. He shot you a quick, uncertain glance, and you gave him a reassuring nod. Slowly, he stood, and the two of you followed the nurse down the hallway.

When you stepped into the examination room, a tall man with kind, tired eyes and graying hair stood to greet you both. His demeanor was professional but friendly.

“Tom, Y/N, good to meet you,” Alan said warmly, offering a handshake to both of you. “I’ve heard a bit about your situation.”

Tom shook his hand, though his movements were stiff. “Likewise,” Tom muttered, still unsure of the whole process.

Alan motioned for Tom to sit on the examination table. "Let's take a look," he said, adjusting his stethoscope and carefully examining Tom. His hands were gentle but thorough as he checked Tom's vitals. “You’re quite underweight,” Alan noted with a concerned frown, pulling back to look at Tom. “We need to work on building your strength up. It’s critical.”

Tom forced a weak smile, clearly uncomfortable with the attention. He shifted in his seat, his eyes darting away as he spoke. “Yeah, well… haven’t had much of an appetite lately.” He hadn’t expected this doctor to be concerned about his weight; Alan was different from Tony.

Alan paused, his eyes narrowing slightly as he took in Tom's condition. He placed a hand on Tom’s shoulder, his tone growing serious. “We’re going to do some tests—a scan, maybe a biopsy, to see what’s really going on. You’ll need to stay here for a while so we can monitor you.”

Tom looked uneasy, shifting on the examination table. He shrugged, then pointed toward you. “She’s in charge of all that. I trust her judgment.”

You smiled back at him, though your mind was racing. “Whatever you think is best, Doctor. We just want to get to the bottom of this.”

Alan nodded approvingly. “Good. I’ll have the nurse set everything up. In the meantime, we’ll make sure Tom gets the nutrition he needs.”

As the nurse came to escort Tom to the next room, you stayed behind with Alan. The atmosphere between you shifted immediately, the conversation taking on a more serious tone. You reached into your bag and handed Alan the collection of medication bottles your father had been taking.

Alan’s brows furrowed as he sifted through them, clearly surprised. "All of these?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah,” you replied, your voice low, a tightness in your chest. You’d had the same reaction the first time you saw the sheer number of pills.

Alan shook his head in disbelief, turning a bottle over in his hands. “This is way too much for anyone to be on,” he muttered. “I’ll send these to the lab for analysis. We need to know exactly what he’s been taking.”

You swallowed hard, nodding. "I don’t trust his diagnosis anymore, Doctor. What if… what if he’s been misdiagnosed?"

Alan looked at you seriously, setting the bottles down. “It’s possible. With the medications he’s been prescribed, there are a lot of red flags. Especially with what you mentioned about Dr. Stark.”

Your pulse quickened at the mention of that name. "If there's any chance my father’s been given something unnecessary… or worse, something harmful, I need to know."

“We’ll find out soon,” Alan reassured you, his voice steady. “But in the meantime, we’re going to focus on getting Tom back to a healthy place. He’s too frail right now, and we need to get him stabilized.”

You nodded, feeling a knot of anxiety loosening slightly. "So, what's the next step?"

"Tom will need to stay here for observation. We’ll run a few more tests and adjust his diet to get him stronger. You can visit him anytime, but don’t forget to take care of yourself too," Alan said, giving you a kind but pointed look.

🥀🥀🥀🥀

Later, after Tom was settled in and you knew he was in good hands, you found yourself wandering through the bustling city streets. The towering buildings and fast pace of city life made you feel small, but your mind kept drifting back to the clinic.

It's only been a few months, but already the city felt different. New cafés and restaurants had popped up, their signs gleaming with fresh paint. The pace of change was unsettling, and as you walked, memories of a quieter, more familiar place tugged at your thoughts.

Suddenly, you remembered the art gallery that had hired Steve. It wasn’t far from where you were, so you hailed a taxi, the ride feeling both quick and too slow as your mind wandered. Steve had always found solace in his art—maybe seeing his work would bring you some peace too.

When you arrived at the gallery, the soft hum of conversation and the faint smell of paint welcomed you. You moved through the exhibits, eyes catching on familiar brushstrokes. There it was—Steve’s painting. You paused, staring at the delicate lines, the vibrant colors. It felt like him, a piece of him still lingering on the canvas.

As you stood there, lost in thought, the gallery owner approached with a friendly smile. "Enjoying the collection?" they asked, their tone polite but cautious.

You nodded, still admiring Steve's work. "Yes, especially this one. Steve Rogers—he's incredible."

The gallery owner’s expression faltered, their eyes darkening with something you couldn’t quite place. "I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this… Steve was in an accident."

The world seemed to slow, your breath catching in your throat. “What?” you managed, voice barely above a whisper.

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[metaphorfordeath]

Anti-Psychotic

A person living with schizophrenia finds that their delusions may have more basis in reality than they thought. Originally published in the Fall/Winter II issue of Diet Milk Magazine, available here. Content warnings for depiction of psychosis, violence, ableist language.

No one is watching me.

Julie has me write that down at our session. She never listens to me. She says, it can be comforting to realize that people don’t think of you as much as you think they do. I know this already. She asks, what evidence do you have that you are being watched? I say there isn’t any. Just a feeling. She writes something down, and asks about my meds again. 

So fucking patronizing. Of course I take them. I have taken mine like clockwork, every day, for five years. Maybe I missed a few days, but who doesn’t forget sometimes. My meds are cleat spikes jabbing into the earth. Helping me keep my footing. Making sure I don’t slip.

Last week I started getting the prickle again. Like fingers up my back. Someone standing behind me, breathing. I live alone. When I felt it, I wasn’t scared at first. These things happen sometimes. I’ve been around the block. The prickle and I are old friends, practically. When it finds me, I have ways to forget it. 

I drew the blinds, which helped a bit. I had a drink—nobody's perfect—but the prickle didn’t dull. So I peeked through the shades at the street below. Normal street stuff. The sun was setting, painting the world in shades of fire. Cars went by, all the usuals. Some kids were yelling in a driveway. A wasp tapped at my window, wiggling its feelers at me. No obvious source for the prickle. So, probably nothing. For the rest of the evening I puttered, read my book, ate some frozen nothing heated in the microwave, and took my meds. The prickle was temporary, I told myself as I lay down to sleep, the usual fog settling over me in a cool, clammy layer. No one was watching me. No one ever is.

That was a week ago. It’s only gotten worse since then. The prickle turned into a terrified stomach ache that kept me up for nights and nights. I called in sick to group, told Cheryl the caseworker that I have the flu. She sounded alarmed, but she’s only worried because of what happened to Devin.

Devin was like me: good at meds, good at therapy. We were friends, in a psycho kind of way. A few weeks ago, Devin started to get bad. Stopped showing up to group, didn’t even call. I haven’t seen him in a while, even when I went looking for him in his usual bad places. I miss him. I told Cheryl not to worry. I’m steady, just sick. I’ll see her again soon. 

I keep taking my meds, but they aren’t helping like they should. The fog I count on to sleep is thin, or missing. Something scrabbles at my skin from underneath, and I keep catching myself scratching little bits off of me. When I lay down, a low, neutral voice whispers nonsense at me through the pillow I clamp over my head. I can’t shower; that’s when the prickle gets stronger. Someone standing on the other side of the shower curtain, someone looking down at me through the water stain on the ceiling. I hiss and babble out loud just to hear myself talk, to shut up the voices that aren’t mine. I get sicker by the day.

By now I haven’t been outside in over a week, but my meds are ready to pick up. I don’t want to miss a dose, so I put on shoes and the big jacket that makes me feel safe, and I go outside. Birds leer at me from the tops of buildings. Walking in the opposite direction, an old lady frowns at me.

“Hmph, same to you,” she snaps.

My stomach lurches, but I don’t say anything, just keep walking. I hadn’t spoken. Had I? 

The drug store is brightly lit. It hurts to be inside. Too many things to look at. Faces on packaging look strange now. Confrontational. Interrogative. But at least they look like faces. When I look at anyone real, their features shift. Static snow eats at the air around their heads in a halo. It frightens me, so I keep my eyes on my shoes. The pharmacy tech who’s always there gets the packet for me, rings it up.

“Any questions about your medication?” he asks. I shake my head, pay with a card. He has glasses that give his face a sort of stability, so I look at it. His eyes are brown, beard gray, no hair on his head. He smiles at me. “Have a nice day, miss.”

“You too,” I mutter.

And then I go home, have to stop myself from running for safety. The walk is twenty minutes each way; harrowing, the passing cars huge and hungry, huffing and snorting at me. The prickle is more than a prickle by now. It feels like someone is pulling out the hairs on the back of my neck, one by one. My heart thuds against my ribs so hard that I’m afraid it will burst out, plop on the sidewalk and keep throbbing without me. The paper bag with my pills turns damp and tattered in my sweaty hand. 

And getting home doesn’t even help this time.

Julie says too much TV can be a trigger for me, but I start leaving it on all the time. Noise beats silence, any day. No empty spaces that need filling. I can’t watch sitcoms or anything fictional, so I tune it to the news. The news is always. Steady, real, factual. There’s a story about a body they found by the freeway. Pushed out of a moving car. No one knows or cares who it was. There’s a picture of the scene, taped up yellow and covered in those little numbers that say where a bit of evidence is. A tattered jacket lays in a ditch, dark with blood. 

I stand and race to the bathroom, cool porcelain against my hands, bile and nothing coming up as sweat pours down my back. My head pounds, edges of my vision sparkling. I can only see the jacket. Not dirty or bloody or ruined but the way it used to look. Devin’s jacket.

Something is horribly wrong. Men-in-black wrong. The-end-is-nigh wrong. 

The prickle wasn’t imagination. It was intuition. 

Someone got Devin. Who else did they get before him?

---

The next week, I force myself to go to group. I need to see faces. See who else is there, or not. Cheryl picks me up for these, since I don’t drive. I’m sicker than I can remember being, and try to remember to ask Julie about my dose on Tuesday. I sit silently in the passenger seat, feeling Cheryl’s eyes on me. Caseworkers all have the same eyes.

“Feeling alright today, X?” 

My name isn’t the name she calls me. You don’t need to know it.

“Fine,” I say, pinching my hands between my knees. They shake if I don’t. “Still getting over that flu.”

“Sorry to hear that,” she says. Her sedan has beige fabric seats. The passenger seat is dark, stained with sweat and whatever else from all the people she’s ferried around. A vanilla air freshener dangles from the rear view mirror.

Someone shouts in my ear, so close I feel a little blast of hot breath on my neck, and I flinch. Cheryl looks at me suddenly.

“Everything okay?”

She didn’t hear that. “Yeah. Sorry. Weird itch.”

“Hmm.” 

Group is fine. It’s usually fine. I don’t say much this time, just look around at everyone in their folding chairs. Their faces are wrong. It makes me nauseous to look, but I look anyway. I need to see who isn’t here.

There are no empty chairs, but there are fewer. One or two down from usual. All the other regulars are here, picking at their skin or looking at the clock or chewing their hair. I glance across the room and for a second I think I see Devin, sitting in his old coat. But when I look again, it’s just Tom. I almost hoped.

When it’s over, there’s bad coffee to drink. I suck on a red straw and let the bitter taste anchor me to my tongue. I inhabit my body, touch my fingers to the side of my face to know that it and my fingers exist. Sufficiently convinced of my realness, I go to Amber, our de facto leader.

She’s drinking water from a bottle with cucumber slices in it, cloudy with pulp and seeds. Ectoplasmic. It makes my stomach turn.

“Amber,” I say. My voice feels far away. She looks at me, expectant. “I missed last week. Have you seen Greg, or Mariah?”

“Oh, no, I haven’t. Greg was here last week, but I haven’t seen Mariah since like, last month. Why?”

“Just wondering.”

A crinkle appears between her eyebrows. I focus on that, since the rest of her features won’t stay put. “You’re worried because of what happened to Devin?”

“I think Devin is dead.” There is a sudden hush as other people in my vicinity overhear. “I saw his jacket. On the news.”

Cheryl appears beside me. “X, would you like to talk in the hallway?” 

She pulls me out before I can answer. “Have you been feeling alright?” she asks again. “Taking your medication?”

“Yes,” I say, a little forcefully. She clicks her tongue.

“Really? Because if you need to move up your next appointment, I can make some arrangements for you.”

Despite the fact that I do want to move my appointment up, her tone hits a button in my brain and my face turns red. “No,” I say. “I’ll wait until the next one. I’m fine. I just need to know what’s happening.” A rancid taste creeps up the back of my throat. “Where are people going?”

“Honey, everyone’s here that needs to be here.”

“No—that’s not right. I need to know.” 

I can tell from the way she moves that she thinks I’m getting agitated. She doesn’t understand what I’m saying. “People call in sick sometimes. You did, just last week. Mariah was having issues sticking with the program, so we’re working something out. No one’s gone.”

“Devin is gone. Devin is dead. He’s dead and no one knows it.”

Cheryl comes closer, her voice so low and venomous that it starts to meld with the others. “I’m going to give Dr. Bern a call and try to get you in with her sooner than Tuesday. If you can’t keep up with your regimen, we’ll have to consider another in-patient stay.”

Anger chokes me until my vision goes white. “Okay,” is all I can manage. I have some unsavory thoughts, which I won’t repeat to you now.

“Good,” says Cheryl, holding my leash. “Let’s get you home.”

I don’t sleep. I don’t even try. Someone is watching me. I think about Devin, the last time we spoke before he was gone. He got paranoid, too. He jabbered sometimes, when we would see each other. The same face, he said, with glass eyes. Looking at him. Following him. He said his pills were replaced, his furniture moved, nothing looked the same as he’d left it. No one listens to me, he said. I’m scared, he said. I’m scared of what will happen next.

“I’m scared, too,” I say to no one. A chorus laughs at me. 

---

“So,” says Julie. “Cheryl told me you’ve been having some trouble sticking to your medication.”

“I stick to it,” I say, and set the pill bottle on the desk in front of her. “Count them and tell me I’m not.”

She doesn’t move to count them. I’d hoped at least that she would humor me. “It sounds like some of your persecutory thoughts are returning. Tell me about what you’re worried about.”

“I saw on the news that they found someone’s body in a ditch off the interstate. They showed pictures. I think the body was Devin.”

“Devin from your group?” I nod. “We actually just heard from him last week. His brother answered when we called his phone. Devin is currently in a private rehabilitation clinic in Cincinnati. He’s alright, X.”

A numb feeling falls over me all at once, like a sheet. Something crawls up my thigh and disappears into a deep hole in my flesh. “Oh.”

“Amber talked to us, too. She said you asked her about Greg and Mariah’s absences this week?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I followed up on those for you, too. Greg had an accident at home and was in the emergency room during your meeting time this week. Unfortunately I wasn’t able to reach Mariah personally, but her father informed me over the phone that her family has pulled her out of the program. She won’t be returning.” Julie leans across her desk. “X, can you please look at me?”

I look at her. Her face is twisted, like a mask, papier mâché, drooping strips of plaster bandage. The static threatens to consume her, and me.

“I’m going to increase your dose to eighty milligrams. For now you can take two of what you have at the usual time, but I’m sending in a new prescription to the pharmacy.” She scrawls something on a pad at hand, and I take the opportunity to look away. “I’ll see you again this time next week, okay? And if anything’s the matter, you can call the nurse’s hotline. We’ll take care of you.” She hands me the script. 

“Thank you,” I say, and then someone brings me home. I am silent for the drive. Thinking.

Wasn’t Devin an only child?

I start doubling my dose. The fog doesn’t come. The prickle intensifies into ceaseless paranoia. I check the window locks three times a day to make sure, even though I live on the third floor. Chair under the doorknob, empty bottles stacked on it so I’ll hear if someone comes. I can’t stop thinking about Devin, and the others. Were they all really fine? Was this just a breakthrough-breakdown, pills ceasing their function and leaving me alone, spiraling? 

I hadn’t tried calling Devin in weeks. He didn’t pick up the first few times, and anyone in that state doesn’t usually want to talk anyhow. But Julie said someone answered when they called. Maybe they would answer for me.

The phone buzzes. Surging forward and receding, like a tide. Devin could be there on the other end. Getting better. Being cared for. I close my eyes and wait to hear his voicemail, or something else.

Click. “Hello?”

The voice startles me so much I can’t speak. A stranger.

“Hello?” says the phone. “Who is this?”

“Um,” I say suddenly, “Devin?”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” the voice says. “Devin isn’t here right now. May I ask who’s calling?”

“I’m—his friend. X,” I clarify. My voice is not of me. “Can I talk to him soon?”

“No, unfortunately he can’t talk. But I’ll let him know you called, he’ll be happy to hear people are checking up on him.”

“What’s—who are you?”

“I’m Eric, Devin’s brother. I’m taking good care of him, miss. Have a nice day.” 

The call ends. Something in my stomach shrivels. I run to the bathroom, but there’s nothing to bring up. I don’t know why that voice scared me so much. Why had I thought Devin was an only child? He hadn’t mentioned his family—maybe I’d just assumed, or forgotten if he’d said. Of course he had a brother. He was alright. They all were, now.

---

Days pass. Bugs make their homes in me. My medication runs out, the new pills ready for pickup. I’d rather die than set foot outside. But I need my stability. I steel myself to leave, and exit my apartment into the world. 

Everyone looks at me. They all want to hurt me. A car drives slowly past me and I try not to look at the people inside. My head hurts. It’s hard to see where I’m going, but I go.

The drug store is bigger than it was last time. Brighter. Angrier. People avoid me as I shuffle towards the pharmacy counter. The pharmacist who’s always there smiles at me again.

“Do you have any questions about your medication?”

I shake my head, fumbling for my card. He’s staring at me through his glasses.

“Do you need me to call someone for you?”

His voice makes me want to puke. I shake my head again, take the pills and make for the door. A crowd of voices shout at me as I stagger out into the air. I miss the way things were. My cleats don’t fit anymore. I tear the bag open, pop the lid off the bottle and shake a pill into my mouth, force it down dry and sticky and hope it does its job. My mouth is sweet where it lingered. It didn’t used to be so sweet.

There is a dull shock of understanding that blooms at the edge of my mind. The prickle rises on the back of my neck, and I look over my shoulder again. The pharmacist is looking at me from his position behind the counter. His face ringed in static. He waves at me. And I take off running.

There is no one I can call. No one who will listen. There are only doors that will slam in my face, white speckle tile and fluorescent lights and needles. He knows that. He knew it for Devin, too. He knew it for the rest of them. The wind in my face feels like fingers grasping at me, tugging at my hair, slowing me down. I race home, up the stairs and lock the door, brace it with furniture and then I sit on the floor and cry and cry. They’re laughing at me. Trading whispers. Look how stupid. Look how gullible. Go on and cry, crybaby. 

So I do. It’s all I have left.

The next time it’s group, I don’t come to the door. Cheryl calls me, but I don’t answer. There will be a wellness check if I don’t come. I want them to, now. When her calls finally stop piling up, I wait fifteen minutes, then step outside. I leave my door open, leave what I can to show that I am gone. I leave the pills out, and the script. Crush a few with my heel for good measure. I hope they can put the pieces together.

It’s dark, cool. It reminds me of the fog, makes me wish I could sleep. Eyes follow me through the evening. Headlights burn me as cars move past. I walk slowly in my big jacket, letting myself be watched. Letting the prickle come up my neck, creep over my scalp, trickle down over my face until it covers me in a thin layer and I prickle all over. The prickle and I are old friends. It tells me when to be afraid.

Then there are headlights at my back that don’t go away. The growl of an engine crashes into me. I stop walking, and someone gets out. I don’t turn to look. I can’t stand to look at faces anymore. Suddenly, I have a funny thought. Maybe I do have some questions about my medication, after all.

Something whistles through the air above my head, and the world disappears.

When I wake up later, I’m not sure if I have. There are stars. It smells like gasoline, copper and dirt. My jacket is gone. My mouth is gone, too. My hands. You’re caught, someone says in my ear, you let it happen. With my eyes, which I still have, I look across the floor. It hurts to look. There’s blood under me, sticky black. The prickle is gone. I discovered its source.

I’m alone for a long time. It’s hard to say how much. I realize that there’s a door behind me when it opens. Light falls across the floor, yellow tractor beam coming to take me away. I long to be weightless, but the earth won’t let me. Then the pharmacist who is always there puts his shoe against my face and turns me over. He doesn’t speak. He crouches down and looks into my eyes like he is trying to take something from me. Then he takes the tape off my mouth.

All I do at first is scream. It's all my body knows how to do. He sits and watches me. When I can see his mouth, it’s smiling, and I realize he likes it when I scream. So as soon as I can, I stop. Silence rushes back into the gaps, roaring in my ears.

“Good girl,” he says when I am quiet. His voice is a distorted growl, infrasound, rattling my eardrums. “Aren’t you such a good girl?”

I think about his throat in my teeth. I think about his blood on my face. For a moment it feels like I am lunging for him, jabbing thumbs into soft and fragile places. But he still has my hands, turning numb and purple at the small of my back. So I sit up as much as I can and spit at the floor near his feet. Faster than my eyes can track, he lurches forward. Fist in my hair, hauling me up to hip height.

He looks into my face with his glass eyes. His mouth is monstrous, all his white teeth sharp in a thicket of gray.

“I’ve been watching you,” he says. 

I know this already. There is nothing satisfying in the confirmation of it. 

He is not the man in black I always pictured. He could be anybody.

“Think of this as a favor I’m doing you.”

Then he hits me again. And other things.

When I’m alone, voices chatter in my ears. No one is coming, they say, you are alone. They will not find you. You and the ditch will be friends soon. So you amounted to this—better than nothing, we suppose. I shush them, rock myself against the cement floor and hum and think about grass, and birds. I try not to leave myself room to cry. I don’t want him to have the satisfaction.

A thousand years go by. Outside the room, there are voices. Not any of mine. His, and others. They start loud, and get quiet. His voice goes away completely. Doors open, distant, then closer. Light falls over my body again, and I feel the weightlessness. Real this time. My hands come back to me, but I can’t move them. There are faces, more than I’ve seen in a while. They scare me, but I can’t run, so I try not to look. Except at his. They take me past him, and I look. Through his glasses I see his eyes, still trying to take something from me. He has, by now. But not what he wanted.

I sleep for a long time, and when I wake up, the world is the way I remember it. My feet on the ground, cleats and all, not slipping. When I’m well enough they bring me to identify Devin’s body, since he didn’t really have a brother after all. They find Mariah’s, too. Greg really was in the emergency room, turns out. But there are others. Too many to think of.

Cheryl changes careers afterwards. Probably for the best. I find this out when she drives me to group the first time after I get out of the hospital. She doesn’t look at me much, but when she does, I can see her eyes are different. Not caseworker eyes anymore.

“Lauren is going to be taking over your case starting next week,” she says after a long silence. “So this will be the last time I see you.” I can tell she’s trying not to cry.

“Okay,” I say. 

She never apologizes. No one does. They all say they’re sorry for what happened to me, but that isn’t the same thing. People who don’t listen never think to apologize for it. They think they were listening all along.

Things are mostly the same as before, except I get my pills mailed to me now. And I think about Devin a lot. When I pour myself a drink, I pour one for him too and pretend he’s with me. I don’t have any pictures, so mostly I think about his voice. The last time we ever spoke, he told me, no one listens to me, X. 

What I said then was, I know the feeling, man.

But now I just tell him I’m sorry.