#but i will have almost no training to do a good job

[all-purpose-dish-soap]

64 / 4.1k / soap soulmate au, final part

...

"You doing okay?"

Hearing Graves’ voice knocks what little breath you had out of your lungs. It's been months, but that's him. Your old boss. You never thought you'd hear his voice again.

"I've been better," you say finally. "Been awhile."

"Yeah, it has," he says. "Wish you'd've called me to catch up sometime, rather than under the circumstances. You don't sound too banged up. They treat you alright?"

"I'm fine."

"I didn't ask how you feel. I asked if they roughed you up."

You feel your own temper shorten in response. "I need you to call KorTac off."

There's a pause. You can imagine his frowning face, the way he's thinking that one over. "I'll take that under advisement," he finally says, but you can tell he's not going to do what you ask of him. "Puttin' me in a predicament here, kid. You're giving those boys a hard time, and here I thought I was helping you out. Paying your bail, so to speak."

"It’s more complicated than that."

"Always is. Let’s just have you dropped off back on base with us. You can clean yourself up and we’ll talk."

He waits for your crisp yes, sir, but it never comes.

He speaks again. "You got somewhere else to be?"

"I can't go back."

"Can't or won't? You got something you ain't tellin me, soldier?"

"I said I can't go back. And I'm not your soldier anymore. You're not my boss. I don't work for you."

"You know Shadows don't leave one of our own behind. Not to rot in some CIA prison cell. So lose the attitude," he says, voice like iron. "This ain't a good time to play games, kid. You're comin' back with me because I spent a pretty penny on you. You owe me. You have your personal business, fine. Come on back to base and let's talk this out face to face before you go makin' any hasty decisions."

You're so frustrated it's hard to form words. You should be grateful. You know that. Graves doesn’t pretend to care about his men. He cares enough to lead from the front. But you met your soulmate, and you can’t act like it didn't change you. You need to make things right. You also can’t exactly tell Graves you kind of sold him out.

"Hey. Focus up." He doesn't raise his voice to a command. Still, the order is in his voice, and you have been long trained to follow your commander's orders. Then he sighs. "What happened to you, kid?"

"You betrayed the 141. You killed innocent people in Las Almas, looking for them."

You can almost hear his jaw working behind his clenched teeth, the muscles in his face tight. He does not allow this kind of disrespect. "You think I like what I had to do? General Shepherd's orders were clear. We followed them. 141 did not." He huffs out a sigh. "I didn't enjoy it. But that's the job. You of all people know that."

You swallow. "You told us they were our brothers. You killed innocent people, Commander. Johnny said he saw you do it--"

"Johnny?" Grave's voice rises. "You on a first name basis with Soap now?"

"We all know what happened in Las Almas," you retort. Your skin goes hot at the way he says Johnny's name. "I won't work for Shepherd anymore after that. I won't fucking do it."

"Don't pull that with me." The warning is written in his voice. This isn't like you. To the Shadows, you’re calm. Cold. You don't lose your temper. You don't talk back. Especially not to Graves. "You think you can walk away at the drop of a hat just because you don't agree with an order? It doesn't work like that. You follow an order, even if you don't like it, even if it pisses you off. You don't get to decide what you think is right or wrong to carry out. When I give you an order, you follow it. That's your job. Your loyalty is with me. Not with the 141."

"I did my job."

"Then act like it," he snaps. "Stop acting like I'm some evil bastard out here. I made the only choice I could. Task Force 141 was not supposed to be there. They knew my orders, and what did they do? They came after my men, went behind my back, screwed us over. We did what we had to. You wanna be pissed at someone? Be pissed at them."

You glare down at the ice, but say nothing.

"You know I'm right." He knows you. He's getting to you. "And you know what else I find interesting? You don't seem a bit surprised to hear me alive." His voice is too casual and sharp as a knife. "Didn't you get the memo? Did no one forward you my obituary, soldier?"

You stiffen. You're not supposed to know he's alive.

"You're an awful liar. Always have been." He pauses for a long moment. "It ain't easy, surviving against the 141 if they want you dead. You know how I managed it, soldier?"

Yes. "No,” you retort. “And stop calling me that. I'm not your soldier. I don't work for you anymore."

"The hell you aren't. Maybe you're not on the payroll anymore, and maybe you're no longer under my command, but once a Shadow, always a Shadow. That makes you my responsibility. And my goddamn headache." Something shuffles on the other end of the line. "You know exactly what I'm willing to do to keep one of my Shadows safe. But if you're so keen on turning yourself in, fine. I'll have you in front of Shepherd's desk first thing tomorrow. Is that what you want? You know Soap and Ghost put Shadows in the ground that night in Las Almas."

"Shadows tried to put Johnny and Ghost in the ground first."

"This isn't about who shot first. This is about you." His voice is dangerously low, but he keeps his temper in check. Then he huffs a laugh. "You keep callin’ him Johnny. Makes my brain itch." Johnny MacTavish. John MacTavish. Yeah, that's it. "I'll be damned," he mutters.

You touch your exposed soulmark compulsively as if to hide it. Most soldiers hide theirs, but yours has always been tough to cover up. He's seen it more than a few times.

"Got you right out from under my fuckin' nose."

Your stomach tightens. You feel too exposed, like suddenly he’s putting the story together--how 141 got in.

"Shoulda known. Shoulda known. You know the military has a registry for this shit. There are rules. What's wrong with you?"

"I made a mistake," you mutter.

That might be the funniest thing he ever heard. And he's heard some good jokes. "You don't make mistakes, kiddo. You never have. That's not how I trained you." He's right, and you know it. "But hey. Guess it's true what they say about it."

"What?"

"Soulbonds. Make you take your best-laid plans and raze ‘em. Full scorched earth.”

“This isn’t about that. I’m making this decision on my own.”

“You think?” He takes a puff on his cigarette. “I don’t. I don't blame you, either. You sure as hell fought it as best you could. Didn't give in to save your own life. If that's not the soulbond making your decision for you, soldier, I don't know what is."

You look up at the sky. For all the time you spent working with Graves, that past version of you might as well be dead. Maybe that’s the grave you’ve been digging. "I can't work for Shepherd anymore. I won't do it."

"You're a good soldier, 86. You were loyal. I still think you're loyal, even if I'm not who you're loyal to," he finally says. His voice is still calm. It doesn't make you feel any better. "You know if you choose to walk away from this, the next time we meet might well be as enemies."

"Then I guess we won't meet again, sir."

He says nothing. Then he lets out a long huff. You really are going to do him dirty. You can hear his scowl. "That's a damn shame, kid. But you have more of a spine than I gave you credit for," he says. There's a tone of reluctant respect to it. That's as close as you're going to get to a compliment from him now. "You're a loose end, then. You'd best stay well out of the way. Mine and Shepherd's. I hope you're not making the wrong choice, 86," he says quietly. "I really hope you're not."

"It’s out of your hands now. And pay KorTac," you add. "Pay my squad. They did their job."

That makes him scoff. "Now why would I do that? You might be a traitor, but you're still my investment. You were worth more on my payroll than theirs, and that’s a fact I intend to maintain."

"You owe me," you remind him.

"Don't push your luck," he warns. "You're an asset. You don’t get the privileges of rank anymore. But, well..." He sighs. You imagine him with his heels kicked back on his desk, cigarette in hand. "I’ll tell you what. I’m in a charitable mood. I'll pay them off. I'm a man of my word when the time comes to pay off my debts. Hell, I’ll even throw in a tip for a job well done." Despite the annoyance in his voice, you don't doubt he'll do just that. "But that doesn’t mean I trust you anymore. I trusted you once, and you went rogue. I let you go now, that means I expect you to keep my secrets. Don't you go singing if Shepherd puts you in a chair. You got that?"

You glance up out of the corner of your eye at Soap, whose hands are still clenched in tight fists at his sides. "If Shepherd puts me in a chair, he's the one who's gonna sing. Not me."

Graves chuckles. "You're a good soldier, 86, but you can't take on an old war dog like Shepherd. Leave that to someone more qualified."

"Like who? You?"

"As I said, you best steer clear. I don't want to hear your name again." His voice hardens, and you hear your old commander again. "Good luck, kid. You'll need it. And give Soap hell."

You toss the phone back to Horangi. He listens to what Graves has to say. Then, eyes meeting yours for a moment, he wordlessly moves out away from the river, leaving you weary with relief. It's over. Finally.

Soap watches him disappear into the trees. Then, he looks back at you, alone and shivering on the ice. You look half-dead, bleeding, and your lips are near blue. He wants to make his way to you, but the ice is scarcely holding you. It won't hold him, too.

"Oi," Soap calls. His voice is rough with anxiety. "Get over here. You're gonnae freeze to death even if you don't fall through."

You blink up at him. Standing in the rising sun the way he is now, he looks like someone’s guardian angel. Yours? You'd like very much to be wrapped in his wings.

You make your way over to the bank, but the rocky ledge up is slippery and icy. Behind you, between the ice where you're standing and the bank, there's a yawning gap. To your left, there's a bridge, but snow has already melted off the surface of the ice, and it looks thin. "There's no way up," you call. "But downriver..."

"No’ a chance in hell I’m going to let you try to cross that," Soap says as he approaches the edge. "You'll be swept away and drown, hen. You're not in any condition to swim, and even if you were, that river's too bloody fast to risk it."

"Then what do you suggest?"

His eyes sweep over the river once more. It's wide; too wide to attempt a jump across. The ice has fallen in, leaving it almost impossible to make it to the bank. It isn't safe. The longer you stand there, the more the ice cracks under you. He admires your guts for putting yourself on the line like that to get back to him, but damn you. His blood pressure has never been higher.

Soap throws off his pack and slings his gear onto the bank. "I'll pull you up."

"But..."

"But nothing." With the adrenaline still pumping through his system, Soap thinks nothing of the risk of the bank collapsing under you both with his added weight. The only thing on his mind is getting you back in one piece. "We both know damn well, if I was the one on the ice now, you'd already be down there trying to help me, so for once, just shut up and let me help you."

Can't argue with that.

He pulls out an ice hook--mountaineering equipment; he was prepared to climb this mission, luckily--and offers it to you.

You toss the grenade as far as you can in the opposite direction. Then you raise your hands to grasp the rope. He's holding the sharp end and giving you the handle. You try to keep hold, but as he lifts, your bloodied hands slip just as the grenade explodes nearby, too close, spiderwebbing the ice with a final crack.

You land hard, break through, and disappear under the freezing water.

Soap has never known panic faster than when he sees you go under.

He dives after you. He has to get you back to the surface before whatever air you had in your lungs gives out. Your survival is his survival.

He finds you in the rushing black abyss when your fingers hook around his sleeve. Wrapping his hands around your arms, Soap anchors you to his chest.

You come to in his arms. You're colder than you ever have been in your life. Your fingertips tingle in pain and numbness. He's carrying you ashore somehow--far downriver, thinner ice--and he ducks into an old cabin with you in his arms.

Soap kicks the door shut behind him and moves into the cabin to set you on the floor, propping your back against the wall. His hands work fast as he pulls out his knife to cut away your soaked thermal clothes and gear. You dip in and out of consciousness until he wads up a fistful of gauze and packs it into your side wound. The sudden pain chokes you. Then a wave of nausea washes over you. You’d like nothing more than to tell him where precisely he can shove that gauze, but you’re too lightheaded.

"You with me, hen?" His gruff voice wavers. "I need you to stay awake."

He gathers you up in his arms and lifts you into his lap. It's a tight fit, wedged underneath the frosty window and between a table and an upturned stool. You register the warmth of his skin on yours and dimly realize he's stripped both of you almost bare, huddling around you to prevent hypothermia.

You soak up Soap’s body heat instantly. He's a furnace, and he needs to be, given the state you're in. He tucks you as close as he can. You're both shivering, but he doesn't care. He can be cold as long as you're warm. His broad body shields you from the drafts leaking into the decrepit cabin.

"No, no, eyes open." He tilts your face up as your eyes flutter. "Don't go passin' out on me."

You gaze up at him in your stupor. Maybe it's the blood loss, but even through your own pain and frustration, he's the most gorgeous thing you've ever seen.

"You have really odd eyes," you mutter. "Like blueberry soft serve."

Oh, you're definitely delirious. Maybe concussed.

But he can't deny the look you're giving him right now makes his stomach flip. The sight of you in his lap, your frost-scorched fingers wrapped idly around his ID tag and staring up at him like he's just pulled the moon out of the sky for you... it's the first time he’s seen you with your guard down.

He swallows and keeps you pressed against his skin. There’s a lot of blood. He can’t tell what’s yours and what isn’t. "You're in no shape to flatter me."

You hum, your fingers dabbing idly at a smear of blood on his chest.

He doesn't move to stop you. Instead, his eyes flick down to your hand. Your fingers leave a trail of sparks over everywhere you touch.

With a soft sigh, Soap catches your wrist. "Quit it, hen."

"Quit what?"

"Teasin'. Makin' me wish you'd put those hands to other uses," he says, voice quiet and rough. It's just you and him in the little cabin. The world is far away. His thumb rubs against the inside of your wrist, trying to bring some warmth back into your skin. "You're in no shape to be feelin' me up, either."

Your head lolls against his shoulder. "Maybe it's the perfect time. Maybe we won't get another time."

Hearing you say that twists his insides into knots. He leans down to rest his forehead against yours. "Maybe you just need to shut up and let me take care of you. Don't talk like that." His voice leaves no room for argument. He tightens his grip on you, pressing you closer as if he can somehow press that into your skin by sheer will alone. "There'll be plenty of times for you to get your hands on me."

"Mm." You tuck into him tighter. You'd be mortified with yourself if you weren't half-dead from blood loss. "Sorry."

He exhales into your hair, pressing chaste kisses there.

You're practically in his lap, the two of you tangled into each other from head to foot in the space under the window. He's surrounded by the smell of you. It's a soothing presence in all that surrounds him.

He shouldn't want to touch you, shouldn't want to take advantage of your weakness--but the thought of having you so open and wanting, of you willingly in his arms, makes something in him ache. Makes the selfish parts of him scream.

"You're a pain in my arse," he says. He focuses on taking inventory of your wounds, brushing over your arms with his touch to assess the damage. "You gonnae bleed out on me?"

You shiver a little as he drags you closer by your bare thigh. "Wouldn't be the worst way to go."

"Oi," he snaps in warning. He slides his hand up your side, checking for bleeding. It’s just as much a caress over your bare skin. He has to ignore how his skin tingles every time the curve of your body slides against his in that tantalizing way. Something in his lower belly tightens. "You don't get to tap out after makin' me go through all this trouble for you. You're livin' through tonight or else."

"Or else what?"

"Or else." He moves his hand up to the base of your throat, his large, calloused fingers wrapping around your neck and tilting your chin up to look at him. He fixes his blue eyes on yours to take in the dazed expression on your face. "I'll drag your arse out of hell and tan it until you can't sit right."

You're too weary to laugh, but you rest your scuffed cheek on his thumb, and it pushes your lips into a smirk. "All for me?"

"Aye. Hell of a lot more trouble than your pretty face should be worth."

You pull free and rest your head on his shoulder again. "Where do you live?"

"Glasgow," he says. "Not sure I should be tellin' you that."

You trace his chest around the chain of his ID tag. So many muscles. "Probably not."

"And what about you? Do I get to know?"

"No. Maybe. If we get out of here."

"Yeah? Well, you're not goin' anywhere with this wound. Bleedin' out, nearly froze to death, and still mouthin' off. No idea how to shut up and be good." He looks down at the injury, assessing how bad it really is in the dim light of the cabin. "You lost a lot of blood. I bet you feel tired." He brushes your hair off your face. "Stay awake a bit longer. The boys'll be here soon."

"I shouldn't," you mutter.

Soap doesn't miss the slurring of your words. He knew the blood loss would affect you, but he was hoping for more time before he had to really worry. "Shouldn't stay? Too late to get away from me now," he says, trying to keep his tone casual. Your skin is too cold for comfort. The gauze in your wound soaking through with blood can't mean anything good. "I don’t trust you as far as I can throw you. Sure as hell not letting you out of my sight. You've got a lot to repay me for."

You try to keep your eyes open. Every blink is more sluggish than the last. "Like what?"

"Runnin' away and makin' me chase after you, for one. Puttin' yourself in the line of fire for me, second. Takin' a swim in a frozen river. Scared me to death." He presses his lips to the crown of your head, a gentle, chaste touch at odds with the possessive, dominating instinct he can feel creeping into his thoughts. You're vulnerable right now, something he should never want, but part of him wonders if he’d ever have caught up with you without this. "Aye, you owe me. First thing we do once you're patched up? We have a long talk. We have a whole hell of a lot we need to say to one another. And you'll answer every question I ask you."

"I dunno if you'll like the stuff I say," you mutter.

"Hardly matters. You’re plenty keen on spittin’ fire at me as it is. No reason you can’t keep tellin’ me everything I don’t want tae hear."

Another shiver wracks your body.

Soap rubs your arms. "You gotta give your word you stay awake for me, aye? Stay here."

His radio beeps nearby. You huff. "Fine."

"Fine." He leans over to grab his radio and tries to keep an arm around your shoulders to keep you warm as he does. He keeps you cradled against his chest as he responds to Price.

"Soap here."

You don't hear the conversation. Instead, you listen to Soap's voice vibrate through his chest. He speaks to Price in hushed tones, talking about your condition and the team's ETA.

Price has a laundry list of questions, but Soap manages to wrangle them into holding off until they have everyone back on base. No sense exhausting you on a mission that's already been a shitshow. Finally, they're done. Soap lets the radio go to focus entirely on you again. "Still with me?"

"How long do we have?"

"Shouldn't be too much longer," he says. He checks your side again. The coldness of the air has soaked into the wet gauze. You shiver again. It makes something in him ache. "ETA's about ten minutes out."

You pull his lips down to yours and kiss him.

He's surprised, but he doesn't pull back--not from you. He lets you kiss him. Your taste seeps into his brain and turns all rational thought to white noise. One hand cups your jaw with a surprising gentleness, and the other slides behind your waist to keep you against his body. He's gentle--you need to be handled with care right now.

He pulls back before he loses himself in the desire to deepen the kiss. His eyes search your face, his forehead pressed against yours, his breath hot against your lips.

"You're lucky you're injured," he murmurs. "Or you'd be in a very different kind of trouble right now."

You shiver, but not with the cold. Just that one kiss has you feeling much warmer. You touch your name where it's written on his arm. Then you curl your fingers around the back of his neck and pull yourself closer. "Hold onto that thought for later," you murmur. "Give me something to wait for."

Then you kiss him again.

...

← previous part / [part 13] / epilogue →

part 1 / more Soap / masterlist

thank you <3

[octuscle]

Model Job

Chester didn't know much about the modeling job he was hired for. He had been told to come in a blue suit. A neat hairstyle was required. The studio was a sober room in a functional office building in an industrial area. Nothing glamorous, but that wasn't what he was after. He was after money. Dirty money. He had a bunch of creditors breathing down his neck, and if he didn't want to be evicted from his apartment, which was way too expensive for him, he had to get this job.

The guys waiting in the casting room largely fit the current stereotype: bearded, tattooed, manly. Their hair was either super short or their long manes were tied back in topknots. But a few of the men looked just like Chester: well-groomed hair, clean-shaven, no visible tattoos. But in contrast to Chester, these men were usually rather petite, almost feminine. Chester was well-groomed, but clearly a real man. He prayed that this was the type of man they were looking for. Because then his competition would be very manageable. If they were looking for a guy with a mane and a full beard, however, he had no chance.

The waiting time was endless. The men spoke little to each other. Again and again, someone was called into the casting room, and mostly a disappointed or angry man came out. Chester was just happy that he had a charging cable for his cell phone with him. And that there was Wi-Fi. This way he could pass the time and did not have to rely on the goodwill of others to recharge his battery. After what felt like an eternity, someone called out, “Chester Cavendish?” It was unnecessary to call his name. Chester was the last to wait. But it was good to hear his name. His name was part of his capital. Not that he had anything to do with the Cavendish family, the Dukes of Devonshire. If he had their money, he wouldn't have to model. But the name sounded good. Respectable. Impressive. Hopefully it would help.

“Mr. Cavendish, if you would please stand in the spotlight over there.” Chester did as he was told. He had only been able to catch a glimpse of the panel that had to decide his fate. Now he looked into the spotlight and couldn't even guess what was happening behind it. ”Move naturally, Mr. Cavendish. As if you were waiting for your girlfriend in front of the hairdresser.” Chester took a few steps, turned around, paused, always careful to show the spotlight his best side.

“I don't know,” someone murmured. ‘He looks too much like old money to me. Too well-groomed, too upper class.’ ‘The problem is that we don't have anyone else.’ ”If he was a bit more relaxed. A bit more peppy.”

“Okay, that's better. Brown shoes, five o'clock shadow...” ”I think so too, much better for our target group!”

Chester began to feel more comfortable. Apparently, his type was well received by the client. His type matched his name. Black sheep from a good family. Good background, but slightly rebellious appearance. “He looks a bit conformed.” ‘Yes, the hairstyle is not bad, but he could show a bit more skin.’ ”You said it, sex sells”

Chester hadn't been sure whether it would be too intrusive to wear a sleeveless shirt... But it didn't seem to be a problem. He posed a bit more provocatively. And the muttering from the other side of the spotlight was obviously approving!

“I don't know about you, but it's too 90s for me. Too metrosexual.” ‘I agree.’ ‘And he could do with a bit more muscle too.’ ”Mr. Cavendish, how many times a week do you train?”

Chester wondered what difference it made how long it took him to get his muscles in shape. He was proud of his muscles. It was damn hard work, after all.

“Four or five times a week. But call me Chester. Mr. Cavendish was my father!”

“Thank you, Chester. And it's impressive what you've achieved in the gym!”

Chester listened, but only understood fragments. “…a little bit...”, “…too well-behaved...”, “…bad boy...”. It was difficult for him to continue playing the waiting game.

“Chester, do you think your normal job and modeling go together? Or is that a problem for you?”

“No problem! I still work a bit in my dad's construction company, dudes! He'll understand if I have to go on camera.”

Whispering again... And then, “Yes, he could indeed look more like a construction worker.”

Chet was slowly beginning to lose interest. He wasn't a model, he was a handyman... But he also wanted to be an influencer. That's probably why he had to do this kind of shit.

“Sorry, Chester, I forgot. How often do you go to the gym?” “Name is Chet. Gym is like for wimps. I hav me fuckin' workout six days a week at the construction site. N' three times a week i go boxin'.”

“I think we have the perfect candidate.” “I agree!” “But somehow he's not quite up to date yet, is he?” “Yeah, a few tattoos maybe.” “What do you think of blond hair?” ”Deal!”

Chet was the epitome of the C-Class celebrity. We knew him from a few modeling jobs, we knew him as a fitness influencer, we knew him from trash reality soaps like Love Island. But just a little bit. He wasn't famous. But he made a lot of money. And for an airhead like him, that was quite a lot!

[theprettynosferatu]

New Girl

CW: Lezdom, light elements of ageplay, hucow, 24/7 service

I - Arrival

Vicky took the news the same way she took everything that came from her Mistress: with a mixture of complete acceptance, anticipation, and the need to do her absolute best to please, to be of use to that marvelous, superior being. Her body almost shivered, but Vicky stopped it in time. She had been trained to perfection, and now, naked on all fours, her Mistress’ perfect feet resting on her back, she knew she would not -could not- move. She was a footstool, not a person. She always was whatever Lucía desired her to be, nothing more and nothing less. Still, she could feel a warm sensation between her legs when she thought of what was to come. She didn’t know if it was her own mind teasing her or the prospect of further obedience- her Mistress’ desires and her own needs were one and the same, her reactions impossible to distinguish from what had been trained into her. That’s why the news made perfect sense.

A part of Vicky wondered, her Mistress’ statement echoing in her mind. 

“A new girl will come here. Not like you, of course. You are my property, fully and forever. No, this girl belongs to someone else. An old friend of mine. Apparently, she has something of a rebellious streak- and I’ve been hired to make her… well, as obedient as you. And you, my doll, will assist me. She will obey me, to learn her true place. Her true self.”

Vicky felt something like pride- if objects could feel pride, that is. Of course Mistress Lucía was the greatest at turning girls into the best, most obedient, most perfectly trained version of themselves. That someone would pay her for the service was only a testament to her skill. But then again, Vicky was Lucía’s masterpiece: and in that perfect obedience, in that need to serve and please above anything else, she found her pride. Vicky was an object. A perfectly crafted object. How could she not feel a tad prideful about that? 

She did wonder, however, about the girl that would arrive soon. How did some “rebel” end up in the service of an older Mistress? What need did she seek to fulfill by her servitude? The shifting of her Mistress’ feet on her back snapped her back into reality. She was a footstool. Furniture did not think.

The following day, Vicky was getting everything ready. Wearing her maid’s uniform, which showed off her ample cleavage -enhanced by surgery to make her look like the stupid bimbo she was inside- she got the drinks ready. Alcohol for the Mistresses… and fruit juice for the new girl, as commanded by Lucía.

“She needs to understand she’s a girl. Only her superiors are real women. Time for her to accept that”, Lucía had said. Even in her casual clothes, jeans and a blouse, she shined in an imposing way that made it clear that the statement wasn’t an expression of desire but a promise of what was to come. 

The bell rang and Vicky dutifully opened the door, kneeling in front of the classy, modestly dressed in perfectly tasteful black, imposing older woman; thus signaling her own role as a slave to be used. The woman barely deigned to look at Vicky as she made her way in, a young woman one step behind her. Vicky, who should have been looking at the floor, couldn’t help herself and she took a glance at the newcomer.

The first thing that struck Vicky was the girl’s hair. It almost didn’t seem real, with its fiery red hues reaching almost to down to the waist, its coppery sheen and its swaying fullness. It somehow made her imposing, like a conquering queen engulfed by the flames of victory. Her short, white sundress with little pink hearts did a good job signaling what was hidden beneath it. Vicky had to confess to herself that, yes, she was a bit jealous. Sure, the new girl also had big dumb bimbo tits and a face that contrasted with them by its innocence- almost as if she embodied both the saintly virgin and the corrupt whore in one body, but that hair… for some reason it made Vicky feel something strange, dark deep inside her. Something like a need to see this girl broken. Well, her Mistress would take care of that.

“Rose”, the regal, older woman said. “My girl. For the next few weeks you will obey Mistress Lucía as you would obey me. You will serve her and learn everything she teaches you. You will be remade into the perfect girl for your Mommy. And you do want to be better for Mommy, don’t you?”

A second passed. Vicky could see something like defiance flash for a second behind Rose’s eyes, before she responded.

“Yes, Mommy.”

“Well, little Rose”, said Lucía taking a step towards her new pupil, “let’s see what I’m working with. Disrobe.”

Rose turned to look at the older woman, but Lucía stopped her with a sharp tone.

“No. Don’t look at her. Look at me. She was quite clear, was she not? You are to obey me until you are good enough to return to your Mommy. So, disrobe. Now.”

And there it was again. That little flash of defiance. Pride. Vicky could feel something growing inside her. How dared this girl not accept her place as inferior to their Goddess? Finally, she complied, and Lucía walked around her slowly, carefully, studying every inch of her naked body. It certainly was a body to behold- even Vicky had to admit that. Lucía, however, looked less than impressed.

“I see”, she said as she squeezed Rose’s naked skin, caressed it, analyzed it like a cattle buyer evaluating a new cow in their barn. “That pretty face, so innocent- and those big, slutty tits of yours… they must have been very useful in your life. Is that it? I’m sure so many people, so many men treated you like a princess… let you get away with doing whatever you pleased. That’s it, isn’t it? So what happened? You got bored, didn’t you? Bored with people treating you like a fucking queen. And you need to be treated as what you are, even if a part of you still feels you deserve better. Well… you don’t. Vicky, get up and come here. We are going to remind this cunt of a few simple facts.”

Like a puppet, Vicky leaped to her feet. Lucía’s orders were absolute.

“That pretty, pretty face… Vicky, slap her. Hard.”

The blonde bimbo’s hand moved before she could even process the command. She had never inflicted pain on someone else- and yet, something inside her drove her to put all her strength into that slap, to wipe the pride off the little bitch’s face, to show her the power of their Mistress. Maybe in another time she might have felt bad about it, but now… it had been an order, and Vicky obeyed. That was all that mattered.

Shock barely had time to set in Rose’s eyes before a second command came.

“Slave… play with this uppity cunt. Show her she’s just tits and holes, and a slave to both.”

That was something Vicky excelled at. She had been trained to perfection, after all. It was her purpose, deep down. To bring pleasure. She knew how to feel a body, how to pinpoint the weakest points, the places that sent shivers down the spine, she knew how to caress, tease, vary pressure, motion and speed to get a pussy nice and wet… and she went at the prideful redhead like an animal. Lucía watched as the first moans escaped her trainee’s lips and, almost with a whisper, started going deep inside her mind, choosing her words carefully.

“See how easy it is? You really think you have any sort of power? Of control? Silly little girl, your body is screaming the truth at you, and you’re too fucking dumb to understand it! It needs you to serve. It wants you to obey. It feels so, so good when you’re being used, doesn’t it? Because it’s what it was made for. You have those big, stupid tits because you were born to be a fuckdoll. That’s all you’ll ever be. All you ever need to be.”

Vicky’s skilled fingers could feel the effect her Mistress’ words were having on the newcomer. The girl was getting soaked, her muscles relaxing, slowly letting go.

“You think you deserve better? That you are more than just a toy for me to play with whenever I wish? Why? Because you are oh, so pretty? Bad news, sweetie: you are a fucktoy and a flawed one at that. You think I didn’t notice how your fucking ass sags? How your legs are too thick? Do you really believe you are so perfect? You didn’t even shave properly! No, you dumb slut. You are just a piece of lumpy clay to be molded. And you want to be molded, don’t you? Your body needs it. You need it. You want to accept your place, deep down. You want to be made better. You want to serve. You want to be reshaped into the perfect little empty doll you were born to be. Your cunt is telling you right now! It loves to obey. It loves to be abused. It loves whatever I say it loves…”

Without warning, Lucía struck Rose’s ass as hard as she could- which, Vicky knew from experience, was really hard. A yelp escaped the redhead’s lips.

“Even pain. Can you feel it? Pain and pleasure mixing inside you? How your body can’t tell them apart? That’s because you were born to serve, little Rose. Let your slutty body take over. Listen to it. It’s all you are. It’s what matters. And it needs to obey. It needs to… kneel.”

Lucía placed her hand on the girl’s shoulder and gently, lovingly yet undeniably pushed towards the ground. Slowly, by inches, Rose found herself going to her knees, her body obeying Lucía almost despite her own will. The way the blonde slave played with her neck, her tits, her pussy… her mind was fuzzy, weak, confused… but her body seemed to know exactly what to do, the feeling of the hand on her shoulder dictating her actions as inevitably as law. When she saw Lucía removing a single shoe, exposing a beautiful foot, she didn’t even need to be told what to do. It was like in a dream: her body went lower, acting on its own, prostrating itself before her superior. It looked like defeat. It looked like a prayer.

The moment Rose’s lips touched that soft foot, her new life began.

II - Improvement

Even Rose had to admit she was having trouble keeping up. Even after two weeks of daily service, she felt as useless as the first day. On the other hand, Vicky seemed unable to feel exhaustion at all. Dressed in identical maid outfits -or rather, tiny tops and skirts that hinted at maid uniforms- they carefully went all over the house making sure every single corner, every shelf, every inch of the floor was immaculate for their Mistress. Rose even started doubting her own eyes: Vicky appeared to see dust in places that looked, to the new girl, perfectly clean… until the blonde maid pointed out the imperfections in the cleaning, and made Rose do it all over again.

That in itself would have been hard enough, but Rose had some added weight to deal with. Literally. The weights affixed to her wrists and legs made walking, going on the floor, reaching for high places a full body exercise. By mid morning she was usually coated with a shining layer of sweat. She hated it, and yet she couldn’t argue with the results. Her body was getting more toned. She was getting slimmer. Her stamina was slowly improving. She thought about that first day, about the words Lucía had drilled into her mind. She was imperfect. That stung- but also lit a fire inside Rose. She would be the best. She would be perfect.

Of course, they were always ready to serve their Mistress whenever she desired, however she desired. Rose thought, before this new training, that she knew what service meant. She did serve her Mommy, after all. But witnessing Vicky’s level of devotion, her utter selfless ability to do anything, to be anything that was desired of her, left Rose somewhere between admiration and pain for her own inadequacy. She could feel that rebellious streak inside herself, and hated it more and more.

She was tired, lost in thought when Lucía walked in, wearing lingerie and sharp, black heels. The girls got into position: on their knees, chests out, staring at the floor. Lucía walked around the room slowly, luxuriating in her own power, before declaring, simply:

“I want to relax.”

She sat down on a beautiful sofa and with a simple gesture summoned Vicky. The bimbo knew exactly what to do, what to be. She rushed to her owner and got on all fours. A shiver went down her spine as she felt the sharp heels on her back. She was a footstool. Nothing more. It was then that Lucía did something new, something Vicky had never seen her do.

She lit a cigarette. 

Rose stared at her temporary Mistress. She had never thought smoking could be sexy, but the way the smoke curled around Lucía’s face, the way her body relaxed with each puff gave her the air of a mysterious, wonderful, terrible goddess. One that fixed her gaze on the new toy.

“Come here. Can’t you see I need an ashtray, you dumb slut?”

Rose felt frozen for a moment. An ashtray? Should she find one? She didn’t remember seeing one in the house. Suddenly she felt cold fear gripping her. Fear of disappointing this perfect woman.

“You really are stupid, aren’t you? I said come here.”

Rose did as she was told, and crawled towards Lucía. 

“Good. Now, on your back.”

Rose obeyed. It felt good to have such simple instructions.

“I suppose you’re too brainless to realize you’re too low to be a good ashtray, so I’ll spell it out for you once. Feet flat on the ground. Hands over your head. Now, arch your back. Bridge position.”

It was difficult. It hurt to maintain the position. And yet something took over Rose. A sort of… peace. She didn’t need to think. She didn’t need to do anything but be in the moment. Be the ashtray. Be useful. Every bit of ash that was deposited on her bellybutton only filled that need to serve more and more. Even as her muscles shook, there was nothing else in the world, nothing but the perfect sensation of being an object for her Mistress. She briefly wondered if Vicky got to feel like that all the time.

Rose couldn’t tell how long it took. Logically, it must have been a few minutes. To her, it was both a second and a lifetime. She snapped back to the present when she heard Lucía’s voice casually giving a command and getting up to enjoy the show.

“Vicky, clean the ashtray.” 

The blonde slave did as she was told. Her tongue felt warm on Rose’s skin, and somehow the living ashtray felt as if this was an honor- one she had been granted without deserving it. She felt gratitude. She felt joy. She felt empty and blissful. 

She would do everything to feel like that again.

III - Metamorphosis

After a month of training, Rose believed she knew, truly, the essence of service. She believed that inner spark of rebellion, which still lingered, could be managed. She believed she understood the full nature of her role.

All these things she believed mistakenly.

It was on one particularly warm night that she learned just how deep her inadequacy ran. Lucía had summoned Vicky alone a little while back, and Rose could do nothing but wait for her to be needed. She needed that. She needed to be useful. When she was finally called into the living room, she had no way to know what was awaiting her.

Vicky was tied to a wooden structure Rose didn’t recognize yet was weirdly familiar-  it was certainly not one of the instruments Lucía had used on her or the blonde slut. However, its purpose became quickly apparent, and Rose understood where she had seen such things. It was a variation of farming equipment. More specifically, to keep cows still when they were being milked. 

It was then that a few things clicked into place. Specifically, the mysterious medication Vicky took every day. Rose had asked, worried that her role model might need help; but Vicky had only given her a smile and a simple “you’ll see when you are ready.”

Well, she was seeing it now. Lucía was walking around her bound cow, a whip in hand. Casually, almost as an afterthought, she squeezed one of Vicky’s breasts, and warm milk shot into a small bucket, placed right under her udders. What was most strange was that along with a soft moan, Vicky said simply:

“Moooo!”

Rose understood then what true devotion meant. What true service meant. Even when her mistresses whipped her firm ass, the blonde cow only mooed, as if her brain was only capable of being, fully, a cow for her owner. Lucía looked at Rose and smiled.

“Are you starting to see? Come here, cunt. Time for you to feed.”

She understood instantly. She didn’t need to be commanded to crawl- that much seemed obvious to Rose. She was a pet. An animal. Nothing more. She went under the bimbo, let her soft lips part and took an engorged nipple into her mouth.

It was heavenly. Milk flowed into her and she felt like nothing more than a child, a stupid, ignorant thing to be educated. Rose sucked and Vicky mooed in pleasure. Their Mistress started whispering into the calf’s ear.

“Do you understand now, you dumb fucktoy? She made her body lactate because I wished her to. Her body is not hers, not even at its most fundamental level. Just like your body is not yours. Your mind is not yours. You are whatever your owner wants you to be. You don’t deserve to be more. You are a living doll, nothing more.”

Rose took it all in. As the warm milk entered her body, Lucía’s words entered her mind. They both felt right. They both felt simple, obvious. And with each word, each mouthful of the wonderful milk, every moo that reached her ears, that spark of rebellion grew smaller and smaller.

“Your owner wants you to be her perfect baby girl. Her empty doll to dress up and turn into whatever she desires. She even chose your entire new aesthetic. Your new personality. But you were too prideful to accept it. Do you still have pride? Do you still have that delusion that you are more than just her fucktoy to do as she wishes?”

Rose couldn’t speak, but a moan told Lucía everything she needed to know. The girl was finally ready.

“Pet, unbind the cow and kneel in the middle of the room. Cow, go to the corner and play with that slutty pussy of yours”

As one, they obeyed. As she waited, kneeling, looking down, Rose was ready for anything. She would do anything. She would accept anything. She would become anything for her Owner. That was all that mattered.

“You need to be made clean. You need to return to nothingness. To go back to zero, so your owner may mold you as she sees fit. And you need to finally let go of the last remaining bit of your pride. You may think it’s not there, but I can smell it in you. I see it behind your eyes, still. But don’t worry, little doll. I will make you perfect.”

The buzz of the electric clippers sent a shiver through Rose’s soul. She didn’t have time to fully process it. Instead, her eyes focused on the empty, rubbing blonde in the corner, moaning her soft mooing. And lock after lock of red head fell before her eyes, almost framing the human cow. As her hair was removed, as she started feeling the air on her scalp, Rose felt emptier and emptier. Whatever was left of her past was disappearing with every strand that landed on the floor. And the emptier she got, the more Vicky rubbed, the louder she mooed. Her will, her dignity, her entire sense of self fell, bit by bit, on that floor.

Soon, she felt completely empty. Completely at peace. Soft and ready to be remade. As Lucía shaved off every bit of hair from her body, Rose felt more and more like a newborn, like a baby, like a being that depended entirely on the will of her superiors.

“Soft and smooth. Perfect to become the little girl your owner wants. But she doesn’t want just any slave toy. No, she wants you to become something very particular… and you will do it, won’t you, doll?”

“Yes, Mistress Lucía.”

The words escaped Rose’s lips without her even thinking it.

IV - Graduation

Vicky had set the stage perfectly. At the command of Lucía, she had purchased colored lights to give the ceremony a bit of ambiance, and she had chosen the finest champagne for the women to celebrate. Champagne, she knew, she didn’t deserve to taste.

The older, regal woman sat comfortably, ready to see her new property. Lucía was confident in what she had achieved, and had Vicky between her legs, serving her perfect pussy as she chatted with her friend, not even paying attention to the dumb blonde that was doing her best to bring her pleasure.

When the time came, Rose entered the room. It was hard to believe this person was the same girl that had come into the house a month or so earlier. In many ways, it wasn’t. 

It wasn’t just the clothing: black leather corset, latex boots with spiked heels, no underwear, her perfectly smooth pussy visible to everyone, a choker around her neck. It wasn’t the makeup: dark, heavy, with black winged eyeliner and deep, red lips. It wasn’t the wig: jet black like a raven’s plumage, glinting with an almost blueish tint. It was the way she moved, the expression on her face, the rebellion that now was just a mask, just an outfit to be worn and changed at her owner’s whim. Her entire being embodied the fantasy of a goth bimbo, a dark yet obedient angel. She embodied that fantasy just as she could embody any fantasy. She was hollow inside, ready to become whatever was required of her. It was time to show, fully, what she had become. Rose smiled with mischief. She went down to the floor and slowly opened her legs before running a finger to show off how soaked her obedient cunt was.

“Mommy…” she pleaded with a voice between a poor, vulnerable girl and a skillful seductress. “Look at me, my Mommy, my Owner, My Goddess. Look at your little girl… I’m so sorry, Mommy… sorry I wasn’t good enough to serve you before. Sorry I didn’t realize sooner what a fucking piece of fuckmeat I am. Sorry I thought I was more than just you fuckdoll, your object, your total slave to do whatever you please, whenever you please! Because that’s all I am, Mommy. I am nothing. I am just whatever you tell me to be. I believe whatever Mommy tells me to believe. I do whatever Mommy tells me to do… anything at all… I don’t exist. I am only holes and tits and slutty lips and an eager tongue… I am your furniture and your plaything and your sex toy and your pain addicted slut! I’ll do anything you say, with anyone you say. Rent me out if you want. Sell me if you get bored of me. Change my tastes, my look, everything about me whenever you wish. I only exist for you, Mommy… I am nothing… I am nothing… I am nothing…”

The girl was right on the edge, but the women knew she wouldn’t cum unless told to. Her face was a mixture of pleasure and pain and complete need for approval. She wasn’t just desperate to serve: she needed to obey just as she needed to breathe. There was nothing else behind her eyes. There certainly was no spark of rebellion left.

Lucía smiled and turned to her friend.

“Money well spent?”

The older woman licked her lips, ready to take home her new, perfect pet.

“The best.” 

V - Mommy Knows Best

The house felt bigger, somehow- or perhaps Rose felt smaller, more like a pet, more like a pretty piece of decoration. As the women entered the living room, Rose instantly went on her knees, head down, chest out, ready to do whatever Mommy desired. She had no other need, no other impulse but to serve and obey. What she didn’t expect was to discover that she indeed still held the capacity for surprise within her heart.

“My slutty little toy…” said Mommy. “Go to your room. There… you’ll know what to do”

“Yes, Mommy”, answered the doll.

Rose crawled to her room. Inside, she saw something she didn’t expect, and yet, that something made perfect sense in her mind. She was empty. She was clay to be molded. And there, neatly placed on the bed, were the garments of her new self. A new self that would last as long as Mommy desired. 

With every garment she put on she felt her demeanor change more and more. She would embody what her Mommy desired fully. She would be her fantasy perfectly. That was what mattered. Mommy didn’t need to tell her who to be. The clothing and the wig made the point exceedingly clear. Rose took a moment to observe her new hair, and all she could do was to admire Mommy’s diligence. Surely her owner had looked at many pictures from long ago- before she had dyed her hair red, before she had been consumed by pride- to perfectly match her natural hair color. It made her feel naked, in a strange way. 

In her bed, Mommy waited, expecting to be delighted- and indeed her wishes came true in the best way possible. When Rose walked into the bedroom, what Mommy saw was not the goth slave that had entered the house a few minutes earlier. No, indeed what she saw was a different person altogether. 

Dressed in her beautiful, short white and pink dress, her knee-high socks, her cute shoes… her hair in two perfect pigtails, her makeup junt hinting at a youthful blush… Rose was everything Mommy could ever dream her to be at that moment. A perfect mixture of pure innocence and the potential for that innocence’s shattering. And her eyes… wide, loving, trusting, bright like the moon. Her smile had the purity of unconditional adoration and the kind of love reserved for those a person would trust their life to. She was the embodiment of the babygirl Mommy had always imagined, while her natural curves added just a bit of perversion, of temptation. It was a role, sure, but one Rose had made entirely hers. At that moment she was that obedient, innocent girl her Mommy desired… and being whatever Mommy desired felt better than anything in the world.

The older woman smiled.

“Give Mommy a hug”, she cooed.

Rose skipped towards her Mommy and launched herself into her arms. She felt safe and happy in a way she couldn’t explain. She felt hands holding her body tight… then slowly roaming over it, caressing it, exploring it… a soft moan escaped Rose’s lips and her Mommy leaped at the opportunity it represented.

“What’s wrong, my doll?”, she asked playfully.

“I feel funny, Mommy”, said Rose, embodying her role to perfection.

“Funny? Where?”

“Down… down there, Mommy…” blushed Rose.

She immediately felt Mommy’s finger brush against her cute cotton panties, and her breathing started to quicken, her heart beating like a drum in anticipation. The finger soon went in front of Rose’s eyes, glistening under the light.

“Look at this, babygirl. Your little pussy is getting so soaked already! You know who gets wet like that? Little sluts, that’s who!”

Rose feigned horror.

“Mommy! I’m sorry… I don’t know why… am I being a bad girl?”

“It’s not your fault, my little doll. Your pussy is just a slutty hole, that likes it when older women touch it. But you need to learn that being a little fucking slut has consequences. And I will teach you.”

“Yes, Mommy. Please make me better! I want to be good, so good for you!”

Almost in the blink of an eye, Rose was face down on the soft bed, her wrists and ankles bound with incredible skill. She wriggled a bit, but was determined to take her punishment like a good girl. She felt as her skirt was slowly lifted, her panties pulled down to her knees. Mommy was taking her time, enjoying every second. 

“Mommy…”, mumbled Rose.

“Shhh. This is for your own good. Slutty girls get punished. You understand that, don’t you, my little toy?”

“Yes, Mommy.”

Time stretched into infinity, and every second made Rose’s body become more and more sensitive, ready to fully feel anything Mommy chose to make her feel. The anticipation was making her pussy leave a wet spot on the mattress, and feeling that spot against her skin only made Rose feel like a dumb animal in heat… which only served to make her wetter and wetter… she fought the urge to move, to somehow grind against that mattress that now smelled of her own degradation.

The first stroke of the paddle hit her light lightning. She deserved it. She deserved whatever Mommy chose to do to her. Stroke after stroke, her ass grew so hot it Rose felt she couldn’t take anymore- while knowing she would take anything for Mommy. Pain and pleasure became one and her mind went blank. She was a doll. All she could do was feel, accept, obey.

Before she knew it, Rose’s head was being pushed down into the wet spot on the mattress. She could smell her own perversion, and loved every second of it.

“Lick it clean, pet”, ordered Mommy.

Rose’s body obeyed.  

VI - Cocktail Hour

Once the guests settled in, they couldn’t take their lustful eyes off the maid- and they didn’t try to hide it one bit.

They were all older women, all dressed immaculately in their own style, wearing their best jewelry, their finest garments. This was, after all, a special occasion indeed-, even if they playfully refused to say it out loud. Rose watched Mommy laugh and mingle. God, she was so wonderful. But the girl didn’t have time to gawk: she had to serve, after all.

Rose’s outfit had been crafted with a special artistry. It was a maid’s uniform, sure, and a sexy one at that- but it also had a frilly skirt that hinted at the innocence of a little girl’s favorite dress, knee-high socks with decorative bows on them, and a cute, pink set of panties that peeked from under her skirt with the slightest motion. It was a strategic masterpiece, designed to tease the senses while giving off a certain element of taboo, of a specific perversion. And Rose understood, on a primitive level, exactly what her role in the evening was.

It was a silent dance at first, a game of seduction and restraint. It started with the “accidental” touching of Rose’s ample cleavage as she served drinks, a subtle grazing of her thighs as she walked among the guests, an errant hand brushing against her buttocks. She knew what to do, and ignored the throbbing between her legs that begged her to simply go on her knees and worship these goddesses. She knew she had to be their prey, make herself as oblivious as possible, let them play their role as she played hers.

Soon the guests were abuzz, praising Mommy for her wonderful babygirl. “So cute!”, they said. “So well-behaved!”, they cooed. None of them said out loud what they were really thinking when they looked at Rose. Seeing Mommy’s keen approval of their praises, they took a step towards their goal.

“Come here, you sweet thing!”, one said, patting her lap. Rose did as she was told, her every movement a dance of simple, pure innocence. She sat on the guest’s lap and pretended to ignore the way the guest’s eyes were drawn to her breasts, the way her hand roamed from her waist to her thigh, the way the guests took in the scent of her neck. It was hard to keep her own pussy in check, to keep playing her role- but she’d be what Mommy wanted her to be.

“No fair!”, whined another guest. “You can’t keep such a sweet thing all to yourself!”

The new guest gestured Rose to go to her, and the doll, like a pet, skipped to where she was told to go. This woman was bolder than the first. Her slender fingers brushed against the cotton panties, and Rose failed to hold back a soft sigh. The woman smiled and whispered: “Does that feel good, little doll?”. Rose could only nod her head. She could feel her thinking becoming more and more blurry and fuzzy, weakened by the eyes on her, the way her body was being used simply as entertainment. When another guest called her over, she started moving before she even realized what she was doing.

Among the cocktails, the conversations, the laughs, Rose was passed around from older woman to older woman. She just let them do whatever they wished with her. That was her only purpose. Some fondled her big tits. Some focused on her pussy, skillfully pushing her panties aside. Some preferred to caress her legs, her face, her lips. Rose was on fire yet completely powerless inside. She was just a doll. The words echoed in her mind. Just a doll to be played with, dressed up, turned into whatever Mommy desired. And Mommy chose who got to play with her doll.

It was as if someone had lit up something inside Rose’s brain. Her body was more sensitive than ever, almost as if every inch of her skin was as wonderfully receptive to pleasure as her clit. Soon she was shaking, trying to hold back the need to kiss these women’s feet, moaning softly like some dumb, horny animal. The women could see Rose’s arousal, smell her vulnerability. They too held back as much as they could, but the air itself was thick with the scent of sex, the primal desire to conquer, to possess, to use. They all knew the little game could not last much longer- and indeed, it didn’t.

It started with a spank. Not a playful one: a strong, firm, painful slap right on Rose’s right buttcheek. That one act caused her to moan loudly, lustfully, signaling to everyone that the babygirl was ripe for the taking. It was as if a dam had collapsed. 

Rose was pushed to the ground. It felt right, to be lower than all these superior beings. Whatever they chose to do to her, she would accept with all her heart. She deserved nothing more. She was no longer a person, and she knew she’d never go back to pretending she was worthy of anything more than what real people desired of her.

As she felt hands ripping her clothes off, grabbing her body in a frenzy, turning her into just a piece of fuckmeat, Rose felt, more than ever, that she was home. 

Did you enjoy this story? You can support my work at patreon.com/prettynosferatu and get access to the full library! Every bit truly helps :D

[onyx-syn]

Imagine...

Trainee! Curly having a crush on the new cute Chubby Receptionist!

Warnings: Fluff, some hints of spice, Flirting, Some insecurities and Crushing

Minors be gone.

A/N: I am writing headcanons for this but I NEED to write this first because I'm getting way to excited for this :)

Trainee! Curly in the progress of becoming a licensed captain for Pony Express. Pony Express doesn't have the greatest history of hiring people and giving them proper training, but if they did get one thing right that is training the next upcoming captains

Trainee! Curly coming into work ready for another day of working out and tests. When he walks up to the desk to clock in with the receptionist, he sees someone he's never seen before

Trainee! Curly almost being love struck once the receptionist turned to look at him, smiling with their chubby cheeks as they ask him for his name and employee ID. He finds himself stuttering over a few of his words until he coughs in his hand to speak

Trainee! Curly stealing quick glances at the receptionist whenever he and the other captain trainees walk by. You being enthralled in your work to notice how he looks at you

Trainee! Curly coming over during his lunch breaks to start conversating with you. Seeing how your work clothes fit your form perfectly, comfortable and laid back yet professional at the same time. But he can also see how tight some of the areas of work clothes is with your body. Especially where your rolls are more prominent, making him get a bit flustered at the sight

Trainee! Curly asks you about how your day is and how it's going, his British accent prominent. A bright smile on his face with a twinkle in his blue eyes as you exclaim how you're loving the new job

Trainee! Curly continuing to visit the cute chubby receptionist, even bringing some food and snacks he brought for his workout. He isn't too fond of sweets, but he will bring some for you if you would like

Trainee! Curly becoming closer with the chubby receptionist. Complimenting you each and every time he gets the chance to

"you look absolutely wonderful today"

"hey! Hope everythings alright, you seem stressed so I uh- brought you some snacks"

"If you ever need to, I'm here to talk to. Here's my number if you would like"

Trainee! Curly gives you his number so he can get to know you more, albeit a little nervous about the possibility of you rejecting it but he wouldn't be mad if you did

Trainee! Curly sending you good morning texts and talks about your latest interests and hobbies. You also both share recipes through each other. He talks to you about why he wanted to be a captain and also how excited he is to see space

Trainee! Curly learning about the chubby receptionist that they are a bit insecure of their weight and he reassures them, and forbid if someone says something about it to you

"Ain't nothing wrong with having some pudge on ya, you look amazing either way. If they hate it so much then they should look at themselves first before saying something like that to you"

"People who make fun of your weight are insecure themselves, they should know better"

"Don't listen to them, look at you. You're doing incredible with everything you're doing!"

Trainee! Curly being a big positive for his chubby crush, making sure they are getting the food they need if they're lacking on not eating anything. Making it known that he is very much interested in them with the compliments, little gifts, and even hangouts

Trainee! Curly known in his highschool years as the highschool dreamboat and having many relationships during his young years, falling head overheels for the cute chubby receptionist he can't help but find himself thinking of them more and more each day

[dramatic-dolphin]

Re. Your women being so scared thing. And to be clear I mostly agree with you.

I'm not sure where you're from, but I'm from New York, and I can say for sure that I'd feel more safe in the most dangerous part of the UK than basically anywhere in the US. My Parisian aunt thinks Gare du Nord too dangerous to walk near under any circumstances, but to me it seems like a normal bigger train station level of danger, and the streets around it seem normal. I lived in a university town in the UK for a year, and I never felt in danger there or in London, even alone, even in the middle of the night. I was never alone in Berlin, but I was out at night, and I felt at least as comfortable as I would in New York. So I think, at last in the places I've been and from my experience, America is more dangerous and much scarier. I have never been street harassed in the UK, and I have been harassed and followed in New York plenty, and had several people attempt to attack me. Men in the US will also often harass you from a car, which is an explicit threat. It's also important to remember that parking lots are bad places to be and most of the US has to drive, and therefore park.

That said, I know some women who won't ride the subway at night, or at all, and that seems very paranoid to me. If you're riding at a remotely normal time and are paying any attention to your surroundings, you're almost certainly going to be fine. I also know girls who, even once they're in a car, of course, will send friends their location just in case. This seems extremely paranoid to me. Maybe check you're going the right way like one time. I do still think some of the things people do can be reasonable caution - yeah, didn't go hiking on a first date - but the perspective people are throwing at you strikes me as distinctly privileged. No one who's ever had a job can think that way. I've worked with a few women who took cars home after every shift, or their dad or their boyfriend picked them up in a car, and at that point, you have a job as a hobby, because unless he works nearby, you just spent your minimum wage on gas. If you take a cab home in New York, from Manhattan to any other borough, that's most of your pay. So to me, this level of paranoia generally reads that you've never had to be alone anywhere so you don't understand what it means, and you've never had to do shit with, and if you did do it, the money wasn't important.

Yeah a lot of time I get mad at this online because it just seems overly paranoid to me, and then a woman comes in with a personal experience or anecdotes, and it hits me that maybe the US *is* actually that bad? I live in Hungary, and I really like walking alone in the city at night, or going for long walks in the forest alone, and I've never really felt unsafe doing that, but - and this is crucial - neither have most of the women I talk to. Or at least, not to this degree. So, yeah, the US is possibly worse and more unsafe? I can believe that, it's just hard to conceptualize I guess, since the US likes to portray itself as tbe baseline for a "civilized" country, and I live in *Eastern Europe*. So there's preconceptions here, lol.

But yes, a lot of these, even when corrected for this, are just paranoid, there's no other way to see it. Like, no matter where you live, you truly do NOT need to share your location every time you leave home. And there's also the matter of being disconnected from the people and community around you, like being scared to help your neighbor or someone on your street. We live in a society, you kind of have to take an active part of it.

A lot of it is just a lot of energy spent on being scared every waking moment of your life. Like, okay, in the reddit thread I saw this in, there was a woman saying that she ALWAYS puts her ID in her front pocket when she goes outside so they can easily IDENTIFY THE BODY IF SHE DIES. Like what material good does worrying about this bring to your life? It's not even a self-defense technique, doing this will not help you with staying alive!! All it does is make you think about "oh no, I could get murdered" every time you leave the house. This is NOT a healthy mindset!

It's like a strange and widespread kind of anxiety, and the worst part is, it has you convinced it's necessary, and you can't get rid of it unless you make an active effort to do things despite being scared. First you have to convince yourself that you *won't* get murdered by your date if you don't share your location, and that's the hardest part. And yeah lol, having to do things alone helps you with this tremendously, because you realize that you've just taken the subway at night alone and survived. But if you're never forced to do things alone, you get stuck in this weird fear spiral, and whenever you see a stranger, you end up thinking about how they could murder you.

[strawberrygirll13]

I care about you

Dazai x Reader

Pt 1

Warnings: Depression, self harm, mentions of suicide attempts, mental illness.

The restaurant was quiet, save for the occasional clinking of plates and murmurs of other diners. Candlelight flickered softly, casting a warm glow over the table. Across from you, Dazai sat back in his chair, his arm lazily draped over the backrest, a mischievous grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“You know,” he started, swirling the wine in his glass, “if this steak were my last meal, I think I’d die happy.”

You set your fork down, a sense of unease already creeping in. “Dazai…”

He didn’t seem to notice the warning in your voice, his eyes gleaming with something darker. “But,” he continued, his voice calm, “if I were to go, I’d want it to be something more dramatic. Something… poetic. Maybe a leap into a river. Or from a high-rise at sunset. You know, something that would leave an impression.”

You couldn’t keep the tension from building in your chest. “Dazai, I really don’t like it when you talk like that.”

He paused for a moment, the grin still playing on his lips. “Oh? Why not?” he said, tilting his head, seemingly unfazed. “It’s the truth. I’ve tried a few things, you know.”

Your fingers tightened around your napkin, and you felt a cold chill run through you. “What do you mean ‘tried a few things’?”

Dazai leaned forward, his gaze sharp as he looked directly at you. “Well, let me think... I’ve tried hanging myself, drowning myself—Yokohama Harbor, to be exact. It was freezing, but strangely peaceful. I really thought it would work that time. But no, a fisherman pulled me out before I could go under for good.” He chuckled softly, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Pathetic, huh?”

You felt your heart drop, but he kept going, unperturbed. “I also tried jumping in front of a train once. The timing was all wrong, though. I only got clipped, nothing serious. And then there was the time I tried poisoning myself, but the drink was too weak. Didn’t do the job. But you know, the one that came closest? Cutting my wrists. I really thought that one would do it. I got pretty close, but again, I ended up surviving.”

Each attempt, each method, he listed it so casually, as if they were simple anecdotes, nothing more than stories to amuse himself. The weight of his words pressed down on you, suffocating, until you couldn’t breathe. You felt a mix of disgust and helplessness, your stomach twisting in knots. This wasn’t just dark humor; this was the product of something deeper, something broken. And it was eating at him.

“Dazai,” you managed to choke out, your voice barely above a whisper. “Please, stop. I don’t want to hear this. This isn’t funny.”

He raised an eyebrow, as if surprised by your reaction. “Why not?” he asked, genuinely curious. “It’s just a little dark humor. Surely you, of all people, aren’t disturbed by some harmless stories?”

“Harmless?” You stood up abruptly, unable to sit through it any longer. “It’s cruel. It’s wrong. I don’t know why you think this is okay, but it’s not. I care about you, Dazai, and hearing you talk like this…” You took a deep breath, trying to steady your nerves. “It makes me feel awful. Can you not see that?”

He looked at you for a long moment, his smile never wavering, though his eyes were colder than usual. “Cruel?” he repeated, amusement still in his tone. “You’re being dramatic. It’s not as though anyone would care if I actually died, anyway. Hell, the world would probably be better off without me. It’s not like I have anyone who would mourn me.”

You shook your head, a knot forming in your throat. This wasn’t just about his words anymore; it was about the way he saw himself. The way he thought of his life as something so expendable.

"And you know," he added, almost as an afterthought, "I’ve been thinking about finding a beautiful woman to share my final moments with. Someone who wouldn’t mind a little poetic death. I’ve been looking for someone who’d be willing to… you know, commit double suicide with me. My dear friend, you’d do perfectly." His grin was wider now, predatory, and it made your skin crawl.

You stared at him, unable to process how casually he could say something so horrifying. “Why would you say that to me? Why would you ask me something like that?”

He laughed, but it was an empty, hollow sound. “Why? Because you’re one of the few people I actually respect. I thought you’d find the idea appealing. You’re beautiful, aren’t you? You would make a perfect match for me in the end.”

Your hands shook at your sides, but you didn’t back down. “No, Dazai. No. I don’t find any of this funny. You’ve made me so uncomfortable tonight, and you did it on purpose, didn’t you? You wanted to make me feel bad. Well, congratulations, you’ve succeeded.”

He blinked at you, for the first time showing a crack in his indifference, his smirk faltering for a split second as he processed your words. But before he could respond, you turned and grabbed your coat, slipping it over your shoulders.

“I’m leaving,” you said, your voice firm but quiet.

Dazai didn’t say anything. He just watched as you moved toward the door, his gaze unreadable. The air between you had shifted, and you couldn’t quite understand it, but you knew one thing for certain: You couldn’t sit there and let him pull you into his darkness.

With one last glance at him, you stepped out into the cold night air, the weight of the conversation lingering with you, but you didn’t turn back.

The days following that tense dinner were markedly different. You kept your interactions with Dazai strictly professional, your usual casual conversations replaced with curt, pointed words. Whenever a task required communication, you went through others—Kunikida, Atsushi, anyone else who could serve as a buffer between you and him. Dazai, however, wasn’t one to let things go unnoticed, especially when they disrupted his carefully cultivated routines.

You knew he’d noticed the shift—he wasn’t an idiot. But instead of apologizing or addressing it directly, he chose his usual route: mischief.

It started small. A sly remark here, an exaggerated sigh there. When you ignored those, he ramped it up. During one meeting, he’d kept dropping pens onto your side of the table, leaning over to retrieve them with the kind of smug grin that made you want to throttle him. When you didn’t react, his antics escalated.

The breaking point came one quiet afternoon when you returned to your desk only to find his desk… wasn’t where it was supposed to be.

He’d moved it.

Right in front of yours, so close the two desks were now touching, effectively making it one long, cluttered mess of books, papers, and his personal junk. Your side was spotless, as always, but his was overflowing—documents spilling over onto your workspace, a half-eaten bag of snacks perched precariously on the edge, and his coat draped lazily over your chair.

You stood there for a moment, staring at the absurdity before you, willing yourself to stay calm.

“Do you mind?” you finally asked, your voice cold as you folded your arms.

Dazai, leaning back in his chair with a lopsided grin, didn’t miss a beat. “Not at all. Cozy, isn’t it?”

“It’s not cozy,” you snapped, narrowing your eyes. “It’s invasive. Move your desk back.”

“But I like it here,” he replied, spinning his pen between his fingers. “Better lighting. Better company. Well... not bettercompany, but you’re here, so it’ll do.”

You clenched your jaw, refusing to rise to the bait. Instead, you sat down, pushed his papers to the far edge of your desk, and went back to your work.

This didn’t deter him in the slightest. Over the next hour, he kept finding ways to encroach on your space—tossing paperclips onto your side, humming loudly, even nudging your coffee mug with his own until it was teetering dangerously close to the edge.

Finally, when it seemed like he might actually topple it over, you shot him a glare. “If you spill that, I swear—”

“You’ll what?” he interrupted, leaning in closer. “Yell at me? Ignore me some more? I think you’ve got the ignoring part down pretty well already.”

You didn’t respond, turning back to your work with tight-lipped determination.

His frustration, though, was becoming harder for him to hide. You could see it in the way he kept drumming his fingers on the desk, in the exaggerated way he sighed every five minutes, in the way his usual lazy demeanor seemed a little too deliberate, like he was trying too hard to act like this wasn’t bothering him.

And then, he started writing notes.

At first, he didn’t even try to be subtle about it. He scribbled something down on a piece of paper, folded it neatly, and slid it onto your side of the desk.

You ignored it.

A second note followed, then a third. You didn’t open any of them, and the more you ignored them, the more frustrated he seemed to become.

By the fourth note, he didn’t even bother folding it anymore. Instead, he scrawled the words in large, dramatic letters across a sheet of paper and held it up directly in your line of sight.

“ARE YOU STILL MAD?”

You didn’t look at him, but he kept the note there until you finally sighed and muttered, “Yes.”

He blinked, clearly not expecting an actual answer. Then, with a grin, he grabbed another sheet of paper and scribbled again. This time, he slid it across the desk to you.

“WHY?”

You stared at the note for a moment before crumpling it up and tossing it back at him. “You know why,” you said, your voice quiet but firm.

For once, he didn’t have a quick retort. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, his grin faltering ever so slightly as he watched you go back to your work.

But, true to form, he didn’t stay quiet for long. Moments later, another note landed on your desk.

“CAN I MAKE IT UP TO YOU?”

You didn’t respond. You didn’t trust yourself to, not yet. And so, the silence between you stretched on, heavy and unresolved, while Dazai sat across from you, bored, frustrated, and—if the look in his eyes was any indication—just a little bit lost.

The silence between you two stretched unbearably as Dazai fidgeted with his pen, occasionally glancing at you, though you didn’t spare him a single look. Despite his antics, you were determined to hold your ground. He deserved to stew in this. To feel the weight of your anger and hurt.

Yet, as the minutes ticked by and the tension grew thicker, you found yourself caving. Not entirely, but enough for curiosity to override your stubbornness. With a sigh, you picked up your pen and scribbled something on a piece of paper, sliding it over to him without looking up.

“Did you mean it?”

Dazai, for once, didn’t respond immediately. You heard the faint rustle of the note as he picked it up, followed by a pause. Then, slowly, he scrawled something down and pushed it back toward you.

“Mean what?”

You stared at the words for a moment before writing again.

“That you want me to die with you?”

When you slid the note back, you refused to meet his gaze, your fingers gripping your pen tightly as you waited for his response. The air between you felt suffocating, heavy with the unspoken weight of the question.

It took him longer this time. You heard the soft scratching of his pen as he wrote, then paused, then wrote again. Finally, the note landed back in front of you.

“Yes.”

Your breath hitched as you stared at the single word, simple and honest in a way Dazai rarely allowed himself to be. When you finally looked up at him, his expression was unreadable, his usual playful grin replaced by something quieter, something that almost looked like vulnerability.

“I wasn’t joking,” he said softly, breaking the silence. “Not entirely, at least.”

Your throat felt dry, and you weren’t sure what to say. For all the times Dazai hid behind humor, behind his endless games and tricks, hearing him admit something so dark, so raw, left you momentarily at a loss.

“Why?” you finally asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

He shrugged, though the motion felt forced, his usual air of nonchalance cracking at the edges. “Because if I had to go, at least with you… it wouldn’t feel so empty. It’d be poetic, don’t you think? Two kindred spirits, disappearing together.”

“That’s not poetic, Dazai,” you said firmly, anger creeping into your voice. “It’s selfish. It’s—” You stopped yourself, exhaling sharply. “It’s cruel that you would suggest that.”

His lips quirked up in a half-smile, but there was no humor behind it. “I told you, I’m a selfish man. You should know that by now.”

Your eyes narrowed, but you didn’t reply. Instead, you leaned back in your chair, the note still clutched tightly in your hand, as the weight of his words settled over you.

“I’m sorry to disappoint you, Dazai,” you began, folding the note neatly and placing it in front of him, “but unfortunately, I do not want to die. And I’d prefer it if you could refrain from doing so either.”

You stood up, your chair scraping against the floor as you grabbed your bag. “I need to use the restroom. I’ll be back in a minute.”

But before you could take a step, his hand shot out, quick and instinctive, his bandaged wrist wrapping firmly around yours. It wasn’t harsh or forceful, but it was enough to stop you in your tracks.

“What the hell?” you blurted, glancing down at his hand, then back at him.

For the first time since the conversation began, he looked genuinely caught off guard. His grip on your wrist wasn’t calculated; it was almost desperate, as though the very thought of you leaving—even temporarily—was unbearable.

“I… You’re not going anywhere,” he said, his tone lighter than his expression betrayed. But the crack in his voice, subtle as it was, didn’t escape you.

Your brow furrowed. “Dazai, I work here. I’m just going to the bathroom. I’m not running off into the sunset. Good god, you have issues.”

His lips curved into a faint smirk, but it lacked his usual humor. “Issues? That’s putting it lightly, don’t you think?” He released your wrist, his hand lingering in the air for a moment before he let it drop back to his side. “I guess I just don’t like the idea of you walking away from me… even if it’s just to the restroom.”

“Dazai,” you sighed, softening your tone despite yourself, “I’m not leaving you. I’ll be back in two minutes.”

His eyes flicked up to meet yours, a flicker of something vulnerable passing through them before his usual mask slipped back into place. “Promise?” he asked, leaning back in his chair with a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

You gave him a flat look. “I’m not promising anything. It’s a bathroom break, not a grand betrayal.”

But as you walked away, you couldn’t shake the weight of his touch—or the way his voice had faltered, even for just a second. Something about it lingered, clawing at the edges of your mind like an unanswered question you weren’t sure you were ready to ask.

A few hours later ~

The office was quiet now, save for the faint ticking of the clock on the wall and the rustling of papers as you gathered your things. The sun had long since dipped below the horizon, leaving the room bathed in the soft glow of a single desk lamp. You glanced over at him. His desk—still obnoxiously pressed against yours—was cluttered with papers he hadn’t touched all day. He’d sat there for hours, throwing the occasional quip your way, but you hadn’t said much in return.

It wasn’t just the silence that made the air feel heavy; it was the weight of his words from earlier. He wanted you to die with him. The thought lingered, intrusive and stubborn, no matter how much you tried to shove it aside. You couldn’t understand how he’d asked you something so selfishly, so casually, as if it were just another joke in his endless repertoire.

Shaking your head, you slid your bag over your shoulder and moved toward the door. You didn’t bother to say goodbye.

“Wait,” his voice called out, stopping you mid-step. You turned to find him standing now, hands stuffed into his pockets as he leaned against the edge of the desk.

“What is it, Dazai?” you asked, your voice tinged with exhaustion.

“Let me walk you home,” he said, straightening up and taking a step closer.

You blinked at him, the question catching you off guard. “Are you going to say some weird shit?”

His mouth quirked into a half-smile, though it lacked the usual cockiness. “You know, probably. I mean, it’s me.” He paused, rubbing the back of his neck as if he were suddenly unsure of himself. “But… I won’t ask you to, you know, do that with me again. Scout’s honor.” He held up two fingers in mock sincerity.

You narrowed your eyes, considering him for a moment. “Fine,” you said finally, letting out a small sigh. “But only if you promise.”

“Promise,” he repeated, a flicker of amusement returning to his voice.

As you pushed open the door and stepped into the cool night air, he fell into step beside you. Something about the way he kept just a half step behind, letting you set the pace, felt quieter than usual—almost careful. It wasn’t like him. Then again, nothing about today had been.

The street was quiet as you and Dazai walked down the path, the only sounds being the soft crunch of your footsteps against the pavement and the occasional rustling of leaves in the trees. The streetlamps above flickered on, casting a dim, golden light that illuminated the sidewalk in a soft, almost melancholic glow. The night air was cool, a refreshing change from the stuffy office, and you relished the brief quiet that came with the walk.

You didn't mind walking. You’d never been one to rely on a car, especially when the journey gave you a little peace of mind. Besides, the apartment was only about a 20-minute walk away, and you had plenty of time to clear your head. Or at least, that’s what you told yourself.

As you walked in silence, your thoughts wandered. You couldn’t shake the feeling that something had shifted between you and Dazai today. His words from earlier still echoed in your mind, but it wasn’t just that. Something about his behavior had felt off—a bit too distant, a bit too… real.

It was strange, but despite everything, you couldn't deny you had feelings for him. Not that you really had a choice, considering how often you saw each other. But you were realistic about it. The idea of him ever feeling the same was almost laughable. He was too much of a mess, too much of a broken puzzle for you to figure out. And even if he did have feelings for you, you weren’t sure it was something you could trust.

The walk continued in silence, and you pulled your coat tighter around you, keeping your thoughts to yourself. But then, without warning, Dazai held out his arm for you.

At first, you were confused. You didn't know what he meant by the gesture. But when he huffed, his voice edged with a hint of impatience, “Come on, I’m not going to bite you,” you could feel a wave of hesitation wash over you.

Before you could respond, he looped his arm through yours, locking it there with a firm but gentle grip. It surprised you, but it wasn’t unwelcome. For a moment, you just walked, trying to process what had just happened.

As you did, your gaze slipped over to him. The soft glow of the streetlights caught his brown hair, highlighting the faint tousled mess of it. You’d always admired the way it looked, even when he didn’t seem to care much about it. You wondered, though, how much of his body was covered in bandages. His neck and wrist were always covered, but what about the rest of him? Did he hide it under those clothes, or was there more to it?

The thought made a knot form in your stomach, and you quickly shoved it away. You hated the idea of him harming himself. The thought made your chest tighten, and you didn’t want to think about it—not now, not here, not with him.

“What are you thinking about, Y/N?” Dazai’s voice broke the silence, his tone casual, though there was an edge to it.

You looked up at him, startled, but there was a strange softness in his expression that made you pause.

“Nothing,” you muttered, not wanting to admit to the tangled thoughts swirling in your head. “Just... you know, thinking about work.”

He raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. "Really?" he teased, but there was something more guarded in his eyes now. "Because you seem distracted."

You went quiet, your eyes shifting away from his, not wanting to meet his gaze anymore. The cool night air suddenly felt too heavy as the silence between you both stretched on.

Dazai noticed immediately, his pace slowing as he watched the subtle tension build. He didn’t push it at first, but after a few moments, he muttered, almost absentmindedly, “I hate how you don’t let me into your head.” His voice had a quiet frustration in it, like a gnawing irritation that wouldn't let go.

You stiffened, the words from earlier still replaying in your mind. You knew he wasn’t going to drop it, not without pushing the issue. You didn’t want to discuss it, but you couldn’t stay silent either. "Well, it’s kinda difficult to let someone in who has basically said in their own way they want me dead." You kept your voice steady, trying not to let the vulnerability slip through.

The words hung in the air, and Dazai didn’t immediately respond. His arm, still locked with yours, shifted slightly as if he were considering his words carefully.

Then, he spoke. "Y/N, my darling, you and I have two very different perspectives on death." He paused, allowing the weight of his words to settle between you. "To explain it in the simplest terms, despite how morbid it may seem to you... it is a compliment."

His tone was strange, detached, but also oddly earnest. It was as if he truly believed that what he was saying made sense. And for a moment, you wondered if he even understood how much his words stung.

You didn’t know what to say, so you stayed quiet, your steps slowing to match his. The city seemed farther away now, the night air colder.

"It doesn’t matter how you intended it, Dazai," you said, your voice firm but not unkind. "You are not well. The way you think… it’s all twisted."

Dazai let out a laugh, sharp and self-deprecating. "Oh, I’m very aware," he said with a smirk, though his eyes betrayed something softer, something less cavalier.

The rest of the walk passed in silence. He didn’t let go of your arm, keeping it interlocked with his, as though he feared letting go would shatter whatever fragile thing existed between you both. The city lights grew sparse as you reached your apartment building, and he walked you right up to your doorstep. Even then, his arm stayed linked with yours, his grip firm but not forceful, as if he wasn’t ready to let you go.

Dazai finally stopped, taking a deep breath. His hesitation was unusual, almost unsettling. "Can I ask you something?" he said, his voice softer than usual.

You sighed, fishing your keys out of your pocket. "I’m not going to say no, am I?"

He smiled faintly, though it didn’t reach his eyes. "When you say you care about me… do you mean it?"

You froze, caught off guard by the question. He wasn’t playing this time. There was no sly grin, no teasing inflection. His eyes, brown and deep as they were, searched yours with an almost childlike vulnerability.

"For someone as smart as you are, you’re being quite moronic right now," you said, your voice gentler than your words. His expression shifted slightly—confused, maybe even a little hurt. You softened, letting out a breath. "Of course I care about you, Dazai. I care about you a lot."

He blinked, processing your words, before making a quiet "Oh-ohh" sound, like he wasn’t quite sure what to do with the information. It was such a Dazai thing to do that it made you smile despite yourself.

Sliding your key into the lock, you turned it and pushed the door open. But before stepping inside, you hesitated. Something tugged at you, a feeling you couldn’t quite ignore.

"Oh, hell, screw it," you muttered under your breath before turning back around. Gently, you reached up and cupped his face, your fingers brushing against the bandages on his cheek. His eyes widened slightly as you leaned in, close enough to see the flecks of gold in his irises, and placed a soft, lingering kiss on his lips.

When you pulled back, his expression was one of pure shock. His mouth opened slightly, but no sound came out. You gave him a small smile, your hands still resting against his cheeks.

"Why don’t you think on that, Osamu Dazai," you said, your tone light but meaningful. Then, pulling away, you stepped inside and closed the door behind you with a quiet click.

For a long moment, Dazai stood there on your doorstep, the night air brushing against his face, his lips still tingling from the kiss. Then, slowly, a small, genuine smile curved across his face—one that no one else would have recognized.

[it-begins-with-rain]

Threaded, bound, and rooted three trees today...

Can you tell I was stressed?

[orcelito]

Gotta love that we have nearly all the named konoha kunoichi (minus Tsunade, Kurenai, and a few other even more minor kunoichi)

AND YET. the guys still outnumber them.

Still. 5/12 is still way more than we usually get (since it's normally teams of like 1/4 to 1/8 or so)

Wow the female characters ratio in naruto is absolutely atrocious.

[californiaquail]

told my gynecologist how bad my job is and she told me to apply at that hospital and put her down as a reference. we do stan

[flickeringflame216]

🗒

[bunnyb34r]

Lmaooo so pretty much since I started, my work friend who works in the freezer/cooler sections has been trying to get me to come help over there (I actually cannot as I am not SAFE certified. He knows this but still it's just a running joke) and the other week I was working Health and Beauty and he was like "hey hey hey uh uh! You're supposed to help ME!" To which I said that only one person can ask a day and Bootleg already asked that day. So a couple days ago he was leaving the breakroom as I was coming in to clock in, as was our mutual work buddy who also works that area. He goes "ah ah ah you gotta help work the cooler today. See I asked before anyone else could!" To which I said "ah man, I'm not clocked in yet, doesn't count!" And went in to clock in as they left

So yesterday our mutual work buddy was like "so I heard you're coming to the cooler 👀" (again joking) and I just said "nope he's a liar. He's telling you lies man. But I heard YOU'RE coming to clothing."

We just laughed and went on with what we had been doing.

But TODAY I guess when RC came in to lunch, he was telling Homicidal Forklift Driver that I should move to the cooler. Like trying to get someone else to back them up that I should switch bc they see what a good job I do in clothing so I would be able to make the shelves look nice there too

RC was like oh hell no, I need her in clothing man. She's like the one person there who works!

To which they both said, "yeah and imagine how nice the cooler would look!"

She told them that I actually had mentioned yesterday that it didn't really sound like a bad deal, but that I'd 100% be moved back to clothing within a month bc no one but me can handle the kids section 😅

Felt nice though having people "fight" over me/praise my work sgdgdggdg getting that recognition for how well I do my job

I really dont think I'd mind working in the cooler, or fresh, but I hate having to check for close expiration dates and the boxes are so so heavy 😰

Plus I think the girl who recovers clothing second shift would kill me agsgdgdggd she'd like come in as a customer 8am on the dot and track me down to beg me to come back to clothing bc she can't handle the mess that is kids without me 😅

Anyways that made me laugh to hear

[tchotchkez]

damn y'all work really does got me Tired About Eyeballs

[dylawas-reblogs]

me: yeah so we haven't had a meeting about it yet, but I asked my coworkers about past interns and why they left; chances are they won't hire me full time at my internship immediately. However, the chances of having it extended are pretty good, and I like what I'm doing, and they're going to be talking about budget in July. Sure my finances are a little tight but--

my sperm donor (only slightly exaggerated): look for a new job immediately and tell them if they won't hire you full time you're leaving. and no, I don't care if you don't find something in your industry and you have to settle for a job that will make you hate being alive even more than you already do. Also I'm going to ignore how long it took you to find this internship to begin with

me:

[pimento-playing-hopscotch]

This is a TK Strand as a teenager fic, set pre canon... it’s very much still in progress, my brain is a potato masher and I could not get it to cooperate and I wanted to post this more all at once but then it felt like I’d never get it started so here we are... 

[iampikachuhearmeroar]

it's like earlier this year here in australia, some fucking idiots guys thought it'd be funny to drop off several kilo's worth of tins of soup..... all of which were several years out of date.... to food banks around sydney that are currently being used by everyone in the cost of living crisis. they were fined like 70k for dropping off that purposely expired food.

[coolfoxykitkat]

Me: I have real actual experience for this job.

Job: That’s pretty good. We’ll definitely consider you as a viable candidate.

Me: I can pass a drug test immediately and I’m reliable.

Job: PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE COME WORK FOR US PLEASE PL-