#i think they need to look more cruel and for lack of a better word

[thelongestwalk]

I kinda wanted Ink5oul and Madame E to become a toxic influencer couple ... imagine the psychic damage they would wreak on the internet combined

[six-eyed-samurai]

SUMMARY: It's been some time since your death and yet none of the Hashira still have the heart to remind Muichiro you're gone. A/N: I'm not too sure if the title means what I think it means so let me know if it's wrong...anyways I got the idea from a fic of @oceanxmoonz, so credits! Also you can probably tell I got lazy at the end... WARNINGS: (y/n) is dead. That's it.

“Where’s (y/n)?”

Shinobu’s smile was a little faker than before as she turned around to face the expectantly waiting Mist Pillar, who seemed a little upset. She couldn’t answer that quite yet. “Are you looking for them?”

“Yes,” Muichiro said plainly. “I couldn’t find them at all this morning. Or afternoon…have you seen them?”

Was it sadder to watch Muichiro lose his closest friend - if not something more - and grieve about it for a long time after or sadder to watch him forget they were long dead? That they weren’t avoiding him like his amnesia had him think, that they actually couldn’t? He always needed to be reminded and Shinobu didn’t like to be the one to do so.

“Tokito…they died a few months ago, remember?”

“No, they didn’t. Ginko would’ve told me.” His eyes widened, then narrowed angrily. “I don’t think that’s a very funny thing to say, Kocho.”

“But, Tokito-”

“I’ll go find (y/n) myself,” he said abruptly, then walked off.

Of course he came back later with the same question; of course Shinobu’s smile faltered.

***

“…I forgot your name.”

“…”

Muichiro blinked at the stoic Pillar before him. “You’re the…something Hashira, right? I think (y/n) mentioned you. Are they back from both of your mission yet?”

Tomioka hesitated. He was honest but he wasn’t cruel. He knew exactly what Tokito was talking about, knew that he suffered from huge blanks in his memory. He envied the younger Hashira a little, to be able to forget such tragedy - however seeing him constantly wander around wondering where they’d gone was a pitiful sight.

So in the end he decided to evade the question. “Yes. (y/n) came back safely from the mission.”

The Mist Pillar’s eyes lit up. “Thank you. I’ll go find them now.”

Yes, (y/n) came back from their mission together safely. If only the same could be said of the last.

***

“HAR?”

“I said, where’s (y/n)?” Muichiro sighed after his almost shout at the disbelieving Wind Pillar. “Has your mission damaged your ears?”

“You little-” Sanemi checked himself. “I know damn well what it was you said.”

“Okay then, where’s (y/n)? I found this flower I wanted to show them.”

The older man’s mouth fell open, probably to harshly remind Tokito for the fifth time that month that who he was looking for was long dead and gone. Then it closed again.

Sanemi was not a soft man, evidenced by his scars, shouts, and treatment of his younger brother. But at the end of the day his intentions, though misguided, were what he wanted best for everyone. It was a tragic world out there and whether his next words were going to exacerbate it he would accept the consequences whole-heartedly - no one would fault him for not wanting to bring the poor kid back to shattering reality either, right?

“Probably out on another mission. You can’t keep hogging them to yourself, Tokito.”

“That’s odd…I thought they just came back…”

“Yeah, well, demons don’t wait for anyone!” Sanemi barked. Sadly, too true.

***

“Oh, Tokito…!”

“…Kan-something-san?” Muichiro’s face twisted in confusion as the pink-haired lady threw herself at him crying, pulling him into a tight hug.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know what came over me.” Mitsuri straightened and wiped at her face, plastering a bright but trembling smile for the younger Hashira.

Muichiro blinked. “Okay. Have you seen (y/n)? I just got back from a mission but I can’t find them.”

“…perhaps they’re busy?” Mitsuri swept the tears on her cheeks again. “Don’t worry, I don’t think they’d ignore if they had a choice, Tokito!”

“Oh…alright then.” Muichiro drifted off, readily accepting Mitsuri’s story despite the obvious holes for lack of better explanation.

Mitsuri bit her lip, guilty at her lie. Every day Muichiro would approach with the same question and every day someone or some way it would be broken to him that (y/n) was long gone but as terrible as it made her feel Mitsuri never wanted to be the one who did it.

He’d found the love she’d always been searching for. Unfortunate one didn’t survive for long.

***

“Young Tokito! Are you looking for someone?!”

“You’re really loud…” Muichiro tilted his head. “Have you seen (y/n)?”

Tengen and Rengoku shared a look - the Sound Pillar broke the pause first. “Tokito, don’t you remember?”

“Remember what?” Muichiro’s attention span was already running out. “I think I saw them today but I can’t remember where.”

“You couldn’t have seen them,” Tengen starts again, for it’s not the first time the Mist Pillar has mistaken someone else for (y/n). “They’re-”

“Oh, right…at the Butterfly Mansion, I think. Thanks for…helping?” Muichiro left and the two Pillars glanced at each other again.

“Who’s gonna tell him? He can’t keep walking around thinking they’re still alive. That’s just cruel.”

“But if he remembers his spirit will be beyond crushed - you remember how he was when he first found out. For now, when we need to be most vigilant, perhaps we should let him be!”

Rengoku’s voice carried a tremor of uncertainty, however.

***

“I saw Kanroji and you talk a few days ago. Did you make her cry?” Obanai glowered menacingly at the deadpan Mist Pillar.

“No? She was crying?”

“Yes!” Kaburamaru hissed with his owner.

“Oh…right. Now I remember. I didn’t make her cry.” Muichiro looked up. “At least I don’t think so?”

Obanai resisted the urge to slap his hand on his forehead. He leaned in clsoer. “Why was she crying?”

“I have no idea,” Muichiro said, leaning back. He brightened. “Oh, right. I was asking about (y/n).”

“(y/n)?” Obanai stiffened but took a step back. “Oh. I see.”

“Which reminds me…I wanted to go see her after our sparring, but I don’t know where they are.”

The Serpent Pillar and his snake shifted uncomfortably. “You’ll find them.”

Not really. Obanai hoped for the sake of his comrade that he’d forget he’d already asked the question and not stumble upon (y/n)’s grave.

***

Himejima too cried.

It didn’t really make sense to Muichiro, but he let the oldest Hashira lay a hand on his shoulder and say some prayers. He didn’t really pay attention to the wording but he caught his name and (y/n)’s.

It was safe to assume the Stone Hashira didn’t know where they were so Muichiro bid him goodbye (or at least he thought he did) and set off to go find them himself. From behind the trees one Shinazugawa Genya watched him go before joining his master’s side.

“Why isn’t anyone telling him?” Genya couldn’t imagine what it was like to lose someone so close to you, someone to love and care for, and not even remember when they were no longer there.

“Some things must be found out by himself.”

“Isn’t it unfair to (y/n)’s memory if Tokito doesn’t remember?”

“I’m sure (y/n) will understand…they were very patient with him. They will understand that he needs to take his own time in coming into terms with…”

“Coming into terms?” Genya’s frown deepened. “You mean it’s not just his memory thing?”

“Grief and denial are strange things.”

***

“Where are you, (y/n)?”

Muichiro knelt down by the headstone, dropping the bouquet next to him. “I hope you’re happy, wherever you are. I’m sorry I forgot about you for so long.”

He takes a deep breath and begins to tell about his day, like he’s been doing every day ever since he regained his memories after that fateful fight at the Swordsmith Village and befriending Tanjiro. He thinks they’d like this version of him much more.

“The demons have been awfully quiet lately,” Muichiro mused. “They say Kibutsuji’s planning something. They’re probably all out to get Nezuko. A big all out war’s going to be coming, I think, and I’m sorry I won’t be able to visit when that happens. So I’ll come more often now.”

He dusted off the stone, staring sadly at the inscription. “I’ll kill the demon who got you. I promise.”

At the price of his own life, (y/n) knew, sitting invisibly next to him, crying transparent tears but he wasn’t to know that.

[jenneyquinn]

“who do you think you’re impressing with this stuff?”

“everyone. you wouldn’t understand.”

after adjusting his tie, pacifica looks up from dipper’s neck, her blue eyes meeting his brown ones. it’s the very first time she sees him without that lame pine tree cap on, so naturally, her eyes aim a little higher.

upon inspecting the brunette’s tufts of hair, she thinks to herself, he definitely doesn’t shower much, trying her best to not react too visibly to the accumulation of sweat. who knows, making him feel more awkward will just make things worse—after all, that suit must be stuffy enough as it is.

so, she remains indifferent as she continues inspecting his hair. despite a lack of showering, she thinks, he’s lucky to have fluffly hair… for a nerd, i guess.

before she backs off completely, walking back into the party to the ‘problem room’, pacifica notices something about dipper’s forehead. a blemish, perhaps? or maybe, a hint of acne.

acne makes sense for him, trying very hard to roll her eyes at the thought, obviously not the type to spare time for proper skin care, geez.

for all she knew, pacifica soon came to the conclusion that from all that sweat… the pores on his forehead being clogged thanks to his brown hair and that hat of his, she wouldn’t worry much about giving away some facial cleanser, mosturiser, and a trip to pick up some ointment (since she never needed any).

yet, before she could start on a list—first, she needed to know how bad it was.

pushing his hair back, dipper feels his whole body go stiff in a flash. what the heck was she doing?

“i don’t have time to give you a total makeover, but the least i can do is advise you on better personal hygiene.”

pacifica answers, which meant that dipper was definitely thinking out loud.

stupid! now that, he whines in thought, but refrains from physically face-palming himself.

when pacifica fully pushes dipper’s hair back, his forehead now bare to her, she observes it, her face remaining indifferent as she focuses on what lies before her. it’s… a big dipper?

behind that poker face of hers, she’s laughing inside; trying desperately to not let the corners of her lips twinge up and succumb to her amusement.

clearly embarrassed, dipper’s face flushes red, but finds himself staying still as he feels frozen under pacifica’s gaze. his doe-brown eyes are only glued to her diamond-hued irises, then glances a bit down to her glossed lips, awaiting the inevitable mean-girl cackle.

“so that’s why people call you dipper.” pacifica points out softly, showing the smallest hint of a grin on her face.

only, it isn’t malicious—dipper notes to himself. amused, yes, but not in a cruel, insulting way.

feeling awkward enough as it is, dipper breaks away from pacifica’s touch, backing himself away and heading towards the door; laughing inorganically.

“yeah, it’s just a dumb birthmark, started going by dipper so no one could tease me about that anymore, heh,” he tries to explain in a single breath, pulling out the third journal to avoid being further burned in her gaze, “anywaysweshouldgoaheadandfindtheroomwheretheghostwaslastspottedright?”

“i don’t think it’s dumb.”

the confession slips pass pacifica’s lips almost instantly, unable to stop the words from spewing out.

now, they’re both pink in the face, both in disbelief of the blonde’s admission.

[hai7ani]

hihihi, hru?? hope ure doing good:3

i think i literally asked for a rindou hc recently but i seriously need a ran one where he’s like divorced for any reason that you want and he tries to get closer or to talk to his ex through their kid or appear at kindergarten when they’re picking the child from there or just try to talk to them when he goes to pick the kid for weekends or whatever, I JUST NEED IT 😭😭

take your time btw, don’t want you to get yourself busy with this when you have better things to do jahsjjajd:33

i.

Ran thinks it's cruel that your smile still haunts him awake at night.

It's one of the meanest things you can do to an ex after a nasty separation, he thinks 一 having a smile so warm and beautiful that you only show to a loved one (him, used to be), and the image still sticks so freshly on the inner walls of their head years after you divorce and aren't on speaking terms as much.

You can't go a minute speaking to him without choking on your words. You're always awkward with him when handing off your daughter for his night, but he still tries to make you feel comfortable around him again by cracking a joke or two that would've always made you laugh. You don't anymore and you haven't done it in a while, yet he still tries. And he continues with it as soon as he spots the small crack in your facade when one corner of your lips starts lifting against your will and you're quickly looking away to scratch at your elbow.

It's terrible how suffocating he feels currently. He isn't used to being like this.

Ran finds himself thinking way too much of you lately.

He often keeps his head awake at night to the thought of you and what the two of you were, and he has to keep reminding himself that he shouldn't be doing this anymore. Especially not now when you've got another man who isn't him sending you home after work and you're throwing the same sweetish, syrupy smile his way when you get off his car in a little bounce and you're holding onto his door to fix your heels.

It's been years since your separation. You're no longer the woman who'd put up with things just to have peace in the house, and he's no longer the man who'd put off things just to have some peace to himself. Your daughter is a big girl now and she's starting to understand things without anyone saying it outrightly to her. He hears a lot about you from her observations at home and he likes that you've started working on the things you've always wanted to do but didn't have time for because you were so preoccupied with taking care of everyone's needs.

Things have changed a lot since then. Improvements were made and they were done with quick effort 一 it's one of the things people start doing when they let something go and realise just how much they have been missing, or lacking.

And you're no longer together to witness that growth in each other.

But Haitani Ran has never been one to dwell on the past and think too much on what could've been 一 he fixes his issues and he does it really well. It's one of the things you've always liked about him.

If trying again isn't an option, he should at least see you. By tonight. He has to see you now. He wants to see you now.

He throws on a jacket and he grabs his keys to go.

Ran always lives in the present.

ii.

You have a lousy, too-big-for-your-face sheet mask on when he rings your bell. He almost laughs at how ridiculous you look paired with the frog pyjama pants you always like wearing to sleep, but you look so cozy, and a famous tear-jerking K-Drama is playing on your TV screen in the back. He decides he'll not poke the bear tonight.

"Arisa's already asleep." You tell him when he's on his way to go knock on her door and you're pouring him a glass of water. "That's fine."

But he's quick with it this time 一 no more than fifteen seconds with his daughter that he only sees three times a week and he's back out in the living room again with you.

"Hi sweetie. Daddy's gonna go win your mama back tonight, alright? Give me a minute, I'll be back."

He has more important matters at hand right now.

"How's the show?" He downs the cup in one go. His throat had been dry the entire ride to your place. Mind flooded with words he's unsure whether or not to say, but keeps as an option for later. He wants to see you way more.

You shrug and start peeling off your mask. "It's fine. A bit boring. Not as great as what they say." You rub on your face and go wash your hands in the sink.

As always, you're curt with him. You leave no room to continue a conversation. He doesn't blame you for it, though. He wasn't always there to listen.

"Listen, uh," he begins, fiddling with the cup, "can we talk?"

You eye the clock and shake your head. "No, it's getting late and I have to sleep. You should go too, now that you've seen Arisa一"

"一I came to see you." It's suffocating, the sudden silence in the house. And he realises swiftly it's back to square one again with the atmosphere around you both. You're creasing your brows and it's not looking nice.

"Honey, not that again一" You sweep your hair back out of frustration when you remember. "Sorry, I keep calling you that."

"Can we just talk, please? I need to talk to you." His eyes plead. His heart aches.

It's evil what the remnants of love can still do to two people who aren't together anymore.

iii.

"Risa's told me lots, you know一"

You light the cigarette hung between your lips and inhale.

"About you." He finishes his sentence.

"About what?"

In such a small space on the bench of your balcony you still manage to seat yourself as far away as you can from him, and you've got one leg on top of it. Back then his mother would've pointed out how rude it was to sit like this around your husband, but she's not here with you at your house, and you just want to get all of this done with.

He can tell.

But he thinks it's nice that he still managed to convince you to come out here and have a smoke together in the cold like the risqué couple you were back then. He wants to salvage this moment for as much as he can.

"Well, she told me you started doing cross stitch again."

You let out a breath through your nose. "Yeah, finally found the time, I guess. She keeps asking me to use the pink threads, but I don't know what else to stitch other than flowers and bows."

Your voice is a lot deeper than usual now that you've got a cigarette in your mouth and you no longer look as put together like you always do in front to him. Your hair is clipped in a messy bun and your pants are folded at the waist.

He's still charming as ever, though, and it pisses you off.

"And she told me you've been crying a lot lately."

Great way to piss you off even more. He looks at you when he says it and you don't like it from him at all.

Your chest is burning when he leans back in his seat. "Is it because of that twat? The one always driving around in that lame, old Mercedes? He's been making you cry?"

What a fucking guy.

You puff out the smoke and scoff. "I guess you still don't know me well enough then."

"Then tell me. What's going on?"

You click your tongue, agitated. Perhaps it's the nicotine that's keeping you on edge right now, and he notices you're a lot more straightforward with him this time.

He wants to talk? You'll give him just what he wants.

"I just don't get how you always make things look so fucking easy."

"What's easy?"

You shake your head, thinking. You throw the cigarette in the ash tray angrily and groan.

"I don't know! Moving on?"

You shoot daggers right into his eyes. "It's always so goddamn easy with you. Not even a year after we divorce and you've already got a girl on your arm. How the fuck did you do it? Was I so invisible to you in our marriage that all it took was just a year, or less, to go date someone else? And get so touchy with her? Did I not live in your heart at all?"

"What the fuck? What girl?"

You give him a big laugh 一 a fake one. "You're such an asshole."

"There hasn't been any fucking girl after you. I don't know what you saw that time, but nothing ever happened between me and any other girl, ever. And this thing about me moving on? Bullshit. I came to see you tonight. I never fucking moved on. It's been this way for two whole years. Jesus, it's always been you."

You're both out of breath by the time he finishes, and the waterworks come quick.

"Who was she?" You sob into your knees. He moves closer to you. So close you can feel the heat off his skin when he fixes a strand of your loose hair.

"A colleague from the Taiwan office. We attended a gala together and I sent her back to the hotel with the driver. I swear, nothing ever happened."

Your cheek is squashed against one knee when you look at him in those eyes that always gets him to fold. "You're so fucking mean. You're so cool and playful all the time. Did your heart not break when we ended? Aren't you even sad about it? This whole time I've waited to see if you were, but you never let anything show. I thought you moved on."

And finally, Ran pulls you into a hug. A hug so tight you can practically feel the crack echoing in his chest. So tight you're almost swallowed into his soul.

"We have a kid together, damn it."

You hear it then. You finally do.

"I still love you so much, baby." His voice is shaky, heart breaking apart in half from how much it hurts for you. "I never stopped, fuck. It's only ever you."

iv.

It's quiet when you sleep. Half-asleep.

You've got your nose buried in your blanket and your eyes are droopy. They're also red and swollen, but he'll take care of that for you tomorrow.

Thankfully, Arisa isn't woken up by the commotion. She's still sound asleep when Ran goes to check on her after he's ushered you in from the cold.

Your blanket rustles in the quiet when you reach your arms out to go pull him in closer to your chest. "Why are you so far away?"

He laughs a little, "I'm here," while you drape a leg over his hip.

Your sleeping position way too intimate for two ex-lovers who are divorced, and just yelled at each other's faces not too long ago.

But you don't think you care too much. Ran just admitted he still loves you and it's more than enough for you to kiss him again. You need to hold him tonight. You need him to be yours again, even just for one night.

"Rub my back." As always, you're very demanding with affection. And he always delivers as you wish.

But you can't deny that there's still a lot to work on in your relationship if you want to try again. Love isn't just enough to fix things, and only one minor improvement of him being attentive again to your feelings doesn't mean a lot if he can't show that he won't repeat it again.

And you're not perfect either. You're always wicked with your tricks when you don't get the attention you desire, or deem as enough. There's no denying that you only went out with a man to make a certain someone jealous 一 to see if he still cares 一 because you know he's been waiting around at your place to see if you get home by feet or in another man's car.

"That twat that you mentioned earlier..." You trail off and he hums, a smirk on his face when he buries it in your neck again. "I never did anything with him, okay? I stopped seeing him a month ago. We just went out for dinner, like, three times. And he always suggested to AA the bill every single time. He's stingy."

And again, you don't really leave room for him to continue the conversation.

"That's alright."

And perhaps tomorrow will be a better day.

But he's one step closer to winning you back again.

A win is always a win.

And againnnn this is not even close to what was asked for i think you might've been looking for fluff lol 😭😭🙏🏻 and i love how every individual as a couple aren't perfect and i tried my best to portray their own traits in here. And they've been following each other around after their divorce lol

[jweekgoji]

more yandere d-16 !!!

Yandere!D-16/Reader [hcs]

tw: unhealthy obsession, possessiveness, overprotectiveness, jealousy, yandere themes word count: ~880 additional tags: gender-neutral reader, cogless!reader. a/n: I think other writers already made various posts about yandere!D but why not have 2 cakes?

D-16 is one of the individuals from the main 4 that you would never suspect of having an unhealthy obsession with you. I mean, look at him, a total sweetheart! He would never become a cruel and ruthless tyrant in the future, nuh-uh.

Just like Orion, if he sets his optics on someone, D-16 will make sure that no harm will be caused to you. He lacks some strength to stand up for himself at the beginning, but if someone he deeply adores needs his help, he lets himself forget about the protocols and rush in to help you.

Once he checks that you're okay, that is the moment he has to lecture you about your own safety. He has a little grumpy side, grumbling 'you shouldn't have disobeyed our supervisor!' when the bigger bot accused you of slacking off, but it is actually because he's concerned. The side of his face still hurts, too, after getting punched for sticking his nose into someone else's business.

Yandere D-16 is nothing like Megatron. Never, never expect him to be violent with you or with someone else. He is still innocent, in some way, uncorrupted from the yet-to-be realization of the truth.

Like I mention in the first sentence in the beginning paragraph, D-16 doesn't show any bright yandere traits. It somehow parallels with the style of his life and how he looks in the society of the lower class bots. The grayish paint job, the way he tries to stay out of trouble and follow the rules set by the higher-ups. Even when he's jealous or insecure, which is tied to the object of his obsession, he's not the mech to jump into the fight right away.

^ I think he'd rather stay silent and keep up with his responsibilities if he notices some other bot being a little too affectionate with you. He knows there's not much time for all the relationship stuff; therefore, it will be ridiculous to demand anything from you. It's even harder when you're a close friend of his, someone close enough to stay around but not enough to develop the feelings into something more.

Yandere!D-16 is overprotective with a tiny bit of jealousy. He wants to tell you how much he adores you. The way you lighten up his mood after the last incident Orion put him through, this just makes him all warm and happy inside. These feelings only motivate him to work even harder since he believes that in the future, in much better circumstances, it is the best time to finally confess. It might be a little insecure if you think about that, but probably just realistic, as he thinks.

^ The more time passes, the harder it gets to keep his own emotions in control. At one point, if you continue being a reckless cogless bot, causing trouble here and there, or maybe you're that weak-willed, that can't clearly tell 'no' to others (especially if they're all flirty and too nice with you!) he'd confront you about it, pressing in the corner.

^ How could you be so blind! Can't you see the obvious? You're so, so infuriating sometimes. It doesn't help that sometimes his own thoughts get darker. He never acts upon them, but even thinking about doing something violent towards someone who hurt you in any way...One day, he might snap and tell you everything he thinks about it. The question is, will you take him seriously?

^ At the same moment, his overprotective side wants to smack some sense into you. He can't keep his optics on both Orion and you now; give him some break! When he tells you to stop doing whatever the problem is, his jealous side also shows up. If only you could be his, all of that wouldn't happen. He'd keep you close to his side forever; he would make sure that no one will hurt you once you tell him that 'I love you too'.

Until then, he's content with just looking at you from far, far away. You might now even spare a glance at him during the whole day, and he would already be on cloud nine just because he saw you today. D's optics truly are the mirror of his spark. The way those big, bright orange optics widen the moment you walk past Orion and him, his friend is already having that knowing smirk. Oh yes, D-16 is so screwed.

Yandere!D-16 will idolize someone he loves so deeply. He just believes you're so...so perfect for him. It's like he is blessed by Primus himself every time he's in your presence. He can't explain why his spark beats faster every time you're in his sight, but Primes, help him! He's not even sure he deserves you at that point. Of course, you're both in lower class, but for him, it doesn't make sense at all. He can't do much as just a miner with no cog, but his loyalty, dedication and protection towards you are guaranteed. Good thing he's one of the strongest bots among the other miners; he's willing to be at your service any time of the day.

[yoru-no-seiiki]

“Lie to me, cheat on me, I don’t care. Just do your job and all’s fair.”

— yandere! rent-a-boyfriend x apathetic! reader

tw/cw: no smut, but this account needs a revive so… reader is gender neutral but i hc them as a dommy mommy. more headcannony than a proper story.

You met him after he managed to con one of your friends at work. Posing as this suave, nice guy, who happened to lack the money to support himself. The one time your friend finally put trust in someone else, that was the time it was completely broken. Turned to ash and bones.

You remember the night your friend came to you, eyes red-rimmed and voice trembling as they recounted the whole ordeal. How he’d slipped into their life so seamlessly, with that charming smile and easy laugh, only to hollow them out from the inside. Every word he’d said was carefully crafted, every gesture perfectly calculated to lure them into a false sense of security. And when they finally realized the truth—when the money was gone and so was he—it wasn’t just their savings he’d taken. It was their ability to trust, to hope, to believe in people again.

And so you decided to take him for yourself.

You remember the look of relief, and then recognition before it settled into confusion with the slight hint of derision.

He was perfect.

“If you managed to fool them, then you’ll do a good job fooling my own parents.”

You needed him. He needed you. It was the perfect agreement. His confidence was alluring as it was powerful. The way he turned heads just by being in the room. And the sex? Simply amazing. I mean, if he managed to make your prude of a friend to buckle then it must’ve counted for something.

Sure, the look in their eyes when you brought him to work one day was horrific. But they’ll get over it you think.

After all, you’d made your choice, and you weren’t about to apologize for it. Maybe it was reckless, maybe even cruel, but there was something about him that kept you hooked. The way he carried himself, all charm and sharp edges, like he knew exactly how far he could push before breaking someone. It wasn’t love, not really, but it was magnetic, intoxicating. Besides, your friend would move on eventually—people always did— it was the natural course of things. You told yourself it wasn’t your responsibility to mend what he’d shattered, even if the shame clawed at you every time their gaze lingered, silent and accusing. You shrugged it off.

But then suddenly he began to act nice? You could feel the gradual loss of his impassivity. How he suddenly became interested in what you were doing, saying and most importantly disinterested in the money you gave him.

“Don’t you get it—? I - I can’t believe I’m even saying this myself - but I love you. I fell for you. And I don’t even know why—“

“Stop.” You pinched the bridge of your nose. A puff of moisture blows through the air as seasons passed and winter has arrived. Frustrated that the one thing you had over him was now seen as no longer valuable. But then realized . . . , “You know what? S’long as it makes the job easier for you.”

With the last smoke from your cigar, you press the tip of it to his nose. Ash, skin and snow collide.

You thought it was better for the both of you. He could have the so called love of his life, and you could spend a bit less trying to keep him tied to you as long as he was useful. However, what you needed from him wasn’t just love, it was strength, not this blubbering piece of mess that kept stuttering the moment you two were left alone.

He was turning weak. Pathetic. Something you didn’t need nor want in a partner.

Too bad he knew you too well. He knew that you were going to leave him behind. He knew that he only had moments to waste before all of this would be over.

So on Christmas Eve, he plans it all out. The meal, the lighting, the music.

He did what he always did best—he made those moments count. His words were sharp, like knives carefully aimed to slice through your resolve, each one designed to remind you why you’d stayed this long. He painted pictures of what you’d lose, of how lonely it would be without him, and how no one else could ever understand you the way he did. His smile was bittersweet, a mask for the desperation lurking underneath.

And it ends with a cheer,

all of this so that he could drug you.

And at last, with a kiss to your lips he mouthed, “Happy Holidays.”

[Author’s Note] Reader definitely comes from a Mafia family of sorts.

[butchcarmy]

Blood Orange (Ch 1: The Walk-In)

Carmy Berzatto x Reader (R18)

Rating: E (7.3k words)

links: fic playlist, pinterest board, ao3 link, ch 2

Summary: Losing your job is the worst thing to ever happen to you. Getting hired by Carmen Berzatto is a close second. You tell yourself that The Beef is only temporary, that it's just a replacement until you find something better. It doesn't work. You've stopped listening. You've had a taste of Carmy, and now you don't think you're ever gonna be able to let go. No matter how bad it gets. 

Content Tags: secret workplace relationship/sex, friends/coworkers with benefits, they/them afab reader, miscommunication, mental illness (carmy and reader), dom/sub dynamics, dom carmy (for now), enemies to friends to lovers (eventually), unhealthy coping mechanisms, dysfunctional relationship

A/N: It's finally here! New series! We even get sex in the first chapter! In my other fic, I'm taking care of Carmy. In this one, I'm making him worse. Of course, here's a disclaimer that I DON’T condone or intend to glorify any of this behavior. It's just compelling to write. Enjoy!

You return to The Beef for the first time in years when you're at your lowest.

The only upside to this abysmal situation is that the job was shitty. The job you just got laid off from, to be exact. Retail was never your passion, and there's a certain relief in knowing you don't have to go back to that windowless place. You didn't play an important role in the ecosystem, but it played a pretty crucial role in yours. It kept a roof over your head.

You're sure you could’ve sued them in some fashion for letting you go without any warning, any parachute, but you didn't have the luxury of time. You needed to figure out how you were going to pay rent, and fast.

After the rage boiled over (not to say that it's resolved, the residual anger's leveled into an even simmer), you pulled your hair back, found your cleanest, nicest outfit, and started your job search. With your updated resume in hand and scuffed sneakers on your feet, you've trekked all over Chicago looking for a new job. You weren't optimistic, nor were you hopeful. 

You suppose the only word you could use to describe yourself was desperate, and it was a matter of finding someone that was just as desperate, if not more desperate than you. To put it politely, the odds of that were low. Very low. 

You got laid off that very morning. The rest of your afternoon has been spent walking from door to door to every establishment you could spot. By some cruel twist of fate, none of them were hiring. The ones that were hiring looked unenthusiastic, even adverse to taking your resume. 

“When would you be able to start?” Some of the workers asked. 

“Tomorrow,” was your desperately honest answer. 

“If all goes well, you'll hear from us in a week,” was their response. The unspoken was, of course, the fact that radio silence was more likely than an email or phone call. Places didn't even send rejection letters anymore. 

“Thanks for your time,” you'd say, bringing out a bright smile from a complete lack of reserves, and as soon as you turned around, your face would drop. 

Your hopes were low, nearly non-existent, but damn. Damn. It wasn't looking good for you.

That's why you enter The Beef. You vaguely remember visiting this place a couple years ago, back when you first moved to Chicago. The owner was…pretty nice, actually. You don't remember his name, but you remember having a pleasant conversation with him. Of course, there's nothing you can do if he doesn't have a job opening, but it wouldn't be bad to see a friendly face. Even if that face is from someone who's basically a stranger. 

The doorbell rings when you enter. It catches the attention of the man standing behind the counter, and with how his head jolts up, you'd think the bell functioned as an alarm instead. 

“Welcome,” he says. Your first impression, other than the fact that he seems very, very, tired, is that he's irritatingly attractive. If anything, the eyebags and the greased back waves only add to whatever the hell he's got going on. 

“Hi. Um…” You're briefly caught off guard by his biceps, but you catch yourself. “I was actually wondering if you guys were hiring.”

“We are,” he replies, and it's the best thing you've heard all day. He lights up like the spark of a lighter, bright and instantaneous. It doesn't shake the pervasive exhaustion that radiates off him, though. 

“Thank god,” you mutter, and you want to take it back (it's far too casual), but he cracks an amused smile that makes you want to dissolve like a pinch of salt in a sea of sauce. “Sorry. Do you mind if I talk to the owner? We met a while ago, and—”

“I'm the owner,” he interrupts, and any other words you had planned fall away.

“Sorry?” You repeat. “I swear it was this guy—he had short dark hair, I think—”

“Yeah, he left the place to me. Didn't want it anymore, so.” He shrugs. The light you just saw from him has fizzled away like the end of a sparkler, short-lived and ultimately disappointing. 

“Oh. Got it. Uh…” To your credit, you don't fumble for too long. You have a lot of questions, but you've got more pressing issues. You pluck out a resume from a file folder. “Here's my resume, then.”

He takes it from you, flips it to face him. He's quiet as his eyes lower down the page, and you wonder if it's going to be a guillotine or a pot of gold at the end of this. The only sounds in the entrance are the passing cars outside, the rickety air conditioning, and muffled chatter from the back. 

“You worked as a prep cook.” He says it like a fact, but you know it's a question. 

“Yeah, nothing fancy. Just at some chain restaurants.”

“Right. I see you worked as a line cook at another location. Which one did you prefer?”

“Uh…” They both came with their separate pains. Your honest answer is that being a line cook was one of the most stressful experiences of your life, but if he has a position open as a line cook, you don't want to fuck it up. “They were both fine. I think I was a little better as a prep cook, but I didn't mind either.”

He hums, satisfied by your answer. At least it’s only half of a lie.                                                                                                                    

“How do you work under pressure?”

“Good,” you answer quickly. “Well enough.”

“Willing to learn?”

“Obviously. I mean…” You think you see a flash of a smile, but you're unsure. “Yeah.”

“When'd you be able to start?” You're surprised he's already asking this.

“Tomorrow,” you say, just like you’ve been, and his reaction is different from the others. He nods. He doesn't smile, not like he did earlier, but you can tell this is a good sign. 

Before he can get a word out, there's a sharp, metallic explosion of noises that resounds from the direction of the kitchen. 

“Uh,” he starts, eyebrows pinched in irritation, the voices come in. 

“I told you, you have to say behind!” A woman's voice. She sounds young, but there's no real way to be sure of that.

“How the hell did you not hear me coming?” A Chicago accent, male. Older, maybe. “I was in the middle of having a conversation with Tina—”

“Great, I'm so happy for you, I don't give a shit, now this has all went to waste—”

“Well, who's fault is that?”

“Who's fault is that? You did not just—”

“Guys!” The man you've been talking to gives you an apologetic glance before walking to the back, pushing through the folding doors. You catch a glimpse of the two people arguing on the other side before it shuts. “I'm tryin’ to talk to a new hire here. We can't be like this right now. Not ever, but especially right now.”

Finally, the first sane person I've met all day, you think. 

“Carmy, talk some sense into her,” the older guy shouts, and it gives you a name to the face. “All of this on the floor—”

“You didn't say behind,” the woman repeats, except with more fury in it this time.

“You didn't say behind,” he imitates back. “Carmy—”

“She’s right. Richie, step out,” Carmy says. “Syd, you clean this up.”

“But—” You hear her start to protest. 

“You spilled it, you clean it,” he cuts through, decisive and firm.

“I know, but Richie—”

“Clean it,” he repeats, firmer, darker this time, and there's a beat of silence. 

“...Yes, chef.”

“I told you to step out,” Carmy tells who you assume is Richie. 

“You're just gonna let her—”

“Step the fuck outside right fucking now!” Carmy screams, his patience shooting away like a gunshot. You feel something shrivel inside you, and not in a good way. “Do the one fucking thing you're good at and get out of the fucking way!”

Yeah…definitely not in a good way.

From what you hear, it sounds like Richie has to get wrestled outside by someone, whom you're not sure. After another minute, Carmy returns to the front. 

“I'm sorry about that. Fucking—” He drags a hand across his face. You swear his eyebags have grown heavier in the 5 minutes he was in the kitchen. “What was I saying?”

“Um, I was saying that I could start tomorrow,” you remind him, although the vigor you had just stated it with is a bit fizzled out. 

“Right. Okay. Uh—” He pats his hands on his apron, searching for something. A pen and paper appear in his hands, and he scribbles something on it. This is when you notice his tattoos. A flower on the back of his hand. Surprising. “You're hired. Here's the paperwork you need to fill out, along with the number and email you'll be hearing from me at.”

“What?” You take the sheets, but the smooth paper doesn't feel real in your hands. His handwriting is hasty and dark, like he was running out of time on a test. “I mean, I'm just surprised.”

“Do you not want it?”

“I want it,” you promise, and you feel your cheeks flush. This is a bad time to yet again notice how attractive he is. His pretty eyes, his nose. The little moles under his left eye. “Y-Yeah, I want the job.”

“Good.” He motions towards the sticky note again. “Come in at 8 am tomorrow. You'll be starting as a prep cook, which you've done before.”

“Okay. Okay, yeah, I'll be there.” The reality is setting in now, and an odd cocktail of relief, apprehension, and excitement is settling in your stomach. “Thank you so much.” I just got laid off from my job this morning, so this means a lot, you want to say, but it's too soon. You don't want to say anything that'll make him change his mind about whatever he sees in you. 

“Thank you,” he echoes back. “We need the help. I'll see you tomorrow.”

“See you,” you reply, and with that, the door rings behind you. A customer comes up to the counter, peering up at the menu. You figure this is your cue to leave. He's not looking at you anymore anyway. 

So, I got a job now, you update your friends, texting them on your way home on the metro. As the relieved congratulations come flying in, another remark seems to resound amongst all of them. 

I can't believe you got the job just like that. That place must be desperate, too, is roughly what they've all said. The thing is, they're not wrong. 

You managed to find someone more desperate than you in the job economy. Just one, but that was enough. It makes you think, though. You think about Carmy's weary blue eyes, his brief smile, and his hand tattoos. You wonder if it's just the restaurant that gives him that bone-deep exhaustion, or if it's a smaller part of a bigger picture. 

You think about it for the rest of your commute, you think about it as you smoke on the porch, you think about it as you lay in bed. You think about it as you fill out the paperwork, fingers tracing where Carmy's written his name, number, and email.

Carmen Berzatto

773-555-0901

So Carmy's a nickname, you think. Not about what type of boss he's going to be, not about what it's going to be like working under someone you are obviously attracted to. 

Maybe you should be more worried about this.

If it's bad, I'll just find another job, you tell yourself, and you foolishly believe it.

. . . . .

Your first day on the job starts with introductions. 

At least, that's about as much as you've figured out so far. When he sees you upon arrival, he pauses and stares at you like he's forgotten. Not a great start. Granted, he does snap out of it. That's when he tells you to follow him, which is where you currently find yourself. You're not sure where he's leading to, only that he's introducing you to others as you pass them by.

“They’re working with us starting today,” Carmy tells everyone. “They’re gonna be on prep.”

Right. So that's what you'll be doing. At least he told you that much yesterday.

The catalog of coworkers expands exponentially. You remember Sydney from yesterday, and to her credit, she apologizes about having you witness her fight with Richie, who conveniently isn't here yet. She seems the nicest out of all the bunch, so you decide to let it slide. 

Marcus is pretty nice, too. So are Ebra, Sweeps, Manny, Angel—everyone seems to be pretty alright. It’s obvious they’re standoffish by you being in their space. You find it hard to hold it against them. You’re not really sure how your relationships with them are going to pan out. There are only three that you’re particularly unsure on.

The first and obvious one is Richie. He came in eventually and didn’t give you the best impression, immediately talking over everyone and oozing arrogance. The only salvageable thing is that he’s not even a chef. At least you won’t have to be in the kitchen with him much. You want to avoid the honor of talking to him as much as possible.

Tina is next. She clearly doesn’t enjoy having someone new in the ecosystem, and she’s spent more time ignoring you than talking with you. As you understand it, she’s close to the rest of the staff since they’ve all been together for a while. Minus you and Syd, as you learn she’s only been there for a week. You think Tina will warm up to you…eventually.

Carmy is the last one, and he’s…he’s…

He’s something else.

He has you doing prep for most of the day. After introducing you to everyone and giving you a brief tour, he brings you to your station, scratched up stainless steel.

“You’re going to be cutting onions and carrots today for the stock. The vegetables are in the walk-in I showed you earlier, and when it’s done, it goes on the first shelf.” Carmy’s to your right, set up at his own station. You swear you keep your eyes focused on the vegetables, not his biceps in that shirt, but… “You should already know this, but label everything. I don’t want to see anything without a date. Got it?”

“Yes, chef,” you confirm, snapping out of it. He’s been flinging new information at you like it’s a war and he’s gunning to survive. But so are you. “I’ll do my best.”

“I expect as such.” He slides over a peeler for the carrots and some plastic bins for trash. “It’s just a stock, so don’t worry about an even cut. Just salvage whatever you can, cut off anything that doesn’t look good.” You nod. “Been a year or so since you did this, right?”

“Yeah. I cook regularly, but I’ll need to get back into the groove of things. And I will,” you add hastily. “I’ll combine them into this one when I'm done, right?” You ask, nudging a large plastic container. 

“Correct.” A brief smile flashes across his face. “You're already following quicker than I thought you would.” You’re not sure if he means it as an insult or a compliment, so you decide to take it as the latter. 

“I haven't even chopped anything yet.”

“I know.” His expression is flat again. You resist a laugh.  He plucks an onion from the bin, puts it in front of you. “Show me a rough dice.”

The knife is sharp. You notice this as you place careful cuts into the onion. It's not quite as sharp as his unnerving gaze, which layers pressure upon pressure. It builds up like a pastry puff, thin multitudes of layers expanding upward. You need to be good. You need to be perfect. You don't want to disappoint him, not this early, even though you've barely been here for an hour. 

It's just a shitty old sandwich shop, you tell yourself, but your dicing is uneven and you briefly think about accidentally chopping your fingers off. 

“Not my best work,” you admit, vaguely breathless. Carmy hasn't said anything yet.

“It'll do.” You're waiting for him to say something else, give you some tips, but he doesn't. Irritation prickles to the tips of your fingers. “I'll be back to check in on you later.”

You stand there, motionless and shocked in the aftermath. You're not sure what you expected from today, but being abandoned an hour in was not at the top of your bucket list. 

Man, what the fuck, you think, the thought clear in the silence around you, and that's the last time you can hear yourself think for the rest of the shift. 

There's a prepared stock from yesterday simmering on the stove behind you. It's flanked by boiling potatoes and reducing tomato sauce. The heat from it’s searing your back like a steak, slowly drawing lines of moisture all over the surface of your shirt. Your coworkers constantly invade your space to check on them. You suppose it's not their fault that the kitchen, but it's still irritating. They're also all shouting over each other like it's a competition.

“Who the fuck touched my stock—”

“No one touched your stupid shitty stock—”

“I am trying to find this cutting board, will someone please—”

You move on from the onions with only a thin layer of sweat collected at your hairline. 

Your hands are shaky as they peel the carrots. You know you're not getting as efficient of a shave as you could be, but the caffeine crash from your morning coffee is getting to you. You don't remember the last time you drank water. A cigarette sounds nice. 

“Clean your station, chef.” Carmy materializes next to you. You hear him before you see his hands scooping carrot shavings into a plastic container. It shocks you so much that you almost cut yourself. 

“Sorry, chef,” you reply reflexively. You look down at your station, straightening your tools. You want to ask if you can take your break, but you don't want to look any weaker than you do already. “So, uh, do we get 30's here?”

When you don't get a response, your head snaps up, irritation on the tip of your tongue, but he's not even there. 

Fucking hell, you think, annoyance simmering into something akin to anger, and you go back to finishing your prep. 

You don't see him for another hour after that. It's not even him that tells you to take your 15, it's Syd, who noticed you were half-way through your shift and on the verge of…something. 

“You finished the prep he gave you, right?” Syd had asked. You told her you finished and put it back in the walk-in. “Yeah, then go take your break. Did he not tell you we get 15's here?”

“He didn't,” you say, too annoyed to bother hiding the disdain in your face. Sydney just sighs, rolling her eyes, and you think you love her. 

“Asshole.” She makes a shooing motion at you then. “Go, get a break from this madness. It'll get better, I promise.”

You're not sure if you believe her, but you do step outside to take your break. 

As you stand outside in the back, you take note of tightness in your body that you weren't even aware of. The cigarette smoke calms you, loosens you. Or maybe you owe that to getting out of that hot kitchen. 

This time, you see Carmy before you hear him. You turn to the door to see him stepping out, a pack of smokes in his hand. 

“Hey,” he says. 

“Hey,” you reply.

“Everythin’ goin’ okay so far?”

“Yeah. It's fine.” Other than everything.

“Really?” His surprise just pisses you off further. “Well, that's good.”

“...Yeah.” You decide if your mouth stays unoccupied, you'll start cussing him out, so you put your cigarette back in your mouth. 

“You're bleeding.”

“What?”

“I said, you're bleeding. Your hand.” 

You look down at your hand holding the cigarette, and sure enough, there's a thin, shallow cut oozing blood near one of your knuckles. 

“Shit,” you mutter, quickly sucking the skin into your mouth. When you pull it back, the red refills. “I didn't even notice.”

“Let's get a bandaid on that.” He puts his unlit cigarette back into his pack. “I have some in my office.”

That's how you end up in the enclosed, dark space of his office, seated on the only chair as he leans back against his cluttered desk. The dingy first-aid kit is propped on top of a shaky stack of papers. Carmy takes out a bandaid from it and peels it open.

“Thought I gave you a sharp knife, it shouldn't have cut you like that,” Carmy comments. 

“It was sharp,” you correct. “Guess I just fucked up.”

“It happens,” he says, which surprises you. He keeps surprising you. You just can't seem to figure him out. “Let me see the cut.”

You only realize that he's putting the bandaid on you when he cradles your hand in his. His hands are warm. 

He has so many hand tattoos. You notice the letters on his fingers first, the SOU curled around your palm. You notice the other tattoo on the back of his hand next, since that's the one carefully placing the bandaid on you. 

He wraps it around your finger just right. Not too tight, not too loose. 

“Is that too tight?” He asks, almost in a whisper. He's so close, and he smells like kitchen oil, cigarette smoke, and a faded cologne you can't place. 

“No, it's okay.” You don't mean to talk so quietly back, but you do. You can't stop staring at his fingers. They're long and marked up with silver scars and burns. If you look carefully, you can place the locations of his callouses. 

“Good.” You don’t know why he does it, but he runs his thumb across the seams of where your bandaid overlaps. Surely it’s just to secure it further…surely.

“Thank you.” He’s still holding your hand. You’re unsure if you’re imagining the tension in the air or not. Everything feels more intimate behind closed doors, especially in low light. “I could’ve done it myself.”

“It’s easier if another person does it.” He lets go, finally, and you try not to mourn the loss. “Did you finish prepping for the stock?”

“What you gave me, yeah.”

“Alright. Let’s go take a look at it, then,” he says, like that isn’t the most anxiety inducing thing you’ve ever heard. 

“R-Right now?”

“As opposed to?” He opens the door to his office, and the muffled noises in the kitchen become sharp and clear again, like emerging from underwater. “Come on.”

You don’t know how it happens, but Carmy gets into five separate arguments on the way to the walk-in. FIVE. To be fair, two of them are from Richie.

“I’ve been telling you guys to sharpen your knives, don’t fucking treat them like this,” Carmy shouts, trudging over to someone’s station. “You see this? This is exactly what we should not be doing! How many times have I said this today?! Don’t—“

“Stop going into my office when I’m not there,” Carmy hisses at Richie next. “You keep fucking up where the papers are put, and I can’t find anything! It’s enough of a mess as it is! No—I said—cousin, listen to me—“

“Everyone shut the hell up, clean your stations, and get the fuck back to work!” Is the last thing he shouts before slamming the door to the walk-in behind you. He slams it so hard the wire racks rattle. You decide not to comment. 

The difference in sound is eerie. You’re always surprised by how sound proof these walk-in fridges are.

“Is this the prep you did today?” Carmy asks, touching one of the clear plastic bins. Sure enough, it’s the one you placed there a moment ago.

“Yeah, it is.” You chew the inside of your cheek. You were hoping he would be in an okay mood when he checked your work. It seemed like he was at first, but now?

“It's on the wrong shelf.”

“What?” You stare at it sitting on the first shelf, just like he told you to. “You told me to put it on the first shelf.”

“It goes on the second shelf.” He's pissed, and there's ice in your veins. He huffs as he takes the container and moves it one shelf up, slamming it down unnecessarily. “I told you—second shelf.”

“You literally said it went on the first shelf.” The ice has melted, and it's boiling. 

“No, I didn't.” You wanna punch him. Badly. You know what you heard. “And you forgot to label it.”

“Shit.” That, you did forget. You’re not above owning up to your mistakes, unlike him. “I'm sorry, I was—”

“We always need stuff like this to be labeled,” he interrupts, rude and abrupt. You can hear the thinly veiled anger in his voice. “I told you.”

“I know, I just—“

“Don’t make excuses. Just do better.”

“It’s my first fucking day!” You snap, finally, and it’s like a firecracker in the dead of night. “I don’t expect to be coddled, but I’ve only been here for a couple hours, and you’re just—“

“I told you to put a label on it, to put it on the second shelf, and you didn’t do either of those things.” This is a different type of anger. It’s quiet, contained. Dangerous. And with your outburst, it’s trembling at the edges. 

“You literally hired me yesterday!” You’re exasperated. “You looked at my resume for like two seconds before hiring me, and you’re mad that I’m messing up?”

“You had enough credentials on your resume. You told me you could work well under pressure and learn quickly. Is that true or not?”

“It is true! You just have to give me a chance first!”

“I just gave you a chance,” Carmy snaps back, “and you fucked it up.”

“Oh my god. I just—“ You take a step back. “I don’t have to take this shit.”

“Are you quitting already?”

“I wasn’t going to.” You move towards the door. “But maybe I should, before you fire me. Doesn't seem like you want me, anyway.”

You were planning on exiting the walk-in after that, to leave on cue, but the door doesn’t budge. You and Carmy notice it at the same time. 

Suddenly, there is a new problem.

“Fuck,” Carmy curses under his breath. The two of you are pushing against the door, but it won’t budge. He slams his fist on it and calls out. “Guys, the walk-in door is stuck! Can any of you open it from out there?”

“Carmen?” Richie's voice is muffled from the other end. There's the sound of frustrated efforts on the other end. “It's not fuckin’ budging!”

“Fuck,” Carmy repeats, seething, and you agree. “Call Fak!”

“I already did! He’s gonna be here in 20!”

“20 minutes?!” Carmy shouts. You close your eyes and sigh, audibly. “Don't we have a screwdriver in here or something?! Just take the hinges off!”

“Why do you think I called Fak?! Shut the hell up and be patient!”

“Tell him to hurry the fuck up,” Carmy barks, and that's where their conversation ends. 

“Just what I needed right now,” you mutter under your breath. Carmy's not looking at you, eyes boring into the door that's trapping the both of you in here with each other. “To be locked in a room with you.”

It's quiet for a minute before he speaks, cutting the silence open.

“...I do want you, y'know.”

“You—huh?” He said it so quietly you're not sure if it was a hallucination. 

“We need you here.” He's still not looking at you. “This place—it's fucked.  We don't have enough hands.”

“I can tell,” you say, and you mean for it to come out bitter, but it's soft. Naively so. 

“I want you here. I do.” He doesn't need to say it like that. You don't want to believe it, neither his words or the way hearing it makes you feel. “I need you.”

“Can you at least look at me when you say it?” 

You’re not sure why you say it. You instantly recognize it for how needy it sounds, but you don't get the luxury of embarrassment. Carmy's already turning to face you. 

“I want you,” he repeats, voice low. You think about the paint you'd need to mix to match the color of his eyes. Blue, white, and the slightest bit of orange to desaturate it. You're not sure what type of orange, though. “I need you.”

“Fuck,” you mutter, despite yourself, and it's too late.

“Are you gonna do better?” You didn't even register him moving closer to you. When did your back end up against the shelves?

“I’m gonna do better,” you whisper, “if you stop being such an asshole.”

“It won't happen again,” he whispers back, and you recognize it for the lie that it is. 

You don't really care, though. 

His face is so close to yours that you can see the separate specks of colors in his iris. You watch his gaze fall from your eyes to your lips, and it lingers there before rising again. Any shreds of self respect or control you were clinging onto disintegrate. It doesn't matter if he really means what it says. All that matters is getting your mouth on his.  

“Okay,” you say, a whisper of foolish acceptance, and you're kissing him. 

Or is he kissing you? You don't know who leaned forward first. It's not important. 

“I saw you staring at my hands today,” Carmy says against your lips. Spit makes your mouths slide easily against each other. “Yesterday, too.”

“What the—no you didn't,” you gasp, appalled, heat rising in your face, “how did you—?”

“You're right. I didn't,” he admits with a cheeky grin. You’re really gonna punch him now. 

“God, you're just,” you mutter, “you're such an asshole.”

“I know.” At first, you think he's being smug, but there's a surprising sense of remorse under it. You don't have time to think about it, though, not when his hand is cradling your face. There's no way he doesn't feel how hot your face is. 

“What're you…?” His thumb passes over your lower lip, and the words fall away. 

“Tell me you want this.” Your eyes flicker to his hand, then to his face. His other hand is at the top of your jeans, fingers resting on the edge of your waistband. Excited arousal hits your gut, sizzling like browning butter, warm and toasted. His eyes are dark, caramel on the verge of burning. “If you don't, I'll pretend like this never happened. I'll never touch you again.”

I'll never touch you again, he says, like it's not the last thing you'll ever want. 

“I want this,” you murmur. “Touch me. Please.”

“Good,” Carmy praises, one quiet word enough to sear your insides with heat, blue flame on the underside of a pan. “That's what I thought.”

His hands slip behind you to untie your apron. The strings fall to your sides, and you tug it hastily up and over your head. It falls to the floor next to you. Surely that's a gigantic health hazard, but Carmy's the one who throws it there, so you don't say anything. You lower your gaze to his fingers unbuttoning your pants. The sight of it makes you woozy. You take note of his other tattoos, noticing the letters on his fingers. You watch as the stabbed hand made of ink on his right disappears under the cloth of your underwear.

“Oh,” you breathe. You didn't expect his hand to be so warm, even though you had just felt his heated palm gentle on your cheek.

“You're wet.” The tip of his index finger dips into where your hot folds separate. It strokes at the fluid that's pooled at your entrance, coaxing it out. “When did this happen?”

“Fuck you is when,” you bite back, but it's all bark. “I don't know.”

“Sure,” he agrees, but not really. His condescending smile shouldn't be hot, it really shouldn't, but your pussy throbs against his hand, and he smiles knowingly. “All you need is me to talk and you get wet, is that it?”

“I—” His finger rises upward, splitting you open and flicking at your clit. You buck against his hand. “Don't ask me a question and then touch me like that,” you hiss, horribly turned on.

“Mm, sorry.” It's barely an apology. You throw your head back in frustration. “I didn't mean to.”

“I have a hard time believing that,” you pant. He's pushed your slick up your pussy to your clit, two slick fingers sliding back and forth on your stiff nub. The pads of his calloused fingers are rubbing you almost where you're too sensitive. 

“Then don't. I don't care what you think of me.” You think he's about to get his fingers inside of you, and your breath hitches, but he pulls back. You regret the frustrated whine that is just audible enough in the back of your throat. He does it again, just barely pushing the tips of fingers in before pulling away.

“You—why—do you want me to beg or something?” Your clenched hands raise by your sides to grip the collar of his white shirt and yank him forward. The shock that flashes across his face gives you a sick sense of satisfaction.

“It wouldn't hurt,” he mumbles. Seeing him stagger like this, even if briefly, sends a rush through your head.

“Is that what it's gonna take for you to get those fucking fingers inside me?” 

Like a coward, instead of answering, he leans an inch forward and kisses you. Or maybe that was his answer. That's when he sinks two fingers inside you, long and thick, pushing until your wet pussy's pressed tight against his palm. 

You moan, a pathetic thing, and Carmy swallows the sound of it.

“You're already begging,” he says quietly. He pulls his fingers out. You whine in protest, desperate and angry pleas on the tip of your tongue, but then he's pushing inside again.

That's the last moment of reprieve you get. His fingers start thrusting into you faster, dragging out slick each time he pulls them out. Paranoia suddenly screams that you’re gonna wet the front of your pants at this rate. The aching pleasure is louder than your fear, though. You can’t help the way his fingers are making you moan.

“More,” you plead, “give me another, I can take it.” Your hips are thrusting forward to meet his hand when they push inside. Your clit slaps against the heel of his palm, and you chase the friction. He must notice, because when he obliges and stretches you out with a third finger, he grinds the heel of his palm into your clit.

“You have to be quiet,” he says lowly when you keep moaning. “They’re gonna hear you.” 

“I—I’m trying,” you whine. You’re squeezing so tight down on him. You feel so full. “Your fingers—“

“You’re the one who asked for more.” He slaps his other hands firmly over your mouth. It silences your sound of surprise. “You said you could take it, so here’s what’s gonna happen.” His fingers are slamming into your now, and your hole spasms around them in pleasure. “You’re gonna come on my fingers, and you’re gonna be quiet. Understand?”

You know how soundproof the walk-in is. You had just witnessed it moments ago. But Carmy’s warnings do something fierce to you, bypassing logic straight into anxious, desperate arousal. He’s right, you think. You need to be quiet. You nod quickly in response, so he takes your consent and sprints with it.

To your credit, you try to be quiet. You said you would. But there’s only so much you can do when he’s fingering you so hard your legs are shaking. You’re whimpering into his hand, the sounds muffled.  Your own moans, his heavy breathing, and the slick sound of your pussy getting railed by his fingers—that’s what you listen to as you come.

“Fuck, you’re squeezing down tight,” Carmy hisses, and for an irrational second  you’re afraid you’re hurting him, but one look at his starved expression changes your mind. His three wide fingers are fucking you slowly through your wildly contracting orgasm. In one of his palms, you're oozing slick, and in his other palm, you're smearing with spit.

You should be thinking about how bad of an idea this all is, having sex with your boss. It’s too bad your orgasm is so potent you can’t think at all.

You lean your head back against the cold metal railings of the wire racks behind you. It’s uncomfortable, but a part of it feels good against the coiling heat that’s unraveling in your stomach. The air around you is cold, but you’re hot, far too hot. You don’t remember the last time you’ve finished this hard.

He finally pries his hand off your mouth once you've stopped clamping down on his fingers. His hand lingers at your face before wiping it on the side of his jeans. His expression has this unreadable, unnamed intensity to it, and you can't tell where that ends and where the hunger starts. Although he is looking very, very starved.

His hand that's tucked into your underwear tugs it upward as it leaves, pulling the fabric taut against your pussy. It sticks like paper mache with the glue of your orgasm, molded to your shape. You make an aroused noise that's a mixture of surprise and annoyance.

You're about to complain, something along the lines of “was that really necessary”, but then your eyes are zeroed in on the sheen of his fingers that were fucking you.

“Don't,” you start, suddenly worried he's going to wipe them on his jeans again, but you don't get to finish. He's pushing his index finger into your mouth, and you taste yourself on his skin.

“Good,” Carmy whispers when he feels your tongue wrapping around him. Fuck, hearing him say it like that does awful things to you.

You don't know why you accept it without a fight, but if you're being honest with yourself, this is exactly what you wanted. You start to suck, but he doesn't linger. When he pulls his finger out, your parted lips expect the other two, but he sucks them into his mouth instead. 

God. What do you even say to that? He even has the nerve to look you in the eyes as he pops his cleaned fingers out of his mouth. 

“Let me touch you,” you decide to say instead, because if you think about him and his fingers in—anyway. 

“It's fine. I don't need it.” He's oddly cagey all of a sudden. 

“Let me return the favor, please,” you insist, even adding in some good manners. It seems to still him for a moment, giving you enough time to lift his apron.

Fuck, you think to yourself, the word resounding like an alarm inside your head. His jeans are tented so tightly it looks painful. All this from touching me, you realize. You can see the shape of his bulge under the denim. The silhouette is vague, but...

It's big.

“Carmy? You still in there?”

A voice you don't recognize calls out beyond the door. As soon as you both hear it, Carmy jerks away. You mourn the loss only for a moment before you remember yourself. You're scrambling to get your pants buttoned and your apron over your head. 

“Yeah, I'm still in here,” Carmy shouts back, instantaneously irritable. His back is turned to you, and you want to feel those muscles tensing under your palm. “About fuckin’ time!”

“You're welcome, by the way! I could've left you in here to freeze and die a tragic death!”

“It's not just me in here, Fak.” A beat of silence. “Are you opening it?”

“Am I fucking—Jesus Christ, Carmen, just give me a second! I'm working my magic!”

That shuts Carmy up. Almost. He sighs before turning to look at you. 

“Sorry for getting us stuck in here.” The apology is equally as surprising as the softness of which he speaks. “Shitty first day, huh?”

“It's cool. It's not your fault.” Other than all the shit that was completely your fault, you think, remembering the way you were shouting at each other just a moment ago. “Kinda shitty though, yeah.”

“Yeah.” He sighs again. “If you wanna leave, I don't blame you.”

“I thought I wasn't getting fired.”

“You're not,” he says quickly. “But I'm—this place is a shitshow.” You're not sure which he really means to say, but you hear both. The restaurant, and him especially, are both complete messes. That much was obvious from the beginning. “So if you wanna take off, just…” He shrugs. “Just go.”

Maybe that'd be for the best, if you left. As far as first days go, you've already broken every rule in the book. You messed up your first task, got into an argument with your boss, and then had sex with him. Nothing about this place is particularly inviting, either. This restaurant wears its dysfunction on its sleeve, unabashed in all the ways it lacks. You had left the kitchen with ringing ears from all the noise and a cut on your hand you didn't even notice. 

But here you are. You're not running. Maybe it's because of the fact that you need to pay rent. Maybe it's knowing that just one more pair of hands here could really make a difference. Maybe you're just desperate to keep food on the table. Maybe it's Carmen Berzatto, beautiful, haunted, and angry. Maybe it's all of that, a combined whole that's become greater than the sum of its parts.

Or maybe it's just that now that you've kissed him, had a taste of him, you refuse to let go. Maybe the reason is as shallow as that. 

Carmy's been waiting for you to speak, tired eyes searching your own. You're still not sure what exact colors you need to perfectly recreate the blue you're staring at. 

“Almost done!” Fak shouts. “Just one more hinge!”

“Heard,” Carmy shouts back. He hasn't taken his eyes off you. “So? What's it gonna be? Are you staying or not?”

Blood orange, you think all of a sudden. That's the orange you would need to make the perfect blue to match his eyes. Just a little bit—that's all you would need.

“I'm staying,” you tell him. “I need to pay rent, after all.”

Yeah. That's the reasoning you're settling on. Rent.

“Right. Of course.” There's a glimpse of that gentle smile you've seen flashes of today. It fades away as quickly as it came. “After this, I'm gonna have you learn how to check produce next.”

“Okay, sounds good,” you say as naturally as you can, given the tonal whiplash.

“There should be some that's about to get washed. I'll show you where that is.” The door's shifting. “But before that…” He lowers his voice, leans in close. Is he about to kiss you?

“W-What?”

“Get a new apron from my office. That one's dirty.” Beams of light stream through the entrance of the walk-in, forced wide open. “You need to keep your apron clean, chef.”

YOU WERE THE ONE WHO THREW IT ON THE GROUND, you want to scream. Just when you thought he started being nice, he does something that makes you want to grab him by the collar and shake him.

But you can't. The walk-in's open again, and you see your coworkers crowded by the door. 

“Yes, chef,” you reply, and the words taste bitter on your tongue.

~

@zorrasucia

[ghoulfuckersincorporated]

feeling veryyyy normal thinking about being offered as part of bounty to the ghoul because the bounty poster doesn’t end up having the caps they promised him. and they need to pay him somehow. they’ll offer him their lil captive vaultie as payment for the rest. 👉🏻👈🏻 will he accept?🫣

A Fair Trade

Pairing: Cooper Howard/The Ghoul x Female Reader

Word Count: 3,980

Warnings: smut (18+), p in v sex, oral (m receiving), creampie, sex as payment for debt, human trafficking typical of the Fallout universe.

Summary: The Ghoul always gets what's owed to him.

Notes: Oh, wow! My first submission-type ask! I'm genuinely super flattered and totally open to doing more. I initially ballparked that this would be around 2,500 words and it ended up almost 4,000 because I have no self control when it comes to this man. I will try to keep other submissions a little shorter, generally, to hopefully get them out quicker.

To the anon: This may have turned out...sweeter than you may have envisioned? Maybe that's not the word. Less rough? If so, my apologies! I hope you still enjoy.

Things had been...unfortunate for you since you had decided to leave your vault.

Looking for a taste of something new, chasing the feeling that the world had other things for you to experience, you had managed to make it to the nearest settlement of any import with only a few scrapes and bruises. But, regrettably, you lacked a true understanding of how cruel and selfish people on the surface could be, and you quickly ended up the captive of some random outpost runner.

Well, you'd been traded to the outpost runner. You still weren't quite sure how that had come about, even after weeks and weeks had passed, but, frankly, the scrawny, dirty man was a lot less scary than the guy who had initially captured you. He wasn't not scary by any means (no one up here really was, as far as you could tell); he still confiscated your things and locked you into the small room in the back that you were fairly confident was intended to be a closet every night, but he hadn't really done anything to hurt you so far. You were given a pillow, at least.

But you were growing increasingly uneasy with not knowing what his plans for you were. Worst case scenario, you guessed, he could kill and eat you like you'd heard some surface people did, but that didn't seem to be the case. Nevertheless, the way he eyeballed you, "accidentally" brushed against you with increasing frequency, made you uneasy. Maybe he'd bought you to be his wife, or whatever the Wasteland equivalent would be. You imagined that in the next few weeks he'd offer you more favorable sleeping accommodations...so long as you shared them with him.

Maybe you could accept, kill him in his sleep and flee. You really didn't treasure the idea of ending someone's life, but...you needed to get out of here, and soon.

The sound of the creaky, rusted front door hinges flexing drew your attention, distracting you from your bloody ruminations and the pile of scrap you'd been sorting through. The front office hadn't been loud, but the small murmur of voices instantly faded, a clatter of movement towards the door, followed by some very familiar sounding footfalls. He was back.

The tall, noseless, rad-ravaged man made his way in multiple times a month, sometimes even multiple times a week when the bounties were easy and the work was plentiful. You'd seen each other somewhat often the past few weeks, as your keeper had begun to allow you to clean and assist in the front of the office more and more. It was both better and worse; the days passed with less tedium and you got to see some of the interesting characters the desert produced. However, many of those characters sized you up with predatory eyes, as if they were estimating how many caps they could sell your flesh for in their heads. The ghoul had yet to give you that feeling, interestingly enough.

You'd heard whispers all over town about him, about all the things he'd apparently done, how he was supposedly hundreds of years old. You didn't believe that for a single second. After all, despite his fascinatingly gruesome appearance, he was just a man, wasn't he? A man with very advanced radiation sickness (and a rather unfriendly general disposition), but a man nonetheless.

Sometimes, you felt as if he was certainly looking at you the way a man would. You were unsure, frankly; social etiquette was so vastly different on the surface than it was at home. It sure seemed like he let his eyes linger on you, on your body. Perhaps he was simply curious about you, as you were about him; most people seemed afraid to even look his way, or too disgusted by his condition to even consider it.

"You wanna run that by me again?"

Your ears pricked up instantly at the tone in the ghoul's voice, your heckles raising as you sensed trouble. Tiptoeing towards the door to the front room, you stood as close as you dared, shoulder touching the rotting door frame as you listened in.

"I told you, we were robbed a few nights ago. I don't have the full payment for you right now. This is everything I've got."

You knew your keeper was lying, about the robbery, at least; the place was so small that if anyone had been in to steal anything, you'd have certainly known about it. Whether or not he really had the caps, you didn't know, but you supposed he didn't, figuring that he wouldn't take the risk of pissing off the ghoul if he did. You had overheard him discussing gambling on a few occasions.

"Well, you better find something to make me whole, quick." came the ghoul's acidic reply.

On some level, you understood his frustration. The work was done, the bounty delivered. Un-delivering it wouldn't make up for all the time he'd put in. But, you also knew his reputation for being unforgiving, and you felt a chill run up your spine as you began to fear that he would kill your keeper and you if he didn't find some sort of satisfaction soon.

"I don't have anything worth anything. I told you, this is all I have." the scrawny man shot back, trying to sound confident, tough.

However, based on the way his voice trembled and faltered, the uneasy way he cleared his throat, you suspected the ghoul knew he was lying, too, confirmed only a moment later by what you were certain was the sound of a gun thwish-ing out of its holster and cocking. Your heart flew up into your throat, hammering even harder when, a second later, the lighter sounds of the scrawny man's footsteps rapidly approached the door of the back office. Scrambling back towards the desk, you'd only closed about half the distance when the door flew open, the man grabbing at you almost blindly, his long, dirty nails digging into your exposed wrist as he dragged you, protesting, out behind the counter.

"Hey!" you hissed, trying your best to snatch your arm back out of his grip and failing, infuriatingly. You were momentarily blinded with outrage that he would offer your body to someone to cover his own debts, though you supposed that was just how people did things in this awful place. Your eyes, feeling like they could pop out of your head they were so wide, flew to the man on the other side of the counter, who was assessing you with a look you couldn't read.

"What about her?" the scrawny man asked, and that was the final straw. If things were going to get worse for you, you weren't just going to accept it with a smile. The fingers on your free hand curled into a fist, which you smashed into the side of his face, causing him to release your arm in shock. Almost instantly, he jerked towards you, but the Ghoul pointed the modified pistol in his hand further into his face, stopping him.

"Now, how're you gonna offer me merchandise and then try to damage it in front of me?" he said, speaking to the man, but not looking at him. He was still looking at you, an intrigued glint in his eyes. They were...pretty, actually. Warm and golden brown. Was he really thinking about taking the offer? You'd be lying if you said you weren't curious about what his body would be like underneath all the layers of clothing. However, the entire situation had your walls up high, your whole body trembling slightly.

The Ghoul stepped slowly around the counter towards you; the scrawny man shrunk away, the gun still pointed in his direction, while you held your ground, doing your best to keep your head held high as he stepped right into your bubble, your chests almost touching as he seemed to really size you up. After a moment of incredibly tense silence, his eyes moved to the door, then back to yours. Slowly, he lowered the gun.

"Alright. C'mon, Vaultie." he said simply, turning on one foot to make his way back to the other side of the counter. You hesitated, but soon moved to stand beside him, a surreal feeling washing over you.

"Hey! No fucking way, man! You can't just take her for keeps. She's worth way more caps than I owe you!"

The man was even more red-faced than usual, his tone downright indignant, but he didn't step out from behind the counter to follow.

"Ah, but, see, once we factor in the interest on my missed payment, hurt and suffering, on top of my 'you're a dumbshit' fee...I think it's a wash, personally." the Ghoul replied, leaning back over the counter into the man's dirt-speckled face. He clearly wasn't in a place of strength to negotiate, and his angry gaze moved to you again before he rolled his eyes and shook his head.

"What the fuck ever." he grunted.

You felt your body relax noticeably as the bulk of the conflict seemed to pass. However, there was a small amount of unfinished business you wanted to address before you left this place. You crossed your arms, turning your narrowed eyes to your former keeper, feeling emboldened with the Ghoul standing at your back.

"Where's my bag you took from me?"

Soon, you were back in possession of your things, including your Pip Boy, which you fretted over as you and your new keeper set out the door and into the desert heat. As you walked, you flexed the sore fingers on your hand absentmindedly. Soon, you were pouring sweat, pausing briefly to peel the top half of your vault suit down to your waist, tying the sleeves around you hips. The Ghoul appraised you silently as you did, taking a hit off of an inhaler from his pocket before continuing on.

As grateful as you were to be away from the trading outpost, away from the scrawny man and his uneasy ways, you couldn't help but worry in the back of your mind, fret at the possibility that you were going somewhere worse. It was being too trusting that got you into your situation to begin with. You worried at your lip with your teeth as he began to direct you down the road, his hand flat and firm between your shoulders. You weren't sure if the gesture was intended to be one of comfort, or if he was simply ready to snatch you up by the back of your vault suit if you decided to try to run.

The two of you walked in complete silence in the direction of the setting sun for what felt like a hundred miles. In truth, your Pip Boy revealed that you'd only gone a single mile and some change when the sun fully dipped behind the horizon, granting some blessed relief from the sweltering heat. You kept on a while longer, until the stars began to appear; eventually, the man veered from the decrepit highway, steering you to a little alcove in the rocky hillside, barely big enough to be a coyote's den.

"Alright, we'll bed down here for the night. Gettin' too dark to keep walkin'." he said, dropping his bag on the ground in a little cloud of dust as he turned to survey the site suspiciously.

You stood waiting for him to direct you, your fingers wrapped tight around the straps of your backpack, watching as he checked around wordlessly. After a few minutes, you chose one of the flatter rocks around and sat against it, watching as he built a small fire, inhaling some of the rations that had been hid away in your bag. Eventually, the ghoul threw himself down on the other side of the flames, facing the highway, and did the same, tucking into something canned from his bag. Things were quiet for a while, but eventually he spoke to you again, his voice pulling you away from fidgeting with with your Pip-Boy.

"Y'know, you're insanely lucky he didn't sell that thing. Can get quite a bit for a functional one these days. Moron didn't know what he had." he said, still chewing.

You blinked at him, your eyes flitting between the gadget on your arm and him, unsure how to respond. Briefly, you felt a growing sense of apprehension, but he must've sensed it, as he rolled his eyes and sighed softly as he swallowed.

"I'm just sayin' you're lucky you still have it, kid. Don't piss your pants. Trust me, if I wanted that thing, I'd have taken it from you already." he said, tossing the now-empty can over his shoulder.

You nodded silently, willing the tension out of your spine as you watched him dig around inside the oiled leather saddle bag once more. He produced a silver flask and a canteen, taking long pulls off of one, then the other. He then took another drag off of the inhaler he'd been puffing as you walked. Eventually, he stood, gave his back a stretch, and shrugged the long, tattered duster from his shoulders, splaying it out quickly on the ground behind him before turning back to face you.

"Alright, darlin'. Get your little ass over here."

You felt yourself freeze almost completely, your head turning sharply towards him. He hadn't said anything about the initial deal for so long that you weren't sure he was actually interested.

"What? I accepted you in lieu of payment. That means you are the payment, sweetheart. And I do intend to collect." he said, plainly amused, sinking down to the ground, his back sliding against the red rock behind him. "Besides, I've seen the way you look at me. Don't pretend you're not curious."

Your cheeks instantly felt agonizingly hot; had you been that obvious in your interest in him? Every day, something new in this place made you feel so silly, so naive. But, at the same time...he wasn't wrong. He might be rough-looking overall, but he'd been kind to you so far, and he did have quite a nice build. Besides, it had been weeks since you'd felt sufficiently alone enough to masturbate. A tad awkwardly, you went to lift yourself to walk to him when he cut you off.

"Mmm. How about you crawl?"

You felt your face twist into a mask of indignant confusion, and he chuckled. Hesitating, you made measured eye contact with him over the flames, quickly realizing, as those mischievous eyes glinted back at you, that he was serious. You swallowed hard, pulling yourself slowly onto your hands and knees before crawling the half-circle around the small fire as quickly and as dignified as possible, though there felt like there was very little dignity in it anyway. You stopped at his feet, kneeling with your hands on your thighs and looking up at him, trying your hardest to not seem as nervous as you felt.

"Take your shirt off." he ordered, head tilted as he watched you quickly pull the grimy undershirt over your head, tossing it near your bag. The night air was cool on your bare breasts, your sensitive nipples quickly peaking into hard little nubs that stung slightly. You wanted to press your warm palms to them, soothe the ache, but you didn't want him to think you were trying to cover yourself, so you simply sat, staring again, waiting for further instructions.

He grinned at you, leaning forward into your space, his gloved fingers stroking along your jaw, sliding a single one under your chin to lift your eyes fully to his. They were just as pretty glinting in the dying firelight as they had been in the outpost office.

"Y'know, you take direction pretty well, Vaultie. I like that in a lady." he said, tone low and conspiratory.

Your entire face burned now, even your eyes feeling hot, but that fire spread its way down into your core, blooming between your thighs, and you shifted slightly to press them together harder.

Reaching down, he made quick work of the belt holding up his pants and his fly, tugging free a cock that was about as red as the rest of him, the bulbous head glistening with precum already in the yellow-orange glow of the fire. Your tongue darted out to swipe at your lower lip, and you crawled up his legs to look closer. The Ghoul seemed surprised, leaning back ever so slightly from you as you came near, giving you room to move close and wrap your hand around him, drawing out a long hiss from between his yellowed teeth.

"Right on it, eh?" he chuckled almost breathlessly. "I like that in a lady, too."

You shot him a bit of a chastising look as you began to work your hand up and down over him, your free fingers coming to play along the weeping slit of him, earning another groan. He was a pretty average length for his height, you thought, but thick and already almost completely hard. It didn't seem like it would take much work to get him the rest of the way there. Your musings were interrupted by the feeling of his leather glove brushing against the swell of your breast before encaging the whole thing in his palm, massaging almost reverently. You whimpered when he plucked at your other nipple, sending shocks down your spine and straight to your already throbbing clit.

"Let's see what that pretty mouth is good for, hmm?"

Embarrassingly, you immediately dropped your head, pushing your body flat so you were sort of lying between his spread legs, bringing your lips down to hover a few inches above his leaking cock head. Tongue darting out to lap up a little taste of the shiny slickness there, you hummed; he tasted different than you were expecting, sort of the same, but with an almost metallic edge. You ran your tongue in a full circle around his tip, clenching around nothing when he groaned throatily, his right hand sliding through the dirt beside him.

"Fuck." he spat out when you unhinged your jaw, allowing the first few inches of him to fill your mouth, wrapping your lips around the head and sucking hard as your left hand continued to work the base of him. More and more precum leaked from the slit as you tongued at it, the taste and the knowledge that you were arousing to him making you rub your thighs together shamelessly.

"Play with your pussy." he commanded, clearly struggling to keep his tone even. Beneath you, you could feel his hips rocking almost imperceptibly. He didn't need to tell you twice; you could already tell you'd soaked through your underwear as you wrestled your hand down into your pants, pushing the wet gusset aside to rub tight circles around your swollen bud, moaning around his cock at the feeling.

The sound seemed to really turn him on, one of his hands suddenly moving to fist into your hair, the slight pain at the roots making you throb. His other hand came to cup your jaw again, holding you in place as he fully fucked his hips up into your waiting mouth, cussing under his breath as you continued to push yourself closer to orgasm. He kept you like that for a few long minutes, your neck cramping slightly by the time his thumb reached down, wiping away some drool that was dribbling down your chin. Bleary eyed, you looked up at him pleadingly. His answer was a wicked chuckle, his grin less of a smile and more a predator bearing his teeth.

"Blowin' a ghoul turn you on that much, cutie? What would the other vaulties think?" he tutted, shaking his head. "I think it's time you get on my cock."

Blushing hard at his little taunt, you could feel his burning gaze as you pulled yourself back up into a sitting position, tugging your boots off and setting them aside before shimmying the suit the rest of the way off, along with your underwear. A shiver broke down your spine as a small breeze hit you, your fire pretty much nothing but glowing embers now. However, when you pulled yourself back onto his lap, sighing as you ground your wet slit against his erection, you found that he was pleasantly warm feeling, bringing your hands up to his chest so you could lean over just enough to reach between you and position his cock at your entrance.

Too afraid of injuring yourself to attempt to take him all in one move, you instead opted to sink down onto the head, wriggling your hips before pulling them back up, then sinking down again, gently bouncing yourself down onto him. The man beneath you was tense, his hands kneading at your breasts as he huffed and hissed his way inside you. By the time you'd worked yourself most of the way down onto him, his hands moved to your hips, gripping them deliciously tight as you bobbed up and down on his length. For as cocky as he'd been before, he was pretty clearly struggling to keep his cool now.

One of your hands moved up from his chest, leaving you unsteadily balancing on one hand as the other pinched your nipple the same way he had before, making you cry out like a wounded animal. He must've liked that, as well, as his hands immediately yanked you the rest of the way down onto him, your ass resting flush against his hips. You repeated the sound again, higher, more strangled as he sat so deep inside you, the fat tip of him strumming away at something amazing right behind your belly button. It was too dark to make out much of anything, but you could feel the way his body twitched and bucked beneath you, strung tight as a bow.

The Ghoul's hands were digging deep into the fat of your hips, so hard you knew you'd bruise, restricting your movement, forcing you to swivel and grind your hips against him, the angle putting delicious friction on your poor aching clit and pushing you closer and closer to the edge. Your body began to clench around him rhythmically, and his hand quickly appeared on your clit in the dark, rubbing surprisingly deft stripes up and down the puffy flesh until you were suddenly gasping for air, trembling hard against his chest as he fucked up into your heat roughly, sloppily, the hand that wasn't on your clit slapping you hard on the ass. Suddenly, he let out a long, low groan, and you could feel the hot throbbing of him pumping his cum inside you, his hips stuttering as you let yourself slump halfway against him. There was a sudden metallic taste in your mouth. For several long moments, there were no sounds but your co-mingled harsh breaths and sound of the wind swirling the sand across the foothills.

After you'd finally caught your breath, you made a move to extract yourself from him. He promptly stopped you, flipping you onto your back, the smell of the duster's rich leather curling in around you as he kept grinding his hips into your overstimulated cunt. It drew an embarrassing squeal from you, hands flying to his chest once more before being rather playfully batted away.

"Oh, no, sweetheart. Nice as that was, your buddy owed me quite a bit of money. I think you'll be paying me back in installments." he growled in your ear, one hand moving around to give your ass a firm squeeze as you gave another clench around him. Your mind, foggy with sex, wandered to the Radaway still stashed in your bag.

It was going to be a long night.

[deatheaterv]

Could you do an imagine in which reader is some popular kid in Hogwarts, maybe she stands up to the marauders and later Snape snaps at her that he doesn’t need help and she calls him silly boy and happy ending with them as a couple?

SILLY BOY

pairing : severus snape x reader

genre : fluff

summary : as in the request

you’ve always noticed snape. most people don’t pay much attention to him, especially the marauders, who make it their mission to torment him every chance they get. today, though, it’s particularly bad. they’re cornering him in the hallway, mocking his clothes, his hair, and making cruel comments that you can’t ignore. they’re relentless, and it’s almost like they’re having fun with it.

you watch from a distance, anger bubbling inside you. you’ve always hated how the marauders treated snape, and today, something in you snaps. you’ve had enough.

“oi!” you call out, marching over to the group, your voice firm. “leave him alone.”

james, looking amused at first, glances at you with a raised eyebrow. “what’s this? got a soft spot for snivellus now?”

“shut up, james,” you snap. “he’s not the one who deserves to be made fun of.”

“oh, really?” sirius says with a sly grin, his eyes narrowing. “and why’s that?”

“because he hasn’t done anything to deserve this. you’re bullying him for no reason,” you argue, standing your ground. “if anyone’s got something to prove here, it’s you four.”

snape’s eyes flicker to you for a moment, but he doesn’t say anything. he looks surprised, but there’s something in his expression you can’t quite place. you’ve never seen him look so… vulnerable.

remus steps forward, looking uncomfortable, as always when the marauders go too far. “maybe we should just go,” he says quietly, tugging on sirius’s sleeve.

after a few tense seconds, the marauders reluctantly back off, though their scowls are still directed at you.

as the group disperses, you turn to snape, who’s still standing there, looking a bit shaken. you want to say something, but you’re not sure how to approach him. before you can speak, snape turns to leave, his usual scowl back in place.

“wait,” you call, stepping forward. “are you okay?”

he freezes, then slowly turns back to face you, his expression unreadable. “i don’t need your help,” he says, his tone harsh but lacking the usual venom. “i can handle them.”

“silly boy,” you reply with a teasing smile. “you don’t have to handle everything on your own. no one does.”

his eyes narrow, but you can see the faintest hint of something softer behind his glare. “i don’t need anyone’s pity,” he mutters, looking away.

“it’s not pity,” you insist, taking a step closer. “it’s just.. being a decent person. something they clearly don’t understand.”

he’s silent for a long moment, his gaze flickering back to you. “you think you know everything, don’t you?” he finally says, his voice a little quieter than before.

you shrug, feeling bold. “i think i just know you better than they do.”

snape looks away, his jaw tightening. there’s something about the way you stand there, so confident and unwavering, that makes him pause. for the first time in a long time, he feels like someone’s actually seeing him, not just as the quiet, brooding boy with a chip on his shoulder, but as a person. someone worth caring about.

“don’t make me owe you anything,” he says, but there’s no malice in his words, just a quiet vulnerability.

you smile, “you don’t owe me anything, silly boy."

over the next few weeks, you find that your encounters with snape become more frequent. it’s subtle at first, just small exchanges during class or passing glances in the hallways. but slowly, the tension between you two starts to shift.

there are moments where he seems less like the bitter boy he used to be and more like someone who might actually want to be around you. his usual scowl softens when you catch his eye, and the sarcastic comments he makes toward you hold a hint of teasing rather than malice.

the sun was beginning to set, casting a soft golden glow over the grounds of hogwarts. the air was warm, the sound of laughter and chatter from students drifting from the castle. but you and snape had found a quiet spot away from everyone else, sprawled out on the grass near the edge of the forbidden forest. the tension of exams and school life felt far away, the only thing between you and snape being the peaceful silence that had settled over the two of you.

you lay on your back, staring up at the sky, the clouds moving slowly above. snape was lying beside you, his arms folded across his chest.

the silence stretched between you two, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. it was the kind of silence that felt natural, like there were no words left to be said. still, you couldn’t help but turn your head to look at him, a soft smile playing on your lips.

“you know, i never thought i’d be out here with you like this,” you said quietly, your voice almost lost in the breeze.

snape glanced at you, his dark eyes locking with yours. “and why’s that?” he asked, his tone still laced with that familiar sarcasm.

you chuckled. “because of everything… everything we’ve been through, and how we started.”

he was quiet for a moment, his gaze flickering to the sky as well. “it seems strange, doesn’t it?” he murmured. “the way things change.”

you nodded, your smile softening. “i guess some things just take time.”

snape exhaled slowly, then turned his head to look at you again. there was a vulnerability in his gaze that you hadn’t seen before. he shifted closer, his voice low but steady. “i’ve never been good with… people. with this,” he said, the words coming out almost like a confession.

you turned to face him, propping yourself up on your elbow. “you don’t have to be perfect, severus. you never did.”

he glanced down at the grass for a moment, the weight of his thoughts pressing on him. “i don’t know if i can ever be what you deserve,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

you reached out, gently touching his hand, your heart softening at the rawness in his voice. “you already are,” you said, meaning it with everything you had.

snape seemed to pause at your words, his eyes searching yours, as if trying to understand the depth of your sincerity. then, without warning, he spoke again, his voice quieter than ever.

“i love you, y/n,” he said, the words heavy and genuine, more than just a fleeting confession.

your heart skipped a beat. for a moment, time seemed to freeze around you, the world feeling as though it had narrowed down to just the two of you, lying on the grass beneath the vast, open sky. you smiled, your eyes softening as you leaned in slightly.

“i love you too, severus,” you whispered back, your voice just as quiet, but filled with warmth.

there was no need for anything more. no grand gestures or dramatic proclamations. the moment felt perfect in its simplicity. you both just lay there for a while, the world moving around you, but in that space between you two, everything felt still, calm, and right.

[tacticaldiary]

Frightened Of The Fall

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader

Genre: Hurt/Comfort

"Simon." He rasps, grip tightening around her arms. "Call me Simon."

Her smile widens and it makes something in him break with a need to let her light smooth over his jagged, broken pieces.

"I love you, Simon."

Masterlist

Baby birds are born with an innate fear of falling. Frightening little things, skittering over to the edges of their nests and peering down, curious but never brave enough to take a leap. It's their mothers that nudge them along, shove them over the edge knowing that they'll come out unscathed.

Simon remembers the soft look on his mother's face when she used to read to him at night, locking the door and draping his bedsheets over their heads like a little makeshift tent.

It's one of the clearer memories in his head, but nothing in his life comes completely untainted.

His father always got tired of yelling and banging on his door. He'd find the master key somewhere and click the lock back open, ending her attempts to distract him on the worst days.

His father had shoved him off the edge too soon, not accustomed to a mother's intuition and only driven by the cruel need to see him flail and fall as he hit the ground hard.

                               · · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·  

"Does pasta sound okay?"

Ghost hums into his cup of coffee, skimming over a document he'd put off till the last minute to review. Their kitchen table is littered with files and folders belonging to them both. "Thought you were going out tonight.?"

Working in the same division of the military means their privy to the same confidential information, luckily.

"I was," She nods, setting down the packet of pasta. "But I cancelled. Thought some time alone with you would be better..."

He nods, and the knot of unease that's been tightening in her chest for the past week makes an appearance again. He doesn't say anything, he hasn't been saying much at all these days, and it's making her more than uneasy.

Ghost wasn't an overly silent man, especially not with her, so this behaviour has been out of character enough to raise some flags. A little frustrated at his lack of interest, she walks across the kitchen to join him at the table.

"Is something wrong?"

Sometimes, Ghost sees the gentle nature of his mother in her.

When she smiles at him like he's hung the moon and the stars for doing her a simple favour. The quiet nights together spent soaking in company that he hasn't had the chance to experience in years...

"Nothing's wrong."

"You're angry at me."

He glances up at her, raising an eyebrow. "You'd know if I was mad at you, love."

"Then what is it?" She pushes, "You've been so...so disinterested lately." She really tries to word it eloquently in a way that's not too intense. "You don't join me for any activity apart from work, you barely say a word to me if I don't initiate a conversation!"

She's certainly got his attention now.

"You didn't even ask where I was going when I told you I had plans tonight, it's like...it's like you don't care anymore." She finishes, pushing out the last part of her sentence in a voice wrapped with hurt. "If you don't...don't want me, I'd rather you just say it. I'll understand, but it's not fair to keep me at arm's length when-"

"Stop." He cuts her off loudly. "You think I don't want you anymore?" The papers lay on the table, completely forgotten as he pushes himself to stand up next to her. There's an urgency in his movements that she hasn't seen before.

"You sure make it seem that way."

"I don't." His gaze flickers across her face and his stomach sinks when he sees nothing but raw honesty and hurt. "Of course I want you-"

"Then why don't you talk to me?"

That shuts him up.

"I was thinking." He clenches and unclenches his jaw. "About everything. About...us." When he sees devastation flash across her face, he's quick to correct her misunderstanding. "Fucking hell, not like that." He assures her, taking her arms in his hands and stepping closer. "Never like that, darling. Shouldn't have made you doubt anything, didn't mean to." Ghost presses her face to the crook of his neck, loosening a sigh of relief when she doesn't push him away and nestles there instead.

"Then what is it?" She draws in a shaky breath. "If it's not me, why are you pulling away?"

It's a beat before he answers.

"I've always wanted a family." He squeezes her arms briefly. "Never thought I'd have anyone else to call that." His gaze is fixed firmly on the wall behind them, even when she tilts her head up to peer at him.

She doesn't push him, doesn't beg for details. Patient as always, and the knowledge that she would not force him to tell her anything he couldn't is the very thing that drives him to bear his thoughts to her.

Ghost tells her about coming home to a house of cold bodies. He doesn't spare any details, she's not frail or fragile. Hell, she's drawn just as much blood, just as viciously as he had, so he lays it all out as it happened. He tells her about his mother, about the good in his life ripped away by a fate that he dragged across their doormat.

"You're afraid it'll happen again." She whispers when he finishes.

"I'm...cautious."

"It's okay to be afraid." She smooths a hand over his hair much more gently than a man like him deserves. "You're human, Ghost. You're alive, they would be glad that you made it out alive."

"Shit luck I brought them, though." A hoarse voice he lets mingle with the loathing he's carried ever since he could remember.

"It won't happen again." His gaze flickers down to her at the declaration, "It's in the past, baby. Unless you let me go, I'm not going anyway."

"I don't." He tightens his grip instinctively. The very idea of being the reason he's lost the best thing that's ever happened to him is revolting. He intends to keep her for as long as she'll have him.

"Good." She cracks a small smile. Her fingers ghost over the scars on his cheek, marred with years of memories. "Neither of us are good people." She whispers. "Not with the things we've done, the things we've seen. But we're good for each other. You're so good to me and nothing in your past is going to take that away. Not even you."

Earnest and honest and determined, there's no protest Ghost can make that would strike her words untrue. He takes in an unsteady breath instead, letting himself sink into her promises.

"Let me in." She whispers, soft and pleading. "Build a life with me. Let me take care of you, Ghost."

He loosens a shuddering sigh out of his chest, a feeling so viscerally overwhelming washing him inside and out. It grows and expands, sheds lights on the corners of him untouched by love and safety.

Always shrouded in caution and fear, the sudden light is bound to sting the eyes of someone who's kept in the dark. The warmth is enough to burn someone kept in the cold.

She searches his eyes for something, for anything. A hint of agreement, a crack in the iron walls she can take as a sign to start chipping at.

"I love you."

And he believes it.

"Simon." He rasps, grip tightening around her arms. "Call me Simon."

Her smile widens and it makes something in him break with a need to let her light smooth over his jagged, broken pieces.

"I love you, Simon."

And she can see the light shining through.

Reblog, Like and Comment!

(28/11/2023)

[scoobydoodean]

ok so forewarning, i don’t really have a question here, just lots of thoughts.

there’s so many layers to the general *badness* about the mia vallens therapy scene. like to the manipulation (for lack of a better word) that sam rewrites. like it makes such a difference that she thinks jack is their little brother instead of the son of the thing that killed dean’s best friend/loml. not to mention the fact that it’s been what like a week since *everything*

and like yes dean’s being cold towards jack and giving him orders (which, i could argue they weren’t uncalled-for), but tbh he’s only being moderately colder/more direct with him than he’s been with cas at times on hunts (thinking hunteri heroici) and even similar to how *sam* has been with like claire and even dean himself (thinking that episode dean turned into a teenager and all of MOC). like genuinely, how was sam expecting him to act like?

also (half joking) i genuinely think dean would’ve warmed up to jack even quicker than he did (we can already see it in this same episode, like that look he gives jack when he asks mia if buddy hurt her too) if he heard jack say he hates anakin skywalker lol

ok wait i do have a question. do you think jack actually was “terrified” of dean during that therapy scene?

(post linking to some context)

Okay so I rewatched 13.01-13.04 on a plane this past week so it's all extra fresh on my mind rn. The thing about 13.04 is that Dean wasn't comfortable bringing Jack on the hunt, and Jack didn't want to go, but Sam pushed insistently for all of them to go on the hunt together... primarily because Dean's feelings were thwarting Sam's plans for Jack and his own emotional coping mechanisms in a larger sense.

I think Dean's feelings compared to Sam's here are relatively more simple (and yet somehow still intensely misunderstood to a baffling degree). Dean was grieving. He was grieving Cas who died right in front of him, he was grieving Crowley (he pleads with Chuck to bring "even Crowley" back in 13.01!) and he was grieving Mary.

The thing with Dean's grief over Cas is this: instead of viewing it from Dean's perspective, we tend to analyze it as omniscient viewers who know Cas will come back, refusing see how miraculous Cas’s return truly was. We refuse to see Cas's death was different this time and appeared very permanent. There was no uncertainty like there was in season 7 or 8. His wings burned into the ground and his grace extinguished. Dean pleaded and prayed for Cas and Mary and Crowley's return to the only person who ever brought Cas back from certain death (via explosion in 5.01 and 5.22)—the person who told Dean in 11.23 he was leaving and Dean was on his own. Dean didn't hear back. The ONLY reason Cas comes back in 13.05 is that 1) Jack woke him him up unwittingly using powers no one knew he possessed and 2) Cas then annoyed a creature they didn't even know existed into letting him out of a place they 3) didn't even know existed and 4) Cas somehow came back with a body even though he had been burned to ash. All of this is completely miraculous. It was unforeseeable. It doesn’t even make complete sense as a viewer. In other words, Dean has ZERO reason to hope for Cas's return. There was ZERO reason to refuse to acknowledge that grief… but that's exactly what Sam does. He suggests Dean pray for Chuck to bring Cas back in 13.01. As soon as Sam knew Dean already tried that and Cas was DEAD dead, he treated Cas as something Dean needed to reframe and get over:

SAM: You thinking mom is gone and Cas is gone, and that Jack can’t be saved. Dean, after everything we’ve gone through… We just lost people we love, people who have been in our lives for a long time. Everything’s upside-down. I get it. But we’ve been down before. I mean, rock bottom. And we find a way. We fix it because that’s what we do.

This is the "Pull yourself up by your bootstraps" speech in 13.02—like a day after they burned Cas's body. Sam's wording here is cruel too—saying Dean is "thinking" Cas is gone as if he didn't die right in front of him? He refuses to acknowledge Cas's death as something Dean was actively and rightfully mourning. This becomes a major point of contention between the brothers at the end of 13.03.

DEAN: Look, I know you think that you can use [Jack] as some sort of an interdimensional can-opener and that’s fine, but don’t act like you care about him! Because you only care about what he can do for you! So if you want to pretend, that’s fine! But me? I can hardly look at the kid! Because when I do all I see is everybody we’ve lost! SAM: Mom chose to take that shot at Lucifer. That is not on Jack!

Sam will only name Mary—the one person whose death they can’t 100% confirm (the same thing happens in front of Mia in 13.04). The absence of Cas’s name here is pointed. So Dean says:

DEAN: And what about Cas?

And how does Sam respond?

SAM: What about Cas?

Uh... wow. That's what really sets Dean off to full on shouting:

DEAN: [Jack] manipulated him, he made him promises, said, ‘paradise on earth’ and Cas bought it and you know what that got him? It got him dead! Now you might be able to forget about that, but I can’t!

Sam's denial of what Dean literally SAW (Cas died) and how that hurts—his insistence that Dean also halt grieving to hope for the impossible—it's a major sticking point and very revealing of Sam's own coping mechanisms. Sam's chief response to grief is to disassociate himself from it. We see a textbook case in season 8 (see: 8.08), but in most of the series, what this actually looks like for Sam is to keep moving and hunting (ex: 1.02, 2.02, 2.10, 2.11, 2.18 3.11, 4.09, 9.01) which is also why he insists on bringing Dean and Jack on the hunt in 13.04. Sam tries not to think about what they've lost and focuses on what he CAN do. He focuses on hoping Mary can be saved because she's the one person he didn't SEE die.

The thing about Dean’s grief over Mary is this: he convinces himself Lucifer had to have killed her. She's the one person whose death Dean can't be certain of, but he absolutely cannot bear the thought of hoping she’s alive and it turning out he’s wrong. He knows he wouldn’t psychologically survive hoping in that and his beliefs being crushed. It would be like losing his mom all over again (a THIRD time). So he sticks to what is most likely: Lucifer killed her. He can't contend with the hope Sam is clinging to desperately, and that's what makes them such poor companions in grief. Sam feels off balance when Dean won't keep moving and hoping like him—when Dean can't keep up the pace Sam wants to run at in his own grief—and in doing so, Sam keeps pushing Dean to contend with hopes that open Dean up to a WORLD of pain Sam can psychologically convince himself not to feel. Grieving together just really just doesn't work for them because they're never on the same page and deal in such different ways—and this has been hurting them from as early as 2.02!!!

Now to bring Jack into this more fully: Jack represents Sam and Dean's different perspectives on grief and on Mary. Just like Dean despairs over Mary's demise, Dean despairs over the possibility of Jack being good. He can't bear the idea of hoping in that and being wrong. The psychologically safest option for him is to assume the worst and not hope or believe in anything turning out okay.

Sam, on the other hand, pretty much immediately sees a way to use Jack to get Mary back. This is clear when he and Jack get locked up together in the jail cell in 13.01. After establishing that Jack isn't hearing things and (probably) isn't going to murder him imminently, Sam immediately starts down a line of questioning establishing how well Jack understands his powers, and then asks him outright:

SAM: Jack, look, um... before you were born, you -- you opened up a door to another world. Do you remember that? JACK: Yes. SAM: Okay, um, could you do that again?

Shortly after, when Sam arrives, he tells Dean (who is convinced after everything that happened in 12.23 that 12.19 that Jack is evil or will turn evil):

We need him.

Sam repeats this sentiment multiple times with clear meaning, and later in 13.04, he admits to Jack that he wants to use him to open the portal. This doesn't mean he doesn't also grow to see himself in Jack quickly and genuinely believe in his capacity for good, but he isn't fully honest with Jack about his motives until 13.04 where he finally comes clean, and this poisons the well with Jack a little.

@shallowseeker has pointed out before that in 13.03, while trying to figure out how to get Jack's powers to work (and spying on Jack through cameras from another room) Sam is seen reading "The Drama Of The Gifted Child". I wish I could find the post because Shal probably brought it up too, but when I was rewatching this episode, I noticed the chapter Sam had just settled into read before being interrupted was titled,

"Depression and Grandiosity: Two Related Forms of Denial"

Given the accusations flying from Sam toward Dean then from Dean toward Sam about denial in the following episode (13.04), this feels amusingly pointed. Dean is depressed (and about to attempt suicide in 13.05), Sam is depressed and has "grandiose" ideas of using Jack to pop open a portal to another reality while hiding behind the guise of being the most rational person in the room when he... isn't necessarily? And it's easy to argue "Well, Sam turns out to be right even if he didn't ultimately have much of a reason to think he was" but the core problem here is how his beliefs effect how he treats other people's grief. He isn't honest with Jack about his motives (while Dean is somewhat brutally honest) and pushes and watches even while claiming he's giving Jack space (13.03), he refuses to give Dean space to grieve even the family member they know is dead, he inserts a therapist into the situation and criticizes Dean's grief when Dean won't play his game, and in 13.05, after Dean says that he can't believe in anything right now, Sam's clumsy attempts at help involve plying Dean with alcohol he says he doesn't even want and trying to send him off to strip clubs—believing that Dean performing being okay will somehow address his mental state because Sam's idea of coping himself is simply "going through the motions".

As for Jack, I don't think he's scared of Dean. I think he's scared of what Dean believes. He's scared that Dean is right. From 13.01-13.06, Jack is contending with the question of whether he's destined for evil or good, and in his depressed state, Dean believes Jack is destined for evil because hoping in anything is completely beyond him at that moment. Sam tells Jack that he can be good, but he hides ulterior motives as to why he's being nice, and when those ulterior motives are revealed, it leaves Jack thinking Sam is the kind of person who will lie to Jack and tell him he's good just to get what he wants. Meanwhile, Jack knows Dean is being completely honest with him about what he believes. 13.03 and 13.04 clearly demonstrate that Jack understands the difference between beliefs and facts: Dean could be right or he could be wrong. What Jack holds onto like an anchor is that he can trust Dean to tell him the truth about what he believes—even if it hurts.

It's also just so obvious that Jack immediately wants Dean—specifically—to like him (see: Jack mimicking Dean's mannerisms while eating in 13.02, and his clumsy attempts to earn his favor in 13.04). Sam also picks up on this, and encourages Jack to seek Dean's approval in 13.04 to try and change Dean's beliefs. Sam (and to some extent Jack) are thinking in 13.04, that if Jack can prove to Dean that he can be good, and if Dean tells him he did a good job (which Dean does in the end), Jack can believe that. Sam sees that Jack wants Dean's approval and the impression that Dean's beliefs have had on Jack and thinks by pushing them together as soon as possible (when neither of them want to go on the hunt) and treating them as a family and forcing Dean to accept Jack when Dean just isn't ready (including by paralleling Jack with himself in a way that becomes an accusation), he can "fix" Jack so he isn't scared of his powers anymore (13.03) and then he can teach Jack to use his powers and Jack can open a portal to save their mom.

Jack's attempts to earn Dean's favor in 13.04 are clumsy. His first attempt is directly ignoring Dean telling him to wait in the car and sneaking into the crime scene, potentially contaminating it. At Mia's office, Jack's outburst about losing a mother is what allows Sam to set up the whole family therapy trap to begin with, and because Dean knows Sam is going to use that to hurt him, he warns Jack not to make outbursts like that. Dean is not being nice. Point blank. And I do think his tone is a little different than with Cas which in the past felt more like exasperation. I also don’t think it makes him the devil. I think that's understandable when putting in even a tiny amount of effort and it's kind of laughable to me how few people seem to even try because they're so caught up in Sam's happy family narrative and the idea that someone wanting Dean's approval presents an obligation that Dean give it no matter how emotionally impossible—and in a situation where asking him to lie would actually destroy that much more of Jack's trust.

[evermoredeluxe]

it baffles me that people think taylor doesn’t know the discretion of a shorter album anymore. it downright makes me think that fans sometimes just don’t understand her. im not even gonna talk about re-records because if you’re using them as your argument then… do you even understand the re-records’s marketing… as for TTPD, taylor outright said that she needed to release everything to be free of it. she went through a shitty experience (understatement) and did what any artist does: make art to process it. in her case, it’s also her job. and she wanted to be free of the trauma so she released it all for the public. maybe look at her beyond just an entertainer, and try looking at her as a human and you’ll probably understand why she made this selfish decision (and btw she’s allowed to make selfish decisions, that doesn’t make her a bad human lol). none of this means that she needs to be forced back into a controlling relationship with her label so she can be kept in check… that’s a fucked up thing to say

the only time i would say she released a new album that could’ve been chopped is lover (and i love lover). if i were to critique the album as a consumer, i think if it were shorter, it would’ve felt more authentic because there’s some stuff on it that feels forced (for the lack of a better word). but even in this case, as a fan, i can understand that she had just started with a new label and thought this was her last chance to be “successful” so she was doing everything to ensure that the opportunity doesn’t go away and she gripped the moment with too much force. like idk i feel like fans are so cruel and not-understanding of taylor and everything she does is looked at in bad faith and it shocks me because that’s usually what haters do…….

[bonefall]

if rainflower was given a dishonor title, what would it be?

also is mapleshade still killed by crookedstar in the BOTTE?

Definitely something related to animals they disrespect. I don't see him going as far as to hit her with "Cuckoo" but he'd want to center her cruelty and lack of compassion. "Lamprey" makes a fine choice, and there's also a disrespectful word in Clanmew for egg-laying animals that don't care for their young.

But, he would certainly not do it because Rainflower is popular. Hailstar is a smart cat, in spite of how long he spent denying the problem and justifying it (sometimes intellect just makes you better at making excuses). He knows full well that something like that could backfire politically.

There's a portion of the Clan who thinks he was wrong to punish her at all, and more who are in that nebulous state of not being totally sure if his response was justified or not. He took her child and stripped her of all status. If he went further than that, it would look like retribution... which it would be, and in another, more furious Clan, would have appeased the angry mob.

But this Clan isn't furious. The reception is mixed. Hailstar's goal isn't to make a big point, it's to protect Stormkit the way he should have done a long time ago.

The best plan of action is the action that makes this transition go smoothly. Rainflower does not need to wear a name like Lampreypool right now, to draw attention to her, to have the whole Clan be looking at her while she plays the poor, besieged victim of a cruel and unusual leader. She needs to be kept out of power, and away from Shellheart's son as the poor child recovers.

(Also Mapleshade didn't die in the Battle of the True Eclipse! Not in BB and not in canon's The Great Battle either, lmao. She's still around, chilling in the Dark Forest, haunting Applekin.)

[jasmines-library]

Hi there! I absolutely adore the way you write and how you approach heavier topics. If it doesn’t bother you, could I request a Batfamily fic with reader who has an ED? I know a lot of people struggle with it and I feel like we all need a little affirmation sometimes. <3

Just The Way You Are

Warnings: Eating Disorders - please read with caution.

Word Count: 1.1k

Note: This one hit home hard. As someone who has struggled with and ED, I think it is important to raise awareness about them. Please note that this is based off off my personal experiences and from research. EDs present themselves in many different ways that vary for everyone. Please remember to be kind to yourself and others and if you are struggling and are able to, to reach out. I have linked some helplines below for those who are in need. Please remember that you are loved and you are perfect just the way you are. You are special. You are loved. You are unique. never let anyone take that away from you.

⛤ BATFAM MASTERLIST ⛤

You hadn’t touched most of your food. It sat there getting cold as you pushed it around the porcelain listening to the way your fork scraped gratingly against the shiny surface. You had taken a few bites, longing to savour the taste of Alfred’s cooking as it melted on your tongue, but it didn’t seem to have the same effect anymore. You couldn’t bring yourself to bring anymore of the food to your lips. Even the smell began to make your stomach churn. And you felt so stupid as you sat there staring at the plate as everyone else delved in. In some ways that made you feel worse. But eating had begun to feel like a crime. 

When it first started, you never thought it would go this far. You just wanted to lose a little weight, to tone your stomach and your muscles just a little bit more. You weren’t even entirely sure why. Perhaps a cruel comment made in passing? It didn’t matter. But what did was the way that your mind seemed to wrack with cruel thoughts every time you looked in the mirror. Pointing out everything that seemed to be wrong. Or didn’t look like the models in the photos in Jason's magazines. 

So, you started cutting back. Just a little at first. Snacks in between meals. And you started working out more, trying to burn off calories faster. But when you checked the scales it felt like it wasn’t enough. When you looked in the mirror, your mind still screamed at you, replaying comments and thoughts in your mind like a broken record. They scratched away at you until soon you began to cut back on meals. Breakfast. Smaller portions at lunch and just a few bites here or there at dinner, so that your family wouldn’t suspect a thing. And still even that didn’t seem to be enough. You still felt wrong every time you glanced in the mirror. You still felt like your body wasn’t good enough. 

Soon they noticed. You were becoming more withdrawn, often slipping away into the bathrooms after meals. Often not at meals at all. You were sluggish too and seemed to lack the spark that you used to hold. They would ask you tenderly if you were okay, but most days you would scatter or pretend not to have heard them. And other days you would just tell them that you had already had something to eat. That you weren’t hungry.

And somehow lying to them made the situation feel so much worse. Like you were harming them as well as yourself. Your mind was a blur. Days seemed to pass by in some strange mess of time and the only thing that consumed thoughts were the lingering, cruel jests of your inner monologue. Sometimes, you begged for it to stop. You wanted to stop. But you couldn’t. Because you felt as though if you did you would feel disgusting. You would feel as though everything you had done had been for nothing. 

“Not hungry?” Tim asked from across beside you. You had zoned out, not sparing the rest of them aside as your mind wandered off on a tangent. 

“Hmm?” You frowned. “No. I had a big lunch not too long ago. It was stupid of me really, I should know better than to eat too close to dinner.”

Jason frowned. “You’ve been doing that a lot. Are you okay?”

“Mhm.” You hummed, keeping your eyes plastered on the table cloth, not daring to meet his gaze.

“I didn’t see you at breakfast either today Y/N.” Damian added. “Are you sure you’ve had enough to eat?”

“Yeah.” You nodded, swallowing down the anxiety that rose within you quickly. “I’ve already said I’m just not hungry.”

“You’re looking a little pale kiddo.” Dick said “I don’t want you getting sick. Why don’t you try and take a few more bites. It’ll help.”

And soon it all became too much. Everything seemed too much. Too bright, too loud, too hot. And a tear that had been threatening to spill from your eyes for weeks now finally slipped free of its cage. 

“I can’t.” 

It was a simple phrase, but your voice trembled. 

“Why not, kid? What’s the matter kiddo?” Jason asked calmly. 

“I just… I just can’t.” you sobbed. “Because if I eat then I feel like my body isn’t good enough! I don’t look like a model. Everytime I look in the mirror I see a body staring back at me that is mine, but it doesn’t feel like me. It doesn’t look like how I want it too. How it’s supposed to.”

They fell silent for a moment. But then Damian spoke up. 

“Oh Y/N/N… your body is beautiful.”

“Is that why you haven’t been eating?” Dick tilted his head.

You nodded meekly.

“Oh kid…you’re so perfect. You don’t need to change for anyone ever. Who cares what you look like?”

“Me! Everyone! I don’t know!” 

“We don’t care. We think you are beautiful just the way you are. You are perfect y/n, and we wouldn’t want you any different.” Tim told you gently, placing his hand atop of yours. 

“We love every inch of you. You are beautiful.”

You sniffled, wiping away your tears. 

“We’re sorry you couldn’t tell us how you feel. But we are here for you. Always.” Damian told you.

“We’re always going to be here kiddo. We’re here to help you. Here to love you.” Jason added. 

“We don’t know what we would do without you. It’s so important that you take care of yourself, beautiful.” Dick said. “And it will take time, as recovery does, but we’re going to be here to help you every step of the way.”

And they were true to their words. The four of them began to help you on your recovery journey. Often they would sit with you, taking small bites of food with you or offering you your favourite treats, reassuring you that it was okay. 

If you ever felt overwhelmed, they would wait with you, allowing you to take your time. 

Everyday they reminded you of how proud they were of you, even if you felt your progress had gone backward that day.  Because they truly were.

Often they would slip you notes. Sometimes they came under your door or were left by your bathroom mirror. You had quite the collection. Each one was different. A different reason why they loved you, or a reminder of how proud they were of you. Reminders that you are loved and you are beautiful just the way you are.

HELPLINES

BATFAM TAGLIST:

@aestheticdaisies

@hell-o-kittys

@xxrougefangxx

@mamapucket

@hearts4robs

@harleycao

[becca-e-barnes]

Limerence

Limerence: a state of mind resulting from romantic attraction, characterized by feelings of euphoria, the desire to have one's feelings reciprocated.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Word Count: 2.2K

Warnings: Angry/ hate sex, mention of an argument but nothing specific, unprotected sex, creampie, degradation, anal play, double penetration, one spank, vaginal fingering, mention of oral, just a little mirror stuff

Summary: I learned a new word last week and I chose to ignore its negative connotations. It's more fun that way.

Reblogs and comments are always appreciated!!

Minors, do not interact.

Life is cruel sometimes.

He’s standing over there wearing a cream coloured Hawaiian shirt with a blue floral pattern and, in spite of yourself, you very much want to jump on him.

You can’t look at him though.  You’re convinced that if you look at him, everyone will know.  They’ll know he’s kissed just about every inch of your body.  They’ll know that you crave the way he touches you.  They’ll know that bringing him to orgasm often feels more euphoric than your own climax.  And they absolutely can’t know that.

His poker face is better than yours.  The wry smirk on his slim lips when his gaze flits over to you momentarily won’t give the two of you away and just seeing him look at you like that is enough to make you question whether you possess a single ounce of self control.  He’s better at this than you are, no doubt about it.  There’s plenty you can learn from him.

'Are you still being a bitch?' The message flashes up on the watch on your wrist.  Holy fuck, this man is irritating.

You unlock your phone to respond to the message, your thumbs move quickly across the keyboard.  'That depends.  Are you going to admit you were wrong?'  You glance over at him and see that he’s ignoring those he had previously been engaged in conversation with, in favour of responding to you.  The conversation goes on without him and no one is any the wiser that it’s you he’s texting.

'I wasn’t wrong.'

'Then yes, I’m still a bitch.'

'I thought as much.  But so we’re clear; you made your point in that dress.  Even if you are painfully stubborn.'

'I’d rather be stubborn than wrong.'

'That’s cute.'  You watch him slip his phone back into the pocket of his shorts once he sends the message, re-engaging with the conversation that he’d been neglecting for the few short minutes in which he’d focused his attention on you.

You’re certain he knows how frustrating he is. Surely he must know.

You’ve been at an impasse for over a week and in all honesty, neither of you can really remember how the argument started.  Did it even really matter anymore?  It’s not even so much about the disagreement, now it’s about pride and who’s willing to sacrifice theirs first.

That’s the problem with being equally stubborn - neither of you want to be the one to give in.  At this stage though, sex has been off the table much longer than you would have liked.  Nothing makes you desperate quite like a lack of orgasms and while you can do it yourself, you’d be the first to admit that it’s not even nearly the same.

The way you touch your own body is so different to how he does.  Your touch is borderline clinical sometimes.  It’s methodical and calculated because really, you’re only working towards an end goal.  You focus on release more than pleasure and that’s fine.  You achieve what you need to and that’s enough but the way he touches you is so different.  

When he’s taking you apart he takes his time, touching you because he simply needs to.  It’s evident that he gets off on your pleasure just as much as you get off on his.  There’s never any rush, delivering sensations that you don’t have the time or patience to administer when you do it yourself.  Pleasure with him feels luxurious.  It’s hedonistic and intimate; a perfect blend of satisfying and tender.

It’s hard not to miss that: sex so good that it’s both too much and not enough all at once.

'Do you think anyone would notice if I slipped my hand under your dress?'  The next message flashing up on your watch feels like he must have read your mind.

Your eyes dart around the groups of people attending the small get-together, all engrossed in their conversations and sipping their drinks in various little huddles around the bar.

'I can’t imagine they would.  You could probably bend me over this table and fuck me right in front of them and no one would be any the wiser.'

'I’m sure they’d notice but it’s a nice thought all the same.'  You can tell he’s imagining it and now so are you.  You can almost feel his two large hands, one either side of your waist, holding you tight as he plunges his length into you.  ‘Shut up.’ He’d whisper, letting go of your waist with one hand to place the fingers in your mouth, silencing your little over-pleasured sobs.  ‘Unless you want all your friends to watch you cum for me.’

You shouldn’t really want that, should you?  You shouldn’t want an audience.  The truth is, you know people there want him.  They want to see him the way you get to see him and the possessive part of you that you didn’t know you had until now wants to make sure no one else gets that privilege.  

Arguing or not, his cock is yours.

'I’m leaving in 10.  You’re welcome to join me so long as you promise not to run your mouth again.  You’ll like my hotel room.'  It’s nice to see his resolve weakening first because you certainly weren’t up for accepting defeat.

'You should know me better by now.  Running my mouth is what I’m good at.  Send me the address.'  You shoot the text back and realise he’s wearing that same wry smirk as before.  The very same one that’s tugging at the corner of your own lips.

'Give yourself some credit.  I’ve found your mouth has some other great uses.'  He seems proud of himself, following up with the hotel’s address before starting to make his goodbyes to the group.

You take separate taxis and he’s waiting for you in the lobby.  You’re far enough away from the prying eyes that at least you can be seen speaking to each other now.

Neither of you say a whole lot in the short walk up to his room, letting the door click closed behind you before you start to speak.

But right as you set your bag down his lips are on yours, hot and insistent, his body pressing you flush against the door.

“You’re so fucking annoying.”  He groans, nipping your bottom lip between his teeth.  He cups your throat with one hand, holding you in place to begin sucking on the exposed side of your neck.

His mouth begins to trail lower but not before you tangle your fingers in his hair, pulling him back.

“You’re so much worse.”  You use as much of your strength as you can muster to push him back, leading him over to the bed, pressing him down onto it before straddling his lap.

Now it’s your turn, biting at his exposed throat, feeling his needy groans vibrate through his skin.  Undoing the first couple of buttons allows you enough space to nip and suck his collarbones, revelling in the way he melts into this.

He only gives in for a couple of minutes before he needs to feel like he’s back in control, holding your hips and flipping you both over so he’s got you pinned under him.

His hand trails up your thigh, pulling your dress up before two thick fingers sweep across your clothed sex. “You’re wet already.”  He muses, teasing you ever so gently.

“Incredible attention to detail, well done.”  You know you shouldn’t bite the hand and all but he’s a whole lot more fun when he’s angry.

“That mouth is going to get you in trouble some day.”  He’s smug as he withdraws his hand, delivering a gentle slap to your cunt.

It hurts in the most electric way, nerve endings lighting up at the painful stimulus and, in spite of yourself, you want him to do it again.

“Fuck, I didn’t think you’d like that.”  He sounds thrilled, delighted by a moan that you hadn’t even realised had escaped.  “Getting off on the way I slap your wet little cunt.  Do you know how fucked up that is?”  He shifts the thin cotton underwear out of the way, trailing his fingertip from your clit to your fluttering hole before pressing inside to the second knuckle.

“You take me like such a good girl.”  He muses, adding a second finger before pressing as deep as he can.  “It’s a shame you don’t act like one.”

“Maybe if you fucked me right, I’d act like one.”  You’re as quick to bruise his ego as he is to bruise yours.

“Ouch.”  He teases, curling his fingers inside you in the way he knows makes you see stars.  He fucks you perfectly and he knows it.  You act like a good girl when you want to.  You’re even.

“Are you even planning to fuck me?  Or maybe you just want to sit around and enjoy the sound of your own voice.”  It shouldn’t be so much fun to watch his face reflect his discontent but it really is.

“You.”  He begins before pulling your panties off, pushing your skirt up and arranging you on your hands and knees on the bed.  “Might be the most frustrating person I’ve ever met.”

You hear him undo his belt and zipper and a short while later, you feel the blunt head of his erection teasing your slit.

Now you understand why he thought you’d like this room.  The mirror strategically positioned right at the end of the bed lets you see his face, even in this position.

“I fucking better be.”  You tease, pressing your ass backwards, forcing his cock to slide into your eager cunt.  He meets you half way, thrusting the rest of the way into you with a force you only could’ve dreamed of.

“You are. So.  Damn.  Arrogant.”  He punctuates his sentence with equally powerful thrusts, his hand on the small of your back to hold you in place.

“And yet you’re still here, balls deep inside me.  Guess you don’t hate me that much.”  Your pride is short lived, establishing your own rhythm of thrusts that he eagerly meets.  Your fingers cling to the bedsheets, each rut into your body almost knocks the thoughts from your head.

He loses himself just as fast as you do.  You’re both far too pent up for this to last much longer.  Frustration bubbled over into lust and now it’s hit boiling point.

His body is yours to use just as much as yours is his.  

“You take me so well.”  You hear him groan and in the mirror you see him slip his thumb into his mouth before it disappears out of your view, pressing against the tight ring of muscle only he can see from this angle.

Oh.  You don’t often go there.

Your hesitation is short lived, the tip of his thumb presses inside you, slowly stretching out your tightest hole.

It feels amazing.  It’s a different type of fullness and when the initial discomfort subsides, you’re able to let yourself enjoy the sensation.

“I can feel myself inside you.”  He sounds almost broken and it’s delightful.  “Filling up both your pretty little holes.  I can’t last much longer.  Fuck, I’m so close.”

The stretch of his thumb in your ass is the only constant you’ve got with his cock slipping in and out of you.

Your own hand reaches down between your legs, rubbing your clit frantically, desperate to cum in time with him.

“Don’t you dare.”  You groan, watching him in the mirror.  “Don’t cum yet.”

He whines, his face screwed up in pleasure, doing his very best not to spill inside you just yet. At least this is one thing you can agree on.

“F-fuck, hurry up. I’m so close.”  He’s trying to maintain the same pace while holding himself back and you know it can’t be easy.

Your fingers graze your clit just right and before you know it, your moans are getting higher pitched, your holes fluttering around his cock and his thumb, squeezing both involuntarily as your orgasm takes over.  

It’s beyond intense.  There’s so much happening at once and within a few moments of your own climax, you feel your partner achieving his.  He’s pressed as deep inside you as possible, flooding your body with his release, groaning your name loud enough for his neighbours to hear.

---

The following morning with the argument forgotten, everything feels right again.  The Hawaiian shirt he’d worn yesterday evening is draped over your shoulders, unbuttoned, giving him access to worship your breasts.  His cock slips in and out of you beautifully, soft gasps from both of you filling the crisp early morning air.  Your hands are planted on his broad chest and your fingers tease the soft curls of hair on his chest.  It’s hard not to feel like he’s engulfing you, rather than the other way around.  He’s beneath you, he’s inside you and with his shirt draped over you, all you can smell is him.

It’s incredible, as close to perfect as you’re willing to believe exists.  There’s no rush.  There’s nowhere either of you need to be.  One orgasm can bleed into another and you can spend as long as you like enjoying each other’s bodies.  

[storm-angel989]

Valentino x Daughter (My Best Friend, Ana Part Two)

Admitted.

The word itself seemed harsh, cruel and less than understanding. But as my father told me with a voice I hadn’t heard in a long time, admitted was better than the death I was allegedly very close to. 

For five days I sat in the hospital as therapists came in to talk to me. I ignored them to the best of my ability. I didn’t need their help- I didn’t belong here. Why couldn’t they see that? 

“Let me out of these stupid things,” I demanded when my father finally came to see me. “I don’t need them.” 

A pained expression across his face. “The doctor doesn’t think that’s a good idea, bebita.”

“Then let me go home, Dad,” I begged. “I’m fine, really, I’m fine.” 

“You’re not,” he replied softly. He brushed the hair away from my face. “Start by talking to the therapist. Then we can discuss where to go from there.” 

I turned my head away. Ana encouraged me to tell him to fuck off, to tell him he was a terrible father and how dare he keep me trapped here. But I couldn’t bring myself to. Instead, I closed my eyes until I heard his footsteps retreat and the door close. 

Six times a day the nurse came in to shove slime into the tube. I hated it, not just for the lack of control I felt but the sensation itself was uncomfortable. The first few times, I tried to just ignore what she was doing, determined to keep a silent resolve. But with each pass, I grew more and more desperate to know what exactly she was forcing into my body. 

“How many calories is this thing giving me?” I finally demanded. 

“That’s something you can discuss with your therapist,” came her cool response. 

I stopped talking to her after that. I ignored the therapist, my father, my Uncle Vox and even the doctor who came in every few hours. If I couldn’t convince them I didn’t have a problem, then I had nothing else to say to them. 

Day five my Aunt Velvette came in like a whirlwind. I looked up as she slammed the door shut, marched over to the bed and undid the cuffs that held me down.

“I swear to fucking christ if you try to pull out that tube I will pin you back down myself,” she growled. “Why the fuck arn’t you talking?”

“I have nothing to talk about,” I replied as I sat up. “Aunt Velvette, everyone thinks I have a problem and I don’t.”

“Your weight says otherwise, reader take a look at yourself. You’ve got a feeding tube for christ sake, your blood pressure tanked, and your heart is all over the god damn place. You need to eat.”

“No, I need to be thin so I can stay on the team,” I snapped. 

And then I burst into tears. Somewhere inside, the floodgate spilled open. I brought my knees up to my chest as I unloaded the entire story- the journal, the coach, the need to win, the feeling that I got every single time I said no to food. Everything came spilling out, everything except Ana. I couldn’t tell her- she probably would think I was insane, lock me back in the cuffs and ship me out. 

“I’m scared, Aunt Vel, I don’t want to be locked up, I don’t want to be put aside, I want to go home,” I said through shaking sobs. 

She pressed a tissue into my hand and it turned to water in seconds. Another pass, and then another as we sat together in quiet as I tried to control my choking sobs. 

“Please, I’m begging you, take this thing out of my throat,” I begged. “I’ll talk, I’ll eat, I just, I can’t lose my place on the team. Aunt Vel, please.”

“Sweetheart, that’s already happened,” Velvette replied, her voice soft. “Until we get your bloodwork, heart, body back to normal, you’re off the team.”

Cold anger and disbelief flooded through me. The expression on her face told me she wasn’t lying. As I wrapped my arms around myself, I felt her pull me into her arms.

“I know it hurts. I know it isn’t fair. I’ve been where you are a time or two- your Dad and Uncle Vox, god they know eating disorders better than anyone else,” she said softly as she stroked my hair. “You’re not the first in this family to fight this fight and I promise you, you won’t be the first to lose it either.” 

“I just want to be thin,” I sobbed. “I want perfection, I want beauty and to keep my place on the team and I just…”

“Shussh, I know,” she said gently. “The pressure to achieve the unattainable, the pressure from ourselves, from the world, it isn’t fair. And Ana, she promises…”

“How do you know her name?” I demanded through chest wracking sobs. “How do you..”

“She’s a powerful demon, she spins her web of lies and her strength comes from her ability to feed on your fears, your doubts and your self loathing, among other things,” Velvette said, “She promises to be your best friend, she promises perfection and in the end she leaves you alone, nothing but bones. She screams its your fault, while in reality she is nothing but a gluttonous bitch, who loses her energy souce as you fade away into nothingness. Poetic, really, if you think about it.”

I watched my Aunt Velvette gaze across the room as if she was looking at someone, her sharp eyes studying the wall the way I had watched her study countless models. She swallowed and shook her head, breaking the spell.

“Regardless, the biggest thing you need to understand is that Ana, Ana is nothing but a liar. If she wasn’t, you wouldn’t be laying here, fighting for your life.”

“I don’t, I’m not dying,” I replied slowly. 

Somewhere, in the back of my head, I knew I was lying. Aunt Velvette must have realized it too, because she leaned over and kissed my forehead.

“No. Not anymore. We helped you start to win this fight, now its up to you to continue to win.”

I crossed my arms and ran a rough hand against my eyes as I tried to wipe away the tears.

“How do I do that?” I asked.

I saw a small smile pass over Velvette’s expression. 

“You start by talking,” she replied simply. “That’s a good start.”