#its not about me i know but its making me fall back into disordered thoughts

[thyras]

→ of sauron's regret (bonus part)

PAIRING → mairon | sauron x female!elf!reader

WORD COUNT → 2.9k words

SERIES → of sauron & the moriquendi

WARNINGS → 18+ mdni - smut (oral), character death? if you squint

SUMMARY → after the fall of laureandor, sauron spends a moment with his past life but not before getting retribution for his past self. for he regrets many things, but that day he regrets still lingers in the very core of his being.

AUTHORS NOTE → idk i had this really buckwild thought since part two about during the fall of laureandor calandil stays behind and sauron gets revenge for mairon and was like; "bro look I helped you because you were too pathetically nice and wouldn't do it all cause you thought you'd scare her, but she'll never know now man so I just took care it for ya". like mairon does not forget, but sauron acts. so here we are, this is just a bonus part that did not make the final cut, but I wanted to share.

PARTS → one // two // three // four // five

The ash fell thick and heavy around his boots, muffling the sound of his steps and blotting out the soft, golden rays of sunlight that once bathed these streets. What had once been a bustling market square, filled with the vibrant hum of life, was now a desolate ruin. Orcs roamed the area, their guttural voices blending with the distant crackle of flames as they ransacked what little remained.

Sauron felt the weight of the destruction settle deep in his chest. This wasn’t simply ruin—it was disorder, chaos, an affront to the precision and beauty he had once valued so deeply. With a breath, he shifted back into his fairer form, his presence commanding even in this broken place. His gaze fell upon a familiar sight, and his steps carried him to the place where he had spent countless days and nights.

His fingers brushed lightly across the damaged workbench, the wood splintered and scarred yet still standing. It seemed untouched by time, as though no one had dared use it since his departure. Dust and ash blanketed the surface, but beneath the decay, the faint echoes of his craft lingered.

The tools hung neatly on the wall, most still in their place save for a few that had fallen during the siege. His footsteps echoed softly as he walked around the table, the anvil, and the furnace, each object holding an essence of the past. And then he saw it—the small, plush lounger tucked into the corner by the furnace, the one that had always been yours.

A rare smile touched his lips as he took it in, the sight pulling memories to the forefront of his mind. You would sit there for hours, book in hand, your presence a quiet comfort as he worked. He could almost see you there now, your head tilted slightly, a knowing smile playing on your lips as you glanced at him from over the brim of your book. You always claimed you loved watching him at work, that there was something calming in the precision of his movements.

“If you’re not rutting deeply in me, my love,” you had once teased, “forging is the only other place you truly seem at ease.”

The memory wrapped around him, bittersweet and vivid. He reached out and touched the arm of the chair gently, the warmth of the furnace long gone, but its echoes lingering. You were everywhere in this place—woven into its very essence, into every tool, every mark on the workbench, every shadow cast by the forge’s light. It was a sanctuary you had built together, a place of creation and connection.

Now, it was little more than a ruin. Yet even in its decay, it held fragments of you, of a time when the world was not yet cloaked in shadow. And for a moment, amid the ashes, he let himself remember.

Sauron paused mid-step, his sharp eyes catching a faint glimmer beneath one of the wall workbenches. Intrigued, he moved closer, crouching to inspect the source. With deliberate care, he swept away the layers of dust and soot, his movements slow, almost reverent, as the delicate object came into view.

It was the hairpiece you had worn on your wedding night.

For a moment, he simply stared at it, his thumb brushing over the intricate finery. The shimmering jewels embedded within still sparkled as brightly as the silver-glinting stars that had adorned the sky that night. He had planned to replace the stones, to craft something even more magnificent for you, one that would match the vibrant blue of the jewel in your necklace. But that night, the night he had planned to do so, was also the night everything had changed—for you, for him, for both of your intertwined fëar.

Still holding the hairpiece, Sauron moved to the plush lounger in the corner and sat, his posture unusually relaxed yet heavy with thought. His fingers traced the delicate design as if trying to absorb the essence of that moment long past.

Then, like a wave breaking against the shore, a memory surged through his mind. He could see you clearly, your beauty radiant beneath the light of countless stars, a soft smile on your lips as you looked at him with the kind of love that had unraveled the very threads of his being. He had taken your hand that night, guiding you to a place beyond the boundaries of Arda itself—a plane of existence where only the two of you could dwell, unmarked by time, by shadow, by anything that might tear you apart.

And where he wished you had both stayed.

“And what do you wish to show me, that requires my eyes to be covered?” you teased, your voice light and playful as he carefully guided you forward, his hand firm yet gentle on yours. A mischievous smile curved your lips. “Because if you ruin my dress, I do believe you’ll have a very upset seamstress to contend with.”

Mairon chuckled, a low, warm sound that sent a shiver up your spine. He leaned in close, his breath brushing against your ear as he murmured, “Then I shall have Vairë herself weave you a new one—with even more splendor.”

You felt his fingers gently push a strand of hair behind your ear, his touch lingering as his lips skimmed the shell of it. “The very stars themselves, sewn into the fabric, so that you gleam like the night sky.”

You couldn’t help but smile, even as a warmth began to rise in your cheeks. With your eyes still closed, you turned your head toward him, sensing his presence near. His lips hovered just above yours, the proximity making your breath hitch.

“That tongue of yours,” you whispered, your voice laced with mock admonishment, “gets you into so much trouble.”

A soft chuckle rumbled from him, his amusement unrestrained. Only with you did Mairon smile so freely, so purely, his sharp edges softened into something entirely different.

“It is not the only thing my tongue can do,” he murmured, his voice laced with playful wickedness. His lips claimed yours then, teasingly capturing your bottom lip in a slow, deliberate kiss. The faintest pull of his mouth sent a rush of heat through you, your heart quickening as his words hung in the air.

“And you know that, divine,” he added, his voice like silk against your skin. Your face warmed further, and you bit back a giggle, both exasperated and utterly enchanted by him.

With a steady hand, he began to guide you once more toward your destination, the mystery of his intentions heightening the anticipation with every step. 

Once inside the forge he asked you to open your eyes, there in replacement of the wooden chair that you usually sat in was a plush lounger. Something completely out of place for this kind of setting. 

“For you,” he said, motioning to the chair. “So you can be comfortable while you read and—” he trailed of fingers tracing across your shoulders. “I may take my fill of you more comfortabely now.” You swallowed hard and turned to him, lips moving to caress his as your arms around his neck. You did not need to say a single thing to him for him to know you approved of your give. 

Mairon’s fingers ran down your back, untying the strings of your gown until it fell to the stone floor. You whimpered against his lips in distaste as his hands caressed every inch of you, pulling off the jewels and pearls until nothing but that silvery chain and your ring was the only thing adorning your body. 

He broke away and gazed into your eyes, sparkling and filled with lust just as his were. “Before you say it, divine, I will get you another.” You nod and he continued. “I want my wife in all her splendor right now,” He captured your lips once more and guided you to lay down on the lounger as he shucked his robes to lay with your gown. Until he to was only adorned by the golden chain around his neck.

His body lay tangled with yours as his lips and hands explored his beautiful elven-wife. Each caress was acompanied by a tug on his scalp or a moan of satisfaction. Mairon reached the point where he knew would bring the most sinful noises from your lips. You arched your hips to him so you could drape your legs over his shoulders. He moved to swipe a finger through the opening to see if he could get you to react to the stimulating touch, and he was reward.

“Mairon…” You moaned as he smiled devilishly before moving inches away from your clit. He had been painfully hard before this moment but now he was aching to fill you.

“Are you going to sing for me, my sweet Mori?” he asked, swiping his tongue through your lips with a painfully slow motion that drove your toes to curl in ecstacy. 

“Yes…always yes…” you panted and he gave you another lick before drawing away. “Please…” you whimpered now. “I…I…need…”

“Come now, divine, what happened to my oh so articulate wife?” He chuckled against you and sent your thighs tightening. Mairon then dropped your legs and moved to hover over your lips. “Tell me what you need,”

“You…all of you…for all my immortality.”

The words echoed endlessly through his mind, each one a hammer blow to his resolve as he clutched the delicate hairpiece in his hands. Regret clawed at him, sharp and unrelenting, for the ruin he had wrought, the choices that had led to this desolation. But in all the pain, in all the sorrow, there was one thing he never regretted—you. Never the love you had given him, pure and unwavering. Never the devotion you continued to show him, even when he had fallen so far, even after all he had done.

He had taken personal charge of this campaign, ensuring it would be executed perfectly, for his hands were steady, his will unshakable. And yet, he had harbored a singular, desperate hope: that he might buy you the time to escape. He had convinced himself it was his last gift to you, a fleeting redemption wrapped in an act of devastation.

A tear slipped free, unnoticed at first, until it struck one of the shimmering jewels on the hairpiece. The delicate stone dimmed as his darkness touched it, as though recoiling from the stain of his sorrow. More tears followed, unbidden, splashing onto the jewels like a mournful rain. Each one seemed to sap a little more of their light, until the once brilliant ornament felt like a reflection of himself—tarnished, shadowed, broken.

What had he done?

The question stabbed into his heart, the pain sharper than any blade. Why had he let himself become this? Why had he allowed fear and pride to chain him to the abyss?

Why was he such a coward?

He clutched the hairpiece tighter, as though it might anchor him, as though it might hold together the pieces of a heart that had long since shattered. But it didn’t. It couldn’t. The regret only deepened, the weight of his failures crushing down upon him, leaving nothing but the hollow ache of what could have been.

“My lord,” a disgrunted Orc’s voice said, Sauron looked up and in an instant threw one of the tools with a wave of his fingers at the Orc for seeing him as such, dealing a killing blow. He stood slowly, his movements deliberate, and tucked the hairpiece beneath the folds of his robes, hiding it from view. Straightening, his gaze fell coldly on the fallen Orc at his feet, then shifted to the two others standing a few paces away. The weight of his presence pressed down on them, and they flinched as he stepped forward, his voice a low, menacing growl.

“Speak,” Sauron snarled, his piercing gaze locking onto them.

The Orcs bowed their heads hastily, shuffling forward under his scrutiny. One finally mustered the courage to speak, his voice trembling despite his effort to sound composed.

“Adar wishes to send word,” the Orc began, his tone deferential, “that the city has been completely overrun, and we are clearing out the last of the elves.”

Sauron tilted his head slightly, his sharp instincts picking up the hesitation in the creature’s voice. His brow arched, a silent command for the Orc to continue. The pause stretched uncomfortably before the Orc finally blurted out the rest.

“He has requested to see you,” the Orc admitted quickly, “as one of the High Officials has… requested to see you.”

Sauron’s eyes narrowed, his mind already racing through possibilities. “I thought all the officials had fled,” he said, his voice colder now, each word a blade that cut through the air.

The Orc swallowed hard, his eyes darting to his fallen companion sprawled across the stone street as though seeking some kind of silent support, though he would never recieve it. “That is what we believed, my lord,” he stammered, his voice faltering under the weight of Sauron’s gaze. “But… one has been found. They insisted on speaking with you directly.”

Sauron’s lips curved into the faintest trace of a smile, though there was no warmth in it, only a dark amusement. “Very well,” he said, his tone a mixture of disdain and curiosity. “Take me to them. Let us see what this official believes they can accomplish.”

He stepped forward, his robes brushing the blood-streaked stones as the Orcs bowed low and scurried ahead to lead the way. The hairpiece pressed against his side, a constant, silent reminder of the light he had lost—and the shadow he now wielded.

As they entered the city square, Sauron’s sharp eyes scanned the scene. Amid the ruin and ash, Adar sat on a crumbling stone bench, his sword resting between his legs, its tip embedded in the scorched ground. His posture was calm, almost contemplative, but his dark eyes flicked upward the moment Sauron approached. Orcs flanked him, two holding tightly to a fair-haired elf clad in high elven armor, their grips unrelenting despite the elf’s obvious defiance.

When Adar caught Sauron’s gaze, he rose smoothly to his feet, his movements measured and deliberate. He inclined his head in a deep bow, his voice deep and resonant as he greeted, “My lord.”

Sauron’s eyes narrowed, a faint smirk curving his lips as he took in the sight before him. “What do we have here?” he asked, his voice low and edged with curiosity.

At his words, the Orcs jerked the elf around to face him, forcing the captive upright. The elf’s armor, though tarnished and dented, gleamed faintly in the dim light. His fair hair fell in loose strands around his face, his piercing eyes blazing with defiance even as his captors tightened their hold. A face he knew to well, one he had wanted to meet on the battlefield and smite him into the ground.

Sauron stepped closer, his gaze appraising, and the faint smirk on his lips deepened as he studied Calandil. “Well,” he murmured, his tone almost amused, “this should prove interesting.” Calandil’s piercing eyes locked onto Sauron, and for a fleeting moment, there was recognition—a flicker of understanding that quickly twisted into seething anger. His body tensed, and he strained against the Orcs’ iron grip, his movements frantic and wild as though sheer will alone could break their hold.

“Where is she?” he spat through gritted teeth, his voice raw and trembling with both fury and desperation.

Sauron tilted his head slightly, his eyes gleaming with amusement as a wicked smile spread across his lips. The expression was mocking, calculated, designed to provoke.

“Where is who?” he drawled, his tone smooth and taunting, as if he truly had no idea what Calandil was demanding. Yet the glint in his eyes betrayed him; he knew exactly what the elf was asking—and he savored every second of the Calandil’s torment.

“You better not have—” Calandil began, his voice rising in fury, but Sauron moved swiftly, cutting him off as he stepped closer, now standing directly before him.

“Or you will do what?” Sauron’s voice was a low, dangerous murmur, his eyes glinting with cruel amusement. He leaned in slightly, his presence towering and oppressive. “As I see it, you are at my mercy now, elf,” he continued, his tone sharp as a blade. “Which is far more favorable than that of my masters.”

The smirk on his lips deepened, a predator savoring his prey’s helplessness. The weight of his words hung heavily in the air, an unspoken reminder of what Calandil already knew—he had no power here, not against Sauron, not in the heart of ruin.

But Calandil, he knew, always was famed for his rebellious temper and rash behavior. Mairon had been on the end of that, and now Sauron was not going to let that happen.

“You lied to her,” Calandil said, his voice cutting through the stillness like a blade, heavy with accusation.

Sauron paused, his expression unreadable, before slowly turning his head to Adar and the Orcs restraining the elf. With a dismissive wave of his hand, he said coldly, “Leave us.”

And in that moment, Sauron resolved to give Mairon the satisfaction and retribution he so deeply craved. Calandil would meet his end, a calculated punishment for his insolence and defiance.

But not without cost.

[sirens-wont-wake-me-up]

I know I study psychology and all that stuff about vicious cycles but I still don't get it how can someone put themselves in a toxic relationship, with evidence of how toxic it is, with people saying how bad it seems, and it's all for a shitty boyfriend? That treats you bad?

[estellan0vella]

Art of the Not-So-Graceful Swoon and Serious Conversations ❀ includes: Gojo, Geto, Nanami, Choso, Sukuna, Toji, Megumi, Yuji, Yuta, Toge & Nobara (Requested as SMAU but I did it as a written piece because I didn't think an SMAU was the best way to approach this topic)

CW: DISORDERED EATING MENTIONED

You stand in the middle of the kitchen, feeling dizzy. The room spins slightly, and you grab onto the counter for support. Satoru Gojo, your boyfriend, is sitting at the table, casually munching on some snacks. He looks up and his expression shifts from playful to concerned in an instant.

"Hey, are you okay?" he asks, standing up quickly.

You try to nod, but the movement makes your vision blur. You haven't eaten properly in days. The constant struggle with food has taken its toll, and your body is finally giving in. Before you can respond, your knees buckle, and you collapse.

"Hey! Y/N!" Satoru's voice is filled with panic as he rushes to your side.

The world goes dark for a moment. When you come to, you're lying on the couch, a cool cloth on your forehead. Satoru is kneeling beside you, his eyes wide with worry. He brushes a stray hair out of your face, his touch gentle.

"You scared me," he says softly. "What happened?"

You take a deep breath, feeling weak and embarrassed. "I... I haven't been eating much," you admit, avoiding his gaze.

Satoru's expression shifts from concern to something deeper, a mix of hurt and understanding. "Why didn't you tell me?" he asks, his voice gentle but firm. "You know you can talk to me about anything, right?"

You feel a lump in your throat. "I didn't want to bother you," you mumble. "I thought I could handle it on my own."

He sighs, sitting down next to you. "You don't have to handle everything alone. I'm here for you. Always."

Tears well up in your eyes, and you quickly wipe them away. "It's just... it's hard," you confess. "I struggle with food. Sometimes, it's like my mind just won't let me eat, no matter how much I want to."

Satoru takes your hand, squeezing it gently. "You don't have to fight this battle by yourself," he says softly. "We can figure this out together. But you need to eat, okay? Your health is important to me. You are important to me."

His words hit you hard, and you finally let the tears fall. Satoru pulls you into a gentle hug, holding you as you cry. His presence is comforting, his embrace warm and safe. After a few moments, you pull back, feeling a bit lighter.

"I don't want to be a burden," you whisper.

"You're not a burden," Satoru insists, his eyes meeting yours. "You're my partner. We support each other. That's what a relationship is about."

You nod, feeling a mix of relief and fear. "I'll try," you promise. "But it's going to be hard."

"I know," he says. "But we'll take it one step at a time. Together."

He stands up and heads to the kitchen. You watch as he prepares a simple meal, bringing it over to you. "Here," he says, offering you a small plate. "Just a little bit to start. We can work up from here."

You take the plate, your hands shaking slightly. "Thank you," you say, feeling a warmth spread through your chest.

Satoru smiles, sitting back down beside you. "We'll get through this," he says confidently. "And I'll be right here with you, every step of the way."

You nod, taking a small bite. It's a small victory, but with Satoru by your side, it feels like the beginning of something better. The road ahead is uncertain, but you're not alone. And for now, that's enough.

The room spins around you, the edges of your vision blurring into a hazy fog. You've been pushing yourself too hard, neglecting meals, telling yourself you’ll eat later. But later never comes, and now the toll it's taken on your body is undeniable. Suguru's voice, usually a comforting hum in the background, seems distant and distorted. You can barely make out the words, your mind struggling to keep up.

"Suguru, I…" Your voice trails off, weak and unsteady. You reach out, trying to grasp something, anything to steady yourself, but your fingers find only empty air. The last thing you see before everything goes dark is Suguru's worried face, his eyes widening in alarm as he realizes what's happening.

When you come to, you're lying on the couch, a cool cloth pressed to your forehead. Suguru is kneeling beside you, his hand gently stroking your hair. His expression is a mix of concern and relief as he notices your eyes flutter open.

"You're awake," he says softly, his voice steady but edged with worry. "How are you feeling?"

You try to sit up, but a wave of dizziness forces you to lie back down. "I'm okay," you manage to say, though even you can hear the strain in your voice. "Just… dizzy."

Suguru's brow furrows. "You fainted. Do you know why?" His tone is gentle, but you can sense the underlying worry. He's always been attentive, always noticed when something was off. And you know you can’t hide the truth from him.

"I… I haven't been eating much," you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. "It's just been hard lately."

He nods, his expression softening with understanding. "Why didn't you tell me?" he asks quietly. There's no accusation in his voice, only concern. "You know you can talk to me about anything."

"I didn't want to worry you," you confess, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. "I thought I could handle it on my own."

Suguru sighs, his hand never stopping its gentle movements through your hair. "You don't have to handle everything by yourself," he says. "I'm here for you, always. Please, don't shut me out."

The sincerity in his words breaks down the last of your defenses, and the tears you've been holding back spill over. "I'm sorry," you whisper, feeling the weight of your struggles crashing down on you. "I just… I didn't know how to talk about it."

He leans in, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. "It's okay," he murmurs. "We'll get through this together. But you need to take care of yourself. Skipping meals isn't the answer."

You nod, wiping at your eyes. "I know. I'll try. It's just… hard."

"I know it is," he says, his voice filled with compassion. "But we'll take it one step at a time. We'll make a plan, and I'll help you stick to it. You're not alone in this."

His words are a balm to your aching heart. For the first time in a long while, you feel a glimmer of hope. With Suguru by your side, maybe you can find a way through this. You take a deep breath, letting the warmth of his presence fill you with a renewed sense of determination.

"Thank you," you say, your voice steadier now. "For being here. For understanding."

Suguru smiles, a soft, reassuring smile that makes you feel like everything might just be okay. "Always," he promises. "We'll face this together."

And with those words, you know that you're not alone. With Suguru's support, you're ready to confront your struggles, one step at a time.

You’re standing in the kitchen with Kento Nanami, the scent of freshly brewed coffee mixing with the aroma of the breakfast he’s prepared. The sight of the food—crispy bacon, scrambled eggs, perfectly toasted bread—makes your stomach churn. It’s been days since you’ve had a proper meal, but the anxiety that knots your insides at the thought of eating is stronger than your hunger.

“Are you alright?” Nanami’s voice is calm, but there’s a hint of concern in his eyes as he sets a plate in front of you. You nod, forcing a smile. The last thing you want is to worry him.

“I’m fine,” you lie, your voice barely above a whisper.

He watches you, his gaze steady and unwavering. You can feel the weight of his worry, but you’re determined not to let it show. You pick up your fork, your hand trembling slightly, and take a small bite. It feels like a rock in your stomach.

“You haven’t been eating much lately,” he says softly, sitting down across from you. “Is something wrong?”

You shake your head, the room starting to spin slightly. “I’m just not very hungry.”

Nanami’s eyes narrow, his expression unreadable. He reaches across the table, taking your hand in his. “You need to take care of yourself,” he says, his voice gentle but firm. “Skipping meals isn’t healthy.”

“I know,” you murmur, but even as you speak, your vision blurs. You can feel yourself slipping, the edges of the world fading to black. The last thing you see is the alarm in Nanami’s eyes as he calls your name.

When you come to, you’re lying on the couch, Nanami kneeling beside you. His hand is cool against your forehead, his expression a mix of relief and worry.

“Thank goodness,” he breathes, helping you sit up slowly. “You fainted. When was the last time you ate?”

You look away, shame flooding through you. “I… I don’t remember,” you admit, your voice barely audible.

Nanami’s sigh is heavy with frustration and concern. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks, his tone softer now. “Why are you doing this to yourself?”

Tears well up in your eyes, and you bite your lip, trying to hold them back. “I… I’ve been struggling,” you confess. “With food. It��s hard to explain. I just… I can’t bring myself to eat sometimes. It’s like… this fear, this anxiety, it takes over and I can’t…”

Nanami pulls you into a gentle embrace, his arms strong and reassuring around you. “You don’t have to explain everything right now,” he murmurs. “But you need to know that I’m here for you. You don’t have to go through this alone.”

You nod against his chest, the tears spilling over now. It feels like a weight has been lifted, just admitting the truth. “I’m sorry,” you whisper. “I didn’t want to worry you.”

“I’m always going to worry about you,” he replies, brushing a tear from your cheek. “Because I care about you. We’ll get through this together, alright? But you have to let me help you.”

You take a deep breath, nodding again. “Okay,” you say softly. “I’ll try.”

Nanami smiles, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. “That’s all I ask,” he says. “One step at a time.”

You lean into his embrace, feeling a glimmer of hope. It’s not going to be easy, but with Nanami by your side, you know you can face whatever comes next.

You wake up feeling a familiar tightness in your chest, the kind that has been gnawing at you for days now. It's the hunger, or rather, the lack of desire to eat. You drag yourself out of bed, your limbs feeling heavier than usual, and head towards the kitchen where Choso is already busying himself with breakfast.

He looks up and smiles when he sees you, his dark eyes warm with affection. "Morning," he says, flipping a pancake with practiced ease. "I made your favorite."

You force a smile and mumble a greeting, avoiding his gaze. The smell of food wafts through the air, and instead of making you hungry, it churns your stomach with anxiety. You know you should eat, but the thought of putting anything in your mouth makes you feel nauseous.

Choso sets a plate in front of you, pancakes stacked high, syrup glistening. "Eat up," he says cheerfully, sitting across from you with his own plate. You pick up your fork, but the sight of the food blurs as your vision starts to tunnel. Your head feels light, and you can hear your heartbeat in your ears.

"Are you okay?" Choso's voice sounds distant, concerned.

You nod, but it's a lie, and before you can stop it, everything goes black.

When you come to, you're on the floor with Choso's worried face hovering above you. "Hey, hey, stay with me," he says, his voice gentle but firm. "You fainted."

You blink, trying to make sense of what happened. The memory rushes back, and shame floods your system. You struggle to sit up, but Choso's hands on your shoulders keep you steady.

"Easy," he says. "Take it slow."

"I'm sorry," you whisper, feeling tears prick at your eyes.

"Don't apologize," he replies, helping you sit up and then moving to sit beside you on the floor. "But we need to talk about this."

You nod, swallowing hard. "I know."

Choso sighs, his hand reaching out to take yours. "You've been skipping meals, haven't you?"

You don't trust your voice, so you just nod again.

"Why didn't you tell me?" he asks, his tone gentle but with an edge of frustration. "I could have helped."

"I didn't want to bother you," you admit, looking down at your intertwined hands. "I thought I could handle it on my own."

"You don't have to handle everything alone," he says, squeezing your hand. "Especially not something like this. I love you, and that means I want to help you, even with the hard stuff."

You take a deep breath, the words you've been avoiding finally coming to the surface. "I’ve been struggling with food for a while now. Eating feels like a chore, and sometimes I just… can't."

Choso's eyes soften, and he shifts closer, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. "Thank you for telling me," he says quietly. "But we need to make sure you're getting the nutrition you need. Fainting isn't something we can ignore."

"I know," you say, leaning into his embrace. "I want to get better. I just don't know how."

"We'll figure it out together," he promises. "Maybe we can see a nutritionist or a therapist, someone who specializes in this. But for now, let's start small. Can you try to eat something? Just a little?"

You nod, feeling a flicker of hope. "Okay. I'll try."

Choso smiles and helps you to your feet, leading you back to the table. The pancakes are still there, a little cold but still inviting. He cuts a small piece and hands you the fork. You take it, feeling a bit more steady with him by your side.

As you take your first bite, Choso watches you with a mix of concern and pride. "We'll take it one step at a time," he says. "I'm here with you, always."

You nod, chewing slowly, and for the first time in a long time, you feel like maybe, just maybe, things will get better. With Choso by your side, you know you won't have to face this struggle alone.

The room spins as you clutch the edge of the counter, your vision blurring and darkening at the edges. Your head feels light, and your stomach clenches painfully, reminding you of the meals you’ve skipped over the past few days. Sukuna's voice is distant, an echo in the back of your mind, as you try to focus on his face, but your body betrays you. The last thing you see before everything goes black is his eyes widening in surprise.

When you come to, you’re on the couch, a cool cloth on your forehead and Sukuna’s face hovering above you, etched with uncharacteristic concern. His crimson eyes narrow as he sees you stir.

“You fainted,” he says flatly, though you detect a hint of worry beneath his usual gruffness. “What the hell happened?”

You try to sit up, but Sukuna’s large hand gently presses you back down. “Take it easy,” he commands. “You’re not going anywhere until you tell me what’s going on.”

You close your eyes, a wave of shame washing over you. You’ve been struggling with food, your relationship with it complicated and fraught with anxiety. But admitting this to Sukuna, of all people, feels impossible. You don’t want him to see you as weak.

“I… I haven’t been eating much,” you finally whisper, your voice barely audible. “It’s been hard.”

He’s silent for a moment, and you dare to open your eyes, expecting to see disappointment or anger. Instead, his expression is unreadable, a mix of frustration and something softer that you can’t quite name.

“Why?” His tone is demanding, but there’s a gentleness there too, hidden beneath the surface. “Why aren’t you eating?”

“It’s complicated,” you say, turning your face away. “I just… I can’t. Sometimes, it feels easier not to eat at all.”

Sukuna’s fingers tighten around yours, not painfully, but with a firmness that grounds you. “You need to eat,” he states, as if it’s the simplest thing in the world. “Your body needs food. You can’t keep doing this to yourself.”

You know he’s right, but the fear and anxiety that grip you make it hard to accept his words. “It’s not that simple,” you protest weakly. “It’s a struggle every day. I don’t expect you to understand.”

“Try me,” he says, his voice softer now, almost gentle. “I might surprise you.”

You take a deep breath, trying to find the right words. “It’s like… there’s this voice in my head, telling me I’m not good enough, that I don’t deserve to eat. And when I do eat, I feel guilty. It’s a vicious cycle.”

Sukuna’s eyes darken with a mix of anger and sadness. “Whoever put those thoughts in your head is an idiot,” he says bluntly. “You’re more than good enough. And you deserve to take care of yourself.”

He pulls you closer, his arms wrapping around you in an awkward but comforting embrace. “You don’t have to do this alone,” he murmurs. “I’m here. We’ll figure it out together.”

You feel a tear slip down your cheek, and for once, you don’t try to hide it. Sukuna’s words, rough around the edges but sincere, start to chip away at the walls you’ve built around yourself. Maybe, just maybe, with him by your side, you can find a way to heal.

“Thank you,” you whisper, your voice breaking. “For being here.”

“Always,” he replies, and you know he means it. In his own way, Sukuna is offering you a lifeline, and for the first time in a long while, you feel a glimmer of hope.

You find yourself sitting on the edge of the bed, your vision swimming slightly. The room around you feels oddly tilted, and you blink rapidly, trying to clear the haze. Toji notices something is off immediately. His sharp eyes, always so perceptive, narrow with concern.

"Hey," he says softly, crossing the room in a few long strides. "You alright?"

You force a smile, nodding even though your head feels like it's filled with cotton. "Yeah, just... a bit dizzy, that's all."

He kneels in front of you, his large hands cupping your face gently. The warmth of his touch is reassuring, but it also makes you acutely aware of how cold and clammy your own skin feels. "When was the last time you ate?" His voice is firm, but there's a layer of worry that he can't quite hide.

You avoid his gaze, your eyes drifting to the floor. "I... I don't remember," you admit, your voice barely above a whisper.

Toji's frown deepens. He stands up abruptly, heading towards the kitchen. "Stay here," he orders, though there's no real harshness in his tone. You hear him rummaging through the cupboards, the clatter of dishes and the sound of running water.

You try to stand up, but the world spins violently and your knees buckle. Darkness creeps in at the edges of your vision, and you barely register the sensation of falling before everything goes black.

When you come to, you're lying on the couch, a damp cloth on your forehead and Toji sitting beside you, his expression a mix of anger and fear. "What the hell were you thinking?" he growls, though his hands are gentle as they brush a strand of hair from your face.

"I'm sorry," you mumble, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes. "I didn't mean to..."

"Didn't mean to what?" he interrupts, his voice rising. "Didn't mean to scare the hell out of me? Didn't mean to starve yourself until you passed out?" He takes a deep breath, trying to calm himself. "You need to eat, okay? You can't keep doing this."

You nod, feeling a lump form in your throat. "I know. It's just... hard."

Toji's expression softens. He leans down, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "I get that," he says quietly. "But you have to try. For me. For yourself."

He reaches over to the coffee table, grabbing a bowl of soup he must have prepared while you were unconscious. "Here," he says, handing it to you. "Start with this."

Your hands tremble slightly as you take the bowl. Toji watches you, his gaze intense but filled with a deep, unwavering concern. "You're not alone in this," he reminds you. "I'm here. We'll get through it together."

You take a tentative sip of the soup, the warmth spreading through your body. It's comforting, not just the food, but his presence, his support. You meet his eyes, seeing the determination there, and it gives you strength.

"Thank you," you whisper, your voice breaking.

Toji shakes his head. "Don't thank me," he says firmly. "Just promise me you'll try. Promise me you'll let me help."

You nod again, this time with more conviction. "I promise."

He smiles, a rare, genuine smile that lights up his face. "Good," he says, wrapping an arm around you. "We'll take it one step at a time. Together."

You lean into him, feeling the steady beat of his heart, and for the first time in a long time, you feel a flicker of hope. With Toji by your side, you know you can face this battle. One day, one meal at a time.

The room spins as you struggle to focus on Megumi's voice. He's talking about something—you're not quite sure what—his words blending into a distant hum. You nod, hoping it's the right response. Your stomach twists uncomfortably, not out of hunger but from the anxiety that has been gnawing at you for days. You haven't eaten much; the thought of food makes your throat tighten.

Megumi glances at you, his expression softening with concern. "Are you okay? You look a little pale."

"I'm fine," you manage to say, but the words feel heavy, forced.

The next moment, the world tilts, and you feel yourself falling. Megumi's eyes widen, and he lunges forward to catch you just as darkness overtakes your vision.

When you come to, you're lying on the couch, a cool cloth on your forehead. Megumi is sitting beside you, his brows furrowed in worry. His hand is warm against yours, grounding you in reality.

"Hey," he says softly, "take it easy."

You blink, trying to shake off the fog in your mind. "What happened?"

"You fainted," he replies, his tone gentle but firm. "I think you haven't been eating enough."

Your heart sinks. You've been careful, trying to hide your struggles, but it seems you weren't as successful as you'd hoped. You look away, unable to meet his eyes. "I'm sorry."

Megumi squeezes your hand, his grip reassuring. "You don't have to apologize. I'm just worried about you."

You take a deep breath, the weight of his concern pressing down on you. "It's just... hard sometimes. Eating, I mean. It feels like... like too much."

He nods slowly, his gaze never leaving your face. "I get that. Everyone has their battles. But you don't have to go through this alone."

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes. "I didn't want to burden you."

"You're not a burden," he says firmly. "I care about you. If something's wrong, I want to help."

You swallow hard, the lump in your throat making it difficult to speak. "It's been tough lately. I don't know why, but the thought of eating just makes me anxious."

Megumi's expression softens even more. "It's okay to feel like that. But we need to find a way to get through this together. Have you talked to anyone about it?"

You shake your head, a fresh wave of shame washing over you. "No. I was too scared."

"Then let's start now," he suggests. "We can look for a therapist, someone who can help. And in the meantime, I'll be here for you. We can figure out small steps to make it easier."

His words offer a glimmer of hope, a promise that you're not alone in this fight. You nod, feeling a bit more grounded, a bit more hopeful. "Okay. That sounds good."

Megumi smiles, a rare sight that warms your heart. "We'll take it one day at a time. And remember, you can always talk to me. No matter what."

You squeeze his hand back, grateful for his support. "Thank you, Megumi. Really."

He leans in, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. "We'll get through this. Together."

As you lie back, his hand still holding yours, you feel a sense of relief. It's not going to be easy, but with Megumi by your side, you're ready to face the challenges ahead.

You’re walking beside Yuji, your boyfriend, through the bustling streets of Tokyo. The sun is high, casting a warm glow over the city, but you feel cold and lightheaded. It's been days since you've had a proper meal, your struggle with food overshadowing even the most basic of needs. Yuji, ever cheerful and kind, chatters about his day, but his voice seems distant, like it's coming from underwater.

You try to focus on his words, on the excitement in his voice, but your vision blurs. You tell yourself you’re fine, that you just need to push through it. But your body disagrees. Suddenly, the ground seems to rise up to meet you, and darkness swallows you whole.

When you come to, you’re lying on a bench, Yuji’s concerned face hovering above yours. His usually bright eyes are clouded with worry. "Hey, hey! Are you okay?" His voice is frantic, a stark contrast to his usual calm demeanor. You can see the panic etched in every line of his face, and it breaks your heart.

“I… I think so,” you manage to croak out, though you don’t feel okay at all. Your limbs are weak, and your head feels like it's stuffed with cotton. Yuji helps you sit up, his hand steady on your back.

“What happened? You just collapsed,” he says, his voice softer now but still edged with concern.

You hesitate, looking down at your hands. How do you explain this? The guilt, the shame, the constant battle with your own body? “I… I haven’t been eating much lately,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper.

Yuji’s eyes widen in shock. “Why? Why haven’t you been eating?” His tone is gentle, but you can hear the underlying worry.

You take a deep breath, trying to steady yourself. “It’s… it’s hard to explain. I’ve been struggling with food for a while. Sometimes it just feels easier to not eat at all.”

Yuji is silent for a moment, processing your words. Then, he reaches out, taking your hand in his. “I’m so sorry you’re going through this,” he says softly. “But you don’t have to do it alone. I’m here for you.”

His words are like a balm to your aching heart. You’ve been carrying this burden alone for so long, it almost feels strange to have someone else share it. “I didn’t want to worry you,” you confess, tears welling up in your eyes.

Yuji shakes his head, squeezing your hand gently. “You don’t have to protect me from this. I want to help you, but I need you to let me in. We’ll figure this out together, okay?”

You nod, the tears spilling over. “Okay,” you whisper. “Thank you, Yuji.”

He smiles, that bright, reassuring smile that you love so much. “Let’s go get something to eat, then. Just a little, if that’s all you can manage. We’ll take it one step at a time.”

You nod again, feeling a weight lift off your shoulders. With Yuji by your side, the battle doesn’t seem so daunting. Together, you can face this. Together, you can find a way through.

As you walk towards a nearby café, Yuji keeps a protective arm around you. It’s a small gesture, but it makes you feel safe, grounded. You know this is just the beginning, that there will be many more challenges ahead. But for the first time in a long while, you feel hopeful. With Yuji beside you, anything feels possible.

The day begins with a subtle sense of unease that you can't quite shake off. Yuta notices, of course—he always does. His concern is evident in the way he hovers around you, a gentle presence that never feels overbearing but always attentive. You've been struggling with food for a while now, and although you try to keep it hidden, Yuta's perceptive nature makes it impossible to completely disguise the toll it's taking on you.

By midday, the dizziness starts to creep in. You ignore it, pushing through the fog in your mind and the weakness in your limbs. Yuta suggests lunch, his voice hopeful and encouraging, but you shake your head, offering a weak smile. "I'm not really hungry," you lie, trying to convince both him and yourself. He doesn't push, respecting your boundaries, yet his eyes betray his worry.

Afternoon comes, and the world starts to blur at the edges. You're sitting on the couch, trying to focus on a book, but the words swim on the page. Yuta is nearby, engrossed in some task, but you can feel his occasional glances, each one a silent check-in. You stand up, intending to get a glass of water, but the room tilts violently. Your vision darkens, and before you can call out, your knees buckle.

The next thing you know, you're lying on the floor, Yuta's frantic voice calling your name. His hands are gentle but firm as he helps you sit up, his face pale with fear. "Hey, hey, look at me," he says, his voice steady despite the panic in his eyes. "Are you okay? What happened?"

You blink, trying to clear the haze from your mind. "I... I don't know," you stammer, though you both know it's not entirely true. The truth is, you've been skipping meals, pushing yourself too hard, and now your body is paying the price.

Yuta's expression softens, a mix of relief and concern. He helps you to the couch, making sure you're comfortable before he speaks again. "You haven't been eating," he says quietly, not an accusation but a simple, painful truth. "I can tell. And now this... It's serious."

Tears prick at your eyes, shame and guilt welling up. "I'm sorry," you whisper, unable to meet his gaze. "I just... It's hard. I don't want to worry you, but—"

"But I am worried," Yuta interrupts gently. He takes your hand, his grip warm and reassuring. "I love you, and I hate seeing you hurt yourself like this. You don't have to go through this alone."

His words break through the wall you've built around yourself, and the tears start to fall. Yuta pulls you into a hug, holding you tightly as you sob into his shoulder. "It's okay," he murmurs, his voice soothing. "We'll figure this out together. We'll get through it."

You nod, the weight of his words a small comfort amidst the storm of your emotions. It's not going to be easy, and you know the road ahead is long and filled with challenges. But with Yuta by your side, his unwavering support and love, you start to believe that maybe, just maybe, you can overcome this.

As you sit there, wrapped in his embrace, you feel a flicker of hope. It's fragile, like a candle in the wind, but it's there. And for now, that's enough.

You're walking down the busy street with Toge Inumaki, your boyfriend, as the sun begins to set. The air is filled with the sounds of chatter and the distant hum of traffic. Toge is by your side, his presence a comforting constant. His unique way of speaking in rice ball ingredients has always been something you've found endearing, a quirk that makes him special.

But today, something feels different. You haven't eaten properly in days, struggling with your relationship with food. The world around you starts to blur, and you feel a wave of dizziness wash over you. You try to steady yourself, but your vision goes black, and you collapse.

When you come to, you're lying on the pavement, Toge's worried face hovering above you. His usually calm eyes are filled with concern, and he's holding your hand tightly.

"Salmon," he says, his voice shaky.

You try to sit up, but he gently pushes you back down. "Tuna mayo," he continues, his words conveying a depth of worry.

"I'm okay," you manage to croak out, but the weakness in your voice betrays you. The truth is, you're not okay. You haven't been for a while now.

Toge helps you sit up slowly, his arm supporting your back. "Kelp," he says softly, pointing to a nearby bench. You nod, and he helps you over to it. You sit down, feeling the world still spinning slightly.

He sits next to you, his hand never leaving yours. The silence between you is heavy, filled with unspoken words. You know you need to explain, but you're not sure where to start.

"Toge, I... I haven't been eating," you confess, your voice barely above a whisper. His grip on your hand tightens, and you see the pain in his eyes.

"Mustard leaf?" he asks, his tone a mix of confusion and concern.

You take a deep breath, trying to steady your nerves. "I've been struggling with food. It's been hard for me to eat. I didn't want to worry you."

He looks at you, his expression softening but still filled with worry. "Salmon," he says, a hint of frustration in his voice. He cups your face with his hand, his thumb gently brushing your cheek.

"I know," you whisper, tears starting to well up in your eyes. "I'm sorry, Toge. I didn't mean for it to get this bad."

"Tuna," he says, shaking his head. He pulls you into a hug, his embrace warm and reassuring. You cling to him, feeling the weight of your struggles lifting just a bit.

After a few moments, he pulls back slightly, looking into your eyes. "Bonito flakes?" he asks, his tone gentle but firm.

You nod, understanding what he's asking. "I need help. I know that now. I can't do this alone."

He smiles, a small but genuine smile that reaches his eyes. "Kombu," he says, pressing a kiss to your forehead. It's his way of telling you that he's here for you, that he'll support you through this.

You lean into him, feeling a sense of relief wash over you. It's going to be a long journey, but with Toge by your side, you feel a glimmer of hope. You know that you're not alone, and that makes all the difference.

As you sit together on the bench, the world around you starts to feel a little less overwhelming. Toge's presence is a reminder that you have someone who cares deeply for you, someone who will help you find your way back to a healthier place. And for the first time in a long while, you believe that you can do it.

Extra Addition: Nobara Kugisaki

The world around you starts to blur as you sway on your feet, a wave of dizziness crashing over you. Your stomach has been a hollow pit for hours, gnawing at you with a persistent ache you’ve grown accustomed to ignoring. You’ve managed to keep your struggles with food hidden from Nobara, convincing yourself that you can handle it. But now, as you stand in the middle of her living room, the edges of your vision darken, and you know you’re about to faint.

“Hey, are you okay?” Nobara’s voice cuts through the haze, sharp with concern. You try to respond, but your knees buckle, and the floor rushes up to meet you.

The next thing you know, you’re lying on the couch, Nobara’s frantic face hovering above you. Her hands are trembling as she pats your cheeks, her eyes wide with panic.

“Wake up! Come on, open your eyes!” she demands, her voice shaking. “What the hell happened?”

You blink up at her, the room slowly coming back into focus. “I’m... I’m okay,” you croak, though your voice is weak and unconvincing.

“Okay? You call that okay? You just collapsed!” Nobara’s face is a mix of anger and worry, her usual confident demeanor replaced by raw fear. “You scared the hell out of me!”

You try to sit up, but Nobara gently pushes you back down. “No, stay there. You’re not moving until you tell me what’s going on.”

There’s no escaping it now. You take a deep breath, your throat tight. “I haven’t been eating much lately,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. “I’ve been... struggling with food.”

Nobara’s eyes widen even more, if that’s possible. “What? Why didn’t you tell me?” Her voice is high-pitched, almost shrill with worry. “I could have helped! We could have figured something out together!”

“I didn’t want to bother you,” you mumble, feeling the weight of your secret lifting but replaced by a different kind of heaviness — guilt.

“Bother me? Are you kidding?” Nobara’s hands are still trembling as she cups your face, her eyes searching yours. “You’re not a bother. You’re my partner. We’re supposed to look out for each other.”

You see tears welling up in her eyes, and it breaks your heart. Nobara, who always seems so strong and unshakable, is crumbling in front of you. “I’m sorry,” you whisper, reaching up to wipe away a tear that escapes down her cheek.

She sniffles, trying to compose herself. “Don’t be sorry. Just... don’t hide things from me, okay? We’re a team.” Her voice is softer now, the panic giving way to determination. “We’ll figure this out together.”

You nod, feeling a strange mix of relief and shame. “Okay. Together.”

Nobara takes a deep breath, visibly trying to calm herself. “First things first. You need to eat. I’m making you something, and you’re going to eat it, even if I have to feed you myself.”

You can’t help but smile at her intensity. “Yes, ma’am.”

She gives you a shaky smile in return, brushing her fingers through your hair. “And we’re going to talk about this, really talk about it. We’ll get you whatever help you need. But you’re not going through this alone, got it?”

“Got it,” you reply, feeling a warmth spread through you that has nothing to do with the blanket she tucks around you.

Nobara stands up, a new determination in her step as she heads to the kitchen. “Just stay there and rest. I’ll be right back.”

As you lie there, waiting for her to return, you feel a sense of hope you haven’t felt in a long time. Nobara’s reaction, her over-the-top panic and fierce protectiveness, shows just how much she cares. And for the first time, you believe that maybe, just maybe, you can overcome this with her by your side.

[a-sip-of-milo]

Need a reason to live?

Recently, I made four polls with eleven reasons to live in each. Most of those reasons were given to me by people who have also been suicidal in the past, and I decided to compile them into one long list (plus some) for anyone who needs it to come back to when they're out of reasons to keep going.

⚠️ Disclaimer: Please do not turn this into one of those "ALWAYS REBLOG IF YOU SEE" posts. Thank you. ⚠️

Relationships

Your furry companion(s) (this means pets and friends who are furries <3)

Your friends

Your family

Those who look up to you

To reconnect with someone you haven't seen in a while

Your headmates (specific to those who are apart of systems)

There's someone who isn't around anymore who would want you to keep going

To eventually be a mentor to someone

To make sure your animals never have to sleep alone

To fall in love

Your partner

To meet your online friends/mutuals

To tell your mentor/the people who raised you with kindness that you made it

To see someone close to you through their final days

To make it big enough to eventually provide for those you care about

Your FP (personality disorder specific)

Group photos with your (found) family and friends

To help your friends do the same

The friends you've yet to meet

A promise you made to someone special

Acts of kindness

To be there when someone needs you

To see someone smile because of you

To make a stranger's day a little brighter

To hand out compliments to those who need it

To make the world a little bit better before you go

To treat the people around you the way you wish you'd been treated

To be the one person in someone's life who is there unconditionally.

To help someone you love to quit an addiction

To do charitable deeds

Affection

Hugs from someone you trust

Kisses from a partner, close friend or pet

Cuddles when it's cold/lonely

To laugh until your stomach hurts

Forehead touches

To hold someone so tight that they're wheezing

Doting on people when they're feeling down

To make the people around you laugh

Interests

That new game/movie/show/book/album/etc. that you’ve been waiting for

Telling everyone and anyone who will listen about your special interest/hyperfixations

To share creations that aren't appreciated enough

To save up for something that would make life more bearable

To finally complete a collection

Projects would be left unfinished

To travel

To complete a project you've been working on for a long period of time

Projects you've yet to come up with

To start participating in special interests you've had to put on hold

To laugh at the creations you made when you were younger and less experienced

Those who consume your work would never get to see another creation of yours

Spite (because I think spite deserves Its own section:))

To stick it to your abusers

To prove your younger self wrong

To prove the people around you wrong

To prove your younger self right

To prove the people around you right

To spit on the grave of someone who hurt you

As a big 'fuck you' to the world and everyone in it who tried to silence you

To outlive your enemies

To do something that you've never been allowed to do (get a piercing, tattoo, cut or dye your hair, etc.)

To show off your success to the people who doubted you

To make sure whoever hurt you doesn't win

Milestones

You've got a milestone of some kind that you'd like to reach before you go

To see your (future) children reach a milestone of their own

To see a birthday you never thought you'd make it to

To graduate from school

To see your wounds from self-harm heal

To experience old age

To get married

To recover from your eating disorder

To experience independence

To start/complete your transition

To go on your first date

To get your first job

To adopt a child and give them the life that they deserve

To rescue a pet and give them a home

To purchase your first car

To rent/purchase your first house/apartment

To have your first child

To lose your virginity

To experience the joy of knowing you escaped/got through a bad situation

To eventually publish your own book/art piece/etc.

Miscellaneous

To finally get diagnosed with something important

So if nothing else, you can still say you survived

You have a bucket list you'd like to complete

To live because you want to, not because others want you to

Comfort drinks with someone you love

You wrote a letter to yourself that you can't open until a certain date/birthday

Those rare and valuable pieces of media with good representation of a minority/marginalised group.

To read through past conversations with people and cringe/laugh/cry.

All the different foods you've yet to try

To see the world become more accommodating to those who need it

To watch the seasons change

To celebrate the holidays

For those days where you do feel okay, perhaps even good

To eventually replace the stuff in your closet with things that represent who you are now

To read back on journals and diaries you made when you were younger

If you are not in a place where any of these help, that's more than okay as well. It will be here if and when you ever need it. Being suicidal can be extremely lonely and scary and we all deal with it in different ways.

If you have your own reason and you feel comfortable sharing it with me, let me know via asks or DM and it will be added as soon as I can 💞

[wosoamazing]

Recovery

Summary: Part 2 of Negative Thoughts and Beach Days

Warnings: Eating Disorder (slight talks of being sick but it doesn't happen) - let me know if anything else and I will add

A/N: Sorry this took so long to get out, but I hope you like it and that it was worth the wait. Currently working on a two McFoord x Child!Reader fics and a Leah Williamson x Child!Reader fic and kind of a Sam redemption fic. But if you have any ideas for this series (either Barca, Arsenal or Matildas) or requests in general I will add them to my WIPs.

Lia had come over to cook dinner for you and Leah, it was something that happened quite often, however today the meal was fancier than usual. You just sat in your chair, in front of your plate, you used your fork to move the food around on you plate, taking small bites every now and then. You felt terrible you wanted to eat the food that Lia had taken the time to make, but there was a part of you that didn’t want to eat because of its fear of fatness and getting fat, and against your will this small part of you had started to take over more and more recently, causing you to feel funny when you thought about food, but this time something else was there, the thought of throwing up after you ate, this thought scared you, you had managed to suppress your thoughts and feelings for most of the meal however they finally bubbled over, causing tears to start free falling from your eyes, you felt stupid and pathetic all over again, you jumped up and left, sprinting up the stairs and into Leah’s room, you hide yourself under the covers and curled up, wanting to feel something else, anything else.

_

The two women that just a second ago were sitting at the table with you were in a mixed state of emotions, your sudden out burst caught them off guard, Leah really didn’t know what to do.

“Do you want me to leave?” Lia asked thinking it would be best.

“I’m sorry Wally,” you sister said to her still in a state of confusion.

“It’s okay Le, I’ll talk to you later, hopefully Bug is okay,” she said as they both started to get up out of their seats.

“Sorry about ending our night early,” you sister said as she hugged Lia, “it’s okay don’t worry, I understand, see you tomorrow, maybe?” your sister nodded before heading upstairs to find you.

_

Leah followed the sounds of your sobs to her room, she couldn’t see you but the lump under her covers indicated that you were there, she climbed into the bed and pulled your body on top of hers, she didn’t say anything, instead she rocked back and forth slightly whilst holding you tightly. You had gotten yourself so worked up you gaged, before you started coughing, Leah handed you the water on her bedside table, you took some small sips from it, Leah changed your position slightly so that your head rested against her chest. “Take some deep breaths with me bug,” you did as she said, your eye lids started to droop and your head began to get heavy, which Leah noticed “It’s okay bug, I’ve got you, I promise I will stay here, you can go to sleep if you want, we can talk later. Love you,” you didn’t respond, you buried your head into her side and eventually the exhaustion from your sobs caused you to fall asleep. When you body stopped shaking from your sobs and your breath was less rapid Leah sighed out a breath of relief, you had gone to sleep. She picked up her phone to see a message from Lia.

Lia: I hope everything is all okay, I cleaned up, I know you’re going to say I didn’t need to, but I did it just to make things easier, locked the door behind me. Hope bug is okay, message if you need anything.

Leah: Thank you, really you didn’t have to, but I really appreciate it. I don’t know what is wrong with bug, she was crying hard when I found her, eventually she fell asleep, I was worried she almost made herself sick, I think the only saving grace was that she didn’t eat much. I’ll keep you updated, sorry again about our night.

You become aware of your surroundings again slightly later, you were now resting against Leah’s side with her arm around your upper body almost supporting it, her laptop rested on her stomach as she did some work with her free hand.

“I-I’m sorry,” was what you mumbled into her side, alerting her to the fact that you were awake.

“It’s okay bug,” “Do you think Lia is upset that I didn’t eat her dinner? I feel really bad, she took so much time and care to make it and-”

“No bug, Lia didn’t even mention the fact you didn’t eat. She was just really concerned about you and whether you were okay or not.” you hummed in response “What’s wrong though bug? Do you feel okay?”

“um, well, I-” “It’s okay bug take your time, I’m here and I will stay here as long as you need” you knew from that response that Alessia had spoken to her, you didn’t know how much she said to her but she knew something, but you also knew Leah would want to hear everything from you, you wondered how long it had been since Alessia spoke to her, for her not to question you.

“I-I, I started getting conscious of my body a while ago and then these people on social media were being really mean and I know you say not to let it get to you but I did and then somewhere along the way I had obviously decided that not having my period meant that I was skinny enough and then I got my period and this voice in my head started to grow and was telling me I’m fat, and ugly and no one liked me and then I started to believe it so I stopped wearing my normal clothes and then when we went to the beach I couldn’t fit into my bikini and so the voice decided that I was really fat and ever since has not made me want to eat food and I’ve tried to not let it take over but it did and then tonight while I sat there looking at my dinner the other thing in my head was the voice that was telling me that if I ate it I would be fat and so I couldn’t eat and, and, and I’m sorry, it’s stupid and pathetic I know.” you blurted out managing not to cry, however tears started spilling form your eyes again when Leah sat up against the bedhead and pulled you into her lap and just hugged you tightly, resting her head on top of yours, giving you a reassuring presence. After you had calmed down slightly Leah started to talk, but she remained in the same position “I’m here for you bug, always, whenever and whatever you need, I would move mountains for you, I love you so so much, your my little bug. Please, please never feel like you have to hide your emotions, even when you think that they are dumb or pathetic or stupid because I can most definitely reassure you that they aren’t. We’re going to get through this together okay, I’ll help you, the team will help you.”

“I-I’m sorry” you sniffle. “There is nothing to be sorry about bug, this isn’t your fault.” she held you for a little while longer before she turned you around so you were facing her, she put her arms around your back, and looked at you. “I’m going to set up a meeting with Jonas okay, I try and do it for tomorrow morning so you don’t have to stress about it, Lessi did mention to me that she offered to do the meeting with you but I also want to offer to be there in the meeting for you”

“Um, could you do it with me? You can say no, but um, I would really like it if you could-” “Of course bug, I will definitely be there.” You smiled and leant forward to rest your head on her chest, before a yawn escaped your mouth. “Why don’t you go get changed unto your PJs and brush your teeth and I’ll do the same and then you can come back and sleep with me tonight,” you nod into her chest before getting up.

You climbed into the bed and snuggled up beside your sister, “can you tell Lia?” you softly said to her, knowing she knew what you meant.

“Sure bug, I love you heaps, have a good sleep.” she replied to you. You closed your eyes and mumbled “love you,” she placed a kiss on your forehead, and you quickly feel asleep. Once you were definitely asleep, she picked up her phone to message Lia

Leah: Bug is very sorry for not eating your food, the first thing she said was sorry, and asked whether you were upset.

Lia: Bless her, is everything okay with her?

Leah: um well, not really, can we call? Bug is asleep next to me, but she shouldn’t wake up.

Lia: Yeah sure, just give me a second.

_

You woke up the next morning at 7, slightly later than usual, Leah wasn’t in bed still, but you could hear her downstairs talking to someone else, who you thought was Lia. You made your way down the stairs and into the living room, to find Leah and Lia sitting there.

“Good morning,” your sister said as you walked in,

“Good morning, um Lia, I-I just wanted to say I-I’m sorry for not eating the food y-you made for us last night,”

“It’s okay Y/N/N, can I have a hug though?” she asked softly, you nodded and moved to sit next to her on the couch, she put her arms around you. She then let go of you, you moved so that you could rest your head on her should, she put on of her arms back around your shoulders and the other reached out for Leah’s, before she spoke, “we were thinking, maybe today at some stage I could or Leah and I could talk to the team for you if you want, it’s okay if you want to tell them yourself but we just thought you might prefer if we did it.”

“I think I would like that, thank you”.

You walked into training checking the time on your phone 9:30, your meeting was with Jonas at 10, you didn’t get the chance to train though, as your morning was mostly filled with tears and meetings. After you spoke to Jonas, who was very understanding you had to see the phycologist, dietician, and physios. You arrived in the dining hall a few minutes before lunch, and it had been obvious that Lia and Leah had told the team about what was going on as they all came up to you and gave you a hug as they filtered in.

Jonas had said that they would come talk to you after lunch, he encouraged you to invite a few people to stay with you to hear the plan so that they knew it in detail and could ask any questions they themselves might have. So, you asked Leah and Lia if they could join you and also Steph as she would be with you at Matildas camps but also because you thought she would want to know.

You were sat at one of the lunch tables, Lia and Leah were either side of you, holding a hand each and Steph stood behind you with her hands on your shoulders, as the staff informed you of the plan going forward. You were happy with it, it included some rules about food intake especially for game days but mainly just guidelines that you needed to stick to, you had to speak to the phycologist twice every week and the physios would be doing health checks on you more regularly. They would revise the plan in a month or so.

_____

You were walking out of the tunnel to the pitch for pitch inspections when one of the physios came to your side. “Here,” he said as he handed you an up and go.

“I don’t want to, I feel sick” you replied, trying to give it back to him.

“Well, that’s fine but you know the rules, you don’t drink it you don’t play,” you sighed as you pulled the straw out of its plastic and pierced the foil circle before you start sipping. One of the ‘rules’ in your plan for recovery was that to play you had to eat a sufficient amount of food that day, however you struggled to eat on game days due to nerves so the rule that you to drink some sort of meal substitute during the pitch inspection and finish it to be able to play was made.

“Thank you,” you rolled your eyes and walked over to Kyra.

_____

It was almost the end of mealtime, and you didn’t want to eat anymore, “Leah, I’m just not hungry, why don’t you understand that you aren’t listening to me,” “Just a few more mouthfuls please” “Leah, I told you I’m full.”

“I know you don’t want to bu-” “It’s not that I don’t want it, it’s that I can’t, I’m going to be sick if I eat anymore and that’s worse, realistically I want to eat more so I will be sick but that’s not healthy, so no, no more” you cut her off before your voice broke and you started crying, resting you head in your arms on the table.

“I’m sorry for pushing you too far Bug, I just wanted to help.” Leah rubbed your back, before you sat up and hugged her.

_____

“Tony, where are our up and go’s,” Alanna whined when you were handed one. Most of your Matildas teammates didn’t know, Tony said you didn’t have to tell them and you didn’t want to have the awkward conversation with them, so you didn’t, you weren’t trying to hide it, if they found out they found out.

“She’s just special” Kyra replies mocking you, you stick your tongue out before going over to Steph, who was with Mini.

“Up go, I wan” Harper said.

“I’m not sure if everyone can have one Harper, they might be special ones just for me,” her bottom lip dropped and started to wobble, “well maybe you could take this one as an ‘accident’ and I will have to go ask the staff for another one, I mean if they want me to play they will have to give me one,” you say with a smirk, before handing your up and go over to Harper, Mini’s brows furrowed, she was confused by what you meant. “I’m going to go get another one so I can play. Steph, you can tell her I’ll be back,”

You came back shortly later with another up and go in hand the way Mini looked at you informed her that Steph had told her. “You know you didn’t need to give her it, you should’ve kept it,” Mini instructed you as if you were her child before she pulled you into a one-sided hug, her other arm was occupied holding Harper. “I know, but they were always going to give me another,” you smirk “I mean they can hardly say no, how is that going to go down in the media.” Steph glared at you, “What?” you asked Steph playfully, she just rolled her eyes and sighed.

[theredofoctober]

MANNA- CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR: GATEAU

Dark!Hannibal Lecter x Reader x Dark!Will Graham AU fic

TW for eating disorders, noncon/rape, abuse, past child abuse, Daddy kink, cannibalism mentions, death mentions (including of a young people), Stockholm Syndrome

Read after the cut

---

As the night goes on, made odd by the truths held above your head, Hannibal sends you into the kitchen for the wine Will has forgotten there as though you are his little maid to be so imperiously commanded. Grumbling under your breath you slope into that other room, thinking to spit down the neck of the bottle to lend it the flavour of your displeasure.

Your gaze falls first upon a vast chocolate gateau resting on the sideboard, its rich aroma stirring awake your appetite, the pangs of which you now rarely know.

At this you feel an acute disgust at your body’s failing. No doubt some human matter has found its way into this creation, likely by blood to bring salt to its flavour, but even if by a rare chance it hasn’t you cannot stand that you desire it after all the years you’ve abstained from dessert.

Still, even as you scorn yourself you reach with one finger across to the cake and scoop from it a curl of icing, shuddering as it glazes the roof of your tongue with its silken sin.

Guilt rides over you at once: the totting up of numbers, the phantasmic sense of weight already building on your bones. In a panic you smooth over the gap in the cake left from your burrowing finger with a nearby clod of icing, hoping it won’t be noticed when Hannibal comes to cut a slice for supper.

The kitchen door opens behind you, making you jump and wipe your guilty hands together as Will appears in the frame.

“You were taking a while,” he says. “Thought I’d check on you.”

“What do you care?” you reply with a haughty toss of your head. “You’re barely here anymore. Don’t pretend to give a damn now you’re back.”

Will shuts the door behind him and leans against it, his arms folded.

“I thought you wanted me to put my full efforts into this case.”

“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean you should just abandon me.”

With an unpleasant laugh Will says, “I’m sure you and Hannibal get along just fine on your own.”

You think cynically of your elder captor assaulting you against his front door, biting at your flesh. A lean coyote in a gentleman’s clothes.

“You don’t like the idea of him fucking me when you’re not there, do you?” you ask, and Will shrugs, refusing you an honest reaction.

“I’m just aware of what I’m missing, that’s all.”

It occurs to you to question how often he thinks of rutting you in those elongated hours apart, or if it is only Hannibal that inhabits his mind in ire and yearning alike. Will may not have forgiven him the harm he’s done, but he certainly cares for him still.

Perhaps it is the homosexual angle of the romance that prevents him from viewing it as such; if only women have otherwise enchanted him what sense can he make of this new lust?

“Well,” you say, “if you want we can swap places. You stay home with Hannibal and I’ll play detective with the FBI.”

“Funny,” says Will. “I like our arrangement the way it is.”

You look at him doubtfully.

“So you’ve really never considered it? You and him together, the way I am with him?”

“I consider you and me together,” says Will, and he steps towards you, driving you against the kitchen island until its edge impresses a horizontal groove into your back. “How I’m starting to forget what you taste like.”

Your breath jars in your throat, and you’re ashamed by the airless, claustrophobic sensation of desire that his words elicit.

“What would Uncle Jack think hearing you talk like that?” you ask.

Will smirks.

“Not everything I do is for Jack’s approval.”

He loops an arm around your waist, his palm grazing your skin through the smoke of your dress.

“Maybe you should be thinking about him,” you say, wriggling against the hammerhead of Will’s forceful want. “I don’t think he’d put you and dear, dear Daddy onto the Lover case if he knew that you were raping me.”

“Are we?” asks Will, and there is laughter of such an easy cruelty in his eyes that you wonder how you ever thought him good.

“Yes,” you say. “You are raping me, even though you love me. Maybe even because you do.”

Your voice is frail with emotion, no longer teasing. Will touches your cheek, and even that light touch is something evil, knowing of your weakness for him.

“I never thought I’d hear you say that,” he says. “Not about me.”

You shake him with both hands, unhinged with a sudden desperation.

“It’s messed up, but I’m right, aren’t? You love me. Say it. Just say it. I need to hear it.”

With an abrupt motion Will hoists you up onto the kitchen counter, your unmoored limbs flailing around him.

“How about I show you?” he says, and reaching up under the gauzy skirt he pulls your underwear down to your ankles.

How often he disappoints you, refusing to free you, refusing you the words you beg of him.

Will kisses you from your hardened mouth down your clothed body to your unclothed cunt, and his lips are like a roaming spark beneath which you flinch in revulsion and response.

Your hands weave through the thick of his hair, and you kick at his shoulders briefly before the motion of his tongue makes you still.

The sight of Will glancing up at you between your thighs, the stirring of his mouth against the bead on which he strings you out—

You moan, yet through you, as always, is the disgust of having your flesh expressed of its need like juice from a persimmon, that he to whom you’ve grown close engages in this incest, and has you indulge in it, as well.

No longer can you envision an existence with him where that element were not part of it, nor one absent of his envy.

Even as Will devours you it is Hannibal whose taste he seeks, hunting the remnant he’d left in you that morning against the shower wall, hoping there is some trace not rinsed down the drain.

Against Will’s claims you know there is some sleeping shred of him that thinks of the hand, the mouth, the carefully trained form under the designer suits, and resents that you—his subordinate, and unwilling at that—have experienced all in place of him.

You muse upon how it will be if ever Will gives in to the cravings of man, envision him shunting you off into some corner to observe as they make violent love like the dispute of brother gods.

This, in conjunction with the roll of Will’s fingers and tongue-tip upon you, conducts a new music of pleasure, and afterwards an anger that he has transformed you so utterly as to be this easily aroused.

Scuttling your hand across the kitchen island you feel for the wine bottle, toying with the notion of striking Will over the head with it, and wonder if you’ve gone as bad as him to feel joy at the thought of his red brains and the red wine of his warm blood across you.

You’d never do it, yet the thought comes back and back unbidden. Hannibal has beckoned it in with his talk of killing, the resurrection of the poorly buried dead.

It’s as your fingers wrap around the glass that Will says darkly, “Don’t you dare.”

His face is turned against your thigh, its expression stern, though not entirely serious.

“I wasn’t doing anything” you protest.

“You were thinking it,” says Will. “That’s enough.”

Then his jaws are on you again, and pleasure crushes you flat as though between the earth and a stone.

He loves you, you think, in the midst of it. The only man outside your family that ever has, and he has treated you with greater cruelty even than Leland Frost. Yet you cannot resist affection of any kind, and so as Hannibal rightly guessed it is no longer entirely unrequited.

Self-loathing takes over in your orgasm’s decline, and you push Will away with the soles of your feet, not wanting to sully your hands with him.

“I’m bored now,” you snap. “Take your wine in yourself.”

You thump down onto the kitchen floor, swerving Will as he reaches for you with a testy jerk of your shoulder.

“Little One,” he says, and then he corrects himself with your real name, so rarely heard from him now that you are touched that he thinks of its use.

Still you leave the room, finding yourself on the bitter verge of tears.

*

In sleep you have one of those particular dreams that read more of latent prophecy, a canon yet to give itself birth. In a scrub of forest you crouch over the nude body of a woman, pulling from the open mouth of her gut glittering organs upon which you feast with a scavenger’s appetite.

Will and Hannibal oversee this feast in approving silence, their figures a second darkness in the night.

Why they do not share in that meal you do not know; perhaps they have eaten already of their own kills, observing with full bellies as you follow suit.

It does not strike you in this dream to loathe the thing you do, for to eat is to survive, and so to meet the approval of your masters. With eagerness you crawl up the cool length of the cadaver, ripping up carpets of meat as you go.

Only when you reach the face, upturned to the dish of the moon, that you recoil with a spasm of horror and recognition of it. You know this woman, yet cannot in sleep recall her name, nor conjure the place from which you remember her.

“Did I kill her?” you ask, for this, too, you do not know.

“No,” says Will. “Not with your own hands.”

“Your proximity to her was enough,” says Hannibal. “All those who have been even in passive orbit of you may fall foul of death. We have told you this, Little One.”

You stare into the dead woman’s sunken eyes which appear in their stillness like replicas of glass.

“But if I didn’t kill her, and you didn’t either, then why am I eating her?” you ask.

“I fear you will go mad in losing those you love,” says Hannibal. “So you must consume and accept the dead as part of you, as I have. That way both mind and memory will last, if not intact then transformed as you are by the sating of your hunger.”

“It won’t work,” you say. “I don’t believe that. That’s your religion, not mine.”

“You’ll learn to embrace your madness, then. After all, each of us three would be consigned to an asylum for our habits by those that don’t understand us. But I would always understand you, Little One, no matter what condition your broken mind was reduced to, in the end.”

Then your captor’s hand presses down on the base of your skull until you're forced to lap at the dead woman’s blood.

You awake half hanging off the side of your bed, your body having mimicked the acts of your dreaming self as it has not done since you were young. In those years you’d often jarred yourself awake by attempting to speak aloud or to gesticulate to some ephemeral figure.

That you’ve resumed this abandoned habit disturbs you far more than the content of your dream, and in a panicked rush you start out of your bedroom into the hallway, turning not into Will’s chamber—which tonight is occupied by his sleeping form—but into Hannibal’s.

The door swings open under your frantic touch, and a startled figure sits upright in the shadows, as disbelieving of you having come to him as you are yourself.

“What’s happened?” asks Hannibal. “Are you feeling alright?

“I had another dream,” you say. “I’m scared.”

You find yourself sitting on the end of Hannibal’s bed, the first time you have done so willingly. His face is an amazed blank, unable to translate the meaning of this new and impulsive action.

“Your nightmares are likely a side effect of reducing your medication,” he says, at last. “I should have warned you. I apologise; it’s my mistake.”

With a hoarse laugh you say, “What do you have to be sorry about? Everything that ever goes wrong... you know exactly what to do. You take care of me even if I don’t want you to. You’re always so sure of yourself.”

Hannibal switches on the bedside lamp, his face solemn in the belt of its light.

“That is untrue. I have many flaws and failures; you’ve seen for yourself that I’m not always as in control as I’d like to be.”

The attack with the knife, he means, or his tampering with Will’s mind, both grave mistakes, so few of which have occurred throughout your stay that only they, of all, occur to you. That Hannibal is a killer, a defiler of flesh living and dead does not present itself despite its obvious nature, for even in this he is unerring, cunning and clean.

“I’m going to let you down,” you say. “You think you can fix me, and I know how hard you’re trying, but I’m not okay. It’s going to get worse.”

Hannibal runs your cold fingers between his own until they warm.

“You say this because recent developments are frightening you. Because you assume the good that will come of submitting to mutual love will not last. You would rather propel yourself into a fit of anxiety than permit yourself the slightest happiness.”

You turn him a look of reproach.

“You know why I can’t.”

“Because we are killers.”

“Yes.”

“But you love us still.”

Tugging your hands from Hannibal’s own you say, “If I did I’d be a terrible person.”

“We can’t help who we care for in this life. That you are able to love against the bounds of your morality isn’t evidence of personal failure.”

Yet surely it must be, you think, is in fact a marker of how greatly you’ve given in to him.

You say nothing of this aloud, however, only inch across the bed into Hannibal’s arms, kissing him in the hope of ridding your mouth of the taste of blood from your dream.

“There’s time for this tomorrow,” he says, gently, drawing away; clearly he thinks you’re seeking sex, an invitation you’re amazed to see him decline. “It’s very late, and I have patients to see in the morning. Rest now. You’ll feel better for it.”

You sleep nestled against him, his palm on your belly, which for once you neither mind nor think much of, merely consoled by his presence there with you.

*

The following week you are suspended between shame and self-pity, aware that you have fallen by a missing rung on the ladder of pious restraint into collusion with the men that you’re unsure you can arise from.

Will becomes as present in the household as work and commitment to his dogs will allow, the continued, quiet feud with Hannibal still complicating the evident need to remain at his side.

With you Will is tactile, sensual, smothering you with the weight of his covetous desire.

"You need to talk to him about what happened between you," you say to Hannibal one night, your head in his lap as he draws another portrait of Will as some tragic hero. "He's driving me crazy. I wish you'd just hash it out together or something."

"He's lost trust in me," says Hannibal in a tone of martyred sadness. "That can't be rebuilt inorganically. In time I hope his anger will pass."

It's on the tip of your tongue to suggest that he unburden all of his wrongs in one grand gesture, but thinking the better of it you return to placid silence.

This new method of survival you have taken on, though considered wise even in your early days of imprisonment, is so indistinguishable from genuine attachment that you could not confidently distinguish the two from one another.

Amy would be disgusted with the woman you've become, pining for the approval of predators, one of which has struck up a friendship with her own attacker. It is a dark blessing that through hypnosis she has forgotten this, will read of you in Tattle Crime and frown at the strange pang she feels at the notion of you shared by the named men.

In this way you become your own accuser, sparing no empathy for the difficulty of your plight. As others would judge you so you judge yourself, are brutal in the manner your keepers have sought to discourage.

Rebellion comes in strange forms, as of late.

You while away your days in windows frosted with the turning of autumn into its pale sibling, writing the first coherent entries of the journal you've long been unable to manifest. Your prose is clumsy, your handwriting without any particular art, but in this alone you gain some tangible accomplishment and distraction from your conflict.

Knowing Hannibal surely reads your diary you consider caution, but upon realising there are few secrets left between you both you write honestly and without fear of being bent across his lap.

“WEDNESDAY—

I haven’t been allowed to talk to my parents in so long that I can’t even hear their voices in my head anymore. I guess I’m realising that I’ve been picturing strangers ever since I came here, and I don’t know how I feel about that.

Do I even miss them anymore, or is it other, made up people I just tell myself I miss? Were they ever real to begin with?

They call it solipsism, the theory that nothing actually exists outside your perception. I read that it one of Hannibal’s books— George Berkeley was the name of the philosopher. I hope I spelled his name right.

Since I was little I had this fear that I was the only real person in the universe, that everyone else I ever met just vanished the second they weren’t in front of me. I still feel that way, I guess.

My bad memories are the only proof that I’m not alone, as much as I’m afraid—or sometimes find myself wishing—that I am.

I just remembered a day my parents took me shopping around Christmas one year. We went to this huge shopping center, and it was so busy and noisy that my Mom got really worked up and started snapping at everybody as if it was our fault the whole city picked that day to buy presents too.

I guess I did something wrong— maybe I wandered off, or I said something she didn’t like. But suddenly she yelled so loud everybody around us turned to stare at us except my Dad, who looked away just like he always did. Messed with his glasses. Pretended he saw something interesting in a store window when we all knew he hated shopping and was just dying to get out of there and go home to the TV.

Five minutes later Mom tried to hold my hand like nothing ever happened. Like she forgot what she just did, or didn’t realise that it upset me. Then when I wouldn’t let her take my hand she got mad all over again, and I could tell it hurt her feelings.

I’ve always wondered how she justifies those moments to herself, or if she shoves them down so far that she can just pretend she’s never in the wrong.

If I did imagine my mother, why would I make her that way?

Anyway, I think this whole solipsism thing is why I don’t buy Hannibal’s idea of absorbing life, even if it’s just a symbolic gesture. If I can’t see you then you might as well be dead, so really the thought that something would be left of that person after their heart stops beating makes no sense to me.

Only my dreams are real. Realer than I am. But if they’re repeating what Hannibal keeps telling me then what does that mean?”

"FRIDAY —

“I spat out some of breakfast into a napkin today. Daddy Hannibal took me upstairs and hit me with some kind of leather flogger till I said I was sorry. I wasn’t, though, and he knew it. He told me I’d never get to go to nice places with him if I kept behaving in that way, and that would be the real punishment.

I keep forgetting that’s what he and Daddy Will want at the end of all this. To take me out of the shadows of this house into their light.

Haven’t they thought about how weird it’s going to look to everybody? What will they tell people? That I’m their daughter? Their inappropriately young girlfriend?

They’ll have to take me somewhere nobody knows us and no one really cares. Places we can be different people except to ourselves. But maybe we’ll become the people we pretend to be. I’d like that to be true.”

It’s as you’re finishing this particular entry that you overhear voices in one of the many hallways— Hannibal’s, and that of Jack Crawford, who’s been invited to dinner again. Perceiving a hushed secrecy to their dialogue you return to your talent of eavesdropping and sidle up to the nearest door.

It’s Jack you hear first, partway through some muttered sentence.

“—Heard about the fibre sample Beverly picked up on in Lillian Greyflower’s file.”

“A thread from a hospital gown,” says Hannibal. “Yes. She had Turner Syndrome and was undergoing frequent medical checks to monitor her health.”

“She wasn’t the only one,” says Jack. “Bryce Mulligan was struggling with Kidney Disease, Anaïs Foreau was a premature birth— all the Mask Murder victims had conditions that affected their weight and height in some way. None of them were much over five foot tall.”

So these are the details Will did not wish you to know, cautious of spooking you with the implications of the discovery. Your illness is the reason for the Lover’s interest in you: as many differences as there are between you and his first set of victims this is the one great likeness to have drawn him in.

“The killer’s first muse herself was in poor health,” says Hannibal, “and with stunted development for her age. I suggest you search missing persons records for a white, blonde female under the age of eighteen, last seen accompanying an older male family member; I believe she disappeared around the time the Mask Murders began. Look specifically for girls with growth disorders, genetic, and chronic conditions.”

“We need to narrow down a state,” says Jack. “The murderer is clearly a travelling man.”

Then, clearing his throat, he adds, “Speaking of the Lover, have you—”

Hannibal intercepts the question briskly.

“Not yet. As things are now I couldn’t possibly disturb the peace by announcing such unpleasant news. I will attempt it as soon as I can.”

Lost as to the meaning of this abrupt turn in the conversation you strain your ears, frustrated when the men’s voices lower so far as to become incoherent. Only Will’s footsteps approaching behind you compel you away from the door.

“Stop it,” he says. “You want them to catch you like that?”

Turning around, you stick out an irreverent tongue at him.

“Who says they were going to catch me?”

Will scoffs, scarcely masking his amusement.

“Quit screwing around. Go sit at the table. We’ll be eating soon.”

The dinner you find awkward in the deliberate avoidance of the Lover case, small talk expanded into impossible complexity across the courses. Having seen death in its multiples you are both angered and entertained by the senselessness of your fathers thinking you too delicate to endure what you have learned.

Jack’s hesitation you understand, being that of the three men only he thinks you wholly innocent. Your keepers, however, are purely concerned with avoiding the resulting unseemly outburst, and in this you are reminded that no matter what affections you’ve developed to protect yourself from a prisoner’s despair a prisoner you still are.

Glowering at them both under your lashes you crush a slice of ‘fish’ under your fork, watching it take the shape of the tines. It’s as you’re observing this process that an idea occurs to you, brought on by the visitor in the room. A chance to communicate to Jack that he dines with a cannibal, that he has eaten of the same people for whom his officers seek justice—

Stuffing the morsel of fish into your cheek you say, “I’m full. Can I be excused?”

Jack glances at Hannibal, his brows angled, and you realise that he discerns something overfamiliar in your tone or body language he isn’t sure enough of to interrogate.

“You’re free to leave whenever you like,” says Hannibal. “Enjoy your evening.”

“Thanks for joining us,” says Jack, and you offer him a weak smile before rushing out into the living room where your journal and ball point pen remain.

Tearing a leaf out of the back you write

‘TEST THE MEAT!!! IT’S HUMAN!” in a hasty scrawl and spit the fish you’d kept from dinner into your hand.

Your heart clatters in your chest like a train across some treacherous road as you dart through to the hallway. On a rack hangs Jack Crawford’s overcoat, the pocket of which you intend to deliver your grim parcel to.

This is the answer to the question of your freedom, the sole proof required to unlock the criminal mystery of the Copycat.

Upon reading your note Jack will take this meat to the lab where all forensic discoveries are founded, and in the makings of its DNA will realise what creature he has dined with, and what he has been tricked to eat at his table.

He will get you out of this house, give you back to your parents and end this horror you’ve been bent to fit by moulding hands. Hannibal will be imprisoned or institutionalised, perhaps Will too, if he’s discovered to know more than he suggests of his companion, or if your relations are found out.

There will be no more men and women eaten in the grand house of death, and no more will you be abused and infantilised, or forced to take your fill.

Things will be as they were before your abduction, a known unhappiness which from having lived before you know that you can bear.

Yet even as you reach into Jack’s pocket the negative aspects of this plan suggest themselves to discourage you from this rash and unplanned act.

You think of the Lover’s crimes going unsolved and continuing around you, closing in until you too are taken and locked into a doll. Even if the killer does not dare to capture you in your infamy there are the choking attentions of the press to think of, the humiliating questions as to what you have been made to do as concubine to your insatiable men.

Leland Frost would likely make some comment on it, as thoroughly as you’d attempt to avoid him, his eyes bright with a jilted humour.

“Guess you’re not my girl anymore, cher.”

“Shut up,” you whisper aloud. “I never was.”

The cold grease from the meat soaks the skin of your fingers, and your stomach turns over at the smell of it.

All your doubts have surely been injected by Hannibal’s hypnosis to dissuade you from escape, for even as you dismiss those that have already come to mind more follow, each more unpleasant than the last.

After all, these previous concerns assume the success of your attempt to rally Jack to your side. He has been groomed by Hannibal to think you mad, and a conniving lunatic at that, one poised to invent scandal and atrocities abound if it means you’ll be released from treatment.

Upon discovering the note and meat making filthy his beautiful coat Jack is unlikely to follow the command you’d penned there; rather, with a pitying look, he’ll deliver it to Dr Lecter, bringing down, unwitting, another brutal lesson from your keepers upon you.

But even should Jack believe or humour you and process the sample as is your design there is no likelihood of Hannibal submitting quietly to arrest. He is a killer, and as such will fight every man against him until none stand.

Then he will turn upon you in whatever fashion he decides, and the attempt will be for nothing, one you may not even live to regret.

The risk of failure is not worth the pursuit, you decide, and resign yourself to retreat from the hallway and from the temptation of hopeless escape.

As you turn into another room you collide with Will, who has followed you from the table.

“Sorry,” you mumble, and attempt to sidestep him, your full hand held partially behind your back.

Will takes you by the shoulders, pushing you lightly up against the nearest wall.

“Wait,” he says. “I know you’re up to something. You’d better admit it now before you’re in even more trouble. Don’t bother to lie; there’s no reason for you to be loitering out here unless you were doing something you’re not supposed to.”

When you don’t answer his gaze falls to the fist tightened upon your shame, and the set of his mouth steels.

“You’d better show me what you’re holding,” he says. “Let’s hope Hannibal’s feeling more forgiving than I am.”

[transmutationisms]

thots on astrology? related, thoughts on mbti?

k i like that you guys just pop in my inbox from time to time and invite me to run my mouth about topics and concepts. like truly what else is this website for.

anyway astrology (& sorry, most of what i know here pertains specifically to europe in the middle ages onward) is genuinely such a bizarro historical case of a science whose core epistemological presupposition (a geocentrist and specifically anthropocentrist cosmology) has completely fallen out of favour in both popular and professional discourse, and i don't think most people appreciate how weird it is for astrology to continue existing with this degree of popular and mainstream participation lol. like most fringe science actually bothers to have some semblence of its own reactionary epistemology to fall back on; astrology just doesn't seem to care. it would be like if the medical guilds fully endorsed the position that blood is circulated in the human body by the heart, but then also recommended as treatments for clotting disorders medical practices that only make sense on the supposition that the liver is the origin of all blood and is continuously creating more of it. like no other science that i can think of tries to have it both ways to the extent astrology does. like, one reason phrenology and eugenics are bad comparison points here is because they're very much copacetic with post-enlightenment naturalism and evolutionary transpositions in the social sciences. astrology, like, intellectually is not and yet here it is anyway. ideology innit.

anyhow i assume the reason you asked about this in conjunction with mbti is because today's astrology is largely purporting to provide psychological analysis and is therefore more similar to a system like mbti than to the historical use of star-reading as a predictive science. obviously both astrology and mbti are deeply reactionary in this respect and belong to a larger trend toward attempting to categorise, measure, and taxonomise the psyche, tho an important difference here is that mbti has hereditarian elements, which no form of astrology that i know of does. i think astrology's shift in the personal-psychological direction has to do with a few different factors, including medical astrological practice (orthodox in the european middle ages, then varying degrees of heterodox from the early modern period onward) and self-help movements in the 20th century.

but in any case it, mbti, and similar attempts at psychometry are, like, staggeringly essentialist in conception and practice, and i do think their current popularity reflects some deeply reactionary tendencies amongst people who often (not always) consider themselves otherwise progressive or leftist. it's honestly kind of worrisome how many people will jump on a project that explicitly aims to define static and immutable human 'types' as long as it's dressed in quasi-spiritual or psy-scientific terminology. like i do think we all need to pause and think about the ideological ends and consequences of how we talk about each other and our bodies, minds, and birth circumstances 😵‍💫

[storm-angel989]

Fighting For Control (Valentino x Employee Reader, Valentino x Wife Valentino x Daughter)

HUGE TRIGGER WARNING.

Eating Disorders. Eating disorder Treatment. Valentino.

Valentino sat off to the side and gazed at the stage. One by one, his dancers strutted down, swung their hips towards him and gave a smile. Casual dress was required for this particular cat walk. Despite being known as one of the most ruthless bosses of hell, he still needed to make sure his girls were healthy, and taking care of themselves. After all, it was just bad business to have his girls passing out in front of clients. He nodded in approval as each girl walked, seeming pleased until one of his dancers seemed to wobble down the stage.

A frown crossed his face. Reader. 

He knew when he hired her she would struggle with adjusting to a more comfortable lifestyle. And now as he took in her two loose braids, oversized sweater and jeans that he noticed last week were falling off her hips, alarm bells were ringing. He waited until the rest of the girls finished and then leaned over to the demon next to him. 

“I need reader in my office. Now. The rest of the girls are free to leave. And tell the nurse’s office to be on standby.”

Truth be told, he suspected when he hired her that she suffered from an eating disorder. Most of his girls did at some point in their careers. The majority of them came from a traumatic past, a life of fighting to survive. It was only to be expected that in this new line of work, the removal of that constant stress occasionally manifested in less than ideal ways. As he walked back to his office, he considered how he should handle this situation. In his early days, he would have simply forced her on the scale and if the number that flashed beneath his displeased him, he would have sent her off to the hospital for treatment, with the understanding that she could return only when she demonstrated progress. After all, he had a business to be concerned with, and an image to uphold. 

But now he had his own teenage daughter, one who struggled with her own issues surrounding food. Following her through therapy, working with her during family dinner time, and holding her as she cried because the little voice inside her head made her think she wasn’t good enough, would never be thin enough, pretty enough, had changed his entire perspective on both the illness and its treatment. He was thankful his experience in the field helped him catch his little girl before she was in as rough shape as reader clearly was, but his experience with someone he loved certainly made him a bit softer to his workers who were struggling. He took his seat in his chair as he considered his options. Separation of work and home- this wasn’t his daughter, or his wife. This was his employee. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t show compassion to her- concern and care. After all, she was battling a monster he had only glimpses into. 

A knock on the door pulled him from his thoughts. 

“Ah. Come in,” he called. He studied reader as she walked in. Her hair was back in two loose braids, a useless attempt to hide her hair loss. Her jeans were practically falling off her hips with each step she took. Her tee shirt and oversized cardigan were recognizable defense mechanisms- armor she was desperately trying to hide behind. He knew he needed to come from a place of concern, or he would be shut down instantly. 

“Take a seat muñeca, ” he said, gesturing to the chair in front of his desk. 

She did so reluctantly and her eyes averted his gaze. “Did I do something wrong, sir?” Her voice was soft. Frightened. 

“No, bebita. You didn’t do anything wrong. But I am concerned about you. Tell me the truth, doll. Is everything okay? Are the other girls treating you alright?” He asked. 

“Yes sir, they treat me fine,” she muttered. 

He considered how to approach this. Looking at the big picture, she was relatively new to him. She didn’t really know him or his methods. Softness, first, he thought was the best option. “You’ve been with me for how long now…three months?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you live in one of the flats with the other girls, yes?”

She kept her gaze down. “Yes, sir.”

“Are you finding the essentials sufficient? Your room, clothing, food?”

That got a reaction out of her. He watched as she switched to defensive mode at the mere mention of food. His heart sank. Part of him wished his suspicion was inaccurate, but her behavior simply confirmed his fear.

“Yes, sir. Everything is fine. Can I go now?” 

“You may not.” He stood up and pulled a scale out from his desk. “I’m noticing a concerning pattern of behavior, cariño. I need you to step on the scale for me, hm?”

The defensiveness overtook her. “No.”

He expected such a reaction. She needed to be reminded who was in control here- it was her best chance at survival. The red chains sprang forward and wrapped around her wrist, bringing her to him. 

“I own you. You will do what I say, when I say it. And that includes this. Understood?”

He watched the familiar battle unfold. Unlike his daughter, he had control over this demon. More of the ability to save her from herself. He released the chains and he nudged her to the scale- the one that wouldn’t flash the number on the base, and instead send the data directly to his phone. Another trick he learned with his daughter. Without another option, reader stepped on. 

He checked the digits that popped up on his phone. Valentino felt his stomach drop. The number was by far one of the lowest he had seen. Guilt spread through him, anger at himself and this illness. He should have been keeping a closer eye on her.  He only hoped the threat of his contract would be enough motivation for her to comply with treatment. Technically speaking, he could keep her alive. But there were parts of an eating disorder he couldn’t control.  

“Alright, babydoll. Step off,” he said quietly, sliding a hand under her arm. “And sit for me.”

Terror spread across her features. “What is my weight?”

Valentino looked at her evenly. “Too low for me to comfortably have you on my stage, bebita.”

“But what exactly is my weight?” she begged. 

“You need to let me worry about that, sweetheart,” he replied evenly. He knew better than to get combative. After all, he was the one in control here. Not her. And he certainly wouldn’t let her illness work its way in. “Let me be very clear with what will happen next.  I’m going to escort you down to the nurses office. From there, you will be hospitalized until that number is in the healthy range.”

Reader crossed her arms. “You can’t do that! I’m an adult!”

“Oh I can. I own you. Or have you forgotten that?” He leaned forward, “And I refused to let one of my most promising dancers starve herself into nothingness.”

“I eat, Valentino. I do! Please, just let me go home,” she begged. “Please! I’m fine! I swear!”

He looked at her softly. “You’re not fine. That much is clear. Come along now. I’m taking you whether you fight me the entire way or not.” 

Normally, he would have the nurse meet them with a wheelchair for a number that low, but she was already so frightened. His heart ached for her, for the pain she was going through both physically and mentally. He slipped his hand under her arm and guided her down the hallway. She seemed to shut down in his grasp, a quiet, fragile doll. 

“You will do what they say, you will eat what they tell you and you will not fight them, do you understand?” He asked once they were in the nurse's office. He sat her on the bed. “We’re going to get a gown on you. Arms up.” 

He carefully pulled back her sweater.  She sat stiffly, not actively fighting him but also not helping him in any way. He tugged off her t-shirt and bit back the gasp that threatened in the back of his throat. Emaciated wasn’t a strong enough word. 

He kept his touch gentle as he tied back the gown and helped her lay on the bed, but inside, anger bubbled. This disease, this illness was something he couldn’t eliminate, as much as he wanted to. He watched and listened quietly as the doctor as he came over and began to work over her. After a few moments, the doctor turned to Valentino. 

“Two thousand calories, through her nose to start,” the doctor said. “And we’ll get her into therapy right away.”

He wanted to tell the doctor to talk to her, not to him. But that illusion that he was in control, not her eating disorder, couldn’t be broken. Valentino turned to her and to his surprise, she looked furious.

“Five hundred. And no feeding tube.” She shot back. 

The doctor looked at Valentino and Valentino bit back a sharp word. It wouldn’t help anything for him to be angry.

. “This isn’t a negotiation. What the doctor says, goes. The only choice you have is if you take this willingly or we keep you too sleepy to fight.” 

His words seemed cold even to him, and he honestly suspected that that was an empty threat. He doubted her body could handle anything extraneous at this point. But by the expression on her face, she didn’t know that. 

“Valentino, no please,” she begged. “I’ll eat more, I promise.”

“Then prove it,” he replied sternly. He laid a gentle hand on her forehead, “I want to see next week's weigh in significantly higher.” 

Her tone hardened. “I don’t have a choice, do I?”

“You do not.” 

“Fine.” 

Valentino watched as the doctor slid the tube into her, biting back the frustration that was building in his chest. Flashes of his own daughter being threatened with the same treatment raced through his mind.The threat was enough to scare her into his arms, sobbing and making the same promises. He was thankful she had kept her promise, and came home that day, willing to consume what the doctor prescribed. To an extent, of course- but they worked through it together.

Finally, once reader was settled, he watched as she closed her eyes. She had to be exhausted. He hoped she realized now that she was in a safe place, and they were on the same side, but he doubted it. Which was fine with him- he didn’t mind being the enemy for the time being.  

“Will she make it?” Valentino asked as they stepped out of the room. 

The doctor shrugged. “She should. She’s lucky you are so…attentive to your employees.” 

Valentino felt his expression harden, a mask to protect helpself and his reputation. “It’s bad business to not be. I’ll check in on her tomorrow. If she needs anything, let me know and take care of it the best you can in the meantime. I expect updates- this one shows promise on my stage.” 

And with that, he turned and walked out. The clock on his watch said five, and he needed to go home. Exhaustion swept over him, feelings of helplessness and the worry that that could have been his daughter. His wife. Both struggled with their own body issues. The desperate feeling of anxiety overwhelmed him. He checked both their vitals on the app he had synched to his phone. The numbers were fine, but just checking wasn’t enough. He needed to see them, needed them in his arms, and needed to make sure with his own eyes that they were safe. He walked from the elevator to the door of his wife’s office. He pushed open the door without a knock and closed it behind him. 

She looked up from her computer. He smiled as he took in the sight of her. Pretty blonde hair pulled back into a loose bun. Blue light glasses to prevent headaches. And an outfit that she could dominate the entire world in. 

 “Hey honey, what’s up?” She asked as she stood up. “Everything okay?” 

He pressed his lips to hers and wrapped her in his arms. “Just a long day.” Even to him, the words sounded flat. He pushed her head to his chest and held her against him for a heartbeat. He wasn’t ready to talk, not yet. At the moment, he just needed to hold her. 

She gave him a knowing look. “Mhm, sure. Bed tonight?” 

Of course she knew. He knew she knew. And she wouldn’t press the issue, not until he was ready. Or until bedtime. Whichever came first. 

“Is our baby princessa home or did she stay late at school?” He asked as he slowly released her. 

His wife pressed her cheek to his and gave him a nuzzle and a kiss. “She’s in her room last I checked. Why? Did she…”

“No, no. I just want to see my daughter,” he replied quickly. “Go back to work mi amore. So you can come home sooner.” 

She looked at him with concern. “You did have a rough day. Let me finish up, I’ll be home in an hour.” 

He gave her another kiss before letting her go back to her work, and he made his way upstairs to their own floor of the V tower. Their home they shared with his two best friends. Down her hallway, his daughter's door was closed and he hesitated for a moment but knocked anyway. He needed to see her, for his own sake.

“Baby Princessa? Are you awake?” 

“Daddy? Yeah come in, I'm working on my homework.” He heard her reply. 

He pushed open the doors of the once pink room. Now everything within reflected her current interests. Blacks. Grays. Reds. Purples. Not too different honestly than her Aunt Velvette’s. It was an adjustment, watching her grow from a little girl to a sullen teen, but he was grateful she had the support, love and anything else she needed.

“Hi bebita,” he walked over and kissed the top of her head. “How was your day?”  He expected to be met with sullenness, an implied go away, Dad, I’m busy, that so frequently laced her voice these days. 

To his surprise, she turned around and beamed. “It was long Daddy, but look I got an A on my Spanish test thanks to you!” She excitedly handed him the paper, “look! I even got the bonus words right!”

“Ah, pequeño amor, I am so proud of you! You did the work. Not me. But come here, give your papi a hug.”

She stood up and practically ran into his arms and jumped up as she wrapped her arms around his neck. He wrapped his arms around her tightly and held her for a moment, feeling her weight in his arms. He let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. She was okay. She was healthy. They still had plenty of time together to be sure they had stamped her eating issues early on in life.

“Daddy, are you okay?”

The sound of her concerned voice broke him from his thoughts. He gently released her. His daughter was okay, and she would continue to be okay. 

“Yes, bebita. Come on, let’s pause your homework. Mom should be home soon, and let’s grab Aunt Velvette and Uncle Vox. We can go out to dinner and celebrate that A. How’s that sound?” 

“Deal! Thanks Dad!” She jumped up and wrapped her arms around him again. “Best Papi ever!” 

That he wasn’t so sure of, but he accepted the compliment anyway. 

At dinner that night, he watched how much she consumed. How she reacted to the arrival of dinner. He searched desperately for hints that her issues were making a headway. To his relief, he saw nothing- no sign that her illness was anywhere close to showing its ugly self. 

He laid in bed later that night, the weight of his wife’s head on his chest as he filled her in on the events of the day, his worries, his fears. His concern for both reader and his daughter. It felt good to get it all out, to have his other half to share life with. 

“I just, I wish I had acted sooner,” he finished. 

“But the doctor says he thinks she’ll be okay?” She asked as she pressed her lips to the center of his chest. “Then that’s what matters.”

“It could have been our daughter,” he said aloud. “I didn’t see any sign of it at dinner tonight, but it could have been her lying in that hospital bed. It could have been her so close to death.”

His wife sat up. “That’s really what’s bothering you, isn’t it? Not just the fact that you’re seeing your own employees- which lets admit, Val, you’ve started to give a damn about, but also seeing your worst fear for your own daughter blossom in front of your eyes.”

He nodded and followed ensuite. “I keep seeing that image of her, she was so thin it was terrifying. If I was even a week later…”

“But you weren't. You got reader into treatment on time, and are doing everything in your power to help her beat her illness. And, my love, our daughter is fine. We are doing everything we can to make sure that she continues to beat this. She’s in weekly therapy sessions, hell we haven’t had a dinner fight in almost two years.” She took his hands in his. “Val, you can’t beat yourself up over this.” 

He swung his legs over the side of the bed. He hated this, the lack of control The feeling of helplessness. He wasn’t used to this feeling- Valentino was all about control. 

“Babe, where are you going?” His wife asked. 

“To check on our daughter.”

He pushed open the door to her bedroom and to his relief, he saw her curled up under her blankets, fast asleep. He stood there for a second, watching the rise and fall of her chest. He looked at his phone for the second time that day. Her vitals were fine. She was fine. Reader would be fine. He felt an arm wrap around his waist and he looked down at his wife. 

“She’s as perfect as the day she was born,” his wife said softly. “Come back to bed, Val. She’s okay.” 

Valentino allowed himself to exhale and back in his own bed, he laid his head on his wife’s chest and closed his eyes, allowing the sound of her heartbeat to fill his ears. “Mi amore, why do the people in my life not see the beauty that I see in them?” 

“Val, I wish I knew the answer,” she replied tiredly as she held him. “But I don’t. But I can tell you that you’ve done enough for today, you did the right thing for reader, and you, my love, need to sleep. You’ll feel better in the morning, I promise.” She shifted herself under him and gripped him tighter. “I’ve got you. Now sleep.” 

He closed his eyes and allowed sleep to wash over him. His wife was right. Reader would be okay, and his daughter was okay. He would take care of them all with everything he had.

[so-long-soldier-writes]

Overwhelmed

elijah mikaelson x reader | requested

summary: you were warned that the transition would be hard, but words can only prepare you so much. experiencing it for yourself is way different, and harder than you could’ve ever imagined. you’re just glad your boyfriend’s got your back through it all, otherwise things would be going even worse than they already are.

tags: neurodiverse reader / sensory processing disorder, overstimulation, mild panic attack, comfort, some fluff

word count: 2.2k

a/n: requested to be like my other work, One of These Days, but just for Elijah! I tried making this one just a little different from the other, just for some variation, so I hope it's okay! <3

Every emotion you’ve ever felt is ten times stronger. Every bit of anger, sadness, joy, or pleasure. Your body seems to burn with discomfort, or melt with adoration, as your heightened senses take on a personality of their own. Your mind races. Your thinking is quicker, your reflexes are faster, and your feet can move you across a room almost at the speed of sound. It’s strange. Anxiety bubbles in your chest as you try to adapt to each new scenario. Every room in the mansion feels like a new challenge. The bright lights seem to burn into your retinas. Their faint buzzing is like a gunshot close to your ear. 

As a human, your senses were already sharp. You could hear someone’s footsteps from the third floor from your top floor room, and you could smell even the faintest scent of chocolate, or coffee, and you could notice the tiny details about someone’s speech, or pick out a lie from a monologue of rambling. Now, you can do all those things still, but they seem to yell at you. The whole world is yelling and you can’t avoid it. Everything is begging for attention - to be seen, to be heard, to be smelled - and there’s no shutting it off. You’re trapped inside your own body, your own mind, and there’s no escape. The yelling of the voices, the buzzing of the lights, the smell of the cologne that lingers in the air, and the feel of the denim clinging to your hips. Everything’s so strong now. Everything’s so-

“Y/N!” A sharp summon yanks you back to reality. A gentle hand rests on your shoulder, squeezing slightly. “Take a deep breath.”

Your dissociated eyes focus on the man in front of you. It takes you a second to recognize him, but his presence soon makes you calm. You look at him, then breathe, before giving a slight nod. He takes his hand off your shoulder. “Hi.”

“Are you okay?”

You blink a couple times, taking in your surroundings. You’re in the mansion, in Mystic Falls, in the middle of the day. The sun peeks through the windows, but your ring keeps you safe from the rays. “Yeah. I think so.”

“Are you sure? You looked startled.”

“Startled?”

“Panicked. Zoned out, even.”

“I’m okay, ‘Lijah. Just a little… yeah, zoned out.”

“If you want me to find you some herbs to settle your nerves, the Bennett witch might still feel bad about getting you turned,” he starts.

You shrug your shoulders. “No, I think I’m okay. I don’t really want to talk to her right now. Have you gotten any news about your brother?”

Elijah sighs. “Nothing of any use. But don’t you worry about that, okay? I have many contacts who I’ve promised protection as long as they tell me everything they find about him. He won’t be able to sneak up on us, nor will I let him hurt you. Rest your little head.” He kisses your forehead sweetly, cupping your chin. Elijah strides towards the kitchen and fills a cup of water. “Is there anything else I can get you? Something to eat, perhaps?”

The thought of blood kicks up your senses again. The buzzing light occupies its usual space in your mind. 

“Um…”

“Y/N?”

“Can you turn off that light?”

Without question, Elijah flicks it off. He smiles softly before handing you the water. “Hungry at all?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Positive? I don’t want you passing out on me from hunger again, love. I know it’s odd, at first, but you’ll get used to it.”

You hesitate. You don’t want to admit that it was overstimulation, not hunger, that caused your first episode. Yes, drinking human blood is something you’ll have to adapt to, but the real struggle is the sensory overload brought on by your transition. It’s worse than you ever thought it would be. And while Elijah warned you, it seems your previous human sensitivities have only multiplied. 

“I’m not really hungry. I think I might be tired, actually.”

The man looks at you as if willing the truth out of your sealed lips. He wants to prod, you can tell by the way he purses his lips, but he respects your response. If you don’t want to share, that’s okay. 

“Will you be here? Or do you have something to do in town?” You ask, partly changing the subject. 

He glances towards the window, but then back at you. “I have one thing for which I have to go into town, but I will be back shortly. Nothing dangerous. Rest easy.”

“You don’t mind if I take a nap?”

“Not at all. All I ask is that you stay here, stay safe, just while I’m gone.”

You nod, before carrying your tired legs up to your room. There, you finally strip yourself of your jeans and t-shirt, then turn off the lights and curl under a mount of comfortable blankets. Your noise canceling headphones block out what the four walls don’t, and sleep comes easy once you shut off the world. 

You sleep half the day away and wake up foggy-eyed around eight. Only a bit of sunlight still peeks through your curtains; much of the townspeople should have retired to their homes by now. Slowly, you rise from your bed for a more comfortable set of clothes. Your original plans to go out for one of your first days as a newly transitioned vampire were ruined by your overstimulation and rather long nap, but that’s okay. It’s not something you were looking forward to doing, if you’re being honest. 

When you make your way downstairs, Elijah’s in the kitchen. He’s busy with a task, but looks up to acknowledge your presence. A glass of blood rests beside him, but you’re not craving it right now. Instead, a peculiar smell catches in your nose, upsetting your stomach. You cough and try to ignore it.

“Did you get done what you needed to do?”

“I did, mostly, until the students and townspeople decided to gather in the square and distract me from my errand. I’ll just have to finish it tomorrow,” he says with a slight roll of his eyes. “Did you sleep well?”

“Yeah, actually. But do you know what that putrid smell is? Nothing like waking up to that. It feels like it’s burning a hole in my head.”

“That, my dear, is the bonfire that interrupted my conversation. I tell you, I have never seen a town with more social events than this one. It’s a wonder those alone haven’t attracted my brother here.”

“Ugh! And I used to have to go to all those before my friends all turned on me,” you muse. Ever since falling for the original and helping him in his quest to locate Klaus, they haven’t talked to you much. Their disapproval of your relationship is half the reason you were turned in the first place. “I didn’t enjoy them then, up close, and I still don’t like them now.”

“I can imagine it is quite the headache. The smell alone, coupled with the noise.” He pauses. “I sealed the windows to try and block some of it out, but it seems to have managed its way in anyway.”

“So it has,” you reply bitterly. “God, I was finally feeling better, but the minute I came out of my room, it all comes back.”

Just before Elijah can answer, an overexcited “woohoo!” from a local student carries from somewhere outside. You slump your head to the counter with an utterance of disgust. The simple shout is like a dagger between the eyes. 

“Y/N…” Elijah begins, hesitantly, “it’s important to feed when you’re this early in your transition. It’ll help with the senses.”

“Are you suggesting I go eat him?”

The man smiles. “No, but I have bags in the fridge. I can pour you a glass.”

Drinking from the rowdy man outside seems much more appetizing than getting a meal from a cold, three day old bag. Your stomach curtles at the thought. “No, I’m fine.”

“Love, your cravings are half of the problem. You can curb your senses when you feed properly. It does you no good to go hungry. What do they call it in this day and age?” He snaps his fingers. “Hangry.”

You glare up at him for a moment, then drop your gaze. “I’m not hangry, ‘Lijah, I just don’t feel like eating.” His pushiness is now adding to your uncomfortable state. You know he does it out of love, but right now, his love is rather suffocating. 

“Y/N… I really would feel better if you ate something. It’s been nearly ten hours since your last meal, and-”

“I’m not hungry!” You snap. “I told you already! I ate this morning, and I don’t want anything more. I just want everything to stop! I want the sounds to stop, the feelings - I feel everything, inside and out. I want the stupid smell of the wafting bonfire to get out of my nose. And I want this off me, because it’s touching me, and I don’t want it!” In a rage, you rip off your daylight ring and send it flying across the room. 

Elijah startles, fear shooting through him, but then he remembers it’s nighttime. He settles his anxious bones through a few deep breaths and waits for you to calm. “I didn’t mean to upset you,” he says softly, “I hope you accept my apology.”

The dam breaks at that and tears flood your eyes. You cover your face with your hands and try to fight them off. “I’m not mad at you. I’m just… stressed. There’s so much going on and so little I feel I can do about it. Everything is different, and loud, and overwhelming, and I’m taking it out on you.”

“None of that is your fault. You didn’t ask to be turned.”

“No, but I could be handling it better.”

“Y/N… you struggled with such things when you were human. How could you be expected to adapt quickly as a vampire? Your senses are heightened regardless of what you faced as a mortal; yours are even more sensitive than most. That makes you stronger than you even believe yourself to be. You should give yourself more credit.”

“I don’t feel stronger. I feel like an already weak person dumbed down.”

“Well I see the exact opposite. Your transition isn’t easy, but it’ll make you better in the long run. You’ll learn how to master your strengths and adapt to your weaknesses. You’ll make weapons out of them, and they’ll save your life. And, probably at times, mine, too. It’s a rare thing that you have, but you can make a disability into an advantage.”

“Maybe. If I ever manage to cope with it.”

“You will. I know you will. And I will be here to help you through it.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.” He smiles. “So, if you’re up for it, put the ring back on? Give this thing another chance?”

You sigh. “Tomorrow? When the sun comes out? I can’t wear rings for too long at a time; I don’t like the feeling, it’s like it suffocates my skin.”

“Let’s make a deal. You can take it off when the sun goes down, but at night, you have to wear it or keep your blinds tightly shut. And don’t misplace or lose it, because witches can be hard to find.”

Smiling, you agree. “Okay. I’ll keep it close.”

“Thank you, Y/N.”

“Thank you, too.”

“Now… when you say that the ring is suffocating your skin, is that just the ring, or everything?”

The question goes a bit over your head at first. You miss the way he’s looking at you and focus on answering honestly. “Sometimes, it’s everything, but other times, I can tolerate certain things. Right now, everything is overwhelming. Even my hair touching my head right now is stressful.”

“Okay.” 

“Wait… were you asking something else?”

He shakes his head. “I was just wondering if you’d like to sit with me, but I understand if you need some space.”

You think about it, wanting desperately to have some time with him, and willing away your discomfort. “What if we… what if we sit, and in a little bit, I might feel better?”

“As long as you’re up for it.”

“Okay. I can do that.”

For about twenty minutes, you sit in your respective chairs and laugh along to a sitcom that’s airing reruns on the tv. Elijah turned off all the lights and shut the curtains beforehand, creating a soft atmosphere in which you could relax. Your ring sits on the table in between you both, but the pressure to wear it is absent. You’ll put it on when it’s necessary. 

At the next commercial break, you silently slide out of your own chair and catch his attention. He gives you a quizzical look, about to ask where you’re going, but then you crawl into his lap in three quick movements, and his hands automatically reach out to support you. Your feet hang over the armchair, but your head is against his chest. Wanting to feel a bit more cozy, you grab a nearby blanket and drape it over the both of you. Elijah kisses your hair, then rests his lips on the side of your head. His contented breathing slows your own. 

“Comfortable?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

“Thank you. I love you.”

He kisses you again, a response of his own, and smiles. “I love you, too.”

[alicerosejensen]

I love your page so much omg. I‘m literally obsessed with your work😭🙏🏻🙏🏻🙏🏻

Also I have this imagination in my mind going on about how Leon would try to help his girlfriend from recovering from her mental health issues since she’s always helping him. I was recently thinking about how he would react finding her not moving on the bathroom floor and trying to bring her back! I rewatched American horror stories and the scene with tate and violet in the first season episode 6 (ig?) is always in my head. I‘m still recovering from my past and my unhealthy habits and tbh recovery never felt better.

If this is too much for you or triggering please ignore this.🫶🏼❤️

I had a terrible period in my life when I was a few steps away from doing something like this in my life and unfortunately this shit often comes out. I'm not sure that such texts help me work through my psychological traumas, which were, in fact, inflicted on me and continue to be inflicted by close people who do not consider me a person, but at least such works help me to vent my pain, which I cannot permanently bury in myself.

I have been postponing this request for a long time because I was probably waiting for the right moment to write this text.

There are mentions of suicide, psychological trauma, severe self-doubt and anxiety, so if this is not acceptable to you, then please just block it.

Perhaps there is a similarity with my previous texts, but I am writing this with strong emotions now that I am trying to cope with it again.

the text is chaotic, I repeat, written while I was under the influence of strong heavy emotions. Maybe I'll delete it later, when my brain gets back to normal a little bit.

If a songbird doesn't sing well, they wring its neck.

Maybe it was the costs of Leon's profession and the result of his constant missions, after which something human is gradually dying in him despite the constant struggle to save everyone. Raccoon City was supposed to teach, if not to survive, then make him begin to understand that some are doomed to die.

Leon Kennedy was taught not to offend, but to protect the weak, especially weak women. But it is difficult to calm the flow of disordered thoughts and put aside the fear that has seized him in order to clamp bloody wrists and apply something to them to stop the blood. Leon knew many strong women: Ada was perhaps the first among them, he did not know either her past or her real name, only the present that pushed their foreheads against each other; Claire, a fighting friend of misfortune that he met in that ill-fated city; Ashley, who turned from a baby eagle into a proud eagle; Angela Miller and others…

Your strength dissolves in the water, coloring it scarlet while your heart stubbornly still beats, let the rhythm noticeably shorten.

In truth, over the past few months it became clear that this was the only way out. When even your loved ones considered you an expired product and did not hesitate to remember this and remind you every time. In the end, their words turned into an obsessive worm that settled in your head, slowly day after day, month after month, devouring you and the circumstances seemed to be not in your favor. Instead of support, you somehow faced reproach, as if the universe was screaming that you were an wrong person, nature's mistake who had no right to live.

Escape attempts were doomed to failure. At first you tried to suppress it in yourself, helping Leon, because, in your opinion, he was the only one who had the right to complain about life, although he did not do this in front of you, because everyone said that you had no problems: you have everything limbs, there are no fatal diseases, all loved ones are healthy and there is a roof over your head, as if this is enough to not fall for nonsense and not walk around forever with a sad face.

This was the last time you shared your experiences. You didn’t even bother telling Leon, but everything inside was torn from constant pain. The feeling was as if you were being beaten by two extremes that led you to the edge of an abyss where you ultimately voluntarily jumped.

no, you really loved him, it was just other people’s words and your own speculation that convinced you, despite your strong relationship with him, that Leon would find someone better, someone more confident in himself, someone who would not be you because you had already missed the chance for a good life because it moved too slowly. Ultimately, a couple of sips of alcohol with sleeping pills and a sharp blade in his hands simply promised to correct the mistake in the form of you with your own hands.

You didn't have the courage to do it any other way.

But you really didn’t think that if you could try to open up to your loved one, you would meet support and not condemnation. Perhaps in a mad world he would be the only one who would heal your wounds as you healed him in your time. Leon clenched his teeth, feeling tears flowing down cheeks, seeing these crimson stains, when he pulled your body out of the bath, holding you close to him, repeating “I’m holding you. It's allright"

He so carefully laid you on his lap, managing to pull out a first aid kit and then bandages to tightly, albeit carelessly, wrap them around your wrist in order to somehow stop the bleeding. At least you were still breathing, thereby giving him hope that everything could still be fixed. the darkness and emptiness came to life, calling in a whisper to dissolve into eternal silence where there is no pain or condemnation. Your body will be in a grave under a gray stone, while the remains of your soul will float like a small grain of sand in infinity.

For Leon, everything happens in a fog; he tried more than once to save people, but he had no right to lose in this battle, even if you yourself surrendered to death. Shaking his head, brushing away the tears, he wrapped your body in a large terry towel, kissed your temple and picked you up, trying to somehow warm you, pressing you closer to him. the ability to provide first aid in the field and pull suicides out of the other world is not the same thing. Leon would have thanked God if he had believed in him, convinced that blood loss was the least of the evils that you had caused yourself, until he saw the remains of some substance at the bottom of the glass that stood on the table along with an almost full bottle of alcohol.

You really didn't give him a chance.

The ambulance took several minutes, which seemed like an eternity. In fact, Leon wasn't sure if it was worth trying to make you vomit when you'd already lost so much blood that it was already seeping through the bandages. Surely you would need a transfusion and Leon is ready to give you all his blood if only you would wake up. Holding his breath, he carefully looked at your chest, watching whether you were breathing and fortunately, your heart was still beating, slowly, but it was still fighting for life.

He stroked you on the head, kissed you, promised that he would take you somewhere else, quiet, where no one would dare to offend you, even if it was your family. You could have just asked him for help, just cuddled up to him and he would have protected you from other people’s attacks, but you preferred to remain silent. Kennedy was tired of waiting for the medical staff to let him in, although relatives should be allowed to see the patient first, but the position of a government agent sometimes had its advantages, and they concerned not only the high salary. When he was let in to you, it seemed to him that you had become half your size while you were lying on the bed, curled up under the blanket. It didn’t work out to pull off a beautiful suicide, which meant that soon angry relatives would come here with new sweat of bile especially for you. They won’t care about your feelings, but Leon sat down next to you, trying not to intrude too much into the space in which you imprisoned yourself, as if this blanket cocoon could be a separate world where you could hide. He spoke to you carefully, hating himself for not being able to understand in time what was wrong with your behavior; perhaps if he had been more attentive to you, the incident could have been avoided. You would see a psychotherapist, take a course of medication, and your environment would definitely be taken care of.

You cry, not letting him come to you, hating how you weren't just left to die and how much you hate this world. Hysteria after hysteria, nervous breakdown after nervous breakdown, in the hospital you repeatedly tried to commit suicide, but the attentive staff managed to prevent this before you inflicted fatal injuries on yourself, and if after some time Leon still managed to carefully break through your armor, then your loved ones This did not concern relatives in principle. You only allowed one person to visit you while you were undergoing psychological treatment and you behaved calmer and calmer, listening to the velvety words that soon all this would be behind you.

“We’ll go home soon,” Leon smiled, gently holding your hand and kissing your forehead, just glad that you’re alive, that you’re breathing and that your psycho-emotional state is slowly but improving. “You know, I have a surprise for you, I think you’ll like it when we get home.”

Soon what happened will become another nightmare in his life, a blessing with a good ending, but for the sake of this happy ending, Kennedy is ready to descend into hell at least every day.

You nod at him and smile a little, fearing that the gift is some kind of party on the occasion of your discharge. In fact, the last thing you want is to see someone’s faces, especially those who diligently hammered into your head how insignificant you are. Why do you even hope that the doctor will postpone your discharge, but the plans for your further treatment were completely different.

On the other hand, after taking antidepressants and psychological help in a special medical institution, how many men are ready to stay with their girlfriends who have been there for several months? For Leon, it seems this was not a significant problem, or he simply carefully did not show it. However, there were no parties, no calls, you simply returned now to his home where there were new interior items. it became somehow more comfortable... but something else surprised you.

Puppy. A small puppy of a couple of months old ran towards you and Leon to meet both of them, but stopped and began sniffing your shoes, while something thawed in your heart.

“Animals seem to help us well, They feel when we feel bad, it seems to me a good idea to get us a little companion,” Leon said quietly, stroking your back while you were busy with the puppy, rejoicing at the little living soul who will love you with the same pure and devoted love.

Ultimately it should have a happy ending too. Leon is ready to go to great lengths so that his beloved songbird starts smiling and singing happy songs again, even if it is necessary to remove other birds from her family who sleep and see how to pluck all her wings again.

You and he also have a chance for a happy ending.

[tootoomanycats]

Boiling Over

Suguru Geto x Personal Chef Smut

Pairing:

Pent Up Geto Cult Leader x OC Fem

(can also be read as reader insert)

Word Count: 3,576 words

Summary: Geto realizes that his new cook has started to put disgusting notions into his daughters heads. After tucking the girls to bed, he finds holding the lid on his anger challenging and complex. It is time to have a talk with this vile monkey; only things don’t go according to plan.

Warnings:

Language usage refers to non-sorcery users such as monkeys and animals and uses verbiage degrading non-users' ideology. (It's Geto; I am only trying to stick to how I think he would internally speak about us muggle folk.)

Enemies arguing to unexpected smut.

Mentions of premature ejaculation. (we make sure he knows he’s still wanted)

Minor mention of a potential eating disorder for Geto.

Author Notes:

Hello Everyone! I promise I am still working on rewriting Performances, but I had to stop because my brain would not let me get any sleep until I got this little one-shot out and edited. I never planned on writing any JJK content, but this is my lesson in never saying never. Honestly, I don't know if this will be a stand-alone one-shot or if it will develop into a short story. Either way, I hope you'll like it! As always if you like what you have read please remember that fanfic writers live off of likes, comments and reblogs- we wont admit it but we all have praise kinks.

Have you watered your writer today?

Each long stride only allowed more anger to fill his lungs. That disgusting, foul-breathed cretan. How dare she encourage such thoughts in their minds? To speak of this dementedly wicked world like the Garden of Eden, like it was something worth protecting. When creatures like her ruined its oasis, this was just more evidence that only further proved every reason to go through with the plan to wipe them out of existence.

Silence filled the long, winding corridors in the late hour—only the soft shuffles of his steps to be heard. The time spent wandering, stewing in the whirlpool of thoughts, was unknown. Be it subconsciously or with intention, he came to stand before the kitchen door. Finger paints covered the wood in various colors and shapes and crudely drawn animals. No doubt, the artistic freedom given to the girls by that damn woman. Another distraction put in front of them that should instead be spent studying and growing more substantial for the future, his future. Fingers massaged at his temple, and that damn under-eye twitch was back.

Before turning to continue on the walk of rage, a faint light shined from under the door. The source’s inconsistent flickering made it obvious it was a flame light, not the usual overhead bulbs. A shadow was moving about, its lines from under the door jam shifting around. Was someone trying to find a late-night snack? Curiosity got the better of him as the door cracked open, the well-oiled hinges making no noise to give away his presence. There, at the kitchen island, sat the bane of his existence. A single candle was her only light source as she made notes in a thick-bound journal. Books littered across the counter’s surface that she was scanning between.

After spending two hours tossing and turning in bed, Hope had given up on sleep finding her tonight. What time would have been spent dreaming was now used to research and plan instead. In the short time since coming to the estate, she realized how out of her depth she was. Growing up on a farm had taught her many valuable tidbits that rolled over into the new career of personal cook. Sadly, though, most of the knowledge of common fruits and vegetation was useless now due to being on foreign soil. Not to mention, all the meals commonly made here were a complete novelty to her. All day, the worry of not knowing a simple dish to make for the girls if one got sick filled her head.

She felt lucky that it was still summer, but fall and winter would soon come, so it was best to start studying basic soup stocks and how to preserve them now. Just as exhaustion began to creep its way up her spine, the face of that egotistical man came to mind. She groaned, remembering how he had already refused everything but the boiled, unseasoned chicken breast. A previous warning of how picky her new boss was had first been brushed off, but now she only saw it as something more concerning. When inquired, the girls only looked at each other before explaining how their father seemed to struggle with food. Something about how things always seemed to taste putrid: Hope made a mental note to inquire if there were meals that would not be so vehemently refused going forward.

“I see I am not alone in burning the late-night oil.” Geto had to hold in the smug smirk at watching Hope almost jump out of her skin when making his presence known. Stepping closer to the kitchen island, his eyes scanned its counter’s contents. Multiple subjects filled the open pages, text outlining photos and drawings of local flora and fauna in Japan, while another explained cultural customs entwined with particular meals. “Homework?” he asked, keeping the tone of the question light, almost teasing. Anger still simmered just below the surface, the lid of feigned equanimity keeping it in check.

She quickly closed the notebook, gathered the books, and walked backward while responding. “Just menu planning and figuring out what to plant in the garden first.” Mirroring his strained smile, she still tried to calm the racing of her heart from being caught off guard by his presence. “W-What has you up so late?” Gulping when the evident anger in his eyes seemed to be barely masked by the smile on his lips. With each step he took further into the space, she took one back-feigning needing to put the books back in their place, on the opposite end of the island. Something deep and primal warned not to turn her back to him.

Hands going back into their usual hiding place in the sleeves of his haori, he stopped where she had just been sitting. Magnanimous in allowing the useless cook her space. “I just tucked the girls into bed. They were having difficulty falling asleep, and I couldn’t figure out why for a while until they started asking some peculiar questions.” Geto tilted his head, the candle’s light only illuminating one half of his face while the other became shrouded in the darkness of the night. Even in the dimly lit space, the fear on her face was clear as day. Teeth ground together as realization dawned on him; at first, he had chalked up what she had told his daughters as common monkey ignorance. But now, in the fearful response of shirking away from him, it became apparent that she knew exactly what she had done.

“Oh? What kinds of questions?” Hope’s palms began to sweat, making it hard to hold the books. She had no shame in introducing the importance of protecting living things, nor held abasement in teaching how the circle of life affected everyone, including Nanako and Mimiko. However, this did not make her oblivious to the potential backlash of such actions. Placing the books down on the edge of the counter before straightening her posture; if she were to be fired or threatened, then he would have to do it while seeing her head held high.

What was once a simmering pot now started to boil. It was one thing to play stupid with him, but it was another thing entirely to look proud while doing it. Taking a step forward, he spoke sternly, “Yes. It seems they have these ideas suddenly.” Another step. “Notions I have taught them that will not be allowed in the future I am creating. You wouldn't happen to know where they got those from, would you?” He now stood only a few short strides from her and the corner she had put herself in. Watching as she stood taller with each step, even puffing her chest out. She was brave; he would give her that. Bravely stupid.

Hope’s eyes dropped down from where he now stood to the books before her. With a deep breath, she calmly spoke the answer he was trying to pull from her. “Yes, I had asked them what vegetables would be best to grow in the garden earlier today. As it turns out, they didn't know, and neither did I. So I found a book, and the three of us took turns reading and learning.” Wetting her mouth, she continued before glancing up to see the anger on his face build. “The girls started to have more philosophical questions on which I gave my opinions on.” Fear spread through her bones as he quickly walked into the small space that was left between them. Turning to face the outrage on his face, back facing the island as her hands held onto its edge for the needed stability of what was to come.

“Who are you to fill their minds with such disgusting notions?” The pot's lid danced over the boiling rage held within. The candlelight illuminated both of them clearly, making it possible to watch as shock filled her face at his statement.

At first, her jaw hung open until the feeling of offense had her back to defend herself. “You may think it disgusting, Your Radiance, but like it or not, the reality is that those girls are starting to realize that not everything in this world is horrible. There are things worth enjoying now, not just when you create some theoretical future.” Though her words rang with strength, her body responded in alarm at watching the monster before her shift through so many emotions.

“They are my children! And much too young to be curious about such things.” The lid crashed to the ground as the emotions finally boiled over the pot’s opening. His voice had raised before quieting back down.

“They are growing girls, just three years shy of being teenagers! How can you not see that they are becoming curious about the world around them? Both have questions, yet you refuse to acknowledge it.”

Wrath filled his eyes, his usually fake pacifying expression vanishing to show the true nature of his feelings as he crowded her further with a sneer, twisting his lips. “Oh? What questions would be so important that they would go to a vile monkey for answers instead of me?” His tone was dangerous, threatening, and low.

She could feel the hair on the back of her neck rise; he did not expect such rage to be mirrored back. “I may be a monkey, but at least they feel safe enough to tell me when they like a boy.” Shock started filling his face as she took the chance to be the one now leaning in. “Tell me, how do you plan to explain to them that you will cause the death of their crush?”

Her eyes flicked back and forth between his; he was so close that she could feel the heat of his breath across her nose. Blood thrummed in her veins at how hard her heart pounded. The butcher-block wood creaked under her white knuckle grip, and her back pressed firmly against the counter as he further cornered her in. If this is how she died, then so be it; it will have been worth it to have finally shoved reality into the maniac's face.

Large palms and long arms became caged bars around her, nails scratching groves into the woodgrain. “A crush is a trivial thing.” He leaned further, pressing his chest forward, forcing her spine to bow back uncomfortably. The stiff lip of the wood now bit painfully into her haunches. Delicate fingers gripped the front of his gojogesa, desperate to have any control of how he continued contorting her upper body. His head tilted to whisper into her ear, “They will learn that a monkey’s place is beneath them.”

Geto hated weaklings and abhorred their very existence. It was revulsion, not excitement, that caused the fluttering in his stomach when their cheeks brushed. Loathing how it should have been disgust, not pleasure when her breasts pressed against his chest with each shuddered breath she took. He should have felt repulsed when realizing how perfect the closeness of their height was and how easy it would be to connect further.

It’s because of the years of celibacy that she was so sensitive, Hope told herself. Why else would such a monster cause the sensation of pooling hot honey to form in her belly? How, when Geto shifted his weight to press the muscle of his hips against hers, a whimper caught in her throat that pride refused to let out.

It must have been the lack of touch for so long that had her eyes fluttering shut when he nuzzled his nose into her temple. Monsters did not fathom such intimate affection. Monsters would not wrap such large hands around the back of her neck, gripping the corded muscles of her throat in such a dizzying way. She would not lift onto the counter and widen the distance of her thighs for a beast to slot between them so perfectly. Surely, such a creature would not brace his other hand around the center of her back to press further for contact. The sensation of the growl emanating from its lungs shooting to her core.

It was because his nose had become accustomed to the disinfectant spray that he was so sensitive to her smell. Internally berating himself for nuzzling into the hairline above the cook’s ear, lemon verbena, and citrus mixed pleasantly among the uplifting notes of her scent. Geto couldn’t refrain from pressing firmer into her hairline, gulping in deep breaths of Hope’s scent. The grip on the back of her neck tightened further; confirmation of the creature’s ability to still breathe came in how she tried and failed to hold back a second low moan.

His own response vibrated from how feminine hands gripped the thick fabric on his back and along his rib cage. Cursing at the way, soft, long legs dragged upward along the sides of his hips before wrapping around to press him closer. Silk robe falling open from the movement to show matching panties. It was unbelievable how quickly his cock hardened, straining against the white cloth of his momohiki. He could feel the heat radiating from her core, even with the five layers of Buddhist robes between them. How many years had it been since he had touched himself, let alone such a tempting, vile animal?

Hope bit her bottom lip at the delicious pressure against her core. If she hadn’t been so swept up in the moment’s intensity, she might have been embarrassed about the wet spot that could be felt already in her underwear. Skin growing hot as her body craved more contact and friction. The hands that previously gripped his clothes now reached up to thread into the long tendrils of the brutes hair. Fingernails scraped against his scalp before grasping firmly to pull the face away from hiding against her cheek. The strangled gasp he made caused her walls to flutter; what other noises would this monster of a man make?

The site that greeted her was breathtaking: flushed cheeks, eyes wide with shock and pleasure, and an oh-so-tempting pout to kiss. Gone were the fake smiles, disgusted glares, and angry scowls. Now what stood before her was a desperate mess of a man whose cock was so hard it could be felt through the many layers of clothing. She felt relief from the sight before her; a previous worry that he was toying with her was dissipated. No one would be able to deny his desire from how hard he was breathing, his own hands clinging to her like a lifeline.

Suguru was a man who had faced his fair share of dangerous and terrifying situations in his lifetime. He prided himself on keeping calm and making calculated choices during high-stress moments. So panic began to set in when he found moving from this frozen position impossible. The way her hands had gripped his hair, forcing them to hold eye contact, had his cock throbbing. Panic rose higher from the sensation. She kept glancing at his lips; this wasn’t good. Willing his lungs to work and throat to open, a quiet but hoarse word came out. “No.”

It was Hope’s turn to pout. Her legs locked tighter around him. In reality, he could break free from her so easily; the fact that he wasn’t just proved how much his body languished for contact. Her eyes pleaded as she took in his image, memorizing it and burning it into her mind. “Please.” she quietly asked in return. Hips rocked gently against his to help emphasize her ask. All movement paused at hearing an odd sound. Her brow furrowed in question at the noise he made suddenly, his face contorting to one that could be described as painful. Had she hurt him just now?

Geto eyes shut as the sudden climax continued quivering through him. Its shame was felt running down his stomach, legs, and clothing. He refused to look, to see her expression once she realized what had just occurred.

Hope's concern grew as he stayed still and closed off, contrasting how he clung to her a moment ago. The grip in his hair melted into gentle touches on his cheek, cupping his face to see if she could coax him to look at her. Hormones and endorphins craving the intimacy once more. When his eyes still refused to open, she scanned more of him to find the source of the sudden change. That’s when she spotted it; instantly, it all made sense. The relatively sizable wet spot formed on his clothes was proof of what occurred. Warmth spread to her cheeks as sinful thoughts began to race in her mind, the desire for more growing. Biting her bottom lip, she murmured-

“Again.”

His eyes sprung open wide, disbelief shaping the expression. Their eyes met as he processed her expression of hunger. The gentle touch of her hands on his cheek shifted to clasping the side of his face in place. Hips tilted as she pressed her core to where the wet spot lay on him. His mouth was agape in shock at the feeling of being nuzzled along his jawbone, the sensation trailing a line to his ear where a whisper was pressed against its shell. “I want another one, please.” The ask was sweet and sincere, even begging. Words failed him as a hand gently guided his own from the counter across the warmth of a plush thigh to someplace much hotter. A palpation hit his ribcage when feeling thin satin fabric, saturated and slick, shuttering when Hopes’s fingers encouraged his own to press more firmly against the spot. Her resounding whine brought him back from the out-of-body experience.

The overwhelming rage from before shifted into something much more savage and ravenous. Years of repressed urges bled to the surface; sturdy fingers gripped into the base of her hair like a handle to be pulled back from him, the movement forcing her skull to tilt up. It felt impossible to catch any breath as it heaved erratically between the groaning and growls, responding to how desperate legs clung to him. Any previous control had spilled from the pot that now boiled over. Another hand raised to cup her face with the same tenderness she had shown him just moments ago, watching how her eyes repeated their glances to his lips again. Finally, he leaned in.

“Shhh, I know where she hid the cookies from earlier.” Multiple footsteps could be heard getting closer and closer outside the door. Mimiko and Nanako both telling the other to be quiet, annoying the other with each repeated response given back and forth.

Hope and Geto’s eyes widened as the reality of their situation quickly sunk in. Her mouth opened and closed like the koi fish in the pond outside, and before she could say a word, the maniac was gone. Her brain struggled to process his disappearance, the movement inhuman in its speed. The limbs that once were held up against the other body flopped from no longer having something to grip onto. As the kitchen door slowly opened, she scrambled off the counter and ripped open one of the fridge doors to hide her overtly flushed face. Praying that its cold air would help calm down her heart rate. She was panicking as she quickly fixed the front of her silk robe back in its proper place.

Hidden outside the kitchen’s veranda, Geto stood in horror as the events that had just transpired replayed in his mind. Dismay that the truth about who started the whole situation was him. What was worse was that as hard as he tried to feel the disgust he so proudly touted for her kind, he could only feel how hard he was--again. Realization dawned on him of how dangerous the cook was as he shifted Hopes’s title from monkey to succubus.

[starstar10s]

INTRO TO MY JEGULUS FANFIC!

I want to say thankyou to everyone who showed interest towards my post talking about my fanfic i really appreciate any support you can give me❤️

here is a sneak peak i will release the whole first chapter if you guys like this. Just putting it out there that any mean or homophobic comments will be deleted and is not accepted

About the fic:

This fic follows the relationship between James Potter and Regulus Black its not a massively slow burn but its not immediate. Regulus is unable to get away from his household that has heavily affected him and the way he acts and trusts people his whole life despite the help james tries to give him. He makes some bad decisions. James tries his best to help him but its hard and when the choice comes between Regulus and being with him or standing with his friends and fighting for what he knows is right.

Content warnings for whole fic:

Eating disorder, self harm, sexual abuse, anxiety, body hatred, child abuse, suicide, suicidal thoughts, violence, homophobia, swearing, major character death

------------------------------

Part 1: Year 5

Chapter 1 - Regulus

Regulus stood in his room with his face down in front of the tall full length mirror at the back of the dorm, his messy black curls in his face and tears falling onto the carpeted floor. He hated this, crying. Regulus barely ever cried he had never been the crying type ever since he was a kid. No doubt because his mother had enforced punishment against it as if it were a crime since before he could remember. Suddenly he heard Barty and Evan goofing around close to the door of their doormroom. His head snapped up as he hurriedly wiped his eyes with his shirt sleeve and pushed his hair out of his face. Then Barty knocked on the door,

"Oi Regulus open up. Pandora's come from the ravenclaw common room and Dorcas is up too , were all waiting for you to go to breakfast so hurry up."

Barty called loudly and Regulus did the best to make sure his voice didnt shake as he spoke back "No you guys go down to the hall without me I'll come in a bit got a couple things I want to do unpacking and stuff." His voice betrayed no sound of emotion. Outside of the door Evan rolled his eyes and Barty pulled him back down to the common room by the handyelling back at Regulus "Fine whatever Pandora'll be pissed she said she 'woke up early to see you' or whatever." Regulus felt a little twinge of guilt in his stomach, Pandora and regulus had been there for each other sice day one since the first train ride.

[reidmania]

girl if u dont update ur flicker series im throwing hands

FLICKER | spencer reid

whoopsies im sorry i forgot about this

warnings ; all chapters of this will contain strong mentions and descriptions of rape and murder, violence, eating disorders, suicides, abuse, sexual jokes and references, and all the criminal minds stuff, please be aware of this when reading.

"I don't think I am suppose to become friends with the FBI agents who are trying to find the guy who tried to kill me." Serenity said as she picked at the food Spencer had brought her.

She was sitting with Elle and JJ, the two girls on the team — who she had learnt were really quite friendly.

Spencer went back into the conference room after buying her a caesar from the cafe on the first floor of the police station, it was what she asked for and he was more than happy to spend the five dollars on something she would enjoy.

Elle scoffed, "I highly doubt there is rules on who you are allowed to be friends with." She said softly, sipping at the coffee in her hand, raising her eyebrow slightly as she looked at the brunette girl.

A soft laugh — almost a giggle left Serenity's lips. "Well yeah but is it not awkward for you guys? To be sitting here talking to a victim as if i'm not one?" She asked, she felt like it came out in the wrong way.

JJ frowned, "You are more than just a Victim." She said, she spoke in a way that almost made serenity believe it was true.

"How are you doing anyways. We know you're sitting here smiling and making jokes, but you don't have to put up a front, if you're struggling you can tell us you are struggling." Elle said softly, she had her own fair share of issues due to trauma and the worst mistakes she made was not talking about them.

Serenity pursed her lips slightly as she continued to move her fork around her salad that sat in the plastic container.

"I mean — I don't know really." She said honestly, she had never been quite the best at putting her emotions into words. Talking about what was going through her head when she could hardly understand it all herself just felt more difficult then keeping it to herself.

"Thats okay, but we want you to know you don't have to act like everything is okay, no one is expecting you to be fine." JJ said.

Serenity smiled softly at the two girls — she wondered how they worked in an environment like this — hearing about this sort of stuff all the time, seeing it constantly.

"Thank you" Serenity settled on replying, despite the thought that itched at her brain, wondering why everyone expected her to fall apart.

She didn't quite know how to do that.

"Hey Miss May." Serenity turned her head towards the sound of her name — it was so formal, and professional it almost made her uncomfortable.

She saw a man that she had yet to have talk to, "Hi." She said softly, furrowing her eyebrows.

"Hey, Im Agent Derek Morgan." He introduced himself, he hesitated before offering his hand for her to shake. Serenity could see in her eyes he was expecting rejection, maybe thinking the touch may be a certain trigger.

Instead she extended her own hand, meeting his, giving it a gentle shake. "Its nice to meet you" She said gently, a soft smile on her face.

He nodded his head. She watched as Derek— or agent Morgan looked around and Elle and JJ.

"Do you have any family, friends, anyone, that you'd like us to call?" He asked, returning his eyes to the brunette girl who had just replaced her hand in her lap.

The reality of the question dawned on her — if they did call anyone, then someone would know, someone real would know what happened to her. Embarrassment creeped up on her neck as she thought about it.

"Um, do I have to?" She asked after a moment. Maybe it was stupid for her to be alone throughout this process, maybe it was really smart — she didn't know. She did know however that how bad it was would be easier to handle than the embarrassment she would face if anyone found out.

"Of course not, but the option is there whenever, or if you change your mind all you have to do is let one of us know" Derek said, a soft — comforting sort of smile on his face.

He looked to the bowl of the untouched food, he knew Spencer had brought it for the girl, He was in the room when Spencer informed Hotch and Gideon about the girls lack of food consumption over the business week.

"Eat up, I think they will have more questions shortly." Derek said, before pausing for a minute. "We need you two in the conference room." He said, looking between JJ and Elle who were both quick to stand up.

They walked into the conference room, only about ten feet away from where Serenity was left sitting alone. She frowned as she stared down at the food in front of her.

There was a feeling of sick that lingered in her stomach, she didn't know if it was because she was now sitting alone and insanely on edge, paying hyper attention to every single sound around her, or if it was the idea of eating.

She wasn't completely alone, she knew that. Different officers were walking around the office like building, sitting at desks, but there was no one she knew.

She looked down at the food again, before grabbing it, turning around to the bin that was close behind her, throwing the salad out.

There was a hint of guilt in her chest, knowing Spencer had paid money for it, his own money. She made a promise to herself to pay him back for it no matter what.

It was going to go to waste one way or another. Either she would throw it out — like she did, or vomit it up.

She looked back down at the table as her skin began to grow hot, she could feel her pulse throughout her body as the realisation dawned on her —

no matter how many smiles she threw onto her face, it happened. It wasn't a bad dream or a twisted thought in her head, it really happened.

"Serenity?" She heard Elle's voice and a heavy sigh of relief left her lips as she looked up towards the brunette girl.

She nodded, showing she was listening to whatever the girl might have to say. There was a look of almost pity on the FBI agents face, it made Serenity feel sick to her stomach.

"Listen" Elle said softly as she walked towards the table. "We know you want to go home, but that really isn't an option. For your safety" She said.

Serenity tried to keep the soft smile on her face, as she listened to Elle speak. She wasn't completely sure how she would cope to being alone at home anyways, despite missing the comfort of her house.

"Okay." She said, nodding her head in understanding.

"We are going to go back, we have more access to the information we need back at our building, However we still have more questions for you and we want you to be as much apart of this process as your comfortable with" Elle started explaining, her palms rubbing at her jeans.

Serenity just nodded her head, not quite understanding the point Elle was trying to make. She tried to ignore the fact that them leaving would mean she would once again be alone — basically alone.

Elle sighed, "Would you be comfortable coming back with us, and staying there until we catch the guy so you can go home safe" Elle asked.

Serenity refrained from letting out a sigh of relief and jumping up to celebrate the fact she wouldn't be alone.

"That would be fine" She said instead.

Elle nodded her head with a soft smile on her lips. Serenity tried to stop herself from gushing about how being around Elle and JJ, or anyone in the team, made her feel the most comfortable she had in days.

"You're doing amazing." Elle reminded, before smiling once more; turning around to walk back to the conference room.

There was maybe five minutes before The team of FBI agents were walking out of the conference room with there stuff, and then a mere moment before Serenity was walking between Elle and JJ to one of their cars.

"We're full" JJ said sadly, unfortunately their car was being used to hold boxes — and boxes of files and information on the case, taking up the back seats.

"Thats fine, we got room" Gideon said, nodding his head softly towards the girl. Elle paused for a minute as her face traveled over to Serenity's.

"Is that alright with you?" Elle asked. Serenity knew what thoughts were going through her head. 'How would a kidnap and almost rape victim cope with being in a car full of men'

Serenity just nodded her head, a soft smile on her lips. There was an utter of agreement before she was shuffling into the middle of the back seat, sitting between Morgan and Reid.

Spencer watched her carefully as she shuffled to pull the seatbelt on, he watched her hands pause as she looked down at the connecter for the seatbelt for a moment, he wondered what was going on through her head.

"Do you care about music? Hotch and Morgan like to carpool" Gideon turned around to wiggle his eyebrows at the girl.

Hotch didn't smile or laugh, instead the scowl on his face stayed, a scoff leaving his mouth. "You and Morgan, you mean" Hotch corrected, only brightening Gideons smile.

A soft laugh left Serenity's lips, "As long as it's a good song." She said, a soft fond smile on her lips.

Spencer couldn't help but frown as he looked at the girl, the smile the girl had been showing all day — beautiful smile, if he was honest, it wss dampening more and more every-time she tried to put it on, making him realise it may of never been real to begin with.

"You just let us know if it's a bad song." Gideon said as Hotch began driving. Serenity smiled once more before dropping her head slightly to stare at her hands that resting on her knee's, beginning to pick at her jeans.

Spencer began genuinely questioning how well the police at the station did their jobs — she was still in the same dirty, ripped up clothes that had been stained with blood. They hadn't gone out of their way to make sure she ate or was drinking water, he was almost positive they didn't to an examination for injuries.

"Ill get you new clothes when we get there." Spencer said quietly to the girl on his side, it was quiet enough that it was just between them, which didn't take much since the music and Gideon's and Morgan's loud singing sort of took over any other sounds.

Serenity looked up at Spencer for a moment, eyes traveling over his face for a moment. She wanted to excuse it and say it was fine, that he didn't need to do that, but there uncomfortableness she was feeling everytime she looked at her jeans, or blooded sweater, it was like a reminder of what he did to her.

"Thank you." She said instead. He just nodded his head. Serenity could almost see the clocks working in his brain like he wanted to say more, but he never did, instead just offering her a soft smile.

Derek Morgan was sat beside her singing softly — out of tune and almost horribly, it matched the singing of the man in the passenger seat.

She wondered how a group of people who saw such horrible things, day in day out, could sit here and still smile, it was amazing to her, how all their skin seemed seemingly so much thicker than her own.

"Are you alright?" Spencer asked, maybe he noticed her zoned out trance, or maybe he was just doing his job — either way, Serenity was appreciative of the males carefulness, making sure she was okay.

It was sweet, maybe it was apart of him doing his job but it was still sweet of him.

She looked up at him, something about the look in his eye made her want to be honest and break down into tears, it made a small piece of the walls she had built up around everything valuable inside her slightly crumble. She hated it.

"Im okay." She said.

[ethansluvbot]

Hey can u maybe write something with reader who struggles with sh and suicide thoughts x Ethan 🫶

(You don’t have to do it if u feel uncomfy writing this)

CIGARETTES OUT THE WINDOW | ETHAN LANDRY

warnings: self harm, suicide (thoughts), a breakdown?? (idk if that's a trigger), eating disorder, unrealistic expectations (internet)

an: as someone who struggles with all of the above i would love to bring awareness. your body is beautiful which sounds pretty narcissistic of me since im not 100% comfortable with mine. if you struggle with theses disorders don't hesitate to reach out to me :)

you hated having to lie to ethan, almost as much as he hated when you did. if you didn't he wouldn't exactly leave you alone. you told him that you were done trying to live up to unrealistic expectations.

your staked up school work, the ghostface on the loose and your friends turning against each other didn’t help.

your professors didn’t understand how exhausting the work was. especially when you had your whole day full.

here you were locking the bathroom door behind you. the blade was in your hand as you slid down the door. would people even care if you were gone?

tears slipped down your face as you silently sobbed. you hated being like this, but it was your only out. bringing the knife to your thigh you shake.

you were always overly anxious about the way your body looked. your stomach was one of your worst insecurities. usually you ended up skipping meals. even making sure not to eat snacks as often.

you jump at the sudden knock on the front door. accidentally making a wound on your leg. you winced in pain grabbing a towel and wiping it.

"one minute," you yelled sliding your shorts back on. you recognized the voice to be ethan's. panicking you grab a bandage putting it on quickly.

rushing to your door you open it only to reveal your face. he looked down at you with a huge grin holding up a bag of take out. opening the door you let him walk in.

"hey! i know i showed up unexpectedly but i was thinking about you." he winked at you as blush began to creep up your face.

"thank you," you got up on your tippy toes enveloping his lips. you jumped up letting him sit you on the counter. trailing his hand up your thigh he felt something unusual.

"what's this?"

"oh, um i accidentally cut myself shaving," you looked down with a frown. he could see right through you, he knew that you did it again. even after you told him you quit there was always a fear of you lying to him.

"love, i thought you said you would quit?"

"i know, i know and im trying my hardest. its just so hard to stop once you begin," tears fall out of your eyes as you speak. he grabs you closer pulling you into a hug. collapsing into his touch you begin to huff. your mascara staining down your cheeks as you pull him closer.

"how about we eat and then we can go watch stab?" he cocks his head to the side to wait for your response. you nod excitedly hoping off the counter.

"i love you ethan," you didn't understand what you did to deserve him. he was a tall, nerdy and sweet boy that you couldn't live without. he loved her as much as she did, maybe even more.

"i love you too." he began to kiss your neck slowly.

[emberunderscore]

ranting about chapter titles of my prison duo fic for 1000+ words

so all of the titles of my prison duo fic (the sun and the night sky) are names of flowers. i had the fun idea and then i couldn't stop because i started a pattern and i refused to break the pattern unless it was important story wise (i'll get to that)

so here's a master list of all the first 10 chapters, their titles, what the flowers mean and why i chose them!

spoiler warning - go read my fic if you haven't already! (and if you don't want to but still wanna read this tw: talking about eating disorders)

Daffodils > Daffodils - new beginnings and rebirth In this chapter Icarus is handing over the title of Quixis to hc!Sherbert, they get to go home but they've changed so much they're practically a different person. not only did their eye change back, making them whole again, they've seen so much happen across the multiverse, watched other versions make mistakes and just watched them all live. they've learned from their lives. going home after about 200-250 years will be like being reborn for them, its a new beginning. especially because no one remembers them, not even the world itself, not even the records.

Forget-me-nots and Yellow Roses > Forget me nots - rememberance, and a symbol of memory loss/dementia Icarus meets with people they've known, Rae, Violet (also Isla, but they dont remember her, they didn't get their memories of the resets fully back). No one remembers them, Rae thought they died as a child. Near the end of the chapter Caspian gets home, he knows Icarus, and he reveals he never forgot them. He restores the memories of Rae and Violet, hence rememberance. They're getting remembered. > Yellow Roses - happiness, friendship, a way of saying "you make me happy" Icarus and Violet are friends in this universe, both of them have wanted it to be more for so long but they've both been too scared to lose the other to say anything. So they are really close friends, and Icarus is just so happy Centross remembers them that they don't mind that they're just friends, they can't bring themself to want them to be more when there was even a moment where they thought they'd never get what they had before back because even if they were to start again, they'd never be as close as they were. They both went through so much and they went through a lot of it together. They were both so shitty to each other but they stayed close despite it, they forgave each other despite it. So Icarus is happy with friendship, and Centross does make them happy.

Bluebells and Lavender > Bluebells - constancy, gratitude, everlasting love Centross is their constant, he's been there all three resets that they remember. He's always been there, and as Sherb (the actual real one) has mentioned before that Icarus' whole emotional state is tied to him. When they're fighting, they're spiraling, when they're happy they're happy, when (they think) he's dead they're deteriotation, and doing everything to bring him back. They're so grateful that they have him, and he's their rock. And of course they have always loved him, and him them. Everlasting love is so self explanatory they're GAY and LOVE EACH OTHER forever and ever > Lavender - silence, devotion, calmness and serenity Icarus says to much about Quixis stuff and shuts down, they go silent. Centross is devoted to helping them calm down and get somewhere safe, "One thing he knew was he was not leaving their side until they were sober" look how devoted he is look at him, he cares so much!!!! Centross helps them calm down, and get calm enough to fall asleep, they feel safe and calm around him.

Yellow Roses and Lily of the Valley > Yellow Roses - cowardice, sickness and mental illness These have appeared already, but they also have negative meanings, the repeated use of them now in their negative symbolism shows a shift in the tone of the story. This is the chapter they have breakfast with Ghaae+ household, they are unable to eat the food and dissociate during the meal, they end up leaving early, blaming it on a hangover - this part shows the cowardice, running away from their problem and hiding/running away. And the sickness and mental illness serve as a way to show that this is the beginnings of an eating disorder showing. > Lily of the Valley - sadness, pain, loss and death (+ poisonous) This shows the negatives of the breakfast, paired with the yellow roses the title of the chapter shows how Icarus' developing mental illness is already poisoning parts of their life. (thanking Vex for finding these flowers they're so good and they work so well and i struggled so hard with finding flowers with bad meanings <3)

Cornflowers and White Anemone > Cornflowers - symbol of hope, c!Ocie's favourite Yeah i just picked cornflowers cause i think they're c!Ocies fav and if im wrong its because i associate them with her or smth. Also symbol of hope!! its important because- > White Anemone - expectations, anticipation and undying love Violet wants to ask Ocie if he can date Ic but he wants to give her time to process the memories first (bc she hated them for a while there), he'll still love her and he'll always love them. While he's not with them he's anxious to get back to them, to make sure they're ok. Back with Icarus there are some unspoken expectations for them to eat, something they aren't able to do, specifically there's the scene Violet sits on the floor and tried to get them eat some bread, they end up dropping it on the floor so its inedible. Anticipation also works as this chapter is left on a cliffhanger, Centross asks Icarus if they're doing okay.

Orange Lillies > Orange Lillies - hatred, pride, disdain and contempt (+ they only live for a few weeks) Hatred, disdain and contempt are all emotions Icarus directs towards themself and their own body. They look at themself for the first time and see how underweight they are, they hate how they look and they hate themself. The pride symbolizm is irony, they should be feeling proud after managing to eat but they don't, it's a taunting meaning.

A Single Daffodil... > Singular Daffodil - misfortune A daffodil on its own represents differently than multiple, you might notice that all of the chapter titles are pluralises, including the use of Daffodils in the first one. In this chapter Icarus throws up for the the first time in the fic and they also faint in the second section. Which leads to Centross finding about their difficulties eating (neither of them know that it's an eating disorder, so they never use those words for it). It has the elipses at the end to show its split into two chapters.

...and Purple Hyacinth > Purple Hyacinth - Sorrow and a desire for forgivness All of the two days this chapter follows are not super happy for the both of them, near the end Icarus claims they've finished their house and that they plan to stay there. This leads Centross to go on a small tangent about how they didn't make a farm and they don't have any food, he tells them that they could die (pretty sorrowful if you ask me). Icarus feels the need to apologise for making him look after them.

Dandelions? > Dandelions - Hope, healing and resilience Icarus is doing a lot better in this chapter, they've made a lot of improvement really quickly and Centross is really proud of them for it, he has hope that they'll continue to improve. > ? This chapter is from Violet's point of view. The question mark is put there to tell the reader that something is wrong, that things are not as they seem. The reader not being able to see Icarus' thought or view of anything is intentional as they are in fact not doing okay. They are not getting better, they're trying to pretend to be better. For Centross. To make him trust them and make him happy.

Colorblind Not a flower. Remember when I said I didn't want to break the pattern of flower chapter titles unless it was important story wise? Yeah. This is where its important Icarus succesfully fooled Centross into thinking they were okay, and he lets them be alone that night. They know they're not okay but they don't want to get better at this point. This is their rock bottom. They punch the mirror in their bathroom out of disgust of their body and face, they faint from the motion, falling into the mirror and onto a pile of broken glass. They are left bleeding out on the floor of their bathroom, behind a locked door.

The title of this chapter comes from a song i listened to on loop to write most of the Icarus chapters, though it is available on spotify one of the creators is not a good guy and i don't want him to get money from it. The song is Empty by Jaiden Animations (wonderful and perfect) and Boyinaband <- hes the icky one, there are re-uploads of the song on youtube. it is a really good song (and the music video is cool)

Empty is a song about Jaiden's personal experience with an eating disorder, so it's very fitting. The title comes from the line "I know it's wrong but just because you know you're colorblind doesn't mean you can see the colors" The whole bit with them looking in the mirror is inspired by the line "I'm looking but I can't see myself" They look into their mirror but they don't see their own face, only Fables, and every other version of themself.

Colorblind also works really well against the flower chapters, because flowers are colourful, so colorblind means they can't see the colours of the flowers, and the colours are very important when it comes to symbolizm, they can't see them. It means that they look back on the week since they've got back and they can't see it for what it is. They actually can't remember most of it, i don't think this would ever come up in the fic outright but Icarus doesn't remember most of their days, all of them sort of blur together and they can't rememeber what thing happened on what day. This is a result of both their disocation and lack of eating leaving them disorented.

[theredofoctober]

MANNA— CHAPTER FOUR: TOAST

Dark!Hannibal Lecter x Reader x Dark!Will Graham AU fic

TW for eating disorders, noncon, abuse, drugging, mild Daddy kink (it'll all make sense). Cannot stress the ED/anorexia warnings more strongly for this chapter guys!

This is chronologically the fourth chapter in the series

--

You sit with your back to Dr Lecter as he readies himself to leave for his morning appointments, feeling like an ancient sacrifice to some forest beast, blindfolded and anointed, its snail-fed bride; the dread of unseeing, of not knowing what he does as you stare at the wall is so clever a punishment that you comprehend entirely why more brutal forms were inflicted before it.

He is ingenious in his malice, this man. The fear of the worst of things is the stick that will make you the supplicant to his merest whim.

In cyclical paths you think of Hannibal’s attack at the breakfast table, how he had intuited your intent to cut his throat before you had finalised the thought. The gymnast's grace with which he’d caught you, the psychic recognition of revolt— he has held others captive, before you, surely.

Likely he has killed.

There are many like Dr Lecter, in the medical field, rapists and murderers in their masses, scything the weak, and allowing their names to fall through the cracks in the system, where few care to retrieve them. Already you feel yourself staggering into that hopeless black, soundless as your gaoler guides you back into the en suite by a hand at your nape.

“You may take a bath, if you wish,” he says— how had he known you’d only stood at the sink that morning? “I have provided toiletries for you. No razors, I’m afraid. If you desire to shave, then Will or I must be present, which I doubt you would prefer, at this time. Besides, I have to leave for my first appointment in a few minutes. I trust that you will enjoy the solitude.”

You keep your back to him, half-swooning under your dread of those pitiless eyes.

“I hope that you will not do anything unwise, while I’m away,” says Hannibal, into the frigidity of your silence. “There is no mention of active suicidal ideation in your records. I would be surprised if you drowned yourself; of all the poetic figures you resemble, Ophelia, in her madness, is not of their number.”

“Why?” you whisper. “After what’s happened, I should want to die.”

Hannibal’s arm glides past you, twisting the faucets of the bath until water beats a war drum rhythm against the porcelain.

“But you do not,” he says, his voice so close to your ear that you jump. “Death, to you, would be an unfortunate symptom of the habits you keep. You are ambivalent about life, at the best of times, yet your goal is not to leave it. Your inherent belief is that you can maintain starvation at such a balance that you defy both those who have hurt you and God Himself.”

You watch hot water spin the air into steam, and a tear condenses on your left cheek, quite as warm.

“Does God even exist?” you ask. “If He did, He’d get me out of this.”

Dr Lecter unscrews the top of an expensive soap bottle and pours it into the bath, smoking the room with the scent of dusky vanilla; of course, his perfume for you would be gourmand.

“God kills and aids with equal relish. Who is to say that it is not your suffering that he would prefer?”

“That’s what you want?” you ask, in a whisper like a fragment of snow. “For me to suffer?”

“No, little one,” says Hannibal, touching your quivering lower lip with a gentle thumb. “If that was so, I would have left you to die in your parents care. What I want is for you to eat, and gain trust in those that yearn to help you.”

He straightens, smoothing down an imaginary crease in his suit.

“I have prepared lunch for you to eat while I am at work. I expect to see that you have eaten it.”

Your stomach, hard with breakfast, is nevertheless hollow enough to moan.

“All of it?” you ask.

“Yes,” says Hannibal, though not unkindly. “It is only a light portion. Will is joining us for dinner tonight.”

You sit down on the edge of the bath, your voice rising to a petulant note, as though Will were an unsavoury family friend, and not a man driven to rape by a whisper in his ear.

“I don’t want to see him.”

“Nevertheless, you will,” says Hannibal. “Like hunger, he is the spectre you must face, regardless of your fear of him.”

Hannibal switches off the taps and smiles down at you, undeterred by your unchanged, fearful disgust.

“Goodbye, little one,” he says. “And be good.”

You don’t reply, refusing to turn as he pats your shoulder and quietly retreats from the room. His leaving should be a relief, but his presence drenches the house like blood through a shroud. He scarcely seems to leave it at all.

You bathe rapidly, loathing to be at one with your nakedness, seeing it through your captors’ eyes.

Another set of clean clothes has been set out for you, a perfume of further vanilla, a clear bag of cosmetics, a weighty tome by Dostoevsky, and lunch in a pristine Tupperware box, which you avoid as you would a sleeping asp.

The bedroom door is locked, the sole, small window barred— new additions, you note from the shine on the steel. Hannibal has made definite your inability to escape; the only hope left bare to you is to draw attention from passers-by.

Desperate, you write a haphazard ‘HELP ME’ message in lipstick upon the window, hoping that the letters are large enough to be glimpsed from below.

That done, you sit in a convent-goer’s silence, cowed by the enormity of danger that has found you. The only thing that protects you from the engulfing depths of your abjection is anger, defiance that Dr Lecter thinks himself dictator of what may enter your body, food or flesh.

With a reedy surge of courage you vow to challenge his every attempt on your autonomy, even if you must do so quietly.

You begin with lunch. With a percussive gusto you throw the Tupperware into bathroom bin, thinking you’ve done well to avoid another round of narcotics, and to deny yourself what you do not think you deserve, after failing to abstain at breakfast.

The pasta smells delicious, of cloves and some ingeniously mixed sauce you know would break across your tongue in a tide of exceptional flavour. You pace from the bedroom to the en suite, close to retrieving the plastic tub from the clean trash bag and eating from it, unashamed of such a low; you’ve done worse, in your time, giving in to an animal urge to forage.

You lean against the wall, breathing in and out with trembling difficulty. Then you prise the Tupperware from the trash can and empty it out into the toilet bowl, flushing again and again until every remnant of food is washed down where even you cannot salvage it.

You are exuberant in your resolve, barely weakened under the burden of your captivity.

You shouldn’t be hungry, so soon after breakfast, yet you are— not in the way other people feel hunger, the ordinary cues having been lost to illness, long ago. Your desire for food is like that of a man-eating animal, driven more by a taste for flesh than necessity to eat.

That Will and Hannibal have given you a secondary conflict to wage war against your obsession is almost a gift— there is no longer much room amidst your crowding fears to pine over the food in your stomach.

Yet, there is enough. Purging has never been your particular habit—you’ve found it too difficult, requiring water you are too afraid to drink more than a glass of for fear of the added weight on the scale.

The French toast lies upon you like a sleep paralysis apparition in its density. Hanging over the toilet bowl, you choke on acid spittle, and promptly abandon the venture. Had there been laxatives, they would have been a fair alternative, but Hannibal has kept you as simply and functionally contained as a vivisectionist’s subject, which, to him, it seems, you are.

You bow to your defeat, on this count, allowing yourself another indulgence of tears. Only the fear of the calories you must burn thrusts you back on your feet, striding laps of the room until your vision swims with sparks.

Light-headed, you sprawl on the bed—the same that you were raped in, you think, and move to lie on the floor instead, comforted by the changed perspective of the room.

As a child you used to lie on your back like this, imagining that you could walk upon the ceiling. You’d lived years in such imagined lands, and would have remained in them, still, had they not grown dark, and overgrown by infiltrating matter. As you stare at the ceiling now it seems to blacken at the edges as though with a quickening mould, or else the fingers of some unseen thing, folding over your eyes until they shut.

*

You start from unsettled sleep to the gentle purr of an expensive car drawing in at the front of the house. Recalling your lip-sticked message, you blunder in a drowsy panic to the window and rub at the glass with your dress sleeve, spitting on the hem when the cosmetic merely smudges obstinately under your ministrations.

You cannot tell if the monster in the sleek Bentley below can see the window clearly, but you work rapidly, your breath sawing a panicked melody through your throat.

Though your dress is black, the cosmetic shows tellingly on the fabric. You wrestle the garment over your head and hide it at the back of a drawer, shoving on an almost identical item as movement stirs in the house below.

You sit down on the bed, picking the skin at your fingers as Hannibal approaches. When his key clicks in the lock you start, tearing a hangnail up to the cuticle. You suck your thumb like a child to soothe the wound, aware how infantile you must look.

“Hello, little one,” says Hannibal, politely, as he enters the room.

“I ate it all,” you say, in an all too eager rush. “The food. You don’t have to punish me.”

Your jailer looks at you levelly. His eyes are crow’s eyes, clever, and gelid.

“Let me see.”

He picks up the Tupperware, examining the box. Abruptly he circles the room, then the en suite, his slow tread an axe-man’s gait.

“You have lied to me,” he says, suddenly. “Lunch was disposed of. The toilet, I presume? Please do not insult me by claiming to have eaten it.”

You stare at him, nonplussed.

“I... how did you know?” you falter.

“I have a keen sense of smell. The scent of herbs is very clear in the air. An unusual aroma, for this particular room.”

There is a humour in his voice, but of a sinister kind you know well to fear.

“I’m sorry,” you say. “I couldn’t. I already ate so much, and you said I have to have dinner, so I...”

Hannibal shakes his head gravely.

“You must never waste food, if you can help it, little one.”

On a whim, you reach out to sieze one of his hands in yours.

“I didn’t mean it. Please don’t hurt me, Dr Lecter.”

He shakes his head regretfully.

“That is not for me to decide.”

You squeeze his hand as tightly as you are able, aware of how cold your fingers are in comparison to his hale warmth.

“Please, I’ll stay in solitary, or... or forfeit stuff, like they do at regular hospitals. Just don’t... touch me again. I can’t take it.”

“You discredit your endurance,” says Hannibal, smoothly. “It has presented itself as your greatest strength. It would be startling to see it fragment so early into your induction.”

You snap your hand back from him, cradling it as you would a broken bone.

“What’s wrong with you?” you hiss, and Dr Lecter releases a little grunt of amusement.

“I can only echo the interrogative. You have never opened up to any therapist about the most crucial traumas in your past. I am intrigued by their mysteries.”

You glance away, lips tightened. You will give him nothing of your secrets, not even the sheerest slip. He will use them against you, this you know.

“I must prepare for dinner,” says Hannibal. "Come along, little one. You will assist me. It will do you good to be in the presence of food through its preparation.”

*

As anticipated, your presence in the kitchen is fraught with excruciating temptation. As you grate vegetables and slice meat you often clear your throat to mask the thunder of starvation in your abdomen, which Dr Lecter politely ignores.

Though he maintains a flow of light, one-sided conversation, you know how narrowly he watches you, analysing every twitch and attempt to mentally detach from the scents and sumptuous plenty spread out on the countertops before you.

At last, he relents, an unexpected mercy.

“That’s enough. You may wash your hands and sit at the dinner table.”

You linger, gawking at him, not quite believing in your release.

“Go on,” says Dr Lecter, chuckling slightly. “I will join you presently. Our guest will be arriving, soon.”

Blinking, you say, “I’m... allowed to sit in there alone?”

With an almost fond glance, Dr Lecter says, “Certainly. You will not run, for you know that I will follow.”

Will arrives half an hour later, smelling of night rain and cologne. His expression is sullen and furtive as he greets you, his eyes floorwards, lashes fluttering behind his glasses.

You clutch the sides of your chair, silent, sickened, resentful; the man behaves as if it is he who was injured by the assault, as though the shame gnaws down to the core of him, leaving him raw and naked before you.

He sits in the chair closest to the door, whether to guard the exit or to forge the path to a quick egress you cannot say.

Hannibal sets a glass of wine before him; you he only gives water, as though you are not old enough to drink.

“The first course will be served presently,” he comments, surveying the tension at his table. “I hope that you will both enjoy it. You must be hungry, little one.”

You shake your head, afraid that if you open your mouth to speak you will only scream. This meal isn’t meant to tantalise the senses, but to torture: you know it from the unwilling reunion of his guests, of the punishment that leers from a narrow future upon you.

A quivering shrew, you stare at your untouched glass as Will clears his throat, pressed by the pains of your silence to speak.

He invokes your name, making it as foul as a curse.

“I don’t claim to be a master at first impressions, but the other night...”

“Please don’t talk to me,” you whisper, and Will flinches, pushing his glasses up his nose with bumbling fingers.

You’ve upset him, you realise, with a cold start of revulsion. Him, the violator, bruised by his own brutality, as though he’d no choice in the matter. Had he expected you to be his friend, to care for his sensitivities?

There is something wrong with Will Graham, you think, like a flaw in some creaking ship apt to annihilate the vessel, under pressure. That, or bleed all around him in his shrapnel, while he tends to their many pieces with all the moroseness of Beauty’s beast.

It strikes you that you should make him your ally, this hopeless Caliban, if you can stand it. You will need his favour, against Dr Lecter, to convince him to set you free.

Still, you cannot yet bring yourself to earn it. When Hannibal returns to set the first of many plates upon the table you are wordless in your terror, your fork as slippery as a salmon in your grip.

Will and Hannibal make conversation about a murder case in the area— both seem intricately involved in the psychology of the killer, discussing at length his motives in the poetic lexis you are becoming accustomed to, in this prison.

Still, their eyes and words wind back to you with a potent eventuality, displayed before them in your borrowed dress like a goldfinch chained to an elaborate perch.

Your food remains on your plate, flattened beneath your knife, a childish attempt to conceal your inability to eat it. There is too much weight in these scarce morsels, calories that would swell you into some fantastic horror, or so your thoughts inform you.

If you could eat, you would do so; even to save yourself it is beyond you.

Only water do you swallow, the bottom of the glass thick with a bitter sediment.

“We should talk about her, shouldn’t we?” asks Will, reluctantly, his gaze darting to your plate.

"Indeed we should," says Hannibal, his hand tracing the stem of his wine glass as he would the length of your throat. “Specifically, your response to her residence here, and to her treatment. You feel guilt for having carried out a punishment you feel was not entirely deserved.”

Will swallows, the click of saliva in his throat like the folding of a leaf underfoot.

"That's the problem," he says. "It did feel deserved. Violence for violence. There was a righteousness in defending you. I've felt it before, with GarretJacob Hobbs."

The name holds significance you cannot grasp. Who was this man, and what does he mean to your wardens?

"And like that day, protecting Abigail," Will continues, "I'm left looking at my own hands, repulsed by my own readiness to engage in a taboo and... enjoy it. But she isn’t like either Hobbs."

This, directed at you with a glance of murky guilt.

"She's unwell. Confused. And, as far as your patient was concerned, she was as in her right to protect herself as I was in correcting her."

"Stop,” you say, quietly.

Both men turn to you, startled by your sudden interjection.

"You disagree with Will's analysis of last night's events?" asks Hannibal, with interest. "By all means, tell us what you see. There is no sole analysis of any art; what picture do you glimpse from within the canvas?"

"I'm not yours," you say. "You can't correct me, like I'm something you own, that you made."

Dr Lecter examines your face with a dangerous patience.

"But we are making you. Or remaking, it you prefer. That is why you are here: a construction of what we two will define from mortar and broken glass."

You cannot respond to such unhinged logic without lowering yourself to entertain it, an undeniably clever tactic.

Hannibal brings another course to the table, another, another; Roman emperors could not have gorged like this, yet the two men—both lean, and Will particularly small—clear their plates as though swallowing mere air.

You pretend to eat, chewing food and spitting it into napkins or an empty glass when the other diners look away. It is only when Will barks at you suddenly that you realise he's been watching you, all along.

"What are you doing?" he asks, sharply.

"Nothing,” you mumble.

Will scoffs.

"Nothing? Nothing is not why you're here. You’re starving yourself. Why?"

Disgust pours from him like a vapour, tainting the air you breathe with his unearned judgement.

"Because... it's just what I do,” you say, limply. “It... helps. It's taken over everything.'

“Then stop letting it,” snaps Will; you don’t understand why he’s so affronted, why he has suddenly taken up the reigns of the game. “You're giving into this, letting it cut holes into you. You'll die trying to achieve some abstract state of being that you will never reach. Do you want that?"

Strange, the echo of your conversation with Dr Lecter by the bath.

"I— don't know,” you say, after a strained pause. “Sometimes I'm not sure if I care what happens to me. And sometimes, I get scared."

Will speaks through gritted teeth.

"So let go of it."

You could laugh at so preposterous a command, but instead you say, "I can't."

The atmosphere at the table has subtly changed, all players on the board at last.

"Why not?” asks Will, softly.

You perceive something like care in his voice, an impossibility.

"Because it makes me feel better," you say. "Stronger. I don't want it to go away."

Hannibal sits back, listening in purposeful silence.

Will removes his glasses, placing them into his pocket.

"Today, at this meal, you’ll try,” he says. “Appreciate the effort that was made for you."

At this you do laugh, a soft, broken sound.

"Go to hell. You're a monster. You did what he told you to, and— and you jumped like a dog to do it. Aren't you ashamed?"

Dr Lecter’s posture tightens slightly, and Will flounders, losing a little of his confidence.

"I know it's probably not what I should have done,” he admits. “It’s a radical treatment. And dangerous. But I— we can't take it back. And if I can contribute to you evolving from this then I'll do whatever it takes."

There is honesty in this confession, somewhere, even empathy.

"Don't act like you care about me,” you mumble, and shove your plate away from you, across the table, knocking over your glass in the process.

The effects of whatever drug was in the water are taking hold, making you feel loosely unstable, your inhibitions cast down, and forgotten.

Hannibal’s smile has fallen.

"Will,” he says, curtly. “I think you have tolerated quite enough from our obnoxious guest. I suggest that you consider discipline. She has already broken the rules in place for her today. A meal discarded, a message for help written on her window— It is fortunate that no one came close enough to the house in my absence to see it."

You stand up from your seat, swaying slightly, your heart shuttering like cards on a bicycle wheel to find yourself caught you in your efforts to escape.

"I hate you,” you say. “I want to leave. Let me go."

"Hannibal,” Will cuts in; his face is white, and greasy with anxiety. “I'm not ready to handle this again."

Dr Lecter’s expression shifts darkly.

"Then I will fulfil that responsibility on your behalf."

He rises from his seat and is behind you for the second time this day before you've the sense to run. Shunting you forward onto the table top, he tears your dress methodically up your back, his free hand holding you down with the same carelessness with which he’d handle unsatisfactory meat.

"You are sure that you do not wish to participate?" he says, over your shrieks of protest.

Will shakes his head. His eyes are rolling like a bull’s in his distress.

"No. I— can't."

Hannibal stills; you feel his hand between his belt and your behind, on the precipice of setting loose his sick lust.

"Then should I choose another punishment? There are many at our disposal."

"Don't leave it up to me to decide,” croaks Will. “I feel... precarious."

"I forgive you your uncertainty,” says Dr Lecter. “I, however, have none."

A drugged swell flows through you, looping a weird ecstasy about your abdomen as Hannibal leans down to speak to you directly.

"You are a very disobedient girl. You know the consequences, and yet you do not abandon your misdeeds."

"I'm not playing your stupid game,” you whine, dimly away of how foolish you sound. “I'm not playing.”

“Of course you are,” says Hannibal, coldly. “In time you'll forget that it was ever a game, to begin with.”

He forces himself within your cunt in a smooth and gliding viciousness, sending another brocade of sensation through your loins. The drug you’ve ingested makes the pain a most succulent wonder, playing your nerves with all the sinister beauty of the Theremin.

You sob as he fucks you, slow, and sure, and deep. It should not possibly be pleasurable, is intended only to exert power, and to humiliate— but he cannot help but create art, casting you on the stage of his design.

As Hannibal hurts you, he is looking at Will, whose face bears a quickening darkness. It strikes you quite suddenly that Dr Lecter wants the other man’s approval, perhaps even his jealousy; you understand that you are a disposable object that holds the temporary interest of these two.

It may not last.

Should they tire of you, what then? Thrown back to your parents, perhaps, more broken than you arrived. Surely not, for you may spill their secrets to the world, and ruin their lives.

Something worse, then.

You circle back to that earlier thought, and terror flies back in all its night glory.

Suddenly you twitch and shake in horrified spasms, and though Hannibal continues to fuck you something alters almost imperceptibly in his pace.

"Stop," says Will, suddenly. "That's enough."

"You cannot leave a deer half-killed, Will,” says Hannibal; glancing back over your shoulder, you are horrified by how calm he appears, even now. “Maimed, it will stumble, weakened, until another predator picks it from the herd. I must hunt her to the end, Will. It is all that can be done."

You see your tears soddening the tablecloth, mucus pooling beneath your cheek.

"Don't kill me," you whimper. "I don't want to die."

Hannibal stills a moment, pulling your head back to look into your eyes.

“We do not intend to kill you, little one," he says. "Only for you to accept what you are. You will humour what we ask of you?"

"Yes!” you cry, with a delirious bray in your voice. “I— I’ll try!"

Blue eyes, black eyes, both pairs so equally bright.

"Good girl,” says Hannibal, and resumes his use of your flesh, his cock making a gauntlet of you, every thrust grinding you against the elaborate tablecloth with such intelligent pressure you groan beneath him, juddering with the effort it takes not to come.

Will's gaze has changed, and there is colour in his cheeks. He grips the edge of the table as though to prevent himself from falling, or else rising to join his companion in your debasement.

"Please stop," you stutter out, wanting to bite your own tongue off for the embarrassment of the utterance. “I won’t be bad anymore.”

Hannibal slows deliberately, his cock withdrawing to the point it almost slips from your cunt before he sinks it in the lake of your arousal again.

"Come, then," he says, simply. "And you may go to bed."

In a wailing convulsion you climax at once, scrabbling at the floor on steepled toes as the pleasure rolls from your cunt through your thighs. Hannibal waits for your last twitch to cease before he finishes within you, utterly soundless as he leans down, kissing the back of your neck in a gesture that is curiously gentle.

He steps away from the table and helps you stand, holding you to his chest as you whimper in the after bursts of sensation.

"Are you still troubled, Will?" he asks, over the top of your head.

The other man looks shell-shocked, his pallor an almost grey.

"I'm... undecided."

You pull away from Hannibal, remembering with a flare of insane joy that you are released from the table, that you need not eat, after all.

"Then I am mistaken in perceiving another response in you," says Dr Lecter.

Will looks hurriedly away, and it is only as you push past him to flee for your room that you understand Dr Lecter's meaning. The younger man adjusts himself, flushing, sitting as close to the table as space will allow.

He is hard, having watched his friend fucking you.

Will Graham is not so repentant as he'd taken such pains to seem.