lovecumdumpy - Tumblr blog

lovecumdumpy · 3 months ago

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devil on my back

❝ and when you're crying, are you lying about who you're crying for? ❞

ruby x reader

summary ⛧ You were a hunter. Ruby was a demon. It should’ve been simple. But she held you like you meant something—said there’d be a future, after Lilith. Said she wanted it with you.

She lied.

You don’t know how or when it started.

You try to remember—try to trace the shift, name the moment things changed. When the snarky comments you spit at Ruby lost their edge. When the disdain in your voice softened into something quieter, almost uncertain. When the fire turned to embers. When your anger stopped feeling like conviction and started sounding more like deflection.

You used to hate her. You were supposed to.

She was a demon, after all. An enemy. A threat. You knew that—reminded yourself every time she smiled like she knew a secret you didn’t, every time she touched Sam’s arm or lingered just a second too long in a darkened hallway. You weren’t supposed to trust her. Not with your life. Not with your secrets. And certainly not with the fragile, feral thing clawing in your chest whenever she looked at you like you were next.

But somewhere in her sulfur-stained breath and bitter smirks, you found something you couldn’t name. A presence. A tether. An itch that only she could scratch. You stopped wishing she’d leave and started noticing the moments she didn’t. Started waiting for them.

Sam fell for her—hard and fast, swept away by her promises of saving the world and poison dressed up like purpose.

But you?

You fell slower.

Worse.

It wasn’t about belief. It was about need.

She never asked you to trust her. She just kept showing up. Kept letting you get close enough to think it meant something. Close enough to wonder if maybe—maybe—you were the one person she didn’t want to ruin. That maybe, despite what she was, there was something soft beneath her edges. Something like want.

You knew it was wrong. Knew what she was, what she was doing. But it didn’t stop you. It never stopped you.

Because she never had to lie to you. She just had to be near.

And somewhere along the way, you stopped resisting.

You let the wrongness settle into your bones like warmth. Like gravity.

You convinced yourself that what she offered wasn’t corruption—it was connection. That her hands weren’t breaking you; they were holding you.

They weren’t.

You were never in love. You were addicted.

Sam got her blood. You got something harder to name.

The way she touched you—light, thoughtless, practiced—meant nothing. And still, it lit your nerves like static. Her fingers would graze your wrist, your shoulder, your spine, and linger just long enough to make you wonder if it meant something. Just long enough for you to feel ridiculous for thinking so.

Her eyes tracked you sometimes—too sharp, too long—and you’d feel them, even with your back turned. You started dressing like you weren’t sure if you wanted to be seen or not. Started walking slower when she was behind you. Started listening for the sound of her boots on cheap motel carpet.

She never said anything. Not directly. But she looked at you like you were hers.

And when Sam wasn’t around, her voice softened. Just a little. Just enough.

She never promised you anything. Never asked for anything, either.

But you gave her everything anyway—your time, your silence, your self. You didn’t know what you were to her. You still don’t.

But you know how it felt.

How it feels.

Like drowning in something sweet.

Like dying for something that never even touched you the way you wanted it to.

Like love, if love was built out of hunger and shame and a voice that always whispers, maybe this time she means it.

It didn’t happen all at once.

There was no buildup. No breathless moment of mutual understanding. Just a cheap motel room with flickering light, the meaningless banter you two dragged on with things still somehow being unsaid—a fight that wasn’t really about anything at all.

“Territory,” Ruby snapped, stepping in too close. “You need to learn how to stay in your own lane.”

You scoffed, eyes flashing. “Funny, coming from a demon who keeps pretending she belongs here.”

The words were reflex. The bark, automatic. You didn’t mean them. Not really. You just needed to push back, to keep space between you—because when there wasn’t any, you stopped thinking clearly.

Her gaze dragged over your face, deliberating, deciding. “Keep telling yourself that.”

And then she kissed you.

Not soft. Not tender. Rough and hard, just like everything else about her.

Her lips crashed into yours and swallowed whatever protest you might’ve had. There was no hesitation in her body, no question in her touch—like your mouth had always belonged to her. Like she’d just been waiting for the right moment to collect.

You froze.

But only for a second.

Then your body betrayed you—hands fisting in the collar of her jacket, mouth opening against hers. You didn’t know if it was instinct or craving. You didn’t care.

She pushed you, firm and relentless, until the backs of your knees hit the bed. Her mouth never left yours, devouring, commanding—until she finally broke the kiss and pulled back to look at you.

You were flushed. Breathless. Starved.

And she drank it in.

Her eyes scanned your face like a hunter savoring the kill. (Aren’t you the hunter here? No. You’re the prey) Black and bottomless, and still—still—you thought you saw something human in them. A flicker of want, maybe. Or worse: recognition.

You wanted to believe it was real. That something about you touched something in her that no one else could.

So you took her by her face and pulled her back in.

She laughed—low and dark—before shoving you backward. You hit the mattress with a bounce, breath knocked from your lungs. And she followed, straddling your lap, pinning you beneath her thighs like she owned you.

Her mouth moved to your neck, all bite and hunger, sucking and nipping at sensitive skin like she wanted to leave proof behind. You gasped, squirming, trying to hold on to something—sanity, maybe—but she burned through it like paper.

“W–Wait—” you choked out. “S–Sam…”

He wasn’t here, but he could walk in any minute. You weren’t even sure if you were warning her or yourself.

Ruby didn’t stop.

If anything, she sank her teeth in harder.

Pain bloomed sharp beneath your skin.

“Ah—!” you cried, jerking.

She lifted her head and looked at you—lips smeared with your blood. Your chest heaved, but the protest on your tongue died the second her hand slid between your legs.

She palmed you through your soaked underwear, and your whole body jolted.

“Don’t ever say his name in front of me again,” she said, voice low and razor-sharp. Her breath was hot against your cheek. “Not when you’re this wet for me.”

You couldn’t speak. You nodded, eyes wide, dazed from the rush of pain and arousal and shame.

She smiled—slow and cold—and pressed her hand harder against you. You whimpered, unable to stop yourself from bucking into her touch. Needing it. Needing her.

Despite knowing what she was.

The silence afterward stretches long and heavy.

The air is still thick with sweat and something unspeakable—like smoke that hasn’t quite cleared, clinging to your skin and lungs. Your thighs tremble faintly with the aftermath, and the sheets under you are tangled, damp with heat and breath and sin.

Ruby’s lying beside you, propped lazily on one elbow, her other hand drifting aimlessly over your bare stomach. Her touch is featherlight now. Reverent. A cruel kind of contrast to the bruises blooming across your skin, the sharp sting still throbbing at your throat where she bit down hard enough to draw blood.

Her fingers brush over that spot now—soft. So soft. Like she’s apologizing for it without saying a word. Or maybe she’s admiring it. You can’t tell. You’re not sure there’s a difference with her.

The room is dim, golden with lamplight. Outside, a truck rolls by, its low rumble barely audible through the motel’s thin walls. Inside, there’s only the sound of your breath. Unsteady. Shallow.

You try not to look at her. You try to pretend this is nothing.

But her hand keeps moving. Down your ribs. Across your side. Fingertips skimming along the curve of your waist with a patience that almost breaks you.

You hate how much you like it.

“Relax,” she murmurs, voice just above a whisper. “No one’s watching.”

That should make you feel safe. It doesn’t. It just makes you wonder if she wants someone to watch. (Maybe Sam?)

You tense under her hand. She notices, of course she does.

“Still thinking too much.” Her nails rake lightly along your hipbone, just enough to pull a shiver from you. “You always do.”

You shift slightly, eyes flicking toward the ceiling. “I’m not thinking.”

“Liar,” she says, and smiles. Not cruelly—worse. Fondly.

Her fingers curl around your wrist, dragging your hand to her bare chest and holding it there. You can feel the rise and fall of her breath. The warmth of her skin. It’s so human. She feels so human.

You almost don’t care that it’s not real. That she’s not.

It’s not fair.

Those hands had you writhing beneath her not ten minutes ago—fisting the sheets, sobbing into her shoulder, too far gone to know if what you were feeling was want or worship or just plain fear. And now they’re gentle. Careful. Loving, almost. Everything Ruby wasn’t.

She brushes a strand of hair from your face and tucks it behind your ear. The backs of her knuckles linger against your cheek like she’s memorizing you.

Like you’re hers.

You should pull away. You should ask her what this is. Demand clarity. Demand truth.

But when she leans in and presses her lips to your forehead—barely a breath of contact—you melt.

Not because you trust her.

Because you want to.

And that’s so much worse.

You don’t sleep.

Ruby does—or she fakes it well. Her breathing evens out, slow and deliberate, one arm still draped across your stomach like a warning. Like she knows you’d try to leave if she let you.

You stare at the ceiling.

The motel fan clicks overhead, lazy and uneven, pushing hot air around the room like it’s trying to suffocate you. Your skin still smells like her. Like sweat and smoke and iron. You should shower. You should get dressed. You should go.

But you don’t move.

Because the ache in your chest is growing louder. Curling up inside your ribs, sharp and pressing.

You bring your hand to your face to wipe at your eyes before you even realize they’re wet.

You’re crying.

You’re somewhere in the country part of Iowa, investigating a case that led you to an abandoned barn.

The air smells like mold and rot and old paper.

You step through the wrecked archway first, flashlight cutting a narrow beam through the dust. Sam’s close behind, EMF reader tucked in his hand, silent and alert. Ruby lags a few feet off to the side—unarmed, unconcerned. She walks like this is a field trip and not a salt-and-burn.

“She’s been here,” Sam mutters, scanning the cracked marble floor. “Three missing guys in a week. Same M.O. Burned eyes, scorched lungs. Angel maybe.”

“Or a demon with a flair for drama,” Ruby adds lightly.

You shoot her a glance. “I thought your kind preferred shadows and knives.”

Ruby smiles at you, slow and amused. “Oh, sweet thing, we like whatever gets the job done.”

Sam doesn’t catch the look she gives you, but you do. You feel it in your stomach—like heat pooling beneath your ribs, nauseous and electric. That same look she gave you the first time. The night it started. The night she crawled inside you and never really left.

You try not to react. You can’t give her the satisfaction.

You round the broken pulpit, boots crunching glass. Sam’s EMF reader starts whining—soft, steady.

You both freeze.

“Basement,” he says. “There’s a trap door behind the altar.”

You crouch, pulling at a loose plank. Beneath it, darkness yawns—a narrow stone stairwell descending into what smells like sulfur and bones. Lovely.

You glance at Sam. “You ready?”

He nods.

You go first.

The basement is colder than it should be. Lined with old pews, old sigils, salt circles long since broken. Someone tried to fight back down here. And lost.

Then you see her.

Not a demon—not Ruby’s kind, anyway. Just a witch, desperate and cracked around the edges. Her hands are black with blood and ash. Her lips moving in some long-forgotten dialect.

Sam moves fast.

You follow.

It’s over in minutes.

A knife to the gut. A Latin phrase. Her body crumples in a heap of blood and wasted power. You barely breathe through it.

But Ruby doesn’t move.

She watches the witch die with unreadable eyes. Something about her stillness makes your skin crawl.

“What?” you hiss.

She blinks, slowly, like surfacing from a dream. “Nothing.”

Sam doesn’t notice the tension. He’s too busy scrubbing the chalk sigils off the walls.

Ruby steps closer to you, too close.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” you ask, too sharp.

“I’m just wondering,” she murmurs, “how long you’re going to keep pretending you’re not like her.”

You stiffen. “Excuse me?”

“She was desperate,” Ruby continues. “Lonely. Messy. Wanted someone to save her. Sound familiar?”

Sam calls your name from across the basement. You ignore him.

“Shut up,” you say. “Don’t.”

Ruby tilts her head, studying you. Her voice softens. “I’m not judging. I like that about you.”

“No, you don’t.”

“I do,” she insists. “It’s cute. The way you still think this is about good and evil. Right and wrong. Like any of that matters anymore.”

You clench your fists.

Sam’s footsteps approach behind you. Ruby leans in close, lips nearly brushing your ear.

“Tell him,” she whispers. “Tell him what we’ve done. Tell him you let me fuck you in his bed while he was out getting holy water.”

You whip around, eyes wide.

Sam’s only just appeared in the doorway. “Everything okay?”

You swallow thickly, forcing a smile. “Yeah. She’s just being—her.”

Ruby’s smile is razor-sharp and silent.

Hours later, Sam’s asleep.

You’re not.

You’re outside, leaning against the motel’s concrete railing, watching rain smear the edges of the parking lot. The air is cool. Still.

Then you hear the door creak open behind you.

Ruby steps out, barefoot, zip-up sweater thrown over a tank top, like she’s pretending to be human again.

“You gonna tell me what’s eating you?” she asks, voice low.

You don’t look at her. “You know.”

She sighs. “Oh, come on. You’re not still mad about earlier?”

You don’t answer.

“I was only teasing.”

Again, silence.

She walks closer, close enough that her fingers ghost over your wrist. You don’t pull away.

“I just think it’s funny,” she says softly. “How fast you forget what this is.”

You clench your jaw. “What is this?”

A beat.

She doesn’t answer.

Of course she doesn’t.

“You make me feel insane,” you whisper.

She shrugs. “Maybe you are.”

Your chest burns. “I hate you.”

“No,” she says, stepping into your space. “You want to.”

Her lips brush your cheek. Barely there. You suck in a breath you don’t want to take.

“You’re going to keep doing this,” you murmur, “until there’s nothing left of me, aren’t you?”

Her voice is gentle. “I don’t know what you mean, baby.”

She kisses you.

Soft this time. Gentle. With hands that could kill you in less than a second and make it look like mercy.

And even now—even after everything—you let her.

Because maybe, for half a second, it feels like being wanted.

Even if it’s not real.

Even if she’ll be gone in the morning.

Even if she never says your name like it means something.

You hadn’t planned on riding in the same car as Ruby.

But Sam’s car wouldn’t start, and Ruby offered. Of course she did. And Sam looked at her like she hung the damn moon.

“Trust her,” he’d said as he handed you the EMF reader. “You two can clear the south wing while I cover the third floor.”

You wanted to say no. You almost did.

But Ruby was already smiling from the driver’s seat, one arm draped over the steering wheel like she had all the time in the world.

And it’s not like you could explain to Sam that something about her unsettled you—not without sounding jealous. Not without revealing whatever was going on between the two of you.

So you went.

The school is massive. Crumbling brick, rusting fences, thick vines choking the facade. It feels abandoned by time itself. Ruby pushes open the door unhesitatingly, unafraid.

She glances at you sideways as you both step into the dusty main hallway.

“You’re quiet,” she says.

You shrug, scanning the entryway with the EMF. “Just focused.”

She hums low in her throat, like she knows that’s a lie. “What’s wrong now?”

“Nothing,” you say, too quickly.

“Hmm,” she murmurs. “Sure.”

You keep moving.

The south wing is dark and claustrophobic. Hallways sag, and old dorm room doors hang open like broken mouths. Ruby walks ahead, deliberately keeping her back to you.

“Tell me something,” she says suddenly. “You ever think about leaving?”

“What, the life?”

“No. Me.”

You stop.

“I didn’t think I was… with you,” you say cautiously.

She turns, eyebrow raised. “You sure?”

The air tightens. You don’t answer. She smirks and starts walking again.

“Relax,” she says over her shoulder. “I’m not here to fight.”

You don’t believe her. But you follow anyway.

Room 214 is colder than the others. A chalkboard with faded writing, a row of ancient cots. Ruby steps in and says nothing for a moment. She’s still.

“This is the room.”

“What room?”

“The summoning happened here. A few years back. A failed one. But they didn’t close the portal right. That’s why people keep dying.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You’re just now telling us that?”

“I didn’t want Sam going off half-cocked. He’d screw it up.”

You cross your arms. “But you trust me?”

Ruby turns to face you fully now, walking closer. “You’re smarter. Sharper. You know how to listen.”

You shake your head, uneasy. “You don’t need me to listen, Ruby. You need someone to bleed for you.”

She doesn’t flinch. “If I told you I’d do it myself if I could—would you believe me?”

“No.”

She laughs quietly. “Good. I like you better when you’re not naive.”

You step back. “What’s the play here?”

“There’s a presence in the basement. It’s feeding off residual energy. I need a pulse. Something to lure it to the surface.”

You feel it before she even says it.

“No.”

“You don’t have to touch anything. Just stand in the summoning ring.”

“You want me to anchor the ritual?”

“I’ll protect you,” she says, stepping closer. “I always do.”

You should say no. You should leave.

But something in her tone—warm, almost reverent—makes your chest ache. Like she’s handing you a crown you didn’t ask for.

Like you want to earn her approval.

Even now.

Even after everything.

You step into the circle.

It’s subtle at first. A whisper, a static buzz in your jaw. Then it builds—pressure behind your eyes, something thick pressing into your chest.

“Ruby,” you start. “Something’s wrong—”

“Stay still.”

“It’s pushing through me,”

“Stay. Still.”

“No, no! I don’t think I can—!”

But she’s already chanting.

The circle pulses.

The thing that bursts through the floor isn’t human. Or demon. It’s something older. Black mist curling like vines, shrieking from a thousand mouths.

And Ruby’s chanting falters.

The barrier flickers.

She looks at you—dead in the eye—and you realize in one awful flash: She knew.

This wasn’t just a summoning.

It was a test.

The thing crashes against the sigils, and your nose bleeds. Your knees buckle. Ruby isn’t moving to help.

You yell, “Do something!”

She watches.

Finally, after what feels like forever, she closes the circle. The entity evaporates with a final shriek, and the pressure collapses.

You fall to the floor, trembling, ribs screaming.

You’re panting, desperately trying to swallow in air as she kneels beside you like she cares. One hand cups your face while the other rubs your back in an attempt to soothe.

“I told you you were strong enough,” she whispers.

You look at her, broken and furious. “We could’ve both died if you’d been wrong.”

She leans in, brushing hair from your face.

“I wasn’t wrong.”

Then she kisses your forehead.

Not soft. Not comforting.

Claiming.

Sam finds you outside twenty minutes later. You’re sitting on the hood of the car, hands still shaking.

“You okay?” he asks, helping you down.

“She didn’t tell you everything,” you say. “She put me in the circle.”

Sam frowns. “She told me it was already active when you went in. That you offered.”

“She lied, Sam.”

He gives you a strange look. Like he doesn’t know who to believe.

“Ruby saved people before we ever met her,” he says. “She’s trying. She trusts you.”

You want to scream.

Instead, you nod.

The motel bed smells like mildew and old cigarettes.

You’ve been lying in it for hours. Ruby hasn’t said a word. She’s perched at the table, one leg tucked under her, sipping coffee that’s long gone cold.

Your hands still shake when you reach for your water. You’ve barely eaten. You haven’t showered. Your skin feels like it’s been wrapped too tight around your bones since the thing in the summoning circle slammed into your psyche and left bruises no one can see.

Ruby hasn’t apologized.

She won’t.

“You’ve been crying,” she says finally, voice soft but unbothered.

You don’t look at her. “Of course I have. You used me.”

“No,” she replies. “I chose you.”

You laugh bitterly, staring at the stained ceiling. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

She stands. Crosses the room slow, barefoot, unhurried, like she has nowhere else to be but right here. You tense, but you don’t move.

She crawls onto the bed beside you, eyes never leaving your face.

“You think I could’ve trusted Sam in that circle?” she asks quietly. “He would’ve hesitated. Panicked. Screwed everything up.”

“And I didn’t?” Your voice cracks.

“No,” she murmurs, dragging her fingertips across your shoulder. “You didn’t.”

You try to pull away. She doesn’t let you. One hand drifts to your hip, anchors you there.

“I can’t do this anymore,” you whisper.

She leans closer. “Sure you can.”

Your breath catches. “I’m not your weapon.”

“No,” she agrees, her voice low. “You’re not.”

She kisses you.

It’s soft at first. Reverent. Like she’s worshipping your pain.

You freeze. She deepens it.

You should push her off. You should scream, get off of me, you should mean it.

But her hand slides under your shirt, warm and slow, and you can’t tell if you’re shivering from fear or need.

When you do finally speak, it’s hoarse. “I’m not okay.”

“I know,” she says, mouth ghosting against your neck. “Let me take it.”

She hikes your shirt up and kisses down your chest like she’s drawing the hurt out of you one touch at a time, like your trauma is hers to claim.

You’re not sure if you say yes.

But you don’t say no.

And that’s all she needs.

“Let me take it from you, baby.”

Your eyes flutter closed, head sinking into the flat motel pillow as she trails kisses lower and lower. Warmth blooms under your skin—her lips tracing slow lines down your breasts, your sternum, inching toward the waistband of your shorts.

She looks up at you as she slides them off of you, eyes dark and hungry, calculating.

Left only in your underwear now, you catch a glimpse of that sinful, predatory look, and your core throbs.

Ruby licks a long, slow stripe along your clothed slit. You shudder, thighs trembling and clenching against her mouth in anticipation. Your hips buck involuntarily, lips letting out a soft, desperate whine.

It’s undignified. It’s pathetic.

And it only fuels her more.

Her cold hands grip your thighs, pushing them over her shoulders, thumbs pressing deep, slow circles into the soft flesh.

Her dark eyes lock with yours, unblinking, merciless as she picks up the pace, tongue pressing with precision.

“Fuck,” she breathes, voice low, “you’re always so good for me like this.”

Her words wrap around you, a velvet noose tightening at your throat. You’re drowning in her touch and her control. You hate how much you need it. But you can’t pull away.

She pulls away for a moment—a painful moment— yank your underwear down your legs and toss them aside. Before you even have time to mourn the absence of pleasure, she dives right back between your legs, tongue delving deep into your folds.

You gasp loudly at the wonderfully slick sensation.

"Oh god," you moan, hips rolling helplessly against Ruby's face as you lose yourself in the intense feeling. Your fingers tangle in Ruby's hair, pulling hard enough to bruise as you try to ground your amidst the overwhelming sensations.

Ruby hums against your wet heat, the vibration sending sparks through your body. She savors every taste, every scent, committing it all to memory. She knows she should be gentle, coaxing you back from the brink, but the primal hunger driving her won't allow it.

Instead, she doubles her efforts, tongue flicking rapidly over your clit before diving back inside. She sucks hard on the sensitive bud, nibbling just enough to edge you closer to the precipice without letting you tumble over.

One hand moves up to palm your breast, squeezing the soft flesh roughly as her thumb rubs over the nipple. The other grips your hip, fingers digging in as she holds you in place, grinding her face harder against your pussy.

"God, look at this pretty little cunt. So wet and perfect, just begging for my tongue.”

Her praise goes straight to your head and you scream.

“Come on baby,” you feel her fingers inside of you now, fucking into you relentlessly, her tongue never stopping on your clit. “Be my good girl, beg for me.”

Your back arches off the bed in a desperate attempt to be closer to Ruby, to melt into her, to merge with her. To become one.

“Ngh—oh! Oh, god, pleasepleasepleaseplease–Ruby, Ruby, Ruby, Ruby–” You’re stammering, gasping and babbling, trying to form coherent sentences. But your brain is melting right out of your ears. You’re chanting and crying out her name in sinful prayer. “I love you—!”

You miss the way her ministrations falter ever so slightly at that. The way her eyes flicker up at you, simmering with something you wouldn’t want to see.

“Iloveyouiloveyouiloveyou—“ and you’re so gone. You don’t even know you’re saying it, and Ruby knows this.

But she also knows you mean it.

The tether snaps and your entire body wracks with tremors. Ruby’s tongue slows ever so slightly as she works you through your orgasm. Your thighs tremble around her head as it crashes and washes over you.

“That’s my good girl,” she coos over your slickness, her breath fanning over it deliciously. It’s all too much, too much.

You’re a whimpering, trembling mess by the time she shrugs your legs off her shoulders and slides up your body to straddle your hips. Her hands cradle your face with practiced tenderness, and she presses a kiss to your sweat-slick forehead like you’re something sacred.

You don’t resist when she eases you down into the pillows. You let her guide you—pull, position, fold you up like a doll. You’re too spent to move on your own, nerves frayed and limbs heavy. And in some twisted part of your mind, it feels like affection. Like care.

Like love.

You don’t say anything more as you come down from your high. You probably couldn’t even if you wanted to. So you’re silent as she climbs in beside you, tugging the scratchy motel blanket over the both of you. Her arms wrap around your body, holding you close as if you’re something fragile. Something cherished. She strokes your hair and whispers sweet things in your ear.

“You’re so pretty,” she whispers deceptively sweet.

“You’re my good girl.”

“You’re perfect.”

The demon says it like scripture.

But she doesn’t say I love you.

And maybe it’s lucky you’re too drained to notice. Too far gone to hear what’s really beneath all the sweetness. You fall asleep like that—wrapped in arms that claim to protect you, lulled by the soft poison of her praise.

And for a fleeting, tragic moment, you feel warm. Safe. Maybe even happy.

Maybe even happy.

Oh, how naive.

Another shitty motel, another too-springy and too-stained mattress that you ignore and sleep on anyway. There must’ve been hundreds of these you’ve been through by now. Maybe thousands. On the road with Sam and…Ruby, the weeks all seem to blend together. In the race to stop Lilith breaking the seals, you’ve all but lost your sense of time.

God knows that’s not the only thing you’ve lost these past couple months.

You’re alone, curled up in bed, still wearing Ruby’s shirt from the other night—the one she stripped off you, the one she told you looked better on you anyway. She’s gone, off doing… something. She said she wouldn’t be long. But she always says that.

You don’t know when you fell asleep, but the slamming door jolts you awake. You’re expecting to see Sam coming back from his usual late-night scouting, but you’re surprised to see the someone else entirely.

“What the hell is going on with you?” he hisses, cutting, sharp.

You blink, heart spiking.

Dean’s standing in the doorway, keys still clutched in his hand. His eyes are wild—not angry in the usual way, but something worse: scared.

“What are you talking about?” you ask. Not, ‘What are you doing here?’ or ‘Why are you here?’

“Don’t play dumb. You disappear with that bitch and Sam for days—“ a twinge of distaste pants in your heart at the dig at Ruby “—and every time you come back you look even worse than he does. You’ve got bruises and marks you won’t explain. You look like you haven’t slept in days. And now you’re wearing her clothes?”

You look down.

“It’s just a shirt.” It’s not just a shirt to you.

“It’s her shirt.”

You sit up, tugging it lower out of reflex. “Why does it matter?”

“Because she’s a goddamn demon, that’s why.”

The word hits like a slap, even though you know it’s true.

You turn away.

Dean steps forward, voice quieter but heavier. The reality of the situation is hitting him all too quickly now. You’re farther gone than he ever could’ve thought.

“She’s messing with your head. And you’re letting her.”

“She’s not—”

“She’s not what, huh?” Dean snaps, venom cutting through the air and slicing straight into you. “Not using you? Not lying to your face? Not twisting the knife when you’re too close to feel it?”

You stand now, blood pounding in your ears.

“She cares about me!”

“Bullshit.” He says it like it’s obvious. Like it’s already been decided.

You want to scream.

“She stayed with me, Dean. She didn’t leave.”

“Because she needs you. Not because she gives a damn about you.”

Your hands curl into fists.

“You weren’t there. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Dean steps closer. His face is raw now, like this is physically hurting him.

“I’ve seen what you look like after she leaves. I’ve seen you puke your guts out because you’re so strung out you can’t eat. I’ve seen you cry in your sleep.”

You open your mouth—nothing comes out.

“I hear you talking to her when you think no one’s around. Like you’re begging her to stay. Like you know she won’t.”

That cuts. Deep. Because he’s right.

“It’s complicated.”

“No. It’s toxic.”

He runs a hand over his mouth, then looks at you like he’s searching for something—the version of you before all this started.

“Did she promise you something?” Your silence is answer enough. “Did she say she loved you?”

You look down.

“She doesn’t have to,” you mutter unconvincingly.

You want to believe that, you really do. But even you—as twisted around Ruby as you are—can see some of what Dean might be seeing right now. Dean laughs, but there’s no humor in it. Only disbelief. Only grief. The sound guts you.

“You think what you have is real? You think it means something?”

“It does mean something.”

“She’s a demon, not a soulmate.”

“She touched me like I mattered.”

Your voice cracks open, bleeding truth you didn’t mean to say. Dean goes still.

“She said I was good. She said I was enough. And she stayed.”

A beat of silence stretches between you, heavy with the glaringly obvious stupidity of what you just said. What about Sam? What about him? Dean’s jaw tightens. His voice drops.

“She used you.”

A beat.

“She held me.”

“She broke you and then played hero while you bled out.”

You flinch.

Dean’s voice softens, cracks.

“You’re not the same anymore. Even Sam sees it and he’s almost as hooked to this bitch as you are.”

Your throat tightens. “You think I don’t know that?”

Dean takes a step back, breathing hard. He runs a hand through his hair. Looks like he wants to hit something—or cry.

“This thing she’s got you wrapped up in? It’s not love. It’s a leash.”

He turns to leave.

Then he stops.

“She’s gonna leave you wrecked. Worse than now. And when she does…” He hesitates. “I don’t know if I’ll be able to fix what’s left.”

The door clicks shut behind him.

You sit back down on the edge of the bed, shaking.

You don’t cry.

You just pull the shirt tighter around you—like it means everything. Like it’s armor.

And when Ruby returns, hours later, sliding beside you like nothing’s wrong, you let her kiss you again.

Let her pretend this is something beautiful.

Let her pretend you’re not bleeding.

Because that’s the story you need right now.

And it’s the one she’s always happy to tell.

You’ve stopped keeping track of what city you’re in. It doesn’t matter anymore. All that matters is that Ruby’s here tonight, curled beside you, fingers idly combing through your hair while the flickering TV screen paints shadows across the walls.

It’s late, and Sam’s gone. Training. Drinking. Something. Ruby won’t say.

Neither of you talk much at first. You’re lying in her lap, watching static on mute. Her fingers tug gently at the roots of your hair, and you close your eyes like it soothes you. And maybe it does. Maybe it’s the only thing that does lately.

“You ever think about when it’s over?” you ask, barely above a whisper.

Ruby pauses. Her fingers still in your hair for just a second too long before resuming.

“Over?”

“This,” you murmur. “The seals. Lilith. The end of the world.”

Ruby hums low in her throat. “Every day.”

You shift slightly, look up at her. Her face is in shadow. You can’t read it.

“What do you think happens after?” you press.

She glances down at you, a small, unreadable smile twitching at the corner of her mouth. “What do you want to happen?”

You hesitate. “I don’t know. Something normal. Something… safe.”

Ruby brushes a thumb across your cheek, almost tender. “You could have that.”

“Could I?”

She leans down and kisses your temple. “If we win. If Lilith falls. There’s a future on the other side.”

There’s a weight behind her words that should reassure you—but something about the way she says them makes your chest tighten. You try to hold onto the hope, but her phrasing gnaws at the edges of your mind.

Not we’ll have a future. Not you and me. Just there’s one. Somewhere. Distant. Vague.

You cling to the softness anyway.

“Would you stay?” you ask. You hate how small your voice sounds. But by now you’ve grown used to it.

Ruby doesn’t answer right away.

Her hand slides down your arm. She doesn’t look at you when she finally says, “If I could.”

If.

Not when. Not yes.

You swallow, throat suddenly dry.

“You want to, though, right?”

She smiles again, and this time it’s too smooth. Too easy.

“Of course I do.”

But it lands wrong. It’s too clean, too practiced.

You sit up slowly, watching her face.

“Why do you always say what I want to hear?”

Ruby blinks. “What?”

“You always know the right thing to say. Always know when to touch me, when to hold me, when to—” you gesture vaguely. “Make it feel like love.”

Key word: Like love.

Like.

There’s a flicker of something in her eyes. Irritation? Guilt? Fear?

“You think I’m lying?” she asks, voice lower now.

“I don’t know.” You look down. “Maybe.”

Ruby shifts closer. Her hand finds your jaw and tilts your face up to meet hers.

“I care about you,” she says, voice smooth as silk. “Is that so hard to believe?”

You hesitate. “Sometimes.”

She doesn’t flinch.

“I’ve done a lot of terrible things,” she says. “You think I don’t know that? But I chose to stay with you. That counts for something.”

You search her face. You want so badly to believe her. To believe that all of this meant more than just manipulation and timing. You nod, just barely.

Ruby leans in and kisses you slow, deep, like she’s sealing a contract. Like she’s swallowing your doubts one by one.

When she pulls away, she presses her forehead to yours.

“Trust me,” she whispers.

Your eyes close.

But somewhere deep down, some part of you still hears that pause. That hesitation.

If.

If she could stay.

If she meant it.

If this wasn’t just a game.

And even deeper down, in the quiet place you never speak from—

You already know she’s lying.

But tonight, you let yourself forget.

Tonight, you lie in her arms like she’s your future. And you don’t ask again what happens next.

Because some part of you already knows the answer.

Another motel. Another room without her.

You’re lying on the bed in silence, curled up in the shirt Ruby left on the chair a few nights ago—still faintly smelling like her, sharp and sweet and hellfire underneath.

She left again. You don’t know where. She said, “Back soon.” She always says that. You pretend it’s a promise. It’s not.

The clock ticks past midnight. You’re wide awake.

And then the knock.

Three sharp raps on the door. You sit up, startled. Not Ruby—she never knocks.

When you open the door, it’s Bobby.

“Get dressed,” he says, grim. “Now.”

Your mouth is already forming questions, but his tone leaves no room. “Sam’s with her. Something’s wrong. We have to move.”

The car ride is silent except for the sound of your heart hammering in your ears.

“She’s not who you think she is,” Bobby finally says.

You don’t answer. Can’t. You’re gripping the seat like it might fly out from under you.

“I know what you think you have with her,” he adds, not cruelly—but not gently either. “But it ain’t real.”

You don’t say, She held me when I couldn’t breathe.

You don’t say, She kissed me like she meant it.

You don’t say, She made me believe I wasn’t broken.

Because none of that matters now. Not if Sam’s in danger. Not if Bobby’s right.

But part of you—God, part of you still hopes she’ll be there, smiling like always, and you can pretend this was all some horrible misunderstanding.

The chapel door creaks open.

And you know.

Before you see anything—you know.

Sam’s standing at the altar. Pale. Shaking. His hand slick with blood. Lilith’s body is slumped beneath him, eyes wide open and unseeing, blood seeping across the floor like ink. A strange, horrific sigil glows on the ground, pulsing with something ancient and wrong.

And Ruby—

Ruby is smiling.

Grinning, even. Like everything’s going perfectly. Like she’s home.

Has she ever smiled like that with you?

“No,” you whisper.

She turns, eyes lighting up when she sees you.

“There you are,” she says softly. “You made it.”

You step forward. Slowly. Trembling.

“Ruby…” you say her name like a lifeline, like she might look at you and say, ‘No, this isn’t what it looks like. I’m still yours.’

She doesn’t.

“I told you there’d be a future after this.” Her voice is almost tender. “You remember that?”

Sam is breathing like he just ran a marathon. His eyes meet yours—bloodshot, confused. “I—I thought she was helping us.”

Your stomach turns.

“She is,” you say weakly. You look at Ruby. “Aren’t you?”

Ruby’s gaze doesn’t waver. But it sharpens. You’ve never seen her look more radiant. Or more not human. You’re gonna throw up.

“I did help,” she says, calm. “I got you here, didn’t I?”

“You said—” Your voice breaks. “You said you wanted a life with me after this.”

“I did.” Her tone stays so calm it makes your skin crawl. “Maybe I still do.”

Dean crashes through the door behind you, already yelling. “Move, Sam!”

No one moves.

“You used him,” you say, choking on the words. “You used me.”

Ruby tilts her head. Confused. “I thought that part was obvious?”

You laugh—shaky, bitter. “Yeah, I guess it was, wasn’t it?”

You always thought the worst thing would be dying.

But you were wrong.

It’s this.

She steps toward you. “You were never part of the plan.” Her voice softens, almost sad. “That was real. You were… a surprise.”

You flinch like she’s slapped you. “Then what was all of it for?”

She shrugs, eyes unreadable. “I liked the way you looked at me,” she says. “Like I was something good.”

You’re shaking.

“But you still lied,” you whisper.

She doesn’t deny it. That hurts more than anything.

“I kept you close because it made things easier,” she says. “But I didn’t fake it—”

A beat.

“—not all of it at least.”

The words tear through you like glass.

That was it. That was all it was.

She liked how you worshipped her.

She liked how easy it was.

She looks at you then, really looks. And maybe—maybe—there’s a flicker of regret.

But it’s too late.

Sam’s whisper cuts through the air like he’s finally remembered how to speak. “I broke the final seal.”

Ruby grins again. “Yes. You did.”

Dean lunges. The demon blade flashes.

You scream. “No—!”

But it’s over before you can reach her.

She gasps, blood gurgling in her throat, collapsing to her knees. Smoke begins to rise from her mouth, curling around her like serpents. Her eyes lock on yours, even as her body breaks.

You’re moving before your mind can even catch up. Your knees hit the ground so hard you feel the impact reverberate through your whole body, but you don’t care at all.

You’re scrambling, hands flailing over Ruby’s body as she slips away.

Right through your fingers.

There’s blood there’s smoke there’s so much blood—

You put all your weight down on her wound as if it’ll make a difference. As if it’ll change the outcome that you know is happening.

“Nonononono— Ruby, please—no! I—!” You’re choking and and breaking and sobbing and—

And she smiles.

She raises a bloodied hand to your cheek, smearing it red. She whispers your name one final time before her hand falls.

And then she’s gone.

No dramatic gasp. No warning. Just gone.

You fold in half.

And the screaming—God, the screaming—

It’s you.

Your body curls like it’s been stabbed through the gut. You slam your bloody palms over your mouth, as if that might stop the sound, stop the grief, stop the hole that’s opening in your chest and swallowing you whole.

It doesn’t.

You keep screaming.

Bobby’s voice is calling you. Dean’s too. Sam is shattering in the corner. The world is falling apart around you.

And none of it matters.

Because she’s gone.

And you still don’t know who you were to her.

That night, no one sleeps.

The Devil is rising.

He saw it all.

He saw the way you ran to her, hands shaking, body breaking. He saw the blood on your knees, the way you threw yourself down like you were the one who’d been stabbed.

And then the sound you made—

It wasn’t human.

It made the hair on Sam’s arms stand straight up.

He watched you crumble with her. And he knew.

He hadn’t known before. Not really. Not like that.

He knew you cared about Ruby. Sure. He’d seen the way you looked at her when you thought no one was watching. But he didn’t know it went that deep.

Didn’t know it was everything.

He sees you now, days later, and you’re quiet. Too quiet. Like your voice died with her.

You still haven’t asked him why he didn’t stop it.

You haven’t asked anyone anything.

And Sam—he doesn’t know if he should be relieved that it’s over, or horrified by the look in your eyes.

That hollow, burning stare.

He should hate her. He does hate her.

But sometimes, late at night, he remembers the way your hand shook on her chest. The way you whispered her name like it was the last word you’d ever say. The way you begged.

And he wonders if, somehow, that demon really did love you.

Just a little.

Just enough to ruin you.

#ruby spn #ruby x reader #supernatural #supernatural x reader #sam winchester #dean winchester #supernatural smut #ruby supernatural #supernatural ruby #supernatural fic #sam winchester x female reader #sam winchester x reader #sam x reader

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lovecumdumpy · 3 months ago

Text

Filling the Emptiness

↳ “you don’t have to be perfect. you just have to stay.”

➤ anakin skywalker x reader

summary ⭑ you’ve been falling apart quietly. training too long, eating too little, keeping your pain wrapped in silence. but anakin has always paid too much attention—has always cared too much to let it go.

The Temple kitchens were always quiet after hours. A few lingering droids hummed about, cleaning the chrome counters and sanitizing the few dishes left behind by late-night Padawans. You weren’t supposed to be here.

You sat at one of the corner tables, arms folded across your stomach as though to keep the gnawing ache from swallowing you whole. A cup of untouched caf sat in front of you, going cold.

You hadn’t eaten today. Not really. A few bites of fruit during training. That was all you had allowed. The rest had felt too heavy. Too much.

“Why does this feel like a punishment?” you whispered aloud, to no one.

“You tell me.”

You jumped.

Anakin stood in the doorway, arms crossed, cloak rumpled like he hadn’t been to his quarters yet. His eyes—sharp, sky blue, always too intense—were unreadable in the low light. You swallowed hard, guilt blooming like a bruise in your chest. You knew he’d find you eventually.

“I didn’t hear you come in.”

“I’ve been looking for you.”

You shrugged, playing oblivious. “I needed air.”

If he sensed through the Force that you were lying somehow, he didn’t give any indication. He merely pushed off where he leaned and promptly made his way over to you.

You straightened up as he approached, trying to appear more awake, more alert. You wanted to look alive, though you certainly didn’t feel like it. You knew your dull, sleep deprived eyes revealed as much, so you avoided any eye contact the best you could.

Anakin took a seat at the table. Not directly next to you, but close enough to spark a nervous warmth in your blood. An effect he often had on you. Though, you subconsciously appreciated that heat now. You were always so cold these days…

“What did you need?”

“I have some… concerns,” he said, voice low.

You resisted the urge to groan. “Concerns?”

You knew what he meant. Of course you did. He didn’t answer immediately. Just studied you—brows furrowed, jaw set.

He opened his mouth, closed it, then finally asked, “Are you unwell?”

You gave a short, bitter laugh. “Wow. Every girl’s favorite compliment.”

Anakin didn’t smile.

“I’m serious.”

The attempt at humor evaporated from your face. Your fingers curled tighter against your ribs. Your vision wavered—edges fuzzing like your body was deciding it had had enough—but you blinked through it, trained in the art of denial.

“I’m fine,” you said. You weren’t.

“What do you mean?” You knew exactly what he meant.

The weak smile you wore faded as quick as it appeared. Your vision was beginning to darken around the edges again, and you ignored it. Just like before, and the time before that.

You started to shake your head no when he grabbed your flesh hand with his metal one. Your heart jumped, but you didn’t flinch with Anakin. Never with Anakin.

“You were awful during training today.” You lightly scoffed and moved to pull away your arm, but his steel grip held firm. “Have you been sleeping at all?”

You finally gathered the courage to look up and meet his gaze. He stared very intently at your face. Observing, scanning every detail. It made you want to squirm.

He wasn’t going to let this go easily. You knew him. Better than you knew yourself to be honest. Once Anakin was onto something, he was impossible to derail. Your mouth moved before your mind could catch up.

“I’m— I’m on my period,” you stammered, cheeks heating with the effort of the lie. “That’s all.”

There was a beat of silence.

“Oh,” Anakin said, the tension in his shoulders easing just slightly. He blinked, clearly not expecting that answer, and for once, it seemed to actually knock the wind out of his focus. His grip loosened on your wrist, just enough that you could have pulled away if you wanted to. You didn’t.

He glanced aside, suddenly unsure what to do with his hands. You didn’t think you’d ever seen Anakin Skywalker look… awkward.

“Right. Sorry,” he muttered, rubbing at the back of his neck with his metal hand. “I didn’t mean to— I just…”

You watched him flounder for a moment, and in spite of the nausea twisting in your stomach, it almost made you want to laugh.

He was flustered.

“I just noticed you’ve been… off,” he said eventually, softer now, eyes not quite meeting yours. “Didn’t mean to overstep.”

You shook your head. “You didn’t. Really.” Your voice was steadier than before, and you leaned into the moment, relieved he wasn’t pressing further. “Training just hit a little harder today, that’s all.”

He gave a small nod, still clearly uncomfortable with the whole topic. “You, uh… want me to bring you something? From the mess?”

You hesitated. The thought of food—warm, filling, real—made your stomach twist. But the last thing you wanted was for him to start hovering again.

“No, I’m okay. Just needed a minute.”

“Okay,” he echoed, and this time when he looked at you, his eyes had softened. “But if you start throwing training sabers at people tomorrow, I’ll assume that’s the hormones talking.”

You rolled your eyes. “So funny.”

A small smirk tugged at his lips, and for a moment, things felt lighter again. Not fixed, and maybe not safe. But less fragile.

He stood, cloak swaying with the motion, and looked like he was debating saying more. But he didn’t. Just nodded toward the caf. “That’s probably cold by now.”

“I wasn’t really planning to drink it.”

“Didn’t think so.”

He lingered there a second longer, then turned toward the doorway. “Get some rest, okay?”

You nodded once. “You too.”

He hesitated—one foot out the door—then glanced back at you over his shoulder. “And hey… if you ever need anything,” he said, the faintest edge of sincerity in his voice, “I mean it.”

“I know.”

He didn’t smile. But he looked like he might’ve wanted to.

Then he left.

And you were alone again, the silence folding back in around you like a blanket. You stared down at the cooling cup of caf, the bitter smell turning your stomach.

You pushed it aside.

Training you had never been boring.

Even when you were exhausted or sarcastic or pretending not to be nervous. Especially then.

Today wasn’t any different—at least not at first.

Anakin stood at the edge of the mat, arms crossed, watching you cycle through the sequence again. Your brow furrowed in focus, bottom lip pulled slightly between your teeth as your saber carved the air.

“You’re still stiff through the shoulders,” he called out, teasing. “You trying to impress someone or preparing for battle with a coat rack?”

You snorted—an undignified little sound that made the corner of his mouth twitch upward.

“I am relaxed,” you argued, resetting your stance.

“No, you’re tense.” He stepped forward now, his voice easing into something softer. “You’re fighting your own swing.”

“I’m not fighting—”

“You are,” he said, grinning now as he walked behind you. “You’re gripping like the saber owes you money.”

You rolled your eyes, but didn’t stop him when he moved in closer. He could feel the slight shift in your breath as he stepped into your space, one hand gently resting on your shoulder blade, the other brushing your elbow.

“Alright,” he said, keeping his tone low and measured. “Just breathe. Let me show you.”

You nodded, silent now.

He moved around you, wrapping his hand over yours on the saber hilt. His chest hovered just behind your shoulder, warm and steady. Carefully, he guided your hands through the motion.

“This is all it needs,” he said. “No brute force. Just follow the curve.”

You didn’t respond—but you didn’t pull away either.

And then, mid-motion, he noticed it. Gently, absentmindedly—he brushed his thumb over your knuckles.

There wasn’t much there to cushion it anymore.

Your hand under his felt… thinner. More fragile. And so cold. The ridge of your knuckles more pronounced than he remembered. His fingers brushed along your wrist, and he could feel the tendons shifting beneath skin that didn’t feel like it used to.

He stilled, only for a breath. It wasn’t something he meant to notice—it just registered.

His eyes dipped down briefly.

Your tunic sleeves had slipped slightly. Your shoulder looked sharper than it should’ve. He saw the hard line of your collarbone beneath the loose fold of your neckline. Had your robes always fit like that?

Anakin blinked, once. Let go slowly.

He stepped back without a word.

You didn’t seem to notice the change in his energy, though you glanced at him briefly—confused, maybe. Hopeful.

“Better,” he said aloud. It was true. Your form had improved. But his mind was somewhere else now.

He rubbed the back of his neck, uncertain. He didn’t want to overthink it. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe the lighting was weird. Maybe he was tired.

But he knew what he felt.

“Try again,” he said, more distant now. Still calm. But… cooler.

You obeyed.

You went through the motion, saber slicing cleanly through the air—elbow turned just right, shoulder loose. Technically, you’d nailed it.

“That’s more like it,” he said after a pause. But his voice lacked the usual warmth.

You turned, trying to catch his eye—waiting for the usual faint smirk, the little quirk of praise he gave when you impressed him.

It didn’t come.

“You’re letting me off easy,” you said, half-joking. “Should I be worried?”

Anakin looked at you again—your smile just a little too forced, your posture just a little too still.

He forced a smile of his own. “Call it a reward for finally listening to me.”

“You’ll ruin your reputation if you keep being nice.”

“I’ll risk it.”

You laughed, and it eased something in his chest. Just a little.

Still, as you powered down your saber and grabbed your things, Anakin found himself watching again. Not staring. Just observing.

Your sharp edges, your baggy sleeves, the faint way your frigid fingers curled in when you weren’t thinking about it.

It was probably nothing.

Probably.

“Same time tomorrow?” you asked as you headed toward the exit.

“Yeah,” he said, then cleared his throat. “Get some rest, alright?”

You raised a brow. “You too, Master Skywalker.”

He rolled his eyes at the title, but didn’t push further.

Once you were gone, he stayed there on the mat a moment longer, running a hand through his hair.

Something didn’t feel right. But not in the way he could name.

Not yet.

Wake up early. Earlier than anyone else. Run until your lungs burned and your legs went shaky. Meditate until the noise in your head thinned to static. Tea. Maybe fruit, if you’d earned it. Then classes. Then drills. Then solo saber forms when no one was looking. You pushed harder. Always harder.

You wanted to be smaller.

Not just in frame. In presence. In weight. In need.

You were already quiet. Already careful. But your body still existed—still betrayed you. Still demanded things like rest, food, help. You hated that. You hated being tethered to something so messy.

So you carved it down.

Bit by bit. Breath by breath.

You knew the numbers. Not just in the metrics of weight or calories, but in the feel of your clothes, the sharpness of your joints. The way your knees pressed together more easily. The way your hands looked more like bones when wrapped around your saber hilt.

Some days, the emptiness felt almost holy—like a secret power curled up just beneath your ribs. It made your thoughts clearer. Your movements lighter. Your focus tighter. It was hunger, yes, but it also felt like strength.

Other days, it knocked the air out of you. Your fingers would go numb, your heart would race for no reason, your knees would buckle too easily when you stood too fast. That was fine. That was manageable. It meant it was working.

Because if you didn’t control this—if you didn’t control something—what did you even have left?

You couldn’t stop the war. You couldn’t change the Council’s decisions. You couldn’t stop the nightmares or the pressure or the fact that no one ever really saw you unless you were bleeding for it.

But this?

This you could control.

And you would.

Anakin didn’t usually patrol the Temple halls this late. But ever since that last training session—since the feel of your bones under his hand, the way you looked jagged and sharper all around—something in him had changed.

He didn’t look for you, not deliberately. At least, that’s what he told himself. But still, every night, he wandered past the lower sparring rooms or the track facility. Just in case.

You were always there.

Tonight was no different.

You were running again. Not a casual jog. Not a warm-up. This was the kind of running meant to burn something away. Something internal.

Your expression never shifted. Eyes locked ahead, jaw tight, arms pumping in precise rhythm. You looked like you were at war with your own body—and determined to win.

Anakin watched from the doorway. Unseen. Not yet intervening.

He wasn’t sure when this had started, exactly. He just knew it had progressed fast. You used to complain when warm-ups lasted more than fifteen minutes. Now he’d seen you run past exhaustion, run until you limped.

And you were thinner. Not just leaner. Not just “training-season” focused. Hollow. Your features had sharpened. Your robes hung off your shoulders. You folded into yourself when you weren’t thinking. He’d seen your hands tremble when you reached for your lightsaber earlier that day.

And when you missed a step on the stairs yesterday—just a little stumble, nothing dramatic—it had hit him with terrifying clarity.

This wasn’t overwork. This wasn’t coincidence. You were hurting.

And no one else seemed to see it.

“Hey, has she been eating with the others lately?” Anakin asked casually, leaning over a stack of flight reports.

Ahsoka raised an eyebrow at him, a little smirk tugging at her mouth. “You’ve been asking about her a lot.”

He didn’t bite.

“I just want to make sure my padawans are taking care of themselves.”

“She’s not your padawan.”

“I didn’t say she was.”

Ahsoka rolled her eyes. “I mean, I see her with tea. Maybe fruit. But no full meals, not with the group. If she’s eating at all, it’s in secret.”

That sat wrong in his stomach.

“She’s… quiet lately, too,” Ahsoka added. “And tired.”

Anakin nodded once and didn’t say anything else.

The refresher lights were too bright.

You leaned against the cold sink, breathing slowly. Not from nausea. That had passed. This was the part after—when your body was trying to settle, and your mind wouldn’t.

You hadn’t meant to do it again.

You’d promised yourself—not this week. Not again.

But the portion was too big. And the food sat heavy. And your skin itched with shame just from swallowing it.

So you excused yourself. Casually. Like nothing was wrong. Like it was a normal thing to disappear into the ‘fresher after dinner and run the water so no one would hear.

Now, your throat burned. Your hands trembled faintly where they gripped the edge of the basin. You stared at yourself in the mirror and tried not to look.

Your eyes were bloodshot. Not terribly. Just enough. Your cheeks flushed. Hairline damp with sweat.

You look fine.

You didn’t believe it.

You looked like someone else. Like a stranger you were slowly chiseling down.

You rinsed your mouth, brushed your teeth with slow, robotic movements. Checked your reflection again. Tied your tunic tighter around your waist like it might hide the evidence of… something.

Then you pressed a hand to your stomach—flat, empty now—and exhaled.

There. Better.

You could breathe again.

Anakin started showing up more often.

Not in a suspicious way—at least, not at first. He just happened to appear wherever you were. Late in the training halls. In the Temple cafeteria. On quiet patrols that used to be yours alone.

You pretended not to notice.

“Mind if I sit here?” he asked casually, dropping his tray next to yours one afternoon.

You mindless nodded and blinked down at your own tray. A mug of tea. A slice of melon, untouched. A handful of dry crackers that you’d only moved around for appearance.

Anakin’s tray, by contrast, was full—nothing extravagant, just actual food. He didn’t comment on your plate. Didn’t say a word about it.

He just sat. Ate. Talked about nothing and everything—Council business, bad dreams, some snide comment Obi-Wan made that he still hadn’t forgiven.

It became a pattern.

Sometimes he’d ask, “You already ate?”

Sometimes he’d say, “I’m starving—hope you’re hungry.”

Sometimes he’d drop off a muffin next to you without comment and walk away.

You didn’t know how to fight that.

So you didn’t. But you didn’t stop running, either.

You pushed yourself harder. Longer sessions. Extra drills. Midnight laps. The ache in your legs became something you needed—proof of effort, proof you were trying.

You were still in control. Or at least, you thought you were.

Until the control slipped.

It happened at the top of the east stairwell—three steps from the landing. Your vision narrowed, the edges turning soft and grey, and then everything went quiet.

It wasn’t dramatic.

You didn’t cry out. Didn’t collapse like some fragile, broken doll. You just… folded.

When you blinked next, you were on the floor.

And Anakin was kneeling beside you.

His arms were under your shoulders before you could speak. One hand on the back of your head, the other bracing your spine. He said your name—sharp, urgent. Too real.

You pushed at his chest.

“I’m fine—just tripped—”

“You didn’t trip,” he said, voice low, furious. “You passed out. You were gone for at least ten seconds.”

“I’m fine,” you repeated, the words hollow even to your own ears.

He didn’t let you go. He carried you.

You didn’t protest again.

You didn’t go to the Healers. You wouldn’t let him.

Instead, he brought you to his quarters. Silent. Careful. Laid you on the couch and vanished into the kitchenette.

When he came back, he handed you something warm. A broth—simple, unassuming. You didn’t ask how he knew.

You held the cup with shaking fingers.

“I can’t keep pretending I don’t see it,” he said eventually, sitting across from you, elbows on his knees.

Your breath caught.

He didn’t accuse you. He didn’t even ask. He just looked at you with eyes too kind to bear.

“What’s going on with you?” he asked.

You didn’t say anything back. How could you?

Even you didn’t know.

After it became clear you had nothing to say, he crossed the space between you, knelt again, and took the broth from your hands—setting it gently on the table. Then, slowly, deliberately, he wrapped his arms around you.

You froze. Then melted.

He didn’t say anything else.

He just held you.

And for once, you let him.

“If she’s eating at all, it’s in secret.”

It echoed in his head as he made his way down the Temple corridor. His steps slower than usual. His thoughts louder.

The next time he saw Ahsoka, he pulled her aside.

“You said she drinks tea in the mornings,” he said. “With what?”

Ahsoka blinked. “I don’t know. Sometimes nothing. Sometimes crackers or a granola thing.”

He nodded slowly.

Ahsoka studied him a moment. “Okay, Master. What are you actually worried about?”

He hesitated. Just long enough for her eyes to narrow.

“She’s been off for a while,” he said finally. “And I don’t think it’s just stress.”

“You think she’s sick?”

“…Maybe. I don’t know.”

Ahsoka folded her arms. “Then ask her.”

“I have. She lies.”

Ahsoka raised an eyebrow again. “And you’re sure it’s food? Not something else?”

He didn’t answer. Because the truth was… he wasn’t sure.

But the weight loss. The loose clothes. The way her steps dragged sometimes. The fact that she barely used her dominant hand in saber drills anymore, like her strength gave out halfway through. The way she disappeared between classes. The paleness. The trembling. The—

He shook his head.

He wasn’t sure.

But he was starting to be.

You left the refresher silently. The hallway was empty. Droids hummed in the distance. Temple life moved on around you, untouched.

But as you turned a corner, a shadow peeled away from the wall.

You froze.

Anakin.

His arms were folded, his cloak hanging loose around his frame. His expression unreadable—but sharp. Watchful.

You couldn’t be sure how long he’d been there. He said nothing.

Just looked at you.

You straightened your posture, blinked fast, pretended. “Master Skywalker,” you greeted flatly, voice controlled. Normal. “Did you need something?”

A pause.

His eyes dropped to your hands, your knuckles reddened from where they’d scraped against your teeth. Then your face. Then back again.

Say something, you thought. Call me out. Ask.

He didn’t.

He just nodded once, quiet. “Heading back to your quarters?”

You forced a smile. “Yeah. Long day.”

Another pause.

Then, softly, “Get some sleep.”

You nodded, pulse pounding in your ears. “You too.”

You walked away before he could say anything else. Behind you, he stayed in the shadows a moment longer.

Watching.

Thinking.

You disappeared around the corner, your footsteps soft against the Temple floor.

Anakin didn’t move. Not for a long moment.

He just stood there, jaw tight, arms folded across his chest like that would hold the discomfort in.

He hadn’t meant to see anything. Hadn’t meant to hear what he thought he just heard. He hadn’t been following you. Not exactly.

He just… happened to be there. Noticed the shift. The rushed exit from the dining hall. The delay in the ‘fresher. Too long. Too quiet.

And when you stepped out, you looked—

Not like yourself.

Your color was off. Eyes too bright, but also dull. Your voice too measured, too carefully normal.

And the Force around you—thin. Stretched. He’d felt it before in others. Sometimes after missions. Sometimes after grief.

But this… this wasn’t that.

This was man-made. Brutal, rigid control. The kind that came from desperation, not discipline.

He exhaled through his nose, the gravity of the reality dragging his heart to the depths of hell. Turning back into the quiet hallway, he didn’t yet go after you.

Because what would he even say.

“Did you throw up?”

“Are you starving yourself?”

“What the hell is going on with you?”

You would lie. Of course you would. Anyone would.

And it wasn’t just a hunch anymore, was it? He thought of your hands again, the way they felt smaller, bonier. The looseness of your robes. The way you drifted around people now instead of moving with them. Half-present.

And the hunger in your eyes, not for food—but for something else. Something colder.

Anakin swallowed hard and ran a hand through his hair. This wasn’t something he could fix with advice. Or training. Or a teasing comment to break you out of your head.

This was bad. He needed help.

But he didn’t want to betray you either.

He thought of Ahsoka’s voice—“If she’s eating at all, it’s in secret.”

And the part she hadn’t said: That’s not normal.

That’s not safe.

He looked down the hallway you’d taken, long empty now, and clenched his fists once at his sides.

No. This was it. The final straw.

This wouldn’t go on any longer. Not if he had anything to do with it.

You walked into the room with half your armor still undone, hair damp with sweat, and a headache pounding behind your eyes. You had run late—your own fault—but you hoped Anakin wouldn’t—

“Where the hell have you been?”

You froze mid-step.

He was already standing in the middle of your quarters like he owned the space, arms crossed, face tight with something way too close to fury.

“I was in the training—”

“Don’t lie to me.” His voice was sharp, slicing through the air. “You weren’t on the schedule. I checked.”

Your stomach flipped.

“You’re seriously tracking me now?” you snapped. “That’s a little obsessive, don’t you think?”

“You wanna talk about obsessive?” He scoffed.

The gnawing hunger, the ringing in your head, the exhaustion that seeped into your very bones—it pushed you to a boiling point. Frustration spiked. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“Don’t play coy with me,” he breathed, hard. Visibly trying—failing—to keep his anger at bay. “It means I’m sick of watching you lie to me every single day!” His voice cracked, raw and furious. “I’m not blind, okay? You barely eat, you look like you’re about to collapse half the time, and you keep telling me you’re fine. You’re not fine, and I’m done pretending like I don’t see it.”

“You’re being dramatic. There’s nothing—”

“I heard you.”

You froze.

His voice was low. Barely controlled. Dangerous. His glare was so intense it took everything in you not to flinch.

“I heard you,” he motioned with a shaking hand, as if to steady himself. “In—in the refresher. I heard what you… were doing,” he said, swallowing like it physically hurt to admit.

You were caught. Like an animal in a trap. The emptiness scraping at your insides fogged up your brain until all you could do was bite and bark like a wounded dog.

Your jaw clenched. “You have no right—”

“I have every right!” he roared. “Because you won’t talk to me! Because you won’t even look at me when I ask what the hell is going on!”

You turned away. “It’s none of your business.”

“I’m your best friend!” he shouted. “Of course it’s my business!”

“No,” you said, spinning on him. “You don’t get to use that card. Being my best friend doesn’t mean you get to police my life!”

“I’m not policing you—I’m trying to keep you alive!”

The room was spinning now. You didn’t have the energy to fight like this. But that didn’t stop you.

“Maybe I didn’t ask for that!” you snapped. “Maybe I don’t want your help!”

He stared at you like you’d slapped him. And maybe you had—not physically, but something worse. His jaw worked soundlessly for a second before he stepped back.

“You’d rather kill yourself slowly than let anyone care about you. That it?”

“Better than being pitied,” you spat.

He looked like you’d stabbed him. “You think this is pity?”

You laughed. Dry. Empty. “I think you like having a project. A broken little thing you can fix. Makes you feel needed.”

Nononono—everything was coming out wrong. You didn’t know what words you were spewing anymore, but Maker, you just couldn’t stop.

“Screw you,” he hissed. “You think this is about me? You think watching you destroy yourself has been easy? Every time you lie to my face, every time you pretend everything’s fine when you’re literally wasting away—you think I like this?”

“Then leave!” you yelled, voice cracking. “No one’s making you stay!”

“I stay because I care!” he screamed. “Because I love you, and I don’t know how to not care!”

The words hit the silence like a bomb.

You stared at him, breath gone.

He looked horrified the second they were out. Like he hadn’t meant to say it. Or hadn’t meant to say it like that.

“What…?” You broke the silence, voice smaller than you’d ever felt.

All Anakin could do was look at you, chest heaving.

“You’re not eating,” he said quietly—almost defeated. “You run yourself into the ground. You pass out and pretend it didn’t happen. You’ve lost weight and think no one notices. I do. I see you.”

Your chest tightened like a noose.

“And I don’t know what scares me more,” he continued, voice low. “The fact that you’re doing this to yourself… or the fact that you think I wouldn’t care.”

There was a brief pause.

“I didn’t want you to care like this,” you whispered, voice suddenly high and brittle. “Because it’s embarrassing, Anakin. I’m not proud of this. I didn’t want you to look at me and see—this.”

“What?” he asked, stepping forward. “See you struggling? See you human?”

You looked away, jaw trembling.

“You don’t have to be perfect around me,” he said, softer now. “You never had to be. I didn’t sign up to be your friend just when it’s easy.”

You said nothing. Couldn’t. The room swam a little.

He stepped closer. Not touching you. Not pushing. Just there.

“Talk to me,” he said again. “Yell. Scream. Cry. I don’t care. Just don’t shut me out.”

You squeezed your eyes shut. One breath. Two.

And finally, voice breaking: “I don’t know how to stop.”

There it was.

He exhaled, slow and deep, like something in him had finally released.

“Then let me help you figure it out,” he said. “You don’t have to do it alone.”

You didn’t answer. But when he reached out—slowly, gently—and pulled you into a hug, you didn’t pull away either.

You didn’t realize you were crying until you felt Anakin swipe away a stray tear.

“You… love me?” you asked after a short while of just standing there like that, not daring to look up from where your face was pressed into his neck.

His embrace tightened, his flesh hand resting on your head, holding it to him like letting go might break him too.

“Yeah,” he murmured.

And the way his voice cracked—like the words had splintered something deep inside—was what undid you completely.

“Yeah, I do.”

Neither of you moved.

Not at first.

You stayed pressed into him like the breath had been knocked from your lungs—his chest rising and falling against yours, slow and steady, like he was trying to lend you the rhythm of his own body. An anchor.

“I didn’t want you to care like this,” you said again, quietly this time. Not sharp. Not defensive. Just real.

“I know,” Anakin murmured. His hand was still on the back of your head, fingers brushing the curve of your skull. “But I do. I care this much whether you want me to or not.”

You let out a slow breath against his collarbone. It felt like the first real one in days. Maybe weeks.

“It’s hard,” you whispered.

“I know.”

“I don’t eat because I feel like I don’t deserve to,” you admitted, eyes unfocused, staring at nothing. “And then I do eat, and I feel disgusting. Like I failed at something I can’t even name.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just listened. That was new. You weren’t used to people hearing the words and not rushing to patch them up, to fix, to lecture. But not Anakin.

“You didn’t fail anything,” he said eventually, his voice low, even. “You’ve been surviving. That’s not failure.”

You blinked, and for some reason, that nearly made you cry all over again.

“It’s just always there,” you said, barely getting the words out. “The noise. The shame. I hate it. I hate me.”

He pulled back just far enough to look at you, his hand shifting to your jaw. “Don’t you dare say that.”

“I’m not trying to be dramatic—”

“You’re not,” he said. “But you don’t get to hate yourself in front of me. I won’t allow it.”

A broken little sound caught in your throat. You looked at him—really looked at him—for the first time since you walked in. And what you saw wasn’t pity. It wasn’t anger anymore, either.

It was love. It was love.

He meant it.

He meant all of it.

You shook your head, more from disbelief than disagreement. “You’re not supposed to love me when I’m like this.”

“I think I’ve only ever loved you like this,” he said, voice soft but sure. “Not in spite of the pain. But because I know it. I know you. And I still love you.”

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy this time. It was full—but not crushing. Like something sacred was taking shape between you.

“I’m scared,” you admitted, barely above a whisper.

Anakin leaned in, pressing his forehead gently against yours. “Me too.”

You closed your eyes.

And somehow, that didn’t feel like the end of the world. Somehow, you weren’t alone in it anymore.

“You don’t have to be perfect,” he said again. “You don’t have to be fixed. You just have to stay.”

Your fingers curled into the fabric of his tunic. Holding him there. Holding yourself there.

“I can try,” you whispered.

“That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

And when he kissed your temple, so gently you barely felt it, you realized something else.

You were tired. Yes.

Still scared. Yes.

Still hurt in places no one could see.

But maybe—just maybe—you didn’t have to keep carrying it alone.

Not anymore.

And when he held you like that, with no demand, no pressure, just presence, you finally let yourself believe it.

You finally let yourself rest.

a/n: very self indulgent, very rushed pls forgive me 🙏🏽

#anakin x reader #anakin skywalker x reader #anakin x you #star wars #star wars fic #star wars clone wars #sw tcw #sw tcw fanfic #anakin skywalker

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