#escaping consequences of abuse

[furiousgoldfish]

After a while of abusing you, the idea that you're a human being becomes a threat to the abusers. It reminds them they did reprehensible and unforgivable crimes against another human being, and then instead of confronting remorse for it, they try to erase your humanity instead. They focus on convincing you that you somehow, are less than other humans, that you deserve this, that you're not good for anything else but this, that you asked for it, wanted it, that you have no human rights, no point of view, no perspective. That you have to take on their perspective of you, their view of how you should be treated. That their horrifying and cruel treatment of you is right and above criticism.

That's how far they go just to escape any consequences of abusing you, and once you believe them, once you feel that you don't deserve any better, they relax in thinking that the consequences will never come. That they can gaslight and brainwash you forever. And then they'll go back to abusing you. The entire scheme exists to enable them to abuse you and never suffer any consequences.

Just because someone manages to convince you that you're not human, doesn't make it true. Their lies cannot erase anyone's humanity. Victims realize what's been done to them when it's gotten too far, and they'll recognize they're dealing with an enemy who is trying to erase their humanity.

[raykat]

the terrifying ordeal of being the only woman on a shipwrecked freighter

[treefey]

Rereading Fire for the 800th time in year of our lord 2025 where the first chunk of the book describes a codependent relationship between the ruler and his infinitely powerful right hand and how that unraveled the country and basically set them on the course for a giant, three-way war sure feels different

[one-pump-chump]

t shirt that says ask me about my thoughts on gta v’s overarching theme of real vs fake

[quietwingsinthesky]

in the secret good version of s10, dean keeps dying over and over again, keeps being reborn as a demon—a little faster with each death like his soul is getting more used to turning—and every time, sam has to catch him, tie him up in the bunker, and force his blood into dean until he’s dragged back to humanity. and dean also escapes more than once, though sam keeps piling on chains and magic to keep him down. as a demon, he kills to hurt sam, to make him stop forcing dean to change back again, like if he can take enough lives then sam will give up on him. sam never does.

[randum-famdoms]

JK Rowling’s books are a building. And she stopped after creating shitty, waterlogged, deeply structurally unsound blueprints and half the scaffolding. Then left it to the elements (aka her Twitter), damaging it nearly beyond repair.

And the fandom looked at this, and put on hard hats. And they tore down that scaffolding, and took those blueprints and changed it into something that would work, and they built the most beautiful building you’ve ever seen.

The building JK Rowling designed was deeply flawed, it would never pass inspection, it would collapse under its own weight and lack of structural integrity within seconds of being built. The aesthetic design was tragic and hideous and offensive. But the fans looked at all of that, and said to themselves, “this building is fucked up, it will never be good if left like this, and everything about it is terrible and makes zero sense. But goddamnit, I have trauma and I can fix it because it must be done and no one else will.”

JK Rowling may have designed that original building. She may have had the initial idea. She may have built that unfinished scaffolding. She may have drawn those blueprints.

But this building is no longer JK Rowling’s.

[aleksatia]

Imagine the six days scenario with the boys, but it turns out the mission was supposed to be done in one day, and the reader went through he'll to get out and is met with this reaction? Imagine when she finally tells the reason she was away, would they regret their actions? How would they react? Don't know if if you take requests, if you do, consider this one.

If not, I am glad I got to read this masterpiece, thank you ❤️

Thank you so much for the request — I absolutely do take them, and I really appreciate this one! ❤️

I tried so hard to keep it short, since the “Six Days” theme has already been thoroughly explored... but, well, I failed spectacularly 😅 So here’s another deep-dive into a what-if/imagine scenario — one that can be read as either an alternate branch of the original storyline or... something else entirely. I’ll let you decide 😉

I’d love to hear your thoughts if you read it — truly means the world to me!

I’ve received so many requests for continuations — especially for Xavier — and yes, his already has a full-length, dramatic follow-up (because how could I not?). This one here is more of a request-based scenario, but it can absolutely be read as its own kind of continuation. Think of it as an alternate path the story could have taken. (One day I’ll write full versions for all the boys… but for now, consider this a little taste.) Hope you enjoy — and as always, I’d love to hear what you think! 💬💔 Here are the links to the previous parts in the series, in case you want to revisit or catch up:

Original Post | Xavier's Story

CW/TW: Psychological trauma, PTSD themes, Forced isolation, Violence / combat injuries, Mentions of starvation, Emotional manipulation, Past emotional abuse, Mental breakdowns, Intense guilt / self-blame, Brief implications of suicidal ideation (in self-sacrificing context), Adult intimacy (emotionally driven, not graphic)

The Truth — What Really Happened

It was supposed to be one day.

A clean, strategic infiltration. In and out. No complications. No room for error.

But no one accounted for the Wanderer.

No one predicted that the target—some nameless, faceless shade masquerading as a rogue—would be more than just dangerous. That he'd found a way to twist Protocore into something ancient and volatile. That he would trigger a fracture in time itself.

In a single blink, the world split. You fell into it. And the loop began.

Six days for them. Six weeks for you.

You lived, died, and bled your way through the same endless day.

Again. And again. And again.

Locked in a cycle of violence, decay, and despair—while everyone else moved on without you.

You clawed your way back—half-starved, half-mad, barely remembering your name. And when you finally escaped the loop, stepped back into their world, broken and still breathing—

They were waiting.

Angry. Unforgiving. And utterly, terrifyingly unaware.

Until now. Until you tell them.

💛 Xavier

It only felt right to write Xavier’s piece after the continuation I posted earlier. The original scene stood strong on its own, but this one—this is what came next. The moment after the storm. The truth laid bare. A quiet, alternate branch of the story, or perhaps a natural consequence of the one that already unfolded. Either way—I’m glad it found its voice.

You don’t ease into it. You sit across from him in the quiet of the morning, sunlight creeping up the walls like it’s unsure of its welcome, and you tell him.

Not six days.

Six weeks.

A loop. A fracture in time. An engineered nightmare that left you bleeding against the same hours, over and over, clawing through shadow just to return to him. Alone. Lost. Dying.

Xavier doesn’t speak. Doesn’t even blink.

But something in him breaks.

Not loudly. Not violently. It’s quieter than breath. Slower than thought. His fingers slip from the edge of the cup in his hand, and it falls. Shatters against the floor with a sound so sharp it startles the silence—ceramic shards skittering like teeth across stone.

Still, he doesn’t look at you.

He stands, but not with purpose. With instinct. His body moves before his mind can catch it. He turns, walks toward the far wall like he’s searching for air, like the room is suddenly too small to hold what’s happening inside his chest.

You rise—hesitant, aching—but he lifts a hand to stop you. Not cruelly. Gently. Like he’s afraid that if you touch him, he’ll fall apart in a way he can’t recover from.

He presses his palm to the wall. Just one. The other curls into a fist at his side.

“I thought you abandoned me,” he says at last, voice raw in a way you’ve never heard from him. “And I punished you for it.”

He turns back.

And there’s nothing left of the man who told you to ask again in six days. Nothing of the controlled strategist, the ever-collected ghost of war. His jaw is clenched too tight. His eyes are glassed over with fury—but not at you.

At himself.

“I accused you. I mocked you. I dismissed what little strength you had left and threw my pain in your face like it was the only thing that mattered.”

He crosses the room again, slower now. Purposeful. His hands don’t tremble, but his voice does.

“I let you stand there, in front of me, broken... and I thought I was the one who’d suffered.”

He kneels.

Not dramatically. Not for effect.

He lowers himself before you like a man who no longer believes he has the right to stand. His gaze stays down. One hand reaches inside his coat, and when it returns, you see it:

A blade.

Polished. Ritual-cut. Ceremonial. One of the old ones—etched with language you don’t recognize. But you understand that these words mean oath, atonement, belonging.

He offers it to you in silence. Flat in his palm.

“Where I’m from,” he says, quietly, “a wound like this is paid in blood. A betrayal like mine is not survived—it is surrendered to.”

Your hands don’t move. Your breath barely does.

“If you want justice,” he whispers, “take it.”

You stare at him. The weight of the blade between you. The weight of everything.

And then—slowly, gently—you take it from his hand.

Only to let it fall.

The sound is soft this time. Barely a whisper of steel on floorboards.

Then you fall with it.

You drop to your knees in front of him, wrap your arms around his shoulders, and let your tears fall freely.

“I don’t want justice,” you breathe into the curve of his neck. “I want you.”

He doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t speak. Just holds you, arms banding around your waist, face pressed into your shoulder like he’s trying to memorize what survival feels like.

When he finally speaks, it’s not confession. It’s surrender.

“After what you endured… after what I made you endure alone… I don’t know what anything means anymore. Not the mission. Not the cause. Not the point.”

You pull back, just enough to see him.

His eyes are hollow with grief. But deeper still—something flickers.

“I thought I understood devotion,” he says, voice barely above a breath. “But I was wrong. What I gave you wasn’t loyalty. It wasn’t love. It was pride. Control. Fear, dressed in logic. And I used it to wound you when you were already bleeding.”

His jaw tightens. His gaze falls.

“I was cruel.”

It’s not said for effect. There’s no tremble in his voice, no self-indulgent break.

It’s simply true.

“And I’m sorry.”

The silence that follows is soft. Dense. Not empty.

You brush your fingers across his cheek, tilt his face toward yours.

“I forgive you,” you say. Steady. Clear. “Because not everything in this world is black and white. And I understand why you did what you did. I know the shape of your fear.”

Your thumb brushes beneath his eye. His breath catches.

“I didn’t tell you to hurt you. Or to punish you. I told you because…” You pause. Your voice thickens with truth. “Because you’re the only one I trust with all of it. The only one who would understand. Who wouldn’t fall apart under the weight of what I’ve lived through.”

You lean forward.

Kiss him. Gently. Not desperate. Not demanding.

Just there. Warm. Real. Home.

Your hands slide up to his temples, fingers massaging slow circles at his hairline, coaxing the tightness from his brow. You feel it—inch by inch—how he softens beneath your touch.

“Let it go,” you whisper. “Don’t carry this weight. Not for me.”

He exhales, shaky. Silent.

You hold him tighter.

“You are my light, Xavier. You illuminate the path. You anchor me when everything else turns to ash. And in that place—those six weeks—do you know what kept me alive?”

Your voice breaks, but you keep going.

“I couldn’t bear the thought of you mourning me. That’s what kept me breathing.”

He says nothing for a moment.

Just rests his forehead against yours. One hand moves to your chest, flattening over your heart like he’s grounding himself with your pulse.

Then—softly, firmly, as if carving the words into stone:

“You will never carry pain alone again. Not while I draw breath.”

No grand vow. No poetry.

Just fact.

And somehow—that’s what makes it a promise.

💗 Rafayel

The morning sun slips in like melted gold, tracing the edge of the sheets, catching the soft arch of your cheekbone. You lie half-curled beneath the covers, his T-shirt clinging to your body like second skin.

And in that sacred hush before the world stirs—you speak.

Not because he demands it. Not because you owe it.

But because somewhere between the echo of his heartbeat and the way his arms wrapped around you like the only anchor you had left—you remembered how to breathe.

You tell him.

About the mission. The Wanderer. The fracture in time.

About the loop.

How six days for him were six weeks for you.

How you woke up every day inside the same nightmare. How you died. How you clawed your way back. Alone. Over and over.

And when you fall silent, your voice scraped raw from remembering—he still doesn’t speak.

He just looks at you.

Like the sun never rose until he saw your face again.

His hand brushes your cheek, feather-light. His voice—when it comes—is almost a whisper.

“Are you ready to share the rest?”

You blink. “The rest?”

“The weight of it,” he says. “Not the facts. Not the fight. The dark. The ache. The part that still won’t let you sleep.”

His voice is gentle. Too gentle for a man like him. It trembles with caution, as if even asking is a violation.

You hesitate. The memories flicker like shadows across your mind—distorted, aching, sharp.

“No,” you answer truthfully. “Maybe not ever.”

His gaze doesn’t falter.

He nods once. No protest. No press.

Then his voice, lighter this time—almost a whisper:

“Then I’ll just have to help you forget.”

And he does.

He lifts you carefully, as if your body might shatter beneath his hands. You expect the weight of a blanket, but instead—he wraps you in something else entirely.

A covering like seafoam. It feels like nothing you’ve ever touched—gossamer, weightless, but cool and smooth against your skin. A whisper of silk and tide.

“It's from home,” he murmurs, adjusting it carefully over your shoulders. “Woven from the ocean’s first breath. They say it keeps sorrow out.”

Then—he scoops you up like you weigh nothing. Carries you to the kitchen with quiet reverence, as if this moment is sacred.

He sets you down on the marble countertop and kisses your knee.

Then he starts making coffee.

He hums as he moves—something aimless and tuneless and purely him. You close your eyes for a moment, letting the scent of roasted beans and vanilla settle around you.

And then—

“So,” he says casually, not looking up, “a cat broke into the studio last night.”

You blink. “A cat?”

He nods solemnly. “Orange. Loud. Looked like he owned the place. Knocked over three canvases and nearly drank my turpentine.”

You raise a brow. “And naturally, you assumed this was my doing.”

“Who else would weaponize cuteness to such chaotic effect?”

You laugh—quiet but real. “I’m not that cruel.”

“No,” he agrees, turning to face you with a soft smile. “But I do suspect you’re still hoping I’ll change my mind about cats.”

You sip your coffee. “I might be.”

Later, the bath is warm, the water laced with something lavender and soft. He sits behind you, your back pressed to his chest, his arms a steady weight around your ribs.

His fingers move slowly—massaging your shoulders, your forearms, your palms, like he’s trying to erase every echo of pain from your body with touch alone.

You both talk, but nothing heavy. Just stories. Old memories. Little things. The shape of the moon that night. The smell of burnt sugar in his favorite gallery. How he once mistook a mannequin for a person and apologized to it for five minutes.

You laugh again, softer this time. And it makes something in him melt.

He wraps you in the softest robe he can find. Carries you again—this time to the bedroom. The ocean glows outside, waves catching the last of the sun like pearls tossed across the horizon.

But he doesn’t stop there.

“Come,” he says, offering a hand. “Tea. Sunset. Company far superior to mine.”

You smile. Follow.

And when you step onto the veranda—there it is.

A small white basket. A red ribbon.

And inside—

A snow-colored kitten, curled like a pearl in a nest, blinking up at you with impossibly blue eyes.

You freeze.

Turn to him, wide-eyed.

He shrugs, just slightly. Nervous. Like he’s bracing himself for mockery. For rejection.

You blink again. “You—Raf, you hate cats.”

He exhales through his nose. “I fear them. Different thing.”

Your eyes shimmer.

He moves toward you slowly, hands lifted in surrender.

“I wanted to make you smile,” he says simply. “That’s all. Just—smile. Like you used to. Before I—” He swallows.

He crouches down before you. One hand comes up to gently stroke the kitten. The other finds your knee.

His eyes lift to yours—and there’s no performance left in him now. Just Rafayel. Just the man beneath the glitter.

“I was so awful to you.”

You open your mouth, but he shakes his head.

“Don’t say it wasn’t that bad. I know what I am when I’m scared. I threw wine over grief and laughter over longing because I didn’t know what else to do. I ruined canvases with your name on my tongue and strangers in my house, and the whole time—I just wanted you to walk through that door.”

His fingers tighten on your leg.

“And when you did—when you came back—I was so full of rage at the idea you’d left me, that I didn’t even ask if you were okay.”

He breathes. One hand comes up, presses lightly to your ankle.

“I don’t know if I deserve this. Any of it. You. The right to hold your hand. To be the one who touches you when you’re tired. Who makes you laugh. Who paints your name into the ocean.”

You slide your fingers into his curls, threading gently through the soft waves.

And he stills. Like he’s afraid to move.

You whisper, “I never wanted perfect. I wanted you.”

He exhales.

“I swear,” he says, softly now, firmly, “on every color I’ve ever touched—never again. I’ll never put my pride above your heart. I’ll never leave you alone in the dark I made.”

Then—he leans forward. Presses his forehead to your knee.

The kitten meows softly, curling into the basket.

And finally—you smile.

Because this?

This is home.

💙 Zayne

You expected something.

A tremor. A breath. A word. Anything.

Instead, Zayne listened. Like a doctor reviewing a chart. Like a man auditing loss.

He didn’t speak when you finished. He simply nodded—once—and turned away, reaching for the drawer by the bedside as though the moment hadn’t cracked the very floor beneath his feet.

His hands, always precise, always godlike in their stillness, carried a faint tremble now. Just at the edges. So minor you might’ve doubted your own eyes, if you didn’t know how obsessively exact they always were.

“I asked,” he said, adjusting a monitor. His voice was quiet. Neutral. Not for you—for himself. “I asked if you’d caught a cold.”

He finished adjusting the drip, typed something into the tablet. Still no eye contact. Still no softness in his voice. But the line of his shoulders was off. A degree too low. A breath too far from centered.

Then—he turned back to you.

His gaze met yours at last. And though his voice didn’t change, the words did.

“I would like to conduct a full diagnostic. Neurological, cellular, metabolic.” A pause. Then softer, with exquisite restraint: “Please allow me.”

You hesitated—not because you doubted him, but because you recognized the plea underneath the logic. He wasn’t doing this for the data. Not really.

You nodded.

And he breathed again.

He worked in silence. Gentle. Thorough. Every sensor placed with hands that barely touched your skin. Each test executed with a reverence that spoke more than words ever could. He treated you like something sacred—something already broken that could not, must not, fracture further.

When sleep finally came, it swallowed you whole.

And when you opened your eyes again—the world was still. Dim. The sterile light of early morning filtered through the blinds.

Zayne sat in the chair beside your bed. Unmoved.

He hadn’t changed clothes.

The same shirt. The same faint stain near the cuff from yesterday’s blood draw. One elbow rested on the arm of the chair, his fingers curved over his mouth, gaze lost in some calculation too heavy for paper.

When he noticed you stir, his posture didn’t shift. But his eyes warmed—just barely. Just enough.

“I cancelled my procedures for the week,” he said simply. “Transferred patients to colleagues. For now, my only case is you.”

You blinked, silent. Then your gaze drifted down, to the low table by the bedside.

There, lined with the kind of hesitant care that comes from someone unused to gifts, sat a modest row of familiar things. A bouquet of white jasmine, fresh and fragrant. Two of your favorite candies in delicate wrappers. And—absurdly, heartbreakingly—three new plush toys, small and soft and so clearly chosen by someone who’d spent an agonizing amount of time in the gift shop second-guessing every decision.

Your heart folded inward.

“Am I dying?” you asked, quieter than you meant to.

He didn’t smile.

But his voice, when it came, was soft and absolute.

“I won’t allow that.”

A long silence passed.

Then you shifted—carefully, your muscles aching—and reached for him.

“Come here,” you murmured.

For a moment, he hesitated. Not because he didn’t want to, but because some part of him still didn’t believe he deserved the invitation. But he came. And when he lay beside you on the narrow couch, his body held a tension that didn’t ease until your head rested on his shoulder.

He stayed still. Let you move first. Let you curl against him the way you needed. His hand hovered over your back, uncertain, until you nudged it gently into place.

Only then did he hold you.

Not tightly.

Not desperately.

But with the kind of quiet conviction that said he would stay as long as it took.

You felt his breath in your hair before you heard his voice.

“I don’t pray,” he said, low, clinical as ever. “I believe in medicine. In numbers. In protocols.”

A pause. His fingers brushed your spine, feather-light.

“But if you hadn’t come back... I would’ve made an exception.”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to.

Because some things, even with Zayne, are understood in silence.

And in that silence, held against the rhythm of his heartbeat, you felt it clearly: you were no longer his patient.

You were his entire world.

❤️ Sylus

For a moment after you speak, the room holds its breath. So does he.

Sylus doesn’t ask questions. Doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t demand proof or press for detail. He simply stands there, stone-still, with your words unraveling him from the inside out. The way you say it—quiet, unshaking, without accusation—is somehow worse than if you’d screamed.

His gaze drifts over you then, and you feel the moment the veil lifts.

It’s in his eyes first—how they widen, flicker, and fixate. He takes in the shadows beneath yours, the pallor of your skin, the hollowness in your cheeks. His breath catches when he sees how your clothes hang looser than before. How your hands tremble faintly, barely perceptible unless one knows you too well.

And Sylus knows you.

His chest rises once, sharp and shallow. Then he moves.

Not fast. Not sudden.

But with purpose.

The next second, he’s in front of you, reaching—his fingers brush your jaw, feather-light, as if afraid that even the weight of his touch might bruise. He doesn’t speak as he leads you gently—gently, from a man whose hands have broken bones—into the nearest chair. One knee hits the ground beside you. He opens your jacket with slow precision, not to expose, but to check. To see. To know.

“You’ve lost weight,” he murmurs, voice rough and uneven, like gravel sliding beneath steel. His fingers glide down your arm, finding the sharp edges of bone where softness used to be. “Why didn’t I see it sooner?”

You try to speak, but he shakes his head, already rising.

He moves through the room like a storm with no wind—silent, but charged. Opens drawers. Pulls out clean clothes, a blanket, a glass of water. Then he’s back at your side, crouching again, one arm draped over your lap like a bridge between his fury and your exhaustion.

His hand wraps gently around your ankle, thumb pressing lightly against the bone there as he stares at it like it personally accuses him.

“I told them to take you.” His voice is lower now. Hoarse. “Told them to scare you. Make a point.”

He looks up at you. And for once, his face is completely unguarded.

“I hit you.”

It wasn’t hard. It wasn’t brutal. Not for someone like him.

But it was enough.

His voice falters, only slightly.

“And then I said I wouldn’t look for you.”

He exhales, and it’s not a breath—it’s a confession.

“That was the worst one, wasn’t it?” he asks. “Out of all of it. That’s the one that stayed.”

Your silence says enough.

And something in him breaks again—quietly, like a structure folding inward with no one left to hold it up. His forehead presses lightly to your knee, his arm tightening around your thigh. You feel him breathe you in, like scent alone might bring you back from the half-place you escaped.

“I should’ve known the second I touched you that something was wrong. I should’ve seen it on your face.” His voice cracks, just once. “But I was so angry. So fucking angry I couldn’t feel anything but the space where you weren’t.”

He pulls back. Looks at you again—slowly, steadily. And something inside him hardens, not with rage, but resolution.

“You’re not lifting a hand again. Not for food. Not for water. Not for anything. I don’t care how long it takes. I don’t care what it costs. You’re going to rest, and I’m going to fix this—you—with my own hands, piece by piece.”

And when he stands, it’s not the usual slow menace or calculated power.

It’s reverent.

He lifts you—not like someone injured. Like something sacred. And when he carries you out of the room, wrapped in warmth and silence, there is no doubt in your mind:

Sylus will not let go again.

Not even if time itself tries to take you.

💜 Caleb

You aren’t even halfway through when it hits him.

Not like a punch. Not like a wound.

Like an organ failing.

He blinks once. Twice. And then nothing. No movement. No breath. Just silence.

Then, quietly—almost absently—he mutters, “I’ll resign.”

You look up, startled, and the absurdity punches out of you in a short, cracked laugh.

It’s the wrong moment. Too sharp, too bitter. But it slices through the tension like a scalpel.

And still—he doesn't move.

His hands press against the table, white-knuckled. Not to steady himself—he isn’t swaying. He’s rigid. Locked. Like something in him has calcified to hold him upright.

“I’m not fit to lead,” he says, voice flat, low, scorched. “Not when I see betrayal in the only person I’ve ever trusted.”

Whatever breath of amusement you had left dissolves instantly.

“I didn’t just fail as someone who was supposed to protect you,” he adds. “I failed as your—” He stops. Chokes it down. His jaw clenches so hard you can hear the sound of his teeth grinding. “As your Caleb.”

And then—he moves.

Quick, purposeful. Gone in a flash. You hear the kettle filling, the sharp click of a drawer, the dull thud of something fragile hitting the counter too hard. The way he clutches at control would be laughable if it weren’t so violent.

Then the bathwater starts.

Hot. Too hot. He’s not measuring anything. Just pouring. He throws open the cabinet, snatches towels, drops one, curses.

When he returns—his phone is in hand. “I’ll call Dr. Navik. I want a full neurocardiac scan, and we need to rule out—”

He stops. Mid-sentence. Thumb poised over the screen.

You don’t say a word. You just watch as something slows in him. As if time, for once, is merciful.

He lowers the phone. Turns toward you.

His voice—when it comes—isn't clipped or cold or distant. It's frighteningly gentle.

“Pip-squeak.”

He kneels before you, as if he’s afraid standing over you might shatter what little is left between you.

When he reaches out, it’s so slow. So reverent. The back of his fingers graze your cheekbone, barely there. Not because he doubts you—but because he doubts himself.

“How do you actually feel?” he whispers. “Not what I can fix. Not what the scans will say. Just you.”

You breathe. Only once. It shakes.

“Like roadkill,” you murmur. Then softer, almost smiling: “A hot bath wouldn’t hurt. And sleep. Maybe a week of it.”

Your faint attempt at a smile breaks him.

Not loudly. Not outwardly. He doesn’t cry. But something in his face folds in on itself, like it’s suddenly too heavy to wear. He draws a slow, trembling breath.

“I accused you,” he says, and now his voice is wrong. Hoarse. Quiet. Dismantled. “I accused you of being with someone else. After you went through six weeks of hell.”

You try to speak. He doesn’t let you.

“I thought you left me,” he says, and this time his voice cracks—just barely, but it’s there. A faultline in steel. His eyes are on the floor now, unfocused, as if he’s speaking to ghosts.

“I believed you would.”

His breath falters, like the truth is costing him oxygen.

“That it made sense. That I wasn’t enough.”

A pause. His throat works hard around the next words.

“Or worse—too much.”

His hand curls into a fist against his thigh, knuckles white. Not from anger. From restraint. From the effort not to collapse under the weight of everything he’s never said.

“That you’d finally find someone who doesn’t smother you with love that borders on obsession.”

He shifts, like his own skin is too tight. His jaw clenches. His eyes squeeze shut for half a second before he forces them open again, forces himself to keep looking at you—even if it kills him.

“Someone who wouldn’t try to chain you close,” he whispers, “just because he’s too selfish to breathe without you.”

He looks at you now—really looks—and the devastation in his gaze is endless.

His voice breaks on the last word.

“Someone who wasn’t… me.”

And for a moment, he’s not a soldier. Not a leader. Not even a man.

He’s just Caleb. That boy who loved you before he had language for it. And who never stopped. Even when it ruined him.

His hands curl into fists against his knees.

“I interrogated you. Like a stranger. Like a traitor. And all the while you were trapped—alone, dying, fighting—and I was worried about your silence in my bed.”

A breath. And another. Like he’s drowning in air.

“I loved you before I even knew what that word meant,” he whispers. “I carried it for years, swallowed it, starved it. I told myself it was wrong. Forbidden. And the moment I finally had you—really had you—I destroyed it with my own hands.”

He doesn’t look at you. Not until your fingers find his.

Then he shudders. And looks up.

“You always forgave me,” he says, voice breaking now. “Even when I didn’t deserve it. But this time… if you don’t. If you can’t…”

His hand trembles in yours.

“…I’ll understand.”

You shake your head. Just once.

And in that second—he folds into you, arms curling around your waist, forehead pressed to your stomach like a prayer he doesn’t believe he deserves to say out loud.

When he finally carries you to the bath, it’s not in silence. He keeps murmuring things—small things, promises, broken confessions, names only he calls you. He doesn’t try to be strong. He only tries to be there.

And when you’re finally in bed again, drowsy and warm, you find him already beside you. Fully clothed, facing the ceiling, his hand resting on the sheets between you like a lifeline.

You whisper his name.

He turns his head, eyes dim in the dark.

You reach for him, and he comes to you instantly, without hesitation. He lies down beside you, and when you press your head to his chest, he exhales like it’s the first real breath he’s taken in years.

His hand strokes your hair once.

And then, quiet—so quiet it almost isn’t real—

“I’ll never be the same.”

You don’t respond.

Because you both know it’s true.

And because you both know he doesn’t want to be.

[lastoneout]

"Rose died to turn into Steven so she didn't have to deal with the repercussions of her actions-" Rose could not have been more clearly operating under the impression that Steven would never have to deal with any of her issues in any meaningful way. Earth was abandoned by gems, and the corrupted ones are clearly more than enough for Garnet, Amethyst, and Pearl to handle, her family thought she died, Earth was safe and Steven would get to just be a normal little boy. She didn't fucking know.

"But why didn't she tell anyone about Spinel-" Do you honestly think she really thought that Spinel would take her words so literally? I agree it's niave of her to make that assumption, especially given what kind of power Diamonds have over other gems, but Rose was niave and young and trying to escape and starting a war, and her judgement lapsed, the story NEVER gives us a hint that she truly believed or even suspected that Spinel would sit there for six thousand years waiting for her to get back. Spinel thought that because that's what it felt like to her, but that was not Rose's intention at all. (Also ngl the whole Spinel thing really smacks of sibling dynamics in abusive familial situations, I could write an essay about this it's very "older siblings got out and left you behind" adjacent, so.)

"She could have gone back to check-" Ignoring the fact that all methods of getting to Homeworld were purposefully destroyed after the war and revealing what she knew about Spinel would clearly out her as Pink Diamond to everyone who didn't know, you mean back to the Gems that want to kill her and her family and all life on Earth when it was finally as safe as it could possibly be? Reignite a war that ended what surely must have been billions of lives?? Waste those sacrifices??? Uhuh. Sure. (Are older children obligated to return to their abusive family situations to get their younger siblings out, damn the consequences?)

Some of y'all just cannot look at her mistakes without reading intentional malice into them and it's insane.

[yanderenightmare]

♡ TW: nsfw, noncon, virginity loss, degradation, abuse of power, Christianity, blasphemy, medieval times, corrupt priest, torture devices, abuse, punishment, misogyny, public humiliation, execution of non-named characters

♡ FEM reader

A scold's bridle, sometimes called a witch's bridle, a gossip's bridle, a brank's bridle, or simply branks, is an instrument of mirror punishment utilized by the church to publicly humiliate women who speak out of turn.

And you’ve unfortunately been deemed one of them…

You can only regret it now—wish you’d kept your mouth shut—wish you’d just held your tongue and spared yourself the poetic justice. You’d even been warned—that’s the dumb part, the part that makes the regret even more bitter. You’d been told gossipping would only land you in a world of hurt, and you, brave-faced and foolish, had ignored the advice. And now you’re facing the consequences.

Branks, an awful contraption, act as a muzzle in an iron framework, caging the head—quite like a helmet—a heavy helmet. Tight and trapping, it’s enough to make your head ache after a mere minute of wear. But that’s not the worst part. No, the worst part is the bridle-bit—a metal wedge about two inches long and one inch wide in size, of which they slide into your mouth, pressing down on top of your tongue—silencing you entirely. 

But being unable to talk is only the first and least of many discomforts—as it also makes your jaw cramp up, and makes a humiliating amount of drool run wild down your chin—making you look like some or other rabid street mutt that’s ben muzzled for its own good.

The chunky metal collar you’re made to wear doesn’t help negate that imagery, nor does the bell attached to it—drawing in the crowds to the town square where you’ve been put on display, fastened to the tron for public judgment and ridicule.

Oh, and they are full of it today.

Standing there, an army of justice—warped faces and pointed fingers. The kids throw rotten fruit, and the elders fouler words—calling you a Jezebel. 

At least you’re not alone up there but sharing the burden with a handful of other miscreants. One’s bent over in the pillory beside you—another three stand next to him up on the gallows, shaking in their piss-soaked boots, noose loosely around their necks—soon-to-be hangmen. 

Thank God the worst things are thrown their way—at least they’ll be set free of it soon. 

The poor sinners hang there still as the sun starts to set and most of the crowd’s gone home for the day, crows picking at the jelly of their dead eyes while the town’s church officer leads you away by leash.

With your hands and arms bound behind your back, you stumble barefoot and gracelessly through the streets—yanked along all the way from the town square up the hill to the church at the top for your final ruling. 

You’re made to kneel on the cobblestone where the clergyman chains your iron collar to the wall.

You’d always pitied those put in the jougs, though you’d also thought them deserving—never knowing you’d be one of them someday. Now you know first-hand what being deserving means. In a town as small as this, where word travels as quickly as you can speak them, only a few ill thoughts will turn everyone against you.

Everything is in a state of discomfort, but at least you’ve finally escaped the town people’s heckling—now secluded in the peaceful quiet of God’s house to reflect in solitude. 

Or… at least, that’s the standard procedure for such offenses.

“Alright then, little magpie,” the church officer announces while unscrewing the cruel headpiece.

It’s surprising. You’d for sure thought he’d leave it on. It was your understanding that it’s common for the scold to wear the bridle until morning and only then be freed. 

But in any case, be it by pity or mercy, you’re ever grateful nevertheless and won’t complain. 

But then, promptly after freeing your mouth from the bit, the man takes hold of your exhausted jaw and gives you a grave warning in its replacement, “Speak out of turn again, and it will go back on for another day in the tron.”

Goosefleshed and ashen from the spoken threat, you do your best to abide by it and remain quiet like the other church mice.

To which the father hums pleasedly, “Nod your head for me if you understand now, magpie.”

You do, looking up at him obediently—hoping he’d see it as enough and deem your punishment fully served, maybe even remove your bonds and collar as well.

“Good.” 

He smiles knowingly, then drops your head. Scoffing loudly, “But of course… a bitch will always prefer being free from the muzzle… Don’t necessarily make ‘em well-behaved.”

You flinch at the words, eyes wide, looking up into his gaze, feeling small under the weight as he leers down his nose at you worse than that of the crowd earlier. 

But what really makes your stomach curl are his ringed hands and how they move to his robes.

“Let’s see if this newfound virtue of yours is true and not just another one of your brazen tricks, shall we?” he suggests, leisurely undoing the knots to his drapes.

“When I’m done, and if you have managed to hold your tongue, I’ll consider you disciplined enough to return home,” he explains, dropping his attire unceremoniously by his feet before taking hold of your chin again. “If not, the bridle will go back on, and we will continue the lesson in the morning and every day onward until your mouth is as honest as if in the confessional.”

Your eyes flicker between his and peaking forward, barely withstanding whimpering when laying your eyes on it—the thing below his belly nearing your face.

“Remember now, magpie, no making a sound—neither word nor moan. I want complete silence.” 

The grip on your chin tightens, and your eyes dart back up to his. 

“Now open that gossiping trap of yours and accept God’s judgment.” 

His other hand holds it in a gentler caress from your face, giving it a few languid rubs before knocking it against your sealed lips, ordering them to open. 

It shocks you—enough to have you swallow a gasp—almost making an illicit sound that would all but seal your fate with the scold’s bridle for another day of suffering.

“Did you not hear me, girl? I said–” Impatient and roughened by his anger, he lets go of your jaw and deals a sharp blow to your cheek next. “Open your no-good sinning mouth!” 

The hand goes to your hair next, tangling within the tousled locks to give your scalp a hard tug.

Again you’re in danger of making a sound but manage to stifle it by screwing your eyes shut—quickly baring your tongue for the priest and pliantly accepting the salty offering placed upon it soon after as if receiving communion on any other Sunday mass.

“That’s it, magpie—” he says then, softer now in praise. “No more tall tales, no more nagging.” His grip eases up but remains to hold you steady as he slowly and rightfully slides his length down to the very back of your throat. Groaning, “Just be a good girl, now. Close your lips around me and suck—and you’ll soon be forgiven.”

You obey, locking your lips around him, tasting the sweat and tang, withstanding gagging as you force yourself into suckling and swallowing the foreign flavors down. 

“Good. You see?” he sighs out in a groan, pleased while fucking your mouth. 

Tangling both hands in your disheveled hair, he sets a rhythm of pulling you away and reeling you back in close—a tempo more than fair for an amateur throat like yours—only just deep and fast enough to make his weighty balls swing and graze your chin on every thrust. 

“If all a woman does is run ‘er mouth—only using it to bitch and moan—they’ll never learn what it’s truly good for,” he gruffs, sinking deeper and settling there, holding your skull in place from pulling back. “But I’ll show yah—don’t worry.”

Your head soon heats up—bleeding red and thick with it—feeling tight and trapped and in dire desperate need to draw air—or at the very least, make some sort of discomforted sound in lack of it—yet under strict order to remain deadly silent. 

“Good god, girl—I’m going all the way down that tight, hot guzzle—” he drawls, bullying deeper—and deeper. Hissing as he bottoms out, “Just the way God intended!”

His hips stutter, wearing your throat like a holster—lips stretched around his fat shaft, kissing his pubes with your nose buried in his well-fed belly.

With eyes rolling back beneath tightly shut lids, seeing spots of light in the enclosing void, you can’t help but flinch when hit with the glob of spit that falls and splatters between your brows. But at least the laughter that echoes throughout the church hall drowns out the sound of your heaving for air once he finally pulls out and frees your throat.

Maintaining a fist in your hair, he keeps you close—your temple to his hip, nose-kissing his strung shaft—struggling to catch your breath while his chuckles die down into humored hums.

“I’ve never had a throat that deep before,” he scoffs with a cruel smile—yanking your hair once again, pulling it back to make you face up. “One might call it witchcraft.” 

Another hard slap is dealt in the same spot as earlier. 

“Are you a witch maybe, magpie?” 

And a third smack. 

“Do I haf’to tie you to the stake next—have ourselves a roast?

Feeling your cheek sting white-hot, you shake your head—fighting to keep your whimpers at bay as silent tears dampen your cheeks—puffing up and rushing with blood post-strike, dulling to a numb yet lingering ache.

He doesn’t show mercy. Instead, it seems the pitiful display only makes him more rowdy—shoving you down to the cold cobblestone with an evil gleam in his eyes.

“Then let’s see you praise the Father,” he barks. “Bow and kiss his holy floor. I’ll judge whether you're a witch or not.”

You’re leash only barely gives you enough leeway to lower yourself. Hands remaining bound up tight behind your back, balled up and shaking in their knots as you bend over until your lips brush the dusty church stone.

“No, not a witch… but—” he hums, though not entirely convinced yet. “A true Christian would savor the taste of God's house.”

Your brows cinch, but you still do as suggested—producing your tongue and dragging it across the filthy tile—collecting dry silt and larger grains of sand—leaving behind a darkened wet trail on the otherwise ashen rock.

“That’s it, magpie,” the clergyman croons with a sneer. “Put that gossipping little tongue of yours to better use.”

You obey, eyes closed, continuing to lick the floor like a dog—fearing worse things would come if you didn’t. Wanting it all to be over and figuring if you just listen, it’ll be done quicker and as pain-free as you could hope.

“But do you deserve it?” he asks then, after a pause of watching you with his cock in hand, tugging it with raspy breaths getting rustier—continuing with a gritty tone, “An unwed woman can only serve the lord if she’s pure.”

His other hand returns to your hair for a third time, pulling you up by the tresses in a stinging grip.

“Are you pure, magpie?”

Goosefleshed by his darkened tone, you cower under his pointed glare. Keenly nodding your head as much as his hand allows.

Still, he doesn’t seem convinced. Huffing, “We’ll see.” 

He drops you again. Now, with a new order, “Turn and bow with your tongue back on the floor.”

You do as he says, though shakily. Gut folding and churning within—throat tight, even under the metal collar, snaring—making your head pound with alarm as you shift on your knees until you’re facing the wall with your back to him, lowering your head down until your swollen cheek neatly squish against the cool stone—tongue splayed out on the earthy rock once again—with your rear raised for the priest’s inspection.

Your nails sink into your palms in the same painful crescents as before while the clergyman lifts your greyed and tattered frock like he’s unveiling a blushing bride—and, similarly to the groom, throws the skirt atop your sloped back, bunched up with the rest of your dirtied dress—leaving your legs and thighs and ass bare to his preying eyes.

He rumbles heavily, pleased by the sight of your pretty little virgin cunt—quivering in the crude and callous open air.

Crouched behind you in perfect level with it, you can all but feel his eager leer rake through you before his finger does—slicing through your pussy-lips and quickly disappearing inside your formerly untouched hole.

You flinch, squirming at the unfamiliar feeling—breaths damp against the ground as you await the verdict.

“It’s tight,” he grumbles, assessing you with a knuckle-deep digit, before scoffing, “But surely… no true virgin is this wet.”

Your eyes widen at the accusation, and he slips his finger out again and stands up with a sigh, “I can’t make sure with a finger alone.”

Then suddenly, he grabs onto of your hanches and lifts your hips higher until your thighs straighten up—and promptly lays his still-hard and hot-blooded member to rest between the cheeks. With his knees bent, a toppling tower over you, he slides through the crevice, rubbing upon your scrunched asshole as he does.

You stir for the first time, but his hold tightens in turn.

“Keep that tongue out, magpie. And don’t you dare make a single sound, y’hear? Or else the branks go back on.”

You fall still—scared in place—eyes screwed shut as his cock falls from the peak of your ass down to your glistened entrance, prodding the small opening with the tip, trying to force it inside, but kept at bay until the narrow ring of muscle finally gave and allowed him to tear through.

“Wheew—undoubtedly a virgin!” he whistles with his head gaining purchase. Groaning at the close fit. “Taut and tight and sensitive—and just perfect for taking seed.”

Meanwhile, you suck in a gasp—tongue still pinned to the floor—only barely managing to suppress the cry that had wanted to follow. 

Choking it down, you nurse yourself through it with a string of deep breaths instead—even as he starts prying further inside—letting your cunt hold the head as he gives it shallow digs, working you open to take his full length.

“That’s it—good magpie,” he moans, pulling you back on his cock by your hips, treading you on like a sleeve. “Take it deep.”

He starts thrusting, and your breath weakens into thin stutters—tongue hanging limply from your mouth all on its own. Eyes glazed, looking toward nothing—rocked steadily as the corrupt priest pounds you like a cheap whore—sore cheek scraping against the stone floor. 

And still, you’re silent—as if having taken a vow.

The only sounds echoing throughout the church are the clergyman’s grunts and the steady fwop fwop fwop of his balls clapping your sopping cunt—almost reminiscent of the church bell’s clangoring.

“Almost there now, magpie,” he chimes from above. “Milk my cock and take my seed in your womb, and you’re forgiven.”

It almost sounds too good to be true. Even as everything aches and you’ve become certain you might just remain mute forever onward, the thought of freedom is enough to bring new hopeful tears to your pitiful eyes. So, as the warmth of his release soils your inside, it’s also joined by overwhelming relief.

A moment or more passes. You don’t take your tongue off the floor, and he remains above you, pumping his load into your deep, dumping it all at depth as if burying some dirty secret. 

At some point, he pulls out—cock now sluggish and spent. You feel its spillage matte on the inside of your thighs—also hidden as he drapes your skirt back in place.

Unbothered with his own clothes, he stands there before your bowed body—now with an accent of full-bellied satisfaction as he pronounces you free of sin in bad Latin—crossing his chest and kissing his knuckle before looking up to the ceiling at the God you’d grown sure he didn’t even believe in.

“Rejoice, magpie,” he mocks while leaning over you to untie your hands. “You’re now free to go.”

But as you lift your head, he still holds out on removing your collar. 

Holding your chin instead, he looks down at you like before, saying, “But it would do you good to remember…” His free hand taps your cheek, softer now but hard enough to make you cringe. “You run that bitch mouth again, and in my church on your knees is where you’ll end up. Understand?”

And just like before, you nod your head for him—still as silent as a church mouse eager to escape the beast’s ugly jaws.

He seems pleased with that and gives you a crooked smile, purring, “Good.” 

He then fishes the keys to your collar from his heaped robes and, at long last, unlocks it from your throat.

And by God, as you wobble out of the church, it feels as if you've been let free from hell.

♡ FEM x M INSERT masterlist ♡ GN x M INSERT masterlist

[yanderemommabean]

Yandere uramichi punishing his fem darling who tried to escape with pleasure?

"God, look at you baby. Dripping all over the bed and I haven't even done anything yet" He says in awe, watching how his fingers drip with your juices, all while you're unable to even hide your face, hands tied to the side of the bed as you struggle to catch your breath.

"Honestly, with how wet you are, I'd think you did that stunt on purpose. Is that it? You just like me riled up because you know what I'm capable of doing to you?"

His voice is sickly sweet, his lips sucking obscenely on his fingers that were just inside you, groaning deep in his throat as he slides between your forced open legs, cuffed to the end posts of the large bed.

His thumbs come to hold your swollen pussy lips open, his expression that of admiration and contemplation, wondering just how much of a mess he can turn you into.

You're so cute when you yelp at the way he plays with your stiff clit, and when you shake and try to apologize, he just can't help but smile. You knew the consequences! Why are you acting like this is all a big surprise? Surely you have to be doing this on purpose!

The rose toy he got earlier that week, would that be good to try? Your toes curl and your voice goes hoarse when he gets a little carried away, and well, this isn't exactly supposed to be easy on you.

You wince, feet trying to firmly plant on the mattress as the toy vibrates and suctions right on your clit, your nerves set alight as you writhe and try to both get away and grind down harder.

"There you go again, acting like you don't love how I treat you. Honestly, you could use some acting classes" He says, deadpanned but not at all bored. He presses the toy down harder, sliding his fingers inside of your clenching and fluttering walls while you sob, wrists yanking in the bindings as the toy relentlessly sucks and makes your muscles taut.

Those pianist fingers only make it worse, the pleasure so intense it drives you up a wall. You didn't even have the cognitive ability to plead with him, it was useless anyhow, but this was making even thinking difficult. Without a warning, that cord in your stomach just snaps. And the mess that leaves you and your mouth makes you want to curl up and die.

Uramichi just latches his mouth to your pussy, sucking and drinking you in, firm hands holding you up by your ass as he takes every bit he can get. It's almost cute how easy it is to make you squirt. His cute sensitive little co-star.

"There we go, let it all out baby. See? It's so easy for you to be good for me like this! It's making me wonder why I let you be untied in the first place" He says aloud, dragging his thumbs up and down your swollen vulva as you sniffle and try to form any semblance of an apology.

It's useless. You know it is. But the panic doesn't stop your mouth from moving and speaking words that fall on deaf ears.

His fingers slide back inside, his demeanor changing as his palm presses against your abused and sore clit, fingers pumping and curling at a punishing, brutal pace.

"You're not fuckin sorry. Not yet. One orgasm? Please. I'll make you sorry. Make you cum again and again and again while you gasp and writhe, and beg me. Don't care if you pass out. Don't care if it hurts. You tried to leave. You have no one to blame but yourself."

The way he fingers you, deep and demanding, you can only openly sob as more wetness drips down to your ass. It's wet, sticky, the noises only make you feel more shame as the man comes to suck on your nipples, biting and tugging them aggressively as he works you into another orgasm, the pain mixing with the pleasure only making your brain all the more foggy and broken.

Two orgasms in and you're already sobbing? Goodness, you really know how to put on theatrics! But if you didn't want this you wouldn't be so fucking wet, taking everything he gives you, sucking his fingers in for more. Does he look stupid?

You wanted this.

"Look at you, creaming all over my hand, spraying like a faucet. I give you what you need, don't I? Make that nasty ache go away and give your little pussy what it needs. I can play you like an instrument, anyway I like" He grins, wild and manic as he grinds his palm against your spasming clit, only making you spill into yet another overstimulated orgasm.

You don't even get to call his name or take a breath before he reaches for the rose toy again, holding it in front of his face with a shit eating grin.

"I think you, the toy and I are going to be well acquainted by the end of this. Then once you're all nice and worn out for me, I can unwind by kissing it all better."

(Please god let there be no typos I haven't slept. Anyway I hope you enjoyed!!! -Mommabean )

[whateverthought]

I know there's a lot of debate about the Stans' age, and personally I've calculated it as 62, so Shermie would have had to have His Son(Dip+Mab Dad) at 16 and then the twins were born when their parents were 18 or vice versa. To me, I like the thought that Shermie didn't escape Filbrick's bad parenting and got a girl pregnant as a teenager and his son only managed to be slightly better and married the mother of his children only for their marriage to not work out. Bill Cipher referencing Dipper hearing his parents fighting.

It's the consequences of Bad Parenting and Abuse afflicted by this man that's haunting the narrative.

[simp-for-love]

Devil's Advocate

Mattheo Riddle x FemReader

You never expected to need a lawyer — let alone him. Mattheo Riddle is infamous, both for winning impossible cases and for being insufferably arrogant while doing it. You don't trust him, but with your ex tightening his grip, you’re running out of options

Warnings: lawyer!au, psychological manipulation and emotional abuse from ex, swearing, power dynamics, legal drama, sexual tension, kinda slow burn. It's a mix of a modern!au and the wizarding world that is set after Hogwarts, ignoring the war.

Word count ~2,8k

A/N: I'm so excited about this one. Hope you'll like it too! And Enzo's girlies, I'm sorry. He's a bad guy here🤭

You used to think Lorenzo Berkshire was perfect.

Charming, attentive, the kind of man who remembered all the little things — a preference for fresh lilies over traditional red roses, the way you took your coffee, the book you offhandedly mentioned wanting to read. He was sweet, too. Thoughtful. A boyfriend from every girl's dream.

Until he wasn’t.

Until you realized the carefully curated perfection wasn’t for you, it was for his control. And Enzo was very, very good at control.

It took too long to see past the honeyed words and the expensive gifts, the way he made you feel like the most cherished person in the world. It took too long to recognize the patterns. The slight gaslighting, the ever-so-subtle isolation from your friends, the way every ‘coincidence’ seemed to align just right in his favor. By the time you did, you were trapped in a web you didn’t know how to escape. Every your step was controlled, carefully calculated by Enzo's sweet smiles and cold eyes.

And now? Now you were in trouble.

You wanted out. No, you needed out. But Enzo wasn’t the kind of man to just let go of what was his. He had money, charms, connections, and the ability to make things disappear. Every lawyer you approached? Gone before they could even hear your full case. Either bribed or scared off. The ones that weren’t? The ones that actually seemed interested? Well, they quickly lost that interest as soon as the stakes became clear and your ex's name left your lips. Unfortunately for you, Enzo had that effect on people.

All but one.

Mattheo Riddle.

You weren’t even sure why you went to him at first. Maybe desperation. Maybe because his reputation preceded him. Maybe because he was the only one left.

You knew his name since the school, of course. Everyone in the wizarding world did. But now people knew him for a whole different reason. He was the defense attorney who won cases no one else would dare touch, to even look at. The man who had beaten aurors, ministers, and more corrupt officials than you could count. People said he had no fear. That he never lost. That he only defended those he deemed worthy, not caring much about the consequences. That money couldn’t buy his loyalty.

And that last part was crucially important to you.

The sound of your heels echoed through the sleek marble floors of the law office, each step deliberate, controlled. You had to be. Because if you thought too much about the weight of the situation, about how you'd gotten here, you might just turn around and leave.

But you couldn't. And you wouldn't. Not when this was your last chance to break free.

The receptionist, an immaculately dressed woman with piercing eyes and a deep cleavage that could hardly be called decent, barely looked up from her 'Witch Weekly'. Her voice was lazily bored. "Do you have an appointment?"

"No." You swallowed, straightening your shoulders. "But Mr. Riddle is waiting for me."

Then her appraising gaze darted upward. She elegantly raised her perfect-shaped eyebrow as if reading and analyzing a potential competitor. There was disbelief and a hint of mocking in her gaze that said, 'How could he be waiting for you?'

"What's your name?" she said almost reluctantly.

Usually, you would flip people off for that gaze or tone. But now was not the right time or place to be bitchy. You gave her your name, your voice steadier than you felt, and after a beat, she inclined her head toward the heavy double doors at the end of the hallway behind her. "Go right in."

That was how you ended up here, standing in front of the office door, nerves coiled in your stomach. The brass nameplate on the door gleamed under the bright hallway lights.

Mattheo Riddle, Esq.

You felt your palms getting sweaty because of your nerves. But he was your last hope against Enzo. You couldn't back down now. So you took a deep breath, squared your shoulders, knocked softly, and opened the door.

The office was a sharp contrast to the pristine sterility of the lobby. It was warm wood-paneled walls, dark leather furniture, and a faint scent of smoke and something deeper, richer. Like expensive whiskey and old books. A single wall of floor-to-ceiling windows showcased the city skyline, and in front of them, seated behind a mahogany desk, was the man himself.

In that moment when you stepped into Mattheo Riddle’s office, the thought that you were in the wrong place crossed your mind. Not because you didn’t need help, your current predicament demanded it, but because everything about him, from the smug smirk to the unbuttoned collar of his tailored dress shirt, almost screamed trouble.

He didn't look up immediately, fingers tapping absently against the desk as he skimmed over a file. But then his dark eyes flicked up, locking onto yours with a sharpness that made your breath catch. His gaze flickered with recognition, a knowing smirk tugging at his lips.

“Well, well,” he drawled velvety, leaning back in his leather chair, fingers steepled together as he observed you like a cat might be looking at a particularly interesting mouse. “Look what the cat dragged in.”

'Fuck, he'd changed', you thought immediately. His features became more mature, sharper. Broad shoulders were wrapped in an expensive suit, as if his body and the costume were created to attract hungry or jealous glances. Plump lips, now without permanent cuts and wounds like in Hogwarts, were stretched into a familiar smirk that was both charming and mischievous. The only thing that remained unchanged were his eyes. Dark, piercing, captivating, as if they knew all your dirty secrets that you trying to hide.

You exhaled, gathering your thoughts together, and stepped further inside, not letting your nervousness show. "I need your help."

Mattheo leaned back in his chair, regarding you with an expression you couldn't quite read — amused, curious, or something else entirely. Then, with a slow and smug smirk, he gestured to the chair across from him.

You hesitated only a fraction before lowering yourself into the chair opposite him. It was plush, expensive, and did absolutely nothing to ease the tension coiling in your stomach. Mattheo watched you with the kind of patience that wasn’t patience at all. More like a predator toying with its prey, waiting for it to make the first move.

"You need my help," he echoed, that infuriating smirk not leaving his lips. "That’s interesting. Because I don’t usually take clients who walk in off the street without an appointment."

You felt a pang of irritation. 'Off the street? Like you were some kind of a homeless dog,' you scoffed mentally. But you convinced yourself to inhale deeply and regain your composure. You needed his help, and you honestly expected him to act all cocky. He'd always been like this, even as a teenager at Hogwarts.

The deep exhale left your lips as you forced yourself to meet his gaze directly. "I didn't have much of a choice. Every other lawyer turned me away. Or, more accurately, they were turned away for me."

His eyes flickered with a mix of something — amusement, intrigue, calculation. "Hmm, let me guess," he purred lowly with a knowing smirk. "Lorenzo Berkshire?"

You nodded, your fingers tightening into your lap involuntarily. "I assume you already know what he’s capable of."

Mattheo let out a low chuckle, tilting his head slightly in amusement. "Oh, I do. We go way back, Enzo and I. Hogwarts days, old friends, that sort of thing."

The words sent a chill down your spine. Fuck, you totally forgot about the fact that they were close. And now that meant he wouldn’t take your case. That meant he—

"But we aren’t friends now," Mattheo continued, his tone shifting, something dangerous and razor-sharp creeping beneath the previous amusement. "Haven’t seen him for three years," a dark and almost maniac flash flicked in his onyx eyes. "Which only makes this more… intriguing."

You exhaled slowly, forcing yourself to remain steady and not to show your relief too obviously. You didn’t want him to see how desperately you need his help. "He's been bribing and scaring off every lawyer I’ve tried to hire. And I can’t— I won’t stay trapped like this. I need someone he can’t buy," you said carefully.

Mattheo hummed, drumming his fingers against the desk. His lips tugged into a smug grin. "And you came to me. The unshakable, indispensable, and incorruptible Mattheo Riddle."

You arched a brow at his words. That arrogant prick. You wanted to shove his shit-eating smirk deep in his handsome ass. But instead you remained calm. You needed him. "Something like that," you mumbled almost reluctantly.

He grinned even wider, and damn him, even under these circumstances, even through your irritation and annoyance at his attitude, you could see why people were drawn to him. There was some dangerous charm to Mattheo, a confidence that didn’t just border on arrogance — he wore it like a finely tailored suit.

"Tell me everything, sweetheart," he mused finally, his tone playful yet calculated. Like he was amused and intrigued by this situation, but he also already had all the cards in this game. "Leave nothing out."

You swallowed, gathering your thoughts and nodding, and then began to speak.

As you recounted everything, how perfect Enzo had seemed at the very beginning, how he slowly and gradually tightened his grip on your life and choices, how things spiraled until you realized you were caught in something you couldn’t escape — Mattheo listened. Not just passively, but with an intensity that made you feel unease and your skin prickle. His dark eyes stayed locked onto yours, unblinking, absorbing every word, every pause, every unspoken fear woven between your sentences.

When you finally finished, Mattheo leaned back slightly, exhaling through his nose and rubbing his lower lip in thought. "He’s meticulous. I’ll give him that. But he made one mistake."

Your breath hitched. But you didn’t want to let your hopes up. He hadn’t said 'Yes' to you yet. So you asked a bit hesitantly and carefully, "What?"

"He underestimated you." Mattheo's smirk returned, sharper this time, like he was a predator who was ready to hunt their prey. "And now, he has to deal with me."

If you weren’t in this dreadful position right now, his dark and hawkish gaze'd probably intimidate you. But you were, so relief crashed through you so fast that you almost felt lightheaded. "So you’ll help me?"

Mattheo tilted his head, considering. "Oh, sweetheart, I was always going to help an old friend of mine. The moment you walked through my door and made this infinitely more interesting for me?" He leaned forward, his voice dropping just slightly, sending a shiver down your spine. "Enzo just became my newest problem. And I do love a good problem," he said with a playful wink.

You swallowed hard, heart pounding. You weren’t sure if you’d just made a deal with salvation — or with the devil himself. But in your desperate situation, you couldn’t quite bring yourself to care.

When you came home to your rented apartment later in the evening, where you were almost shamefully hiding from Enzo's all-seeing grab, you replayed this meeting in your head over and over again. The way Mattheo had grown up, how smug and lazily confident he was, the way his eyes changed color in the room's dimness. You quickly realized that your thoughts were going in some dangerous directions. So you shook your head in annoyance, turned on your side, and tried to sleep.

The next time you saw Mattheo Riddle, it wasn’t in the dimly lit intimacy of his office but in the cold sterility of a high-rise conference room. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the skyline behind him, the city sprawling out in golden lights as dusk settled. The room was all glass, steel, and polished surfaces — a battlefield for people who fought with words and knowledge instead of their wands.

You had expected to feel anxious, maybe even regretful about involving him, but watching him now, prowling the space with effortless confidence, you felt something else entirely.

Mattheo was in his element.

Seated at the massive conference table, you were flanked by paralegals and junior associates, people who worked for him, who hung onto his every word. They were efficient, sharp, and ruthless, but none of them commanded the room the way he did. Dressed in a crisp black suit, his tie slightly loosened, Mattheo carried an air of calculated chaos, as though he could dismantle the entire legal system with nothing but a boyish smirk and a well-placed argument.

You were only halfway listening to the conversation when you realized you were shamelessly staring. Not at his face, exactly, but at the way he moved and held himself. The sharp flex of his fingers against the table as he spoke, the way his lips curled around every word, the smooth confidence in his voice as he tore through the evidence presented before him, the silent but almost palpable respect of his subordinates who listened attentively to his every word. It wasn’t the same smug arrogance from before — this was precision, intellect, power. And it was intoxicating.

You realized almost reluctantly that you were turned on.

By his mind. By the way he held himself. By the way he had the attention of the whole room without even trying. By the way he saw everything ten moves ahead. By the fact that, for all his showmanship, Mattheo Riddle was undeniably, inescapably brilliant.

“You’re awfully quiet,” Mattheo murmured, sliding into the chair beside you during a brief break in the discussion. His cologne was expensive and subtle, something dark, woody, and spicy that made your stomach tingle. “Second thoughts?”

You exhaled, hoping he wouldn’t catch the way your pulse jumped and your eyes were glued to him during the discussion. “No,” you said, forcing your voice to stay level. “Just observing.”

He hummed, glancing at you with something amused and knowing in his dark, onyx eyes. “And? What’s your verdict?”

You should have played it safe, should have kept your expression neutral, but instead, your mouth betrayed you, saying the next words against your will. “You’re good.”

His smirk was slow, devastating. “Oh, sweetheart,” he murmured smugly, his voice nothing but a smoke curling under your skin. “You have no idea.”

Your throat felt suddenly dry, making you swallow slightly. “I think,” you said carefully, not wanting to show just how much he affected you, but failing miserably, “that you might actually be worth all the fuss around you.”

Mattheo leaned forward, close enough that you could see the flicker of something dark and knowing in his gaze. “Careful, sweetheart,” he murmured, his voice like silk wrapping around a blade — captivating yet dangerous — making heat pool down in your stomach. “Another praise from you, and I'll think that you might start to like me.”

You weren’t sure if it was the arrogance in his smirk or the glint in his eyes that made your skin heat, but there was something about Mattheo Riddle in his element that was utterly infuriating. And unfortunately, undeniably hot and attractive.

And in this moment, you realized with a sinking feeling that pushing those thoughts aside was going to be impossible. Because watching him like this — ruthless, brilliant, completely in control over the situation, over the room, over you.

It was maddening.

You should have been focusing on the legal strategy, on how he was about to dismantle Enzo's grip on your life. But instead, you were hyperaware of the way Mattheo thrived in this setting, his words sharp as a blade, his presence overpowering.

And worst of all? He knew it too.

Because at one point, as you shifted slightly in your seat, trying to shake off the heat curling low in your stomach and between your thighs, his eyes flicked toward you, just for a second. A knowing, dark, amused glance, like he could sense the shift in your thoughts. Like he could hear them, taste them.

That absolutely insufferable, arrogant bastard.

You cleared your throat, straightened your posture, and forced yourself to focus. This wasn’t the time. This wasn’t the place. You were here to win your freedom back, not to get distracted by the handsome man who was helping you achieve it.

But then, as Mattheo turned back to the discussion, his voice a low, smooth, lazy drawl, you had a sinking realization.

This might just be the beginning of an entirely new kind of trouble.

[annyankers]

for all the amicability in the whirlwind later on i think it's really important to never lose sight of why dru was turned and then why she in turn sired spike. she was tortured and turned for angelus' enjoyment, her continued suffering brings him pleasure. he owns her, she is a Thing to him and she has no way to escape this. she makes spike to be "her brave knight" a position that, especially in fairytales, means a very romantic man physically protects and serves a woman who is usually gonna end up being some kind of damsel in distress.

while yes dru is evil and a vampire she's still obviously very upset about what happened to her and those moments seem to be her times of lucidity, not delusion. not to mention that she's already been beaten out of the notion that she can escape angelus, she tried to as a human and it didn't work, it likely won't work now either, especially if darla sides with him. but with spike around there's someone who basically always takes her side and fights to keep angelus away from her. who is, at least, a buffer between her and her tormentor. he also takes care of her and validates her, something neither darla or angelus seem to be interested in doing at all.

i feel like people tend to intellectually remember what happened to her but forget that it you know, has long lasting consequences when say, they evaluate her behavior in late s2 when angelus comes back. like... yeah ofc she goes back to appeasing him and shit. spike's a wheelchair and she was beaten into shape to be "daddy's little girl" (gag) YEARS before she even MET spike. her abuser is back and her defender is out of commission not to mention her whole view of reality has been actively warped by the most narcissistic sleezoid around.

and all the reasons why people love spike or point to as why he's better with buffy or whatever.... dru was the one who saw those first and picked him because of those. like... it's wild to see people act like they spent a loveless century together and spike was just used the whole time when we SEE them literally in love, he states MULTIPLE times she means so much to him and we get an OUTSIDE SOURCE CONFIRM THEY HAVE "AFFECTION AND JEALOUSY FOR EACH OTHER". we have the spike we know of today because drusilla saw the hero in him and wanted him to rescue her. and ya know, he kinda did. multiple times. over a century of deep, mutual horrifying love. you only even GET spike and buffy in the same ROOM because he loved dru so much he saved her from a mob, traveled with her across a continent (maybe 2 depending on direction) and over an ocean for even a SHOT at a cure. like... cMON.

this got a little off topic into some of my pet peeves but also kinda not because just-- i don't think people always remember that dru is still a victim and a victim who was intentionally frozen the moment of maximum despair and internal destruction. then spent about 20 years being groomed by her tormentor before she ever had anyone care about her as a priority. i think people tend to forget that it was angelus who wanted to turn spike into a monster and drusilla who wanted him to be a hero. it's dru who gives him his swagger, his confidence, his love for life, who encouraged his romanticism and adored his poetics. it's not that she groomed or built him, but just that she saw all that potential already in there and facilitated it and nurtured it. sure in a fucked up vampire way but still.

[chrissssssmut]

can i request sakura being punished all day with a vibrator in front of her members until she squirts

BEHIND THE SPOTLIGHT

Le Sserafim Sakura x Abusive Manager Male reader feat. Le Sserafim

AN: Second Smut! Hope y'all enjoy this one!♥️ (Sakura is so fine in this pic😭♥️)

Sakura had always been resilient. Years of training, scrutiny, and expectations had built a quiet endurance within her, a silent strength that kept her standing even when her body threatened to collapse. But this was different. This was a kind of torment she was never prepared for.

The hiatus was supposed to be for her health. The company agreed. The members supported her. But not him. Not the manager who had spent years molding LE SSERAFIM into a powerhouse. Not the man who saw every delay as a direct betrayal to the group’s progress.

At first, it was little things. He made her stay late after check-ups, forced her to sit through unnecessary meetings, made sure she knew how much she had ‘failed’ the group by stepping back. But then it escalated. A shove when she was too slow. A whisper in her ear reminding her she was disposable. A punishment for every day the group was forced to wait for her return.

Sakura stayed quiet. She had to. If the others found out, they would fight for her. And that would make things worse. So she endured. Every insult, every bruise hidden beneath the long sleeves of her hoodie, every degrading remark that chipped away at the light she once carried.

That night was the worst. She was in her room, barely able to sit up from exhaustion when the door slammed open.

“You’re still in bed?” his voice was a growl, low and venomous.

Sakura scrambled to sit up, her body trembling. “I—I was just—”

“Resting,” he spat. “Being useless. Holding everyone back.”

She flinched, her throat tightening as she bowed her head. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry?” The word came with a cruel laugh. “You think that’s enough?”

Before she could react, he yanked her up, his fingers digging into the fragile skin of her wrist. A sharp gasp escaped her lips, but she bit down the pain. No. She wouldn’t give him that satisfaction.

“Get up,” he ordered, dragging her toward the door. “It’s time your group sees what their ‘leader’ has become.”

Sakura’s breath hitched. “No—please, don’t—”

He didn’t listen. He never listened.

The training room was silent when they arrived. The other members were there, restrained, confusion and fear painted on their faces. They had been called in urgently, no reason given. Now, as Sakura was shoved inside, their confusion turned into pure horror.

“Sakura?” Chaewon’s voice wavered. “What—what happened to you?”

Bruises, cuts, exhaustion. She looked fragile, barely able to stand. The image of the strong, confident Sakura they knew was gone.

“She happened,” the manager said coldly. “Her weakness. Her selfishness.” He turned to them, eyes burning with contempt. “And now, you will all see firsthand the consequences of failure.”

Sakura trembled, her breath shaky as she took a step back. There was no escaping this. Not anymore. And as his shadow loomed over her, she realized—

This nightmare had only just begun.

The other members fought against their restraints, eyes wide with desperation. “Let her go!” Yunjin shouted, struggling against the ropes binding her to the chair. Kazuha thrashed wildly, tears forming in her eyes. Eunchae sobbed, shaking her head as she desperately tried to free herself, her young face contorted with panic.

Before they could do anything, security stormed in, forcing them back down. The members screamed, pleaded, but it was useless. Strong hands held them in place, ensuring they could do nothing but watch.

Sakura’s breath came in short, panicked gasps as she looked at them, silently begging for help she knew wouldn’t come.

And then the door locked behind them.

With a slow, deliberate motion, the manager reached into his coat and pulled something out. The moment it came into view, the room fell into a stunned silence. The members’ eyes widened in pure shock, their struggles momentarily forgotten as the reality of what they were seeing sank in.

A vibrator. 

Without a second thought, the manager ripped off sakura's clothing, leaving her bare on the floor. Her voice trembled as she fell to her knees, desperation lacing every word. "Please… don’t do this," she begged, her eyes glistening with unshed tears.

The manager's eyes darkened as he folded his arms. "I've made my decision. You've been testing my patience for too long. It’s time your fellow members learn the consequences of slacking off.”

The manager’s grip was unyielding, his fingers digging into her arms as she trembled, too weak to resist. No matter how frail she was, he refused to let her go.

The other members called out for Sakura, their voices breaking with desperation, but their pleas fell on deaf ears. It was hopeless.

As the manager tightened his grip on her, he slowly began to rub the vibrator on Sakura's wet folds, each movement drew a reaction, every touch provoking a response. Sakura bit her lip, resisting at first, but eventually, her resolve crumbled. Her moans and cries intertwined, a bittersweet symphony of pain and pleasure.

Sakura had begun to crumble.

The manager relished the sight of her in that state, taunting her with a smirk as he teased, "You love being treated like this, don’t you? You fucking slut.”

Sakura could barely form a response, her mind clouded and body trembling under the overwhelming waves of pleasure. Every sensation crashed over her, leaving her breathless, lost in the intensity of it all.

The other members watched in anguish, their hearts sinking as they witnessed Sakura endure her punishment, powerless to intervene. “Please… just stop,” Chaewon’s voice trembled, desperation cracking through as she stepped forward. “She doesn’t deserve this.” Yunjin clenched her fists, her breath unsteady. “She’s had enough! Just let her go!” Eunchae’s eyes glistened with unshed tears, her voice barely above a whisper. “Please… I’m begging you… she’s hurting.” Kazuha swallowed hard, her usually calm demeanor shaken. “You’ve made your point… we’ll do whatever you want. Just leave her alone.”

As the manager’s pace on her intensified, Sakura’s moans filled the room, growing louder with every breath, her body trembling as she edged closer to the peak of pleasure. The manager’s grip tightened around Sakura’s face, his fingers pressing into her soft skin as he forced her teary eyes to meet his. His gaze was dark, unyielding. "Look at me," he ordered, his voice slow, deliberate. "Say it. Tell me you’re mine. That you belong to me. That you’ll listen to me and only me."

Sakura’s breath hitched, her vision blurred by the fresh wave of tears slipping down her cheeks. Her body trembled, her lips quivering as she tried to resist—tried to hold onto the last shreds of defiance within her. But under his relentless stare, her resolve shattered.

With a broken whisper, her voice barely above a breath, she finally obeyed. "I’m yours… I’ll listen only to you."

“Ahh…! I-I’m cumming…!” Sakura moaned loudly, her body trembling as she reached her peak, completely lost in the overwhelming pleasure.

Within a few minutes, Sakura’s body arched as a sharp gasp tore from her lips, her fingers gripping onto anything she could find. A wave of overwhelming pleasure crashed over her, leaving her breathless, her mind hazy with the intensity of it all. Her trembling legs threatened to give out, her voice breaking into shaky moans as she reached her peak, completely lost in the moment. Her body trembled uncontrollably as her fluids spilled onto the floor, some splashing against the manager, marking the aftermath of her release.

The manager let out a deep, satisfied moan, his grip on Sakura still firm as he leaned in close. “This won’t be the first or last time I do this to you,” he murmured, his voice laced with dominance. His gaze then shifted to the rest of LE SSERAFIM, eyes cold and unrelenting. “Let this be a warning—if any of you even think about taking a hiatus, you’ll suffer the same fate… maybe even worse.” A heavy silence filled the room as the members, trembling and helpless, nodded in fearful obedience.

The manager ran his fingers along Sakura’s trembling body, collecting some of the lingering fluids. With a slow, deliberate motion, he brought them to his lips, tasting her. His eyes darkened with satisfaction as he looked down at her, making her shudder in fear.

The members of LE SSERAFIM were finally released, and without hesitation, they rushed to Sakura’s side, their footsteps echoing in the tense silence.

Chaewon dropped to her knees first, gently cupping Sakura’s face, her voice trembling. “Sakura… are you okay? Say something, please.”

Yunjin wrapped her arms around her, holding her tightly. “We’re here. You’re not alone,” she whispered, her own voice cracking with emotion.

Eunchae clutched Sakura’s hand, tears slipping down her cheeks. “Unnie, we’re so sorry… we couldn’t stop him…”

Kazuha swallowed hard, her expression conflicted as she draped her jacket over Sakura’s trembling shoulders. Her fists clenched at her sides before she exhaled shakily. “Let’s just… follow him,” she muttered under her breath. “We have no choice.”

The weight of her words settled over them like a suffocating fog. One by one, the members lowered their heads in silent resignation, their hands tightening around Sakura as if trying to shield her from a reality they couldn’t escape.

The manager stood over them, his gaze cold and indifferent, showing no trace of mercy or remorse for what he had done. He pulled out a stack of papers and tossed them onto the floor beside them.

“Enough of this,” he said, his voice sharp and commanding. “You all need to prepare for the new comeback.I better not hear a single tear or complaint. Not a word.”

The weight of his words settled over them like a heavy chain, tightening around their throats. The members barely had time to process what had just happened, yet he expected them to move on as if nothing had changed—as if Sakura wasn’t still trembling in their arms, broken and exhausted.

No apology. No hesitation. Just another order.

[tnsophiaayaonly]

LUTALICA

╰┈➤ˎˊ˗ YOU'RE A YANDERE, WELL, AN EX-YANDERE TO BE SPECIFIC. AFTER COUNTLESS OF TIMES OF KILLING YOUR BELOVED, YOU FIND YOURSELF SUDDENLY GAINING AWARENESS DUE TO SOME VIRUS DISTORTING YOUR CHARACTER FILES. NOW YOU FIND YOURSELF WEIRDED OUT WHENEVER YOU'D FEEL SO INFATUATED OVER THIS GUY, AND YOU SWORE TO STOP BEING WEIRD. UNAWARE THAT YOUR DARLING'S GAINED AWARENESS TOO.

╰┈➤ˎˊ˗ MODERN AU. HIGHSCHOOL AU. YANDERE. AETHER, SCARAMOUCHE/WANDERER, XIAO, VENTI, KINICH, ORORON

╰┈➤ˎˊ˗ CONTENT WARNINGS: OBSESSIVE/CONTROLLING BEHAVIOR: EXPLICIT YANDERE THEMES AND EXTREME POSSESSIVENESS. OBSESSION AND STALKING, INCLUDING BEING FOLLOWED OR MONITORED. PHYSICAL RESTRAINT & KIDNAPPING: DEPICTIONS OF PHYSICAL RESTRAINT, CONFINEMENT, OR KIDNAPPING. UNLAWFUL DETAINMENT (E.G., LOCKING DOORS, FORCIBLY PREVENTING ESCAPE). CYBERCRIME & DIGITAL MANIPULATION: HACKING, INTERFERENCE WITH PERSONAL DEVICES, AND DIGITAL BLACKMAIL. EMOTIONAL & PSYCHOLOGICAL ABUSE: MANIPULATION, GASLIGHTING, AND COERCION DESIGNED TO CONTROL OR ISOLATE. THREATS—IMPLICIT OR EXPLICIT—THAT UNDERMINE PERSONAL AUTONOMY. NON-CONSENSUAL ACTS: ANY NON-CONSENSUAL OR FORCED BEHAVIOR, EVEN IF MASKED AS “PROTECTION”. ILLEGAL BEHAVIOR & UNLAWFUL ACTS: DESCRIPTIONS OR DEPICTIONS OF ACTIONS THAT ARE ILLEGAL (KIDNAPPING, DOCUMENT FORGERY, THEFT, ETC.) MATURE THEMES IN GENERAL. MENTIONS OF MURDER. MENTIONS OF BEING AWARE IN A GAME.

: ̗̀➛ note that I DO NOT condone such actions irl, and this is a work of fiction. MINORS DO NOT INTERACT. part 2 (xiao, venti).

-`♡´- PART 1

╰⪼ AETHER - Class Rep.

A man of virtue—helpful, funny, kind, caring, and breathtakingly attractive. He has it all. Who wouldn’t love someone like him? Who wouldn’t yearn for him, worship him, drown in the delirium of his existence?

No wonder you’ve always felt that electrifying rush, the intoxicating ecstasy that floods your veins with every slow drag of the knife across his flesh. No wonder you’ve felt that dizzying euphoria each time you spilled the blood of another—man or woman—who dared to steal even a fraction of his attention away from you.

He was yours.

But then—

Distortion. A glitched-out, shredded mess of memories, like a dying screen flickering between past and present. When you finally come to, you're curled up in your bed, hair tangled, your skin fevered and slick with cold sweat. Your lungs fight for air as images flash behind your eyelids—a grotesque, jagged onslaught of death, of red-streaked corridors, of bodies slumped in pools of their own warmth, all because of you.

What the hell was that?

Your hands tremble as you grab your phone, fingers slipping against the smooth glass. The calendar stares back at you, unwavering in its cruel simplicity. Not the beginning. Not a fresh start.

The middle.

Your stomach twists violently.

That means you’ve already committed crimes. That means, despite this terrible, newfound awareness clawing at your mind, the stains on your hands have already set. The walls are already splattered. The game—the world—will not reset this time.

At school, every breath feels like an alarm sounding in your chest. The walls seem to close in, and the weight of invisible eyes presses against your back. You are a criminal walking in broad daylight, masquerading as something human.

You consider confessing. Throwing yourself at the mercy of the police, the authorities—anyone who could lock you away before you slip again.

But you don’t.

Fear has its hands around your throat, whispering of consequences, of punishments, of the irreversible.

And then—

“Oh, [Name]! I’m sorry, but I don’t think I can come to your house to help you with math today. Maybe another time?”

His voice is golden honey, smooth and easy, like the way the sun filters through autumn leaves.

Aether.

Your body reacts before your mind does, stiffening, and recoiling. He stands before you with that same effortless charm, his golden hair meticulously braided, strands catching the light like spun silk. He is still beautiful, still perfect—too perfect.

And yet.

Guilt lurches in your gut, a sickness festering beneath your ribs. You manage a stiff nod, then turn sharply on your heel and bolt before your expression betrays you.

Strange.

Very strange.

Aether watches you go, his head tilting slightly, brows furrowing. He expected you to whine, to insist, to grasp at his sleeve and beg for his time, like you always did. But instead, you—ran?

At first, he brushes it off. A bad day, perhaps. A sudden bout of shyness.

And yet—

He thinks about it. And thinks about it. And thinks about it.

You were always there. Always orbiting him, always finding ways to entangle yourself in his life. You chased him, your obsession like a suffocating force, relentless, inescapable. It had been overwhelming—yes—but predictable. A constant.

But now?

Now, he barely sees you. Now, your eyes flicker away the moment they meet his. Now, there is distance where there was once unbearable closeness.

It feels wrong.

He hadn’t realized how much he’d grown used to your presence until it was gone. How the absence of your obsession left him… cold.

Had he done something? Had he driven you away?

Had you found someone else?

Aether’s fingers twitch.

The message arrives when you least expect it.

Meet me up later at the dorms. Yours or mine?

You freeze, staring at the words on your screen.

No. No, no, no.

You’ve been so careful. So diligent. So determined not to fall back into old patterns.

Ignore it. Ignore him.

Your dorm is a sanctuary—a place to suffocate beneath your own guilt, to drown in your shame without prying eyes. You push the door open, stepping inside, closing it behind you—

Click.

The sound is quiet.

Too quiet.

Your breath stills, your fingers going rigid against the doorframe. Slowly, you turn.

And there he is.

Aether.

Your blood runs ice-cold.

“I always felt safe when you were around,” he murmurs, his voice softer than usual, dangerously intimate. His amber eyes are heavy-lidded, laced with something unfamiliar—something raw, something hungry. He takes a step forward. You take one back.

“But lately… I don’t know anymore.” Another step. Another retreat. “You used to be so close. Now, you’re so far away.”

Your back meets the wall.

Aether tilts his head, golden strands slipping over his shoulder. His hand rises, ghosting over your cheek with a gentleness that contradicts the steel beneath his words.

"Do you hate me now?"

The panic clogs your throat. "No—"

"Shh," he soothes, pressing a finger to your lips before dragging it down, pressing it flat over your chest. Your heart hammers beneath his palm. His lashes lower.

“Your heart’s racing…” His fingers trail lower, his grip settling firm against your waist. “…Just like it used to. Whenever I looked at you. Whenever I said your name.”

Your breath hitches, your body locking up as he pulls you closer—too close.

“Like always.”

His arms wrap around you, caging you in. You can’t move. Can’t breathe.

“Don’t worry.”

His lips brush against your hair.

“I missed you too.”

╰⪼ SCARAMOUCHE/WANDERER - Outsider of the Drama Club. Rebel.

Maybe it was inevitable. Maybe you were always drawn to the unattainable, the cruel, the ones who stood above the world as if it were theirs to scorn. And he—he was the epitome of it all. A nightmare draped in elegance, venom wrapped in silk. Scaramouche was all sharp edges and hollow laughter, a phantom that commanded space with his mere presence.

He was unbearable. Unreachable. And utterly perfect.

You wanted to break past his walls, to carve yourself into his life, to make him see you. And if the rest of the world had to bleed away for that to happen—then so be it.

The others didn't deserve him. The parasites who giggled at his words, who brushed against him so casually, so carelessly, as if they had any right. They did not deserve to exist. Their very presence was an insult, a smear on the pristine canvas that was him.

And so, piece by piece, you erased them.

The first one was easy. A soft thing with wide, innocent eyes that adored him too much, who lingered just a little too close. You watched as life drained from their gaze, as their breath rattled out in broken whimpers. It was almost beautiful—the way the blade slipped into flesh, the way blood bloomed like an offering, warm and thick and real against your trembling fingers.

Every cut, every scream, every shuddering gasp—it was for him.

Yet he never noticed.

No matter how many of them you silenced, no matter how much devotion you etched into the world in his name, Scaramouche never noticed. He walked through life untouched, uncaring, his gaze never once landing on you with the reverence you craved.

You returned home to your shrine—his shrine. A sanctuary of madness. Photographs lined the walls like sacred scripture, capturing every fragment of his existence. The way the sun kissed his pale skin. The rare, unguarded softness when he thought no one was watching. The harsh, unrelenting glare that you had come to love more than life itself.

Strands of his dark indigo hair, stolen in the quiet of passing moments, lay bound together with fraying ribbons. Fabric from his discarded clothes, the scent of him still clinging to the fibers, folded with trembling care. A single, crumpled note—his handwriting scrawled across the page, meaningless to anyone but you.

You had built a temple in his name. A cathedral of longing, devotion, and sickness.

And yet—when you stood before it, staring at the madness of your own making, something inside you snapped.

You saw it. Truly saw it.

Not love. Not devotion.

Obsession.

Your stomach twisted, nausea rising like bile. You thought you had been pure, that your love had been something sacred. But the truth was carved into the blood on your hands, into the grotesque altar before you.

You were filth. No better than the ones you had slaughtered.

You couldn’t face him. Not like this.

So you ran.

For the first time, you abandoned him.

At school, you became nothing—a wraith in the halls, slipping through shadows, avoiding his gaze like it burned. You erased yourself from his world, just as you had erased the others from his presence.

And Scaramouche noticed.

The absence of your eyes on him was suffocating in its own right. He had grown used to your presence, to the quiet weight of your obsession curling around him like an unwanted curse. You were supposed to be there—watching, waiting, hanging onto his every breath.

But now?

Nothing.

No glances from the corners of your eyes. No lingering in doorways just to catch a glimpse of him. No quiet, frantic movements in your notebook whenever he spoke.

It was almost... eerie.

A slow smirk curled at his lips, but beneath it was something dark, something unreadable. His fingers twitched, restless. A storm brewed behind his gaze, a creeping, unspoken rage.

Did you think you could leave? Just like that?

Oh, how naive.

You had crawled through madness for him, had burned your soul away in his name. You were his, a pitiful, broken little thing that had spiraled into insanity just to get closer.

And now, you wanted to turn away? To pretend it had never happened?

Scaramouche does not lose what belongs to him.

You would come back.

Scaramouche never cared to notice things beyond himself. People came and went, their voices drowned in the white noise of his existence. He never wasted energy on trivial matters—least of all you.

One way or another.

You, with your cloying devotion. You, always at his heels like an obedient pet. You, whispering sweet, obsessive promises as if they meant anything.

You had been everywhere. The moment he turned his head, you were there. In class, in the cafeteria, lingering outside the bathroom, loitering in the hallways, even perched at the rooftop, always waiting for a glimpse of him.

And then, suddenly—you weren’t.

It was silent.

At first, he didn’t question it. Why should he? It wasn’t his concern. It wasn’t his problem. He should’ve felt relieved.

But the longer it stretched on, the more something gnawed at him.

You were nowhere.

And that—that was wrong.

For two weeks, one day, three hours, fifty-six minutes, and thirty-two seconds—he counted. His mind involuntarily tracked every second that passed without the weight of your suffocating adoration pressing into his skin. He didn’t care, yet somehow, he noticed.

Then, finally—he saw you.

You.

But you weren’t alone.

Something in him snapped.

You were talking to someone else, laughing, smiling. Living your own life.

His smirk faltered.

You—his shadow, his puppet, his wretched little thing—were no longer circling him like a moth desperate to burn. You were free.

You had a life.

And for the first time, Scaramouche felt something eerily close to betrayal.

What happened to your promises?

Where were the feverish whispers of "I'd die for you, Scaramouche!" Where were the eyes that followed him in manic devotion, the trembling hands that clung to every word he uttered like it was scripture?

Had it all been a lie?

Had you really abandoned him?

The rage was instant. Consuming.

Without hesitation, he strode forward, cutting through the people surrounding you like they were nothing but fog in his path. Conversations halted, eyes turned, but he didn’t care.

Because there you were.

And you weren’t his anymore.

"You used to be all in—every moment, every breath, I knew you were mine." His voice was sharp, biting, loud. He didn’t bother to hide the venom in his words, his arms crossed in a defensive, possessive stance. His voice carried through the stunned silence. "Now it’s like you’ve just… vanished. Were you ever really sincere?"

You froze, your body going rigid.

A lump formed in your throat, suffocating, as you stared at him. He was livid, but there was something else buried beneath the rage—something worse.

"What—?" You barely managed to get the word out before he cut you off, voice rising, boiling over.

"You played me. You abandoned me! After everything you’ve done for me?!" His voice cracked slightly at the end, but it wasn’t weakness—it was fury. Frustration. A terrible, uncontrollable storm of emotions that even he didn’t know how to process.

His fists clenched at his sides, nails digging into his palm as if trying to ground himself—to stop himself from grabbing you, shaking you, making you look at him the way you used to.

And yet—you didn’t.

Your eyes didn’t hold that obsessive gleam anymore. They held pity.

And then, you said it.

"Can you just please leave me alone?"

It was firm, cold and unshaken.

And that—that hurt.

The words slammed into his chest like a blade. His breath hitched, his whole body stiffening. His lips parted, eyes blown wide, an expression of utter disbelief.

You had never, never spoken to him like that before.

And worse—you turned away.

You walked away from him.

You walked away from him.

The world blurred for a moment. He could barely hear the whispers around him, barely feel the weight of the stares pressing into him.

The air felt wrong.

His hands twitched, his heart hammered against his ribs, but his face remained eerily blank.

A slow, suffocating rage curled inside him.

No.

No, this wasn’t right.

You thought you could leave?

You thought you could leave him?

A smirk twitched at his lips, but his eyes were dark—hungry.

You’ll pay for that.

He’ll make you regret ever thinking you could live without him.

It wasn’t difficult.

You had made it easy for him.

Every whispered confession, every vulnerable fragment of yourself—you had offered them up willingly, blind with devotion. When you worshipped him, when you ached for him, you had bled your soul dry, spilling every truth at his feet like a devout follower praying to an unholy god. You had believed your love was unbreakable, that nothing could twist it into something ugly.

But love was a lie.

And now?

Now, those same truths would be the noose around your neck.

Scaramouche barely had to lift a finger. The dirt he had on you wasn’t something he had to dig for—no, you had given it to him, laid it bare in your desperation to be seen, to be acknowledged, to matter to him. And so, with meticulous precision and an insufferable smirk, he wove it all together, weaving your past into a beautiful, intricate cage.

A perfect blackmail.

The tapes spun between his fingers, glinting under the dim light, the cruel little wheel of fate turning in slow, damning circles.

Your sins, preserved forever.

Blood. So much blood. The camera didn’t shy away from the violence—how your blade had sunk into flesh, how wet, gurgling gasps had choked out their last breaths. How their fingers had twitched, grasping at the nothingness as they collapsed, lifeless. And you—standing above them, gloved hands stained red, chest heaving, lips parted with something too close to reverence.

Then, the photographs.

Dozens of them.

Some of him—captured in secret, stolen moments where he was unaware of your obsession clinging to him like a shadow. Pictures taken from alleyways, behind windows, through crowds. And more of him—uninvited, invasive, taken when you thought you were being sneaky but weren’t.

He liked these.

He liked the way you took them—obsessively, devotedly. He liked knowing the tables had turned, that he was watching you now, that your obsession had left you vulnerable enough for him to tear apart.

But the best part?

The confrontation.

Scaramouche didn’t need to hunt you down. He didn’t need to lure you in. You walked straight into his web, oblivious, thinking you were safe.

The door creaked open.

A sharp inhale.

Then—stillness.

You stood frozen in the doorway, the color draining from your face as your breath caught in your throat.

Scaramouche.

Lounging on your sofa as if he had always belonged there. One leg draped over the other, fingers lazily tapping against the stack of evidence in his hands, violet eyes gleaming with something unreadable. Something triumphant.

You felt the air shift—suffocating, cloying, thick with the unspoken understanding that this was no longer your space.

This was his.

Your voice broke, barely above a whisper.

"What are you doing here?" The words wavered, shaking under the weight of panic. "How—how did you get in?"

Scaramouche didn’t answer. He only tilted his head, watching you, letting the silence drag on long enough to coil around your ribs, squeezing. Then, ever so slowly, he lifted the tape, letting it spin between his fingers, his smirk widening.

"More importantly," he murmured, voice smooth, slow, deliberate, "what do you think I’m going to do with this?"

The world tilted beneath you.

Your pulse roared in your ears, the blood draining from your limbs as your stomach twisted into knots.

It was all there.

The evidence. The obsession you had. The murders you had committed.

Your sins, reflected back at you in sickening clarity.

You barely managed to breathe, barely managed to whisper out a choked, "I—I should just go to the police." The words left your lips before you could think them through, raw with desperation. "Tell them—tell them there's a criminal on campus—"

His laugh cut you off.

It was a sharp, cold, and mocking sound.

"Oh?" He leaned forward, resting his chin in his palm, eyes glittering with amusement. "And what do you think happens next? Do they rush in, sirens blaring, guns drawn? Do they drag you away in chains?" His smirk widened, teeth flashing like a predator playing with its food.

His voice dropped, honeyed with false sympathy.

"And what do you think they’ll do when they see all of this?"

Your stomach lurched.

He didn’t need to say it.

You knew.

His expression softened into something almost pitying—almost.

"Face it," he murmured, letting the words settle into your skin like poison. "You're finished, no matter what you do."

A pause. A moment stretched too thin.

And then—casually, effortlessly—he leaned back, arms stretching along the sofa, as if this was all just an idle conversation.

"Or," he drawled, "you could be a good girl and go back to being my pet."

Your breath caught.

The words slithered over you like a collar snapping into place.

His voice was soft—so soft, so sweet—but beneath it was steel. An unspoken command. A leash tightening around your throat.

"It’s your choice, really," he continued, tilting his head. "But let’s be honest—there’s no different outcome. Either way, you’re never leaving me."

The finality of it crushed the breath from your lungs.

The realization clawed its way through your mind like a slow, sinking weight.

You had never been free.

You had never been in control.

And as Scaramouche's smirk widened, as he watched the last ember of defiance flicker and die in your eyes, you realized—

You never would be.

ONG I COULDN'T CONTAIN MY EXCITEMENT OF WRITING :(( AAAH

[alessiamalfoyzabini]

Moondir

→ warnings | +18, angst, slavery, smut, non-con/dub-con, coercion, revenge violence, blood, psychological trauma, emotional and physical abuse, forced pregnancy, supernatural themes, abuse of power, torture, humiliation, murder, discrimination, hatred, explicit language, obsession, OT7! - this is not for minors! → a/n | I recommend reading this story only to an adult audience familiar with this genre! This story is about how violence begets more violence and how twisted love can take hold of the most unthinkable person. Remember that Moondir is just a story and not a representation of my real values and thoughts, if you do not like the genre or even one of the warnings makes you uncomfortable, DO NOT READ.

→ pairing | moondir!OT7 x human!Reader

⤷ Introduction:

The Moondir, born of the Moon Goddess' love for a wolf, were persecuted and enslaved by humans for merely existing. Moondirian women have been captured and killed in the most heinous ways, men have instead been forced to do dangerous work in place of the humans themselves, and after more than a century, this has virtually brought their race to the brink of extinction. A group of Moondirian rebels have succeeded in their quest to regain their freedom, and not without the use of the crudest violence. Their females are now gone, and it will be human women who will help them repopulate the world.

Taglist is open: @katherine-kookie - @btsuga-d - @pantara - @angelicsmilesworld - @lennieharper - @takemeaway5402 - @jiminismine4ever - @m00njinnie - @ke1k029 - @velvet-stardust2002 - @darkuni63 - @douknowbts - @aiiselle90210 - @fewercascade - @mageprincess7 - @get-that-brain-working - @whipwhoops - @dragons-flare - @seokjins-luigi - @pjmsneverland - @jimincrystal - @ajkwww - @ungodlyjoon - @hecateslittlewitchling - @namjoonsbuspass - @xicanacorpse - @btssimplove - @antisocial-mochi267 - @reallygenerouskoala - @dabishou - @themwordsblog - @deluluisme - @justanarchiveforfics - @blackberrywonie - @the-holy-hobi - @justlikecrazy - @herareila - @furioustrashlover - @mar-lo-pap - @dachshunddame - @pantaral81 - @withmuchluv-tannie - @calmyourtitts7 - @plushjeno - @rafesbunniebby - @rms-expensive-girl - @polnaraffsrack - @rg2108 - @paramedicnerd004 - @jungshaking - @ane102 - @moonstarw ➤ Story | 01 - 02 - 03 - 04 ➤ Moondir Playlist |

Salvatore - Lana Del Rey Animals - Maroon 5 House of Cards - BTS Dark Paradise - Lana Del Rey Can't Help Falling in Love - version by Tommee Profitt feat. brooke Love in the Dark - Adele

→ characters profile |

Full name: Min Yoongi Species: Moondir Apparent Age: 32 Actual Age: 136 Eye Color: Black Hair Color: Black Height: 6'1" Position/ Rank: Captain - Alpha Element: Fire Mating Status: Unmated

previous psychiatrist's notes | The subject is extremely dangerous and combative; he killed his roommate after only one night spent at the center and was consequently placed in solitary confinement. I recommend his immediate culling.

Full name: Park Jimin Species: Moondir Apparent Age: 29 Actual Age: 130 Eye Color: Amber Hair Color: Brown Height: 6'1" Position/ Rank: Lieutenant - Beta Element: Air Mating Status: Mated

previous psychiatrist's notes | The subject refuses food and shows no intention of speaking; however, he occasionally appears to be conversing with himself. At present, I am unable to make an accurate diagnosis; I will continue to keep him under observation.

Full name: Kim Seokjin Species: Moondir Apparent Age: 32 Actual Age: 137 Eye Color: Blue Hair Color: Black Height: 6'2" Position/ Rank: Healer - Beta Element: Water Mating Status: Unmated

previous psychiatrist's notes | The subject presents a strong physical and mental structure, but a temperament inclined toward kindness despite the torture he has endured; we are dealing with an excellent exemplar. The subject is irretrievable; he suddenly went mad when he was let loose in the camp and killed a guard in an attempt to escape. Culling.

Full name: Jung Hoseok Species: Moondir Apparent Age: 31 Actual Age: 134 Eye Color: Green Hair Color: Brown Height: 6'2" Position/ Rank: Sergeant - Beta Element: Water Mating Status: Unmated

previous psychiatrist's notes | The subject presents a curious case of dual personality, on the one hand we have a Moondir man, on the other hand someone who believes himself to be a human being. I want to isolate the first personality so that we have an absolutely cooperative Moondirian.

Full name: Kim Taehyung Species: Moondir Apparent Age: 29 Actual Age: 130 Eye Color: Amber Hair Color: Black Height: 6'2" Position/ Rank: Hunter - Delta Element: Earth Mating Status: Unmated

previous psychiatrist's notes | The subject is a sadist. He bit off a guard's ear and chewed it off laughing, before slitting the guard's throat with a claw and thus ending his gruesome work, I don't know how useful such a guy can be.

Full name: Jeon Jungkook Species: Moondir - Half-blood Apparent Age: 27 Actual Age: 129 Eye Color: Lilac Hair Color: Brown Height: 6'3" Position/ Rank: Hunter - Alpha Element: Fire Mating Status: Unmated

previous psychiatrist's notes | The subject is still a cub, shows immature character traits typical of a Moondirian who is not yet an adult and does not listen at all to what I or the guards ask him to do, preferring rather to scratch the surface of the walls and growl at us. To be kept under observation.

Full name: Kim Namjoon Species: Moondir Apparent Age: 30 Actual Age: 134 Eye Color: Dark Blue Hair Color: Black Height: 6'3" Position/ Rank: Hunter - Delta Element: Earth Mating Status: Mated

previous psychiatrist's notes | The subject asks a lot of questions, seems genuinely intrigued by the human race, and shows an unusual calmness - perhaps we are looking at a exemplar perfectly capable of communicating with us and obeying us without much fuss. second note | The subject asked me what we humans taste like. Extreme caution advised.

© | I do not allow the republication or editing of these stories by third parties; all rights belong to me. Anyone guilty of the crime of plagiarism will be reported and blocked. The same goes for those who take parts of my stories without my explicit consent.