i feel kind of sick making this post so please excuse me if i sound like a rambling mess. i am not the type of person to talk in detail about my life in online places cuz i live in fear of this getting back to my abuser but shubble's story punched all my most sensitive spots and i want to talk about it
(really long sensitive post)
ive gotten kind messages from people that i havent responded to. the idea of responding to people individually kind of makes me feel sick. so im doing this instead. and im also going to vent really hard because i am not doing well and talking about this to my therapist is soul crushingly embarrassing because wilbur soot is a minecraft man and im a freshly turned 20 year old who pays rent and is respected by my therapist and i dont want to admit that i wrote fanfic about a 30 year old white boy i discovered in quarantine when i was 15. can you imagine that conversation? id have to explain what the dream smp is.
when i watched shubble's video for the first time, i was in total disbelief. i couldnt believe that wilbur soot had done these things but i knew that the liklihood of it being anyone else was pretty low. i chose to hope that the story was not about him, and that if it was that he was a reformed abuser who had reorganized his value system and respected his partners now. i had a lot expectations. then he released his statement and i was horrified. i was disappointed and kind of in denial. his statement was worse than anything i had prepared for as 'worst case scenario.' as time has passed my denial has mostly dulled but im ashamed and im embarassed and im badly triggered.
i kind of hysertically hoped that it was a sick prank that shubble and wilbur cooked up and would get horribly cancelled for, but its not a prank, theres no "haha sike" moment, and wilbur abused shelby.
his response undid me because i saw so much of my own abuse in the words he used.
abusers are really good at making people take a centrist "two sides to every story" stance. i dont know how to describe this to people who have never been abused, but i will do my best
most people are taught that when theres an argument between two people, both parties carry some amount of blame and if you want to resolve that issue, it's a good idea to look at your part in the dynamic. we're also taught to keep our disagreements between ourselves and to not involve other people in our drama.
these are sensible sentiments, but abusers are very good at manipulating these sentiments.
when a victim speaks up for themselves and they call someone an abuser, what they are saying is: "this person cruelly bullied me and hurt me and exerted control over me that i did not deserve or ask for or elicit."
that's a heavy accusation and it contradicts sentiments we are taught like "it takes two to tango" and "dont involve others with your relationship drama."
many abusers are charismatic people. id even say most. when you hear this accusation about someone you think is really cool, your natural instinct is to ask for their side of the story.
they will tell you some version of this:
"i am shocked and hurt that she would call me an abuser. we've been having relationship problems recently, and sometimes i lose my temper. im not proud of that. ive done a lot of things im not proud of. it's true that i did [insert played down act of violence] to her, but you wouldnt believe the horrible things she was saying to me. i lost control, and im so ashamed of myself."
this version of events makes the abuser seem reasonable, it makes the victim seem irrational and quick to blame and hysterical
from here, a lot of people will nod thoughtfully and go. "yeah. yeah. that makes sense. everyone has a unique perspective. the fact that shes attributing all the blame to him without recognizing her own flaws and contributions to the relationship while he does shows that hes the reasonable one here. hes such a chill guy. the things shes saying dont make sense at all. i probably wont say it to her face, but i think shes in the wrong."
wilbur's response hit all the beats im familiar with. it was so in line with everything my abuser used against me, and in line with what ive heard other victims say their abusers used against them, and in line with examples ive read and witnessed and had countless psychiatrists walk me through that reading it was like getting hit by a train.
the hope that i carried with me through that week was that wilbur was a reformed abuser. but reading that response gave me the gut wrenching confirmation that he wasnt.
thinking about it too much literally makes me sick and shaky in a way i havent experienced since my own abuser tracked me down the first time and gave me a beautifully wrapped gift. with my abuser, i had several years trapped with him where all the love i felt for him disappeared and was replaced by total hatred for everything he put me through. i wasnt expecting this from wilbur at all, and i feel fucking sick because this was a man i sincerely admired and looked up to a lot. i really liked wilbur soot. he released that response and this image in my head that i had of him was tainted by the memories of my abuser.
im reminded of one event several years ago where i was choked. i tried to ask for help but everyone who knew immediately reached out to him and asked for "his side of the story." i dont want to talk about what he did to me after that. all that matters is that in the end, no one believed me. everyone took his side over mine and insisted that i was lying or exaggerating or trying to get attention or trying to make him look bad. people who i loved and thought would always be there for me sent me paragraph long text messages calling me a bitch and a cunt. the person i loved the most in the world told me that i was out of line and said point blank that they were sorry, but couldnt believe me over the person who choked me. i had never felt so alone.
ive been having a rough time. i confided in a friend who is trying to escape his abusive husband, and he gently told me that this might mean i have "a type," meaning im naturally drawn to people who are abusive. after i escaped, i took a lot of solace in the fact that i was inspired so much by wilbur soot. i thought he was progressive and stood up for womens rights and was anti bigotry and all those lovely good things. this man i admired so much was the image of healthy, nonviolent, kind masculinity. finding out he isnt has made me question myself and my own judgment and it's making me wonder if the people i let in my life and the people im drawn to are people who i subconsciously know will hurt me.
as of now, its been a year and a half since i escaped my abusive family at 18 years old. i turned 20 like half a second ago. the past 18 months of my life have been devoted to looking into legal protection, getting therapy to undo nearly 2 decades worth of ptsd, trying to keep all my baggage to myself because i dont want to burden my friends anymore than i have, and holding down a steady job so that i can afford rent without having to rely on the parents of my friends to house and feed me and keep my location secret from an insane group of people who reeeeally want me to come back even tho im pretty sure one of them might """""accidentally"""" kill me one day
i feel ashamed and embarrassed by being this affected by wilbur soot. parasocial relationships are looked down upon and i feel like the perfect stereotype of a hysterical, delusional teenager / young lady finding out that her hero is "a flawed human being, just like you and me - seriously, what did you expect?!"
i already see people jumping to his defense, although i try to look away because that is also extremely triggering for me.
it is hard not to acknowledge wilbur's humanity, and i want to clarify that i do feel compassion for the amount of death threats, doxing, and isolation he is undoubtedly experiencing right now. no matter what you do, i dont believe that retributive justice or revenge is a proactive, sane response. i am sincerely worried that he will either try to kill himself as a last ditch attempt for sympathy OR that he will actually just kill himself from the public shaming. i do not want him to experience a mental health crisis and i do not want him to die, even tho he has horribly disappointed me and reminded me of so many bad things
this was kind of an insane post. im ready for it to get 1 note and then experience a horrifying amount of embarrassment as i realize that people read this and know disgusting amounts about me as a person, but i want to share my experience as someone who has been abused. i want to offer solace to people who are in the same boat and possibly reach someone who might have otherwise believed wilbur was telling the truth.
i want to end this post on a positive note, so im going to share some naive hope ive been repeating to myself for the past few days
i hope that people believe shubble. i hope she finds comfort and compassion and healing. i hope she can internalize that what happened to her was not her fault. i hope she lives a happy life surrounded by people who see her and care about her
i hope that the people close to wilbur make him confront this side of himself. i hope he fixes his abuse problem and reorganizes his values. i hope his network of people is strong enough not to abandon him entirely but to intervene and make him work on himself. i hope he stays alive and i hope that he becomes an advocate for abused women
this was cheesy and unrealistic but ive been sending my hope into the universe and trying not to shut down because i dont know what else to do and my two hours of government issued weekly ptsd therapy is already devoted to the horrible things i experienced firsthand
anyway
as far as my fanfiction goes???? i dont fucking know.
im not going to delete it. im definitely taking a break and at least stepping into a pause so i can properly reflect on what to do in the meantime. as a musician and writer and creative in general, i was inspired by many aspects of wilbur soot for years and i need a second to chill out and get a hold of myself
maybe ill complete my work. if i do ill upload the finished products in one go and probably orphan them. and maybe delete my ao3 account. god knows at this point
i am still cringing so hard at myself for making this post. it's very emotional and i try to sell myself as serious, intellectual person. maybe this post will be received great or badly or just be ignored. in any case ill be embarrassed so it doesnt really matter how anyone feels about me after this. if you took the time to read, thank you for hearing me out. and if you didnt, im glad that i got a little catharsis
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—WALLS AND HAZE.
pairing: outlaw!farmer!141 x fem!reader
series masterlist taglist (closed.) next
contains: implication of abuse + rape, sexism, cheater husband, rumors about reader are being spread, (implications that) reader is called mean things here :( (whore, brothel woman), husband is an asshole.
summary: meal for a king.
wc: 4.3k
a/n: u guys were hungry huh
a/n 2: this is an outlaw 141 set in the 1800s, which i was not born in so mind the inaccuracies ! ( reader is so oblivious in here im crying but shes so cute )
a/n 3: firm believer that simon n johnny look like this in this series🫶🏾
You wished the walls could talk.
Wished they were one big spiderweb of networks, all connected, so that they would see what was happening to you and tell the world.
Wished people cared like you wished the walls would. Coming to your aid and mending you, body and soul. Holding you up when you can’t hold yourself.
But the walks can’t talk. They can only stay silent and watch. Feel your pain and sorrow and the feeling of your body being pushed against the way, beaten, bruised, broken, taken.
And the walls don’t care. No matter how much you wail and stain the floor with your never ending tears, tears so abundant and filled with grief, the clouds cry for you whenever you can’t. Eyes too red and dried out to do anything but watch and feel as your heart, your bones, your soul breaks.
The walls can listen too. Listen to your cries as you beg to be free, listen to your frustrations, your pains. But no words of comfort come from them. No kiss goodnight, no hugs overflowing with love or kindness. Just silence.
The man who you’re married to, the man who lifted your veil and said your vows, “for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death do us part.”
That man was asleep in your bed with another woman.
Asleep dreaming of her, kissing her, making love to her.
When it was supposed to be you. He’s married to you, she’s supposed to be the other woman. Not you. Not you indeed, the one with the ring, the ring he used kissed each night before bed, on your finger.
But he made it very clear that it was indeed you, who is the other woman. Letting her wear your clothes, clothes that he bought for you wrapped in colorful paper and sealed with fake words of love and promises.
You overheard some talk about him buying her a ring as well.
Heard him going over a trip for them to New York.
Planned for the day of your anniversary.
In all honesty, you just wanted out of this God forsaken house, this town.
So you decide it’s time to look for a new house.
But you can’t. The world is as cruel as your husband and women can’t buy or own anything unless their husband buys it.
Women can’t do anything, unless their husband is there with them.
The only thing you can do is sit on your loveseat and realize why women kill.
The man selling meat seemed nice.
He was rough though, you could tell by the way he looked and the way he carried himself. He was a big man as well. Easily towering over the mini crowd of women fawning over him.
You try your best to, gently but firmly, push through the crowd of women to get to the front counter where the man was cutting meat for a customer.
“Excuse me,” You mummer trying to walk around the woman shamelessly showing off her cleavage to the man as she leans on the counter.
She turns around at the sound of your voice and her elbow jams against your ribcage with how fast she did the action.
You flinched and held your middle, the corset you were wearing doing nothing but causing you more pain. The woman looked at you as if you stained the bottom of her shoes. “Be patient and wait in line.” She scoffs. She was about to turn back around to the man still chopping the meat on the counter, his eyes slightly raised to meet yours then anothers’ behind you, but another voice, accented and heavy, interrupted her.
“If Ye’re not gonnae buy anythin’, leave.”
You turn and almost crash face first with a hard chest. You look up and meet crystalline eyes. A color you’d never seen before outside the sky. The sea you’d yet to see but if you had, the waves would roar with jealousy.
The man gives you a wink and starts to walk by you towards the man behind the counter, completely ignoring the woman trying to seduce them both now, but stops midway and looks back at you, as if urging you to follow him.
You pause and were about to follow, but then, you notice the multiple pairs of eyes on you.
The women point and whisper at you. Likely spreading more false accusations against you.
“Look, it’s Mrs. Fitzroy. Shouldn’t she be tending to that husband of hers?”
“I heard she was trying to change her surname.”
“I heard she’s sleeping with the man selling apples at the market.”
“Good heavens! I thought she was sleeping with the fletcher down at Browns?”
“An’ I coulda sworn I saw ye spreadin’ yer legs for that blacksmith off on Hickory?” The man said. Lifting a finger to the woman who accused you of sleeping with a man you’ve never met, the fletcher, pointing her out.
A small smile, you notice, lifts the man behind the counter’s eyes, revealing his crows feet.
One of the women scoff. “A man so beautiful, yet such an ugly mouth…”
A cleaver comes down heavily, and startles the women still around the counter. “You women are so bratty,” He stares them down. His brown eyes turning black with… hate? “you lot make your own children jealous.”
Gasps of offense can be heard from ten miles down. The women act hurt as if their mothers mother were insulted, and one by one they file out the butcher’s shop after giving the two men their best glares.
You follow them with your eyes. And then, silence fills the room like a void expanding, swallowing up sound and leaving only a hushed stillness in its wake.
“Thought they were never gonnae leave.” The man with the blue eyes says. He scratches his stubble and faces you again, a smile lifting his face. “What do ye need lass? Or did ye come ‘ere jus’ for a peek at us?”
You feel your face grow hot as he flirts with you. When was the last time a man flirted with you, you couldn’t remember.
“I, well — I came to ask if you had, or have, Sirloin..?” You ask.
You noticed, that the moment you opened your mouth, the man with the rich brown eyes stopped his cutting of the meat in favor of looking at you, though it looked like he was looking through you at times, into your soul, and the man with the unique but beautiful accent had his eyes trained on you, as if drinking you in.
“Sirloin?” The man behind the counter questioned. He raised a scarred eyebrow. “Trying to make a feast fit for a king, lovie?” His voice is rough and deep, suits him well, you think.
You took a steadying breath. “No, no just dinner for my, husband. Our um — anniversary is in a few days.” You admit. Though you think you sounded sad, you didn’t mind it. You could tell the two men saw through you and noticed your unhappiness as well. Seven years with a monster will do that to you.
The man with the blue eyes hummed, something deep and rich that made you feel unsteady on your feet. “Congrats lass,” He nods his head at you. “Name’s John, this bloke ‘ere is Simon.” He nods his head and points a lone, thick finger towards the man behind the counter.
You offer them a timid smile and bow your head, your fingers finding and fixing invisible wrinkles on your dress.
“It’s nice to meet you both.” You say. You tell them your name and hide your shiver when the man behind the counter, Simon, says your name as if tasting it. It comes of his tongue like a melted honey similar to his eyes.
“Sirloin, yeah?” He looks up at you as he cleans the blood off his knife, dyeing the white handkerchief in his large hand red. When you nod after shifting your attention to his eyes, he continues. “Give me a second then, love.”
With that, he disappears through a door adjacent to the counter he was previously behind, most likely the meat locker, leaving you and John alone.
“Those women give you trouble all the time lass?”
You startle with how close his voice sounds to your ear. You turn to your side and look up to see him nearly standing chest to chest with you.
“Oh—no, no only when I see them or, or the other way around…” You say with a nervous smile. Looking down at his broad chest rather than his eyes after seeing how he looked at you with something akin to longing. When you take a step back nervously, his warm, large hand finds home on your waist, keeping you in place.
“Well if they give ye any trouble,” John says, lifting a finger to your chin and raising it so your eyes met his. “Ye’ll let us know then, hm?”
Will you? Will you let these strange, men help you when you need it? It was tempting, it is tempting, but again, these are strangers. Walking around the town with unknown men at your hips will raise even more rumors about you and your private life. People in the town will speak and words travel fast in your small town.
You want to say no, that you can handle yourself, but this man, he’s leading you into a field of roses that tempt you into his awaiting hands.
What you couldn’t see, was that behind the rose colored glasses, was a field of rot and sorrow that would follow if you obliged.
However the smell of roses and pine led you further and further into him and after a few minutes, you found yourself nodding, your words dying on your tongue.
John smiles at you, and his smile only grows wider when you step away from him as is burned when you hear Simon’s heavy footsteps.
When he opens the door, you notice the big sack he’s carrying over his shoulders, though almost the size of his broad shoulders, he makes it look like he’s carrying a feather.
You also notice that it looks bigger than what you ordered.
Simon places the sack on the counter and double checks the rope knotted at the top, making sure it's sturdy and won’t open. "Made sure to double the sack so it wouldn't leak," He says. When he looks at you, he notices the expression on your face. "Somethin' wrong lovie?"
John, still next to you pipes up. "Looks alrigh’ to me." You step up to the counter and run your fingers up your arm, a calming sensation to you. "Well, that's — It just, looks, more than what I ordered?"
Simon blinks. John smiles wider.
“Consider it an apology for dealing with those, women.” Simon drawls. He picks up the sack and walks the length of the counter to stand before you and John.
“An’ a thank ye for dealin’ with ‘im.” John says throwing a wink your way.
“I—” You sigh. “Fine, then how much do I owe you?” You start the motion of reaching for your wallet in your satchel. About to open it, John’s hand stops you midway.
“Consider it on the house hen, couldnae let a pretty lass like ye pay after what ye jus’ went through.”
“Oh, I couldn’t—please, the meat’s expensive and, and you gave me more than what I asked—not that that’s a bad thing but still—” You worry, and in the midst of that worry you don’t see the sweet smile rising on Simon’s face as he looks at you. The way John’s hand hovered over the curve of your waist, the lightest of touches just barely enough to satisfy him, but enough to keep your veil covering your eyes.
“Jus’ let us take you home love.” Simon says while stepping closer to you, caging you in between him and John whose hand now pressed against your waist, firm. “Can’t let a lady like you dirty her hands carryin’ this now, hm?” He says, shrugging his shoulders to prove his point, the sack already moistening with the blood of the meat inside.
Your hand, you realize, is still captured in John’s warm grip, calloused and rough, but gentle all the same.
You open your mouth, about to object, but John’s hand moved to and grew firm on your waist, urging you to obey, daring you to say no.
So you sigh, nod your head, and tell them your address.
The drive there is, pleasant. John sat in the back with you as Simon drove, the sack holding the meat sat next to him in the passenger seat. The scent of the meat was close to nothing, as Simon did say he doubled the sack. You’ll make sure to thank him later.
By the time you arrived at your house, it was close to eight o’clock. Around the time your husband would come home from work. If he even bothered to come home at all.
“Here I am.” You say eyeing the house. Stained with years of pain and sadness.
“Beautiful house you have here darlin’” Simon says as you unlock the front door, allowing them in.
Your heart beats faster and you feel as if this is a mistake.
“Thank you, Simon.” You offer a small smile. “Oh, you can put that in the freezer in the cellar. Here let me—”
“It’s alrigh’ bonnie, let ‘im handle it.” John says. His hand, once again, finding the curve of your waist.
“Ah, okay. . .” You say, and when you look in his eyes, you realize the haze you’re feeling right now, the haze these men are creating, you forget where you are, who’s last name you’re carrying.
“Would you—” You take a deep breath and you’re sure John can feel it. “Would you like something to drink John? Water or?” You say already walking to your fridge in your kitchen, already missing the warmth of his hand.
“Water’s fine bun, An’ call me Johnny, ‘John’ makes me feel as old as Price.” John, Johnny, says, following you to the kitchen and accepting the water bottle you offer him.
“Price?” You tilt your head in confusion. “Who’s that?”
John shakes his head with a smile. “No one, ye’ll meet him soon.”
If that sentence was supposed to quell your curiosity, it only fed the beast. “What is that supposed to—”
“All done.”
Simons voice, his deep voice, causes you to jump. You turn to face him and find him staring at Johnny, an unreadable expression on his face.
You clear your throat, feeling the tension. “Thank you, Simon. I really appreciate your help.” Whatever conversation Simon and Johnny were having, in a language only they know, it seemed to snap Simon back into reality and he looked down to meet your eyes, his own immediately softening.
“It’s not a problem love.” He says. And when he turns his face to the side with his hand rubbing at his neck, probably embarrassed, you notice a pink tint to his cheeks.
“Ach, an’ where’s my “thank you”? I did more than this wee bairn.” Johnny whines. You notice he looks more like a puppy than a man, pouting and all.
You laugh and hide your mouth with your fingers. “Thank you, Johnny.” You say.
Johnny, while feeling appreciated now, noticed you hiding your pretty lips when you laughed or smiled.
He’d change that. They all would.
Five minutes turned into fifteen, fifteen turned into hours, hours turned into talking while trying to act like everything was normal, like you weren’t sandwiched between two men you invited in your house, all to deliver meat to be cooked for your anniversary.
You were still in the kitchen, sitting on a stool that accompanied the island and Simon and Johnny occupied the seats to the left and right of yours.
You were all talking about nothing and everything. Your favorite foods, what you liked and disliked, you, you, you.
You tried to shift the conversation to them, tried to ask them a question, but all they gave you were either blunt, vague answers or an excuse saying “our lives aren’t as exciting.”
As if you could call yours that. Years spent behind these four walls, cooking, cleaning, having to endure your husband’s verbal and unfortunately physical abuse, the townspeople, it was anything but exciting. Anything but everything bad.
But these men, they clung onto every word that escaped your lips as if you were a God. Their eyes never left your form, and their hands touched you as if you were made of glass.
You felt Simon’s hand brush against yours and you knew and felt Johnnys' eyes and hands on you constantly, as if past your face, your eyes, your skull they were picking away at your brain, peering into your memories and cradling your heart in theirs.
Your body felt hot. Overwhelmingly so, but also in a way that you'd only felt once upon a dream with your husband; before everything went to shit, before your hands seemed to taint everything it touched in his eyes, before the withering flowers and declarations of false love. You don’t know what to do anymore, don’t want to become the woman the entire town believed you to be, an impure lady, the type of woman who belongs in a brothel, a whore. It's not what you were, not what you are.
The sound of a car, your husbands' car, pulling into the driveway almost halted their movements.
Almost because even when you walked away from the kitchen, from them, to wait and greet your husband when he enters through the door, their touches and eyes still lingered, still left a warm phantom touch on your skin.
Your trance broke when you heard the key in the lock of the front door, the sound of your husband’s voice cursing when he realized it was the wrong key before he tried again.
You heard Simon and Johnny standing and you were glad because they were acting as if they were just about to leave. You looked back at them and saw Johnny raising his pointer finger to his lips and sending another wink to you, Simon’s eyes smiling at you, piercing your heart.
You fight the heat rising to your cheeks and turned to smile at your husband, who just entered the house.
He paid you no mind however, taking his coat off and throwing it into your arms, his briefcase hitting your foot and toppling on the floor, the sound echoing throughout the room.
He marched up to the men, the intruders, in his mind, and stood chest to chest with Simon, locking eyes with Johnny and looking at him with disgust, he turned and met the hard, charcoal eyes of Simon and matched his glare.
“And who the fuck are you?”
- please do not plagiarize, copy, or repost my works to other platforms !
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©miwsolovely
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George Weasley Sexcanons
Because im extremely sick, so im bored
Warnings? Sex sex sex and more sex. Along with some submissive Georgie baby~
What gets his engine going
He’s more of the submissive type. Your definition of a service top. He loves to make sure his partner is feeling so good. Their comfort comes, heh, first before anything else. Mans has 100% just gotten off from eating out/rimming/sucking off
He’s….Hes got mommy issues. As much as we love Molly, you can not deny she was rather verbally abusive. Not to mention having seven kids means you’ll Never have one on one properly. I won’t rant, but mans got a serious mommy kink. Doesn’t matter if you are a man, he’s calling you mommy!
Is a sucker for risk taking. He’s gonna try and eat you out at a quidditch game, jerk you off at the leaky cauldron, he’s gonna rail you in an alley way. He’s an adrenaline junkie, and probably wouldn’t be to shy at the idea of actually doing it infront of people. He likes the rush of it all
If you get a tattoo with his name, or some kind of indication you are his? Oh that’s going to make him feral. He doesn’t actually believe in owning and such, but there is something so enjoyable about it in fantasy. Kink doesn’t equal reality! ((And obviously I don’t need to clarify what is off the table))
Let me say this once, mans has a MAJOR Breeding Kink. Doesn’t matter if you can get pregnant. He’s going to find a way to fuck a baby into you. He’s a Weasley. They love to prove the impossible
Like I said about mommy kink, he is so gonna be a brat. It’s not a number one go to, that’s Fred, but he loves being a menace to society. If he’s not being a brat, you calling him a bad boy might make him cry. That’s why it’s healthy to communicate in the bed room!
Spank him. Spank him nice and good.
Lingerie lingerie lingerie
He might be a size queen, but you didn’t hear it from me 🤭
Oh he just loves doing it in his office. There is something so hot about it. To have you sit in his office, as he eats you out. How you would pin him on the desk, and pound him so hard it starts to rattle. To have you casually come in, wearing nothing at all, and crawling over all the paper work to get to him. If he’s having a bad day, sneak into his office and remind him he’s the boss
Don’t think you won’t be shared with Fred. They are magical twins. They share everything together.
Don’t be shy of your body hair. He likes his bitches natural. There’s also something so romantic to him about it. That you can just be your truest self around him, and not need to panic about your looks. Just your true self, and such
Speaking of natural self, he likes his bitches a little thicc. Blame his dad for liking em big. Nothing like some love handles to grab onto, or some ear warmers to keep him trapped in place. But most importantly? The cuddles
Expect to be of ‘use’ during busy hours at work. Like sucking him off while he does paper work, or being stress relief after a Karen comes into town
Boobs? Butt? Mans a thigh guy. He loves himself a partner with thick thighs, long legs, and some well pedicured feet. Yes. He’s a feet guy. Thigh highs in orange will make him cream alright
Expect to be his partner in trying new sex shop items
Speaking of that, don’t be scared to try new things with him. You never know. Maybe your weird kink could be the next hottest item the shop!
AFAB Partner Shenanigans
His favorite position with you would be the mating press. He just loves having your legs over his shoulders, and getting a front row seat at your begging face
He is going to be that type to fill you full of cum, and make you walk around with it
Sundresses baby
Peg him silly boo boo. He will ride that strap on until sunrise don’t even question it
Expect lots of cock warming. Especially when busy at work
Your tits are his now. His favorite thing to play with, when it isn’t your pussy. Even not in a sexual sense. You’ll just wake up with a hand on the tibbie
AMAB Partner Shenanigans
His favorite position is cowgirl. To have his hands on your chest, as he pants. Whimpering and moaning, as you move in and out of him. To have you spank him to move faster. Gets him all kinds of work up
He’s gonna be a shit head and sneak under tables a lot and have his fun with you
You will wake up to him dealing with your morning wood
He is going to sit on your cock when he is doing work. He will be a bastard and spin his hips
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i love ur fics sm omf.....
i am massively abnormal and mentally ill so thinking ab yan theo and mattheo with a gryffindor reader, clearly toxic but in which reader tries to break up with them .... failing miserably and just getting manipulated by them about how he's gonna get hurt and everyone but them wants to hurt him. he refuses to believe which just makes them go take the violent route since he was making it hard for them 🙁
and could i possibly be 🦦 anon? hope im not bothering, have a nice day or night !! <3
of course you can, lovely 🦦 anon!!
i absolutely adore the amount of angst in this request
also no i totally didnt base a lot of this on my own ex bf what no thatd be crazy
abuse warning! stay safe!!
toxic — yandere! manipulative! theodore nott x gn! reader x yandere! manipulative! mattheo riddle
requests open
‼️heavy abuse warning‼️
(physical, verbal, emotional, & psychological; lots of manipulation and gaslighting)
U.S. National Domestic Violence Hotline: 800-799-7233
Text line: Text START to 88788
YOU DESERVE SAFETY. YOU ARE NOT ALONE.
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“We’re breaking up. I can’t do this anymore.”
Theodore looked up at you quizzically from where he was reading on the couch. “Hm?”
“I’m breaking up with you. Both of you.”
“Oh, darlin’,” Mattheo sighed, shaking his head. “We can’t in good conscience let you do that.”
“See, here’s the thing, Matty,” you laugh humorlessly. “I don’t care.”
“But baby,” Theo said softly, his eyebrows furrowing as he looked at you with puppy dog eyes.
You steeled yourself as you started to feel the melting effects of that damn expression of his. “I can’t. Not anymore. It’s too fucking exhausting.”
“What is, baby?” Theodore pleaded, reaching out to grab your hand. “Tell us so we can fix it.”
The urge to shy away from this conversation, to apologize profusely for trying to leave, and to shove all of your emotions down until you felt numb again was overwhelming.
Theo rubbed the knuckles of your hand with his thumb. “Baby…”
You took a breath and steeled yourself again. “The everything, Theo. The lying. The cheating. The benders every weekend. The screaming at each other and the ghosting me. The waiting for me to come crawling back to you. Begging you to take me back every fucking time. Apologizing for everything even when it wasn’t my fault.”
“Ba-”
“No. I’m talking right now. The manipulation. The love bombing. I’m sick of it. I’m. Done.”
“Now, c’mon, darlin’,” Mattheo said placatingly. “Don’t be like that. You know none of that was our fault.”
“None? You slept with half of our year while we were dating.”
“Are,” Theo corrected. “Are dating.”
“Cute. No.”
“Baby, who else could possibly love you as much as we do?” Mattheo pouted, reaching out for your wrist and using it to tug you down onto his lap.
You stiffened, trying to free your wrist from his slowly tightening grasp. “Literally anyone. It’s not like you guys do anything.”
“Don’t do anything? Sweetheart, we protect you,” Theo chuckled with a sharp smile.
“Oh yeah?” You scoffed, managing to free your wrist and get out of Mattheo’s lap. “Protect me from who?”
“There’s a lot of bad people out there, doll. People who’d want to hurt you if they got the chance.”
“What, like you?”
“We’ve never laid a hand on you, sweetheart. Not once,” Mattheo sneered the last word like a curse, his greedy hands reaching out to snatch your arm again.
You flinched minutely, stepping back from his grasping hands. “I don’t care. We’re over, whether you like it or not.”
“Oh, stop it, darlin’,” Theo cooed patronizingly, standing up from the couch and crowding into your space. “You need us. Who else would care about you as much as we do? Who else would want you?”
“I. Don’t. Care.” You gritted out, shoving at his chest.
The boys shared a look—one you couldn’t quite read.
Suddenly, Theodore caught your jaw in his hand, squeezing tight. “You’d better shut up, sweetheart. Before one of us gets mad.”
“Dude, are you threatening me? I wi-”
Your sentence was cut off by a harsh slap.
You froze, mouth hanging open.
Your hand slowly went to your stinging cheek as you stared at him with wide, disbelieving eyes.
Theo at least had the tact to look guilty. “Baby- baby, I’m so sorry- it was an accident, I swear.”
You didn’t move, still processing what had just happened.
“Sweetheart? Darlin’, I’m sorry. I really am. You were just making me so mad…It was an accident, swear. It’ll never happen again, promise,” he cooed gently, stooping down to cup your cheeks in his hands with utter gentleness and care.
He hissed sympathetically when you flinched back from the pressure on your already-reddening cheek, gently stroking his thumb over it.
As you looked up at his apologetic and remorseful expression, you could feel a flicker of tenderness as you were reminded of the sweet boy you fell in love with in the first place.
“It’s okay, Theo,” you whispered, your words betrayed by the way your voice cracked. You swallowed thickly, blinking back the tears that threatened to spill from your eyes. “It was an accident.”
Theo made a show of sighing in relief. “Thank you, darling. But now you know to shut your mouth, don’t you baby? You know I don’t wanna hear you fucking saying that shit again, mhm?”
You just nodded mechanically.
••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••
hey! guess what! it absolutely will happen again! if your partner ever hits you, call a friend to come get you and then leave. it’s not worth it to stay, trust me.
to my taglisters! i haven’t tagged you in this due to its sensitive content. you know your boundaries and limits better than i do. stay safe.
— hp-hcs xx
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