#i should not be left unsupervised like this

[yandereunsolved]

Yandere Crazy! Castiel pining over his angel handler—mhm, I'd tear down the heavens just to keep you by my side. do you like this cute bee I found for you!? I named him Beelzebub.

�� A once low-ranking angel turned savior of Michael's vessel, to fallen angel, leader of half of heaven, then mutated angel, and now somewhere in between. You pledged your life to him when you knew nothing else. Freedom. This intangible thing he spoke of with such reverence.

They were like a prophet that came from our father, but with iridescent wings and a commanding nature.

He had taught you to be something more, but you were only comfortable listening to someone who seemed to know everything.

When all else failed, you still believed in the cause. You believed in them, as did many others. You chose a single angel over all your brothers and sisters. When angels broke from his ranks, you were the first to silence them—his enforcer.

When it was time for them to intake the souls of Purgatory, you were ordered to stay behind. It was the first time in your life you disobeyed an order. It's just that some foreign need was swirling around in your being. It came with all of this humanity: all of this fear, guilt, and shame.

You saved him. He was angered by your lack of obedience but forgave you as you were right in aiding him. You found protection under his wings as he arose to godhood. It's just that you didn't expect to be the one mending them.

🐝 With few archangels still intact and heaven fractured into slivers, the higher triad took over. They were no longer only concerned with God's glory and the universe. They had to be the overseers of what was left of their lower brethren. With that came reassignment and less-than-holy methods of testing the loyalty of the divine entities.

Not wanting to have your wings bound or perhaps even ripped from you because of your allyship to Castiel, you fled. From the glory of heaven, you hid in the vessel of a psychiatrist. Unsure. Unaware. Unsupervised. This must have been how Castiel felt when he betrayed heaven for the Winchesters. It brought a sort of warm solace to the core of your being.

You became unwillingly acquainted with the Leviathan problem. You were unable to protect humanity as it would give away your cover. That's when you searched for Castiel. You heard whispers of his... condition. It was not like anything you ever heard of.

Still, you persisted. You would guard him as he guarded you.

You owed them that much.

🐝 What you found was not any form of Castiel you had interacted with before. They were so much freer in a sense. Weaker. It pained you to feel that. They were no longer invincible, but almost human despite retaining their angelic nature.

He was ecstatic to recognize you. It was you ! He didn't approach, though. He seemed almost shy. Apologies tumbled from his, well, his vessel's, lips. You could sense the rawness of it in his aura.

You were stunned. They had done nothing wrong. When you tried to rebuff them, they got upset and almost cried; almost sobbed would be a more apt description.

You learned early on that you could not have a conversation with serious intent behind it. He would disappear into nature, leaving you in the middle of his room, scrambling to think of how you should proceed to keep your cover as a human.

Thankfully, the first time he fled after your initial encounter, he came back—with a string of beads that he called a 'friendship' bracelet.

Another thing you learned about this new Cas. He always came back to your side, usually with some sort of token of appreciation.

🐝 This Castiel becomes attached to your side, figuratively, although you suspect he wouldn't much mind it if it were literal. While your vessel is doing their rounds in this new institution you got them hired at, Cas trails along quietly. They are incredibly quiet and never initiate an interaction when you allow the human soul back control of their vessel. It's quite obvious he holds some disdain for them. 

He constantly tries to make trouble just to get you to take over. This could be anything from destroying his room to attempted murder. As an angel, they are able to overpower any orderlies, which leaves you as the only one who can calm them. As soon as you appear at the forefront of the vessel, he is back to his—well, not normal—subdued self is what you could label it as. 

Every time he apologizes softly for being 'disruptive' (stronger words are needed than that, but that's always how Castiel categorizes his fits). Then he makes a repetitious motion with his hands stretched outward towards you. You have learned that this means he wants reassurance from you. Physical affection is the human word for what he wants.

Scolding him never bodes well. It also is quite awkward to try and reprimand an angel who led you into battle many times. Who... changed you—gave you experiences you never knew you could have.

So, he is not the easiest mind-broken angel to look after. Then again, you have never been in this situation, so perhaps he is on the easier side of the spectrum. You prefer bee-special interest Cas to unhinged tantrum Cas. It's quite a strange and complex distinction between the two.

🐝 This Castiel rambles a lot more. When he isn't seeing your shared brother, Lucifer, he is teaching you about the human world. He has a fascination with animals, especially bees and the small furry creatures named cats. You know nearly everything about them now because Cas taught you.

His energy seems to buzz while he is enlightening you. The tips of his wings happily flap. Every one of the pupils of his many eyes dilates. His human vessel mimics this with hand motions and sudden bursts of energy.

It's cute.

You even look past the human blood coating him. Another thing you have learned. It is better to keep well enough alone. The unknown origin of the blood is well enough kept to only Cas's knowledge.

Even in this state he surely knows what he is doing, right?

No. That's why you need to look after him. However, pressing him on the topic won't get you anywhere.

It isn't a regular occurence. More often than not, he is crafting a gift for you. He has quite the love for jewelry, as well as art. Their skills range from hyperrealistic portraits to stick figures. Their pieces of art are treasured by you dearly.

They even draw on you sometimes with washable markers. The bunch of it is Enochian sigils with little hearts and some doodles that you can't quite decipher.

🐝 When those hallucinations, that's what humans call them, come around, you soothe him with your grace. It becomes almost ritualistic. You see his eyes begin to panic; his wings broaden themselves in a defensive measure, so you know his condition is getting worse again. You wrap him in your vessel's arms. Your wings encircle his own. Then you allow your grace to flow through him, soaking him—almost baptismally. 

He looks so blissful, and it brings you the same. To see such divinity tortured by the faults of mortals. It sickens you. The sacred nature of humanity should kneel at the sight of Castiel, as they did briefly.

He adores cuddling into you to feel your presence. They occasionally nibble on you. It isn't a harsh, biting sensation. It is more like a cat licking its owner as a sign of great trust and endearment. He laps up your excess grace and offers you a loopy grin.

Their body always tightens when they feel the soul of your vessel still in there. It's so close to you. This soul that could so easily be snuffed out. It's what Lucifer whispers into them, day and night. 'Smite the unworthy soul.'

That expression on his face. You do not know what the voice is telling him, but you are aware that it is inherently sinful.

What a repulsive monstrosity he has to deal with.

It makes you think of the other repulsive monstrosity you had to deal with.

🐝 Meg. You haven't thought on her in a while. She's being tortured. In hell. You delivered her to Crowley when you first descended upon the hospital. It was instinctual. It made your wings flare at the sight of such a dirty creature 'caring' for Cas. No. After everything you have done for them. You would not allow such a thing to touch them.

They returned the support with the utmost devotion. More bodies began to turn up. It was messy. Castiel was the guilty party, quite obviously. It wasn't righteous but still touching.

That's when you learned, well, you didn't. You are unsure as to why Castiel repetitiously does it. They insist it is because of how you protected them from Meg. It seemed to 'connect some dots' in their mind and made them appreciate you that much more.

You sense some truth in his words, but it goes much deeper than that. It is elusive. A much darker beast is prowling around inside of Cas, and it isn't Lucifer.

🐝 𓂃 ... @enchantedruin

[eyepatchoflove]

now that lestat had a successful one-sided beef with the switfies, can we manufacture some beef between him and the vampire band from chica vampiro that becomes real beef as soon as mirco gets actively involved because of course it would

[incorrect-ikevamp-quotes]

Leonardo: Now, the recipe calls for 2 shots of vodka.

Dazai: *upends the bottle*

[kulapti]

Don't leave me behind!! Jan 2023, pencil & krita.

From this ficlet by @themirokai

[ghostiesandghoulss]

So you’re telling me that Netflix saw this man

And said “bro this guy would make such a good drug lord”

like……….what???? BRO WITH THOSE EYES?? THE ONES STARING INTO MY SOUL WITH KINDNESS AND UNDERSTANDING AND SOMEHOW MORE AFFECTION THAN I GOT FROM MY PARENTS??? HUH????? BRO IF GOD HAD EYES THEY’D BE HIS AND YOU GAVE HIM THE ROLL OF A LITTLE RICH BASTARD MAN?????

But he does a great job so kudos to everyone involved ig

[caspersscareschool]

.

[bereft-of-frogs]

…

[green-eyes-and-orange-ties]

Couldn't be me using Cam's playlist as a comfort playlist

(also the new playlist art is such a perfect vibe)

[the-bastard-of-the-universe]

Gotta wake up early in the morning?

LIFE HACK: don’t sleep

[pinkrangerv]

I love how everyone assumes that this was an accident, and not, say, that the landlord decided 'you know, everyone thinks landlords are stupid, but it would be absolutely hilarious if I made my apartment complex an active warzone'.

I’m losing it over this twitter thread. this is the post-digital hellscape

[thesewordsareallihavetogive]

normally I'm not very critical of movies but oh my gosh. the one I just watched was so bad (I sat here for a while trying to figure out the best way to word this but the benadryl has already kicked in. no thoughts head empty). like genuinely how the fuck did this get funding. How did it make it into THEATERS?

[transandrobroism]

i am not being needlessly alarmist when i say that popular feminism has become extremely radfem-esque and that the normalisation of negative stereotypes towards men needs to be resisted. like. i clearly remember when feminists were derided as "man-hating feminazis" and the main counter-argument to that went something like "we don't hate men, feminism is for everyone, patriarchy harms men too and our goal is to dismantle that oppressive system, this will benefit everyone including men, men can and should be feminists because feminism is a movement for gender equality"

in fact the major rebuttal to men forming "men's rights" movements was always that the issues these groups identified were the negative impacts of the patriarchy on men. they didn't need a separate group because feminism was for everyone and feminist thought and theorising already accounted for the ways patriarchy harms men. which is true! many of the societal issues faced by men stem from white supremacist patriarchy and restrictive gender roles and traditionally feminism has given thought and time to those issues. feminism is for everyone and it is concerned with men's struggles under patriarchy alongside women's.

but somewhere in the last few decades that attitude fell by the wayside and now popular online feminism is this radfem-flavored "all men are bad forever" thing. now mocking, belittling, or hating men is #feminist #praxis. it's feminist to make jokes about #killallmen. it's feminist to view masculinity as inherently bad and dangerous. it's feminist to talk about the men in your life like they're animals who need to be house trained, or emotionally stunted children who need to be babied and distracted.

it's this idea of flipping patriarchy on its head and saying that actually women are the Superior Gender, women deserve to run the world and make all the decisions, and actually it's men who are the Inferior Gender who can't be trusted or left unsupervised.

these attitudes will always have the most severe negative impact on marginalised men. i don't know how we got here but it's past time we circled back around to "feminism is for everyone".

[slytherinslut0]

SLYTHERINSLUT0’S KINKTOBER

october 18th. mattheo — hate fucking / enemies.

KINKTOBER MASTERLIST. | 2024.

summary: “at least her favourite form of foreplay isn’t an argument…” “or being a bitch her kink..”

warnings: 18+ MDNI, dubcon(meh), ex bf/gf trope, toxic behaviour, mutual manipulation, these two are chaotic as fuck, mentions of blood, gagging, degradation, rough sex PIV, hate fucking, spitting, spanking, uhhh i think that covers it. this one is a ride. can you tell this is my fav trope?

"I'm so fucking sick of you.”

"Get well soon, princess."

"Get fucked, Riddle."

Three sentences, three venomous insults that cut the room in half—heavy enough in their intensity to make you want to tear through dungeon walls, splintering stone and mortar with bare hands if it means sparing yourself another second in this blasted room, with him.

Detention at midnight—on a Friday, no fucking less—is unheard of. But leave it to your dickhead ex to make the impossible a reality. His fault, of course. Like always.

Snape had turned a blind eye for months. It was only a matter of time before something had to give. An hour unsupervised was as good as you'll get.

Sulking defeat, you sink back in your chair, rough wood digging into your spine as you eye Mattheo with a glare that could rival a bullet. He looks like hell, and it's infuriating how even in that state he manages to look so nonchalant, so maddeningly unbothered—like even exhaustion makes a home on him and he's comfortable with it. Bags under his eyes, scar cutting across the bridge of his nose, those dark curls falling messily over his forehead, white dress shirt wrinkled and open at the collar.

You roll your eyes, a gesture that feels like your only act of rebellion left.

And he notices. Of course he does.

"You haven't changed a bit," he spits, and you know it's an insult. You scowl as he swipes the blood off his chin with the sleeve of his shirt. "Always a bitch to me over something."

Bitch. The name strikes you, but you won't let him see it, won't let him know that it lands. You've bled too many times at his feet for him to draw blood again tonight.

"Am I not allowed to be pissed off that you dragged us into detention? We should be at the party, Mattheo. We should be anywhere but here." You hear the frustration rising in your voice, like it's boiling up from somewhere deep, somewhere you can't quite reach. It's hard not to let it slip, especially when he looks at you like that. "This is so fucking typical of you. You mess up, and somehow I'm the one who pays for it."

For a moment, there's silence, and it almost feels like a victory until you realize he's only biding his time, waiting to strike back.

"You really want to get back there? To that party?" He leans forward, elbows resting on his knees. You long for the chair to break from under him. "After what your new man was caught doing with Lovegood?"

You snort before you can stop yourself, the sound slipping out like a reflex. You hadn't expected that. And quite frankly, it's amusing—no, downright hilarious—that he's clearly been keeping tabs on you and "new man", and now here he is, trying to play it off like he doesn't care. Like it's nothing.

"I'll spare you the insults this once," you mutter, fingers loosening the tie around your neck with a tug. "Because, clearly, you're ignorant to the truth, even if you think you know every goddamn thing." You pause, ripping out your earrings. "He's not my man, so I don't give a shit what he does with who. He ended it last week. Good fuck, sure—but other than that..."

You trail off, making a mocking noise with your lips, a derisive puff of air, as if you could blow away the memory of him as easily as dust off an old book. A Ravenclaw. Brilliant in all the wrong ways—sharp mind, yes, but utterly thrill-less, like he saw you as just another page to flip through, a textbook he was annotating.

It is what it is.

A moment passes and then Mattheo grins—slow at first, but spreading across his face like fire, destructive in its consummation. It unsettles you. He looks more intrigued than he's been in months.

"A good fuck, huh?"

"That's what I said," you reply, clipped, your tone offering no room for him to crawl inside.

"And why didn't it work out? Too good for you?" He says, twisting the knife just because he can. "Too clean, maybe?"

Your eyes scan the room, searching for something within reach to throw at him, anything to break this unbearable tension. Insufferable. Every inch of him, insufferable.

You find nothing, so you throw words instead. "You're an asshole, you know that?"

He nods, as if that's the truest thing either of you have said all night. Of course he knows.

You barely suppress a dry laugh at his idiocy. "Like I told you—he ended it. If you're so fucking interested in why it didn't work out, then why don't you go ask him?"

There's a pause—he's chewing the inside of his cheek as he stares at you. You imagine chewing his head off as you stare at him.

"I'm sure you gave that bookworm the ride of his life," he says, voice half-dry, half-sarcastic, as if he's already bored of the conversation. As if he knew all of this information already. "Everyone knew that was temporary. Your first rebound, congrats."

And just like that, your blood is boiling. He knows how to needle you, how to get under your skin with the slightest flick of his stupid fucking tongue. Your eyes trace the cold stone of the dungeon walls, desperately trying to find something—anything—to distract yourself.

But it's no use. Mattheo's an asshole. He's always been an asshole. That's why you left. All the two of you did was fight and fuck, a chaotic spiral that was as thrilling as it was destructive. Now, he's easily your enemy—dragging you into his messes, never letting you get too far without ruining your life somehow.

And yet—

If you said you didn't miss the sex sometimes, that'd be a lie. Or at least a half-truth. The kind that slips out when you've had one too many glasses of firewhiskey, the kind you'd regret in the morning.

"What about you, dickhead?" You cut through the silence, ignoring his obvious attempt to rile you up. "That Hufflepuff you were seeing—why'd I see her all over Theo tonight?"

He answers far too fast. "They're friends."

You snort, disbelieving. "Right."

You rise to your feet, crossing the room to the bookcase as if it's the most natural thing in the world. The books feel safer somehow, less volatile.

"You're bored of her, aren't you?" You don't care to look at him. You can imagine the way his jaw tenses at the question.

The silence is telling. He doesn't answer right away. You know him well enough to understand what that means. Then, finally, he speaks, a half-answer that doesn't really answer the fucking question at all.

"At least her favourite form of foreplay isn't a fucking argument." He stands, slow, pushing his hair back from his forehead with one battered hand. You glance at him, pulse quickening. "Or being a bitch her kink."

"Does she even have kinks?" It slips out, a knife thrown without aiming. "Sounds like you're bored, Matty."

You watch as he blinks, his eyes darken. That nickname—you know you don't have the right to say it anymore, and that's exactly why you do. It's an insult wrapped in familiarity, and it hits its mark by the way his shoulders tense, jaw tight.

He steps toward you, one calculated step, and you feel it—that chaotic pull, the gravity that's always drawn you both in, no matter how far you try to stay away. A smile pulls at your lips, a cruel thing.

"How cute." He tilts his head just enough to inspect you, eyes dragging over you like he's searching for something to confirm what he already suspects. "Looks like you're jealous."

Your hand grips the bookshelf, eyes locked on him over your shoulder. Jealous? There's not a soul on this planet who could make you jealous. She may be the hero of this story, the girl that gets the guy, might even be everything you're not—

"Looks like you're learning the hard way," you're inspecting him now, too. Every piece of him you once touched. "When it comes too easy it's never gonna' hit as hard, babe."

Another pause from him—something dancing in his eyes. Anger? Maybe. Or something more, something twisted that you don't care to name. You've already lit the match, and now you're just watching him burn.

"You're so clever, huh? So full of advice," he sneers, ripping off his tie and chucking it on a desk. "Go on then, tell me more about how I feel, professor. Since you know everything about me."

You can't help the smirk that curls on your lips. Oh, he's pissed. And that means you're winning.

"What? You don't like hearing the truth? Too much for your delicate ego?" You take a step toward him, savouring every second of this. He hurt you, over and over, the scars from those days still fresh, still bleeding beneath your skin. This has been a long time coming. "You think I care about your new girl, Matty? The one you let your boys fawn over in the common room?...she kissed Theo tonight." You pause, letting that linger. "You think you're doing something, but I see right through you. You don't give a fuck about her. If you did, no one would dare touch her like that. So don't sit here, accusing me of jealousy, like I'm the one hung up on you. You're projecting. And it's pathetic."

He doesn't waste a goddamn beat—his laugh is bitter, sickeningly so—and he advances again, his shadow moving behind him, the space between you now barely there.

"That's amazing, truly. If I didn't know any better, I'd think you were a goddamn oracle. All-knowing, all-seeing." His voice is infuriating. The look on his face more-so. "What's your verdict then, my lord? You think this is all an act? That everything I'm doing is just to spite you?"

Your heart races, breath catching in your throat as he steps closer. This is a dance you both know too well, the kind where neither of you win.

"I know how you operate." Your chest heaves, anger rising with every breath. "It's all a game to you, Matt. A sick, twisted game to keep yourself entertained."

"That's rich, coming from someone who played it just as well." He takes another step forward. You could reach out and touch him now he's that close. His grin grows. "Too bad your Ravenclaw figured it out before you could sink your teeth in too deep. Next time you see him, make sure to tell him I said you're welcome."

Your brows pinch—the blood in your veins screeching to a halt, backing up like New York traffic at a standstill. You feel it, hot and furious, rushing toward a place it can't go, clogged behind the wall of rage building up inside you—

"You're welcome?" You spit, a sharp snarl caught between clenched teeth. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

He's watching you, his eyes darting over your shoulder, fingers brushing over his lips like he's trying to dull that familiar smirk, that cruel little game he's always played.

Your stomach sinks, drops to your feet.

"Mattheo—" you snap, cutting him off just as he opens his mouth, before he can throw another snide word. "Spare me the cryptic bullshit for once in your life—“

His eyebrows lift at that, but there's a nod, a hint of something deeper in it. You taste the smugness in the air between you, can almost feel it slithering through his silence.

"Looks like you don't know everything after all. Isn't that ironic?" He straightens up, letting the moment breathe before his face hardens into something almost serious. "Your rebound came to me in the courtyard about two weeks ago. Had some questions about you."

"What?" Your nerves are vibrating, every cell in your body on edge. Your blood is so clogged, you swear you're seeing red. "What questions?"

"The usual sort of normal stuff. Your birthday. Your favorite colour. Childhood traumas. Our downfall. You know."

The casualty in the way he says it makes you sick, bile rising in your throat, a bitter burn at the back of your mouth. It's all starting to come together now. This stupid motherfucker—

"You're lying." The words feel weak, frail. He wouldn't—no, he couldn't. "You're fucking lying."

"Am I?" His fingers brush your cheek, but your skin's gone numb, your blood too frozen to feel anything but the cold burn of your fury. "Or, is the truth just…too much for your delicate ego to handle?"

Oh, fuck off—

Your wand is in your hand before you even realize you've grabbed it, instinct, pure reflex. There's barely a second of rational thought before you're casting, the spell hitting him square in the chest, sending him flying back into the chair he once sat in. His eyes flash, anger igniting there, and he scrambles for his wand—but you're faster.

"Expelliarmus."

One word and you're across the room before you even know you've moved, chest tight as you slam the tip of your wand against his throat. There's a cut on his lip, blood trickling down his chin for a second time tonight, but that stupid fucking smirk is still there, showcasing rubies for teeth and carved into his face like it belongs.

"Tell me what you did." Your voice cracks, but not from fear—it's fury, burgling through you, burning hot enough to make your whole body shake. You half want to cut him open just to bury your rage inside him, let him feel it. "If what you're saying is true, he ended things just days later. Tell me what the fuck you said to him."

Mattheo’s leaning back, hands raised in mock surrender, eyes glinting with the same smug amusement that's always haunted him. He's daring you, taunting you. He knows you never cared about that guy, not really.

You both know it. He was boring, easy.

This—this is something else.

His tongue swipes at the blood on his lip. "He didn't tell you—"

"Don't." Your wand digs deeper into his skin, cutting off whatever he was about to say. The pressure makes his breath hitch, but not enough. Not nearly enough. "I said tell me."

"Merlin—okay—I told him nothing, nothing really," his voice makes your grip tighten on your wand. He stares at you for a long, hard minute before he adds; "except that he should show me some fucking gratitude."

Your jaw slips, confusion rushing in like a flood. But before you can even question him—

"I told him he should be thanking me." Another pause. "When he's fucking you."

He laps at the blood seeping from the cut on his lip for the second time in only a minute and you barely notice the movement—the words hit you like a brick, but it's deeper than that, something visceral that crawls under your skin and settles in your bones. It's sharp, raw, cutting through the wall of rage so fast it leaves you breathless. You don't know how to explain it, this feeling that twists through you, something far too complicated to be named.

And then, you become aware of everything at once.

His legs, spread wide on either side of yours, the space between you so small, your chest just close enough to his face that his breath feels like it's fogging your skin. You're towering over him, wand pressed hard into his throat, your heart hammering in your chest like you're ready to ruin him—but his eyes, the way he looks up at you, says he'd let you.

"I may have even added that although you're with him, you'll always think of me. Both you and him know it’s true.“ That stupid smirk is gone, replaced with something you've never quite seen before. He pauses, before he continues. "You miss it. Us." Another pause. There’s something victorious in his tone, something that's almost breaking you. "And no matter how many times you try to forget, you never do, do you?"

Salazar save you—you should hex him. You should fucking hex him. Every nerve in your body is screaming for it, begging for it, but you can't. You can't fucking move. Your wand is still pressed to his skin, but it feels like you're the one pinned down.

"Shut up," you finally manage, but your voice is meek, thin, nothing like the fury you want to feel. "You...you're being—"

"I'll shut up," his hand finds your wrist, pressing your wand tip against his neck with more force—enough to make himself wince. "If you make me."

You blink, stunned, and you can feel your anger slipping, slipping faster than you can catch it. You don't know what's happening to you—it’s just him—his sick twisted insanity that disarms you. Time and time again. An endless fucking cycle.

"I could ruin you," you whisper, but it sounds more like you're trying to convince yourself than him. You press the wand deeper, just enough to draw a grunt from him, but the look on his face—he's not afraid. No, he's enjoying it. "I have more reasons than most to leave you here bloodied for Snape to find in the morning."

You say the words but the conviction is gone, swept away in the flood of heat between you—the dizzying proximity, the way his lips curl, almost smiling but not quite—

"What are you so afraid of?" He whispers, and there's something fragile in his voice now. "That you might actually want this?"

"I don't want this." You force the words out immediately, hoping they will make it real. Hoping they'll stop this spiral. "I regret ever wanting this."

He’s silent for a moment as he lowers his hands, dark eyes falling to trace your lips—

"I know you hate me, the feelings mutual...but I know. I know I'll always be your favourite regret," those chocolate curls shift, his head tilts closer, too close. Not close enough. "You're still my weapon of choosing."

Merlin. Merlin bloody forgive you—

"…to hurt yourself with?” It's half a question, but you already know the answer.

He nods, and that does it.

Your lips are on his, fast and hard and bruising—and the reaction is immediate, visceral. All that backed-up blood—all that rage frozen in your veins rushes forward in a single, scorching wave. It crashes low, between your thighs, a heat so sharp it aches. The shame comes with it. So does the disgust. A sick knot of self-hatred pulsing through you as you taste his blood on your tongue while his hands are under your skirt, grabbing you like he owns you, pulling you into him. It's only a moment before your wand clatters to the ground, and your hands are tangled in his hair, yanking hard, hard enough to hurt.

You want it to hurt. God, you want it to hurt.

He growls at the sting on his scalp—and then, everything flips.

His fingers tug at something, and you realize it's his own wand, the one you tucked into the back of your skirt—and before you can even think, he's got it, casting a spell that sends you flying back onto the desk behind you. You groan—the world spins, but you don't even have a second to gather yourself before he's advancing toward you, casting another spell on his tie.

Within seconds it's slithering across your lips and tying itself around your head, gagging you.

He steps between your legs, parts them with the ease of someone who's done it a thousand times before—rough hands gliding up your thighs, eyes wild. His fingers slip beneath your underwear, through your slit, and you try to hold on to any shred of control, but it's gone. You can feel it. The way you forget everything except the way he leans down, breath hot in your ear.

"Look how fucking wet you are," he spits through a sneering grin. "You're goddamn shameless, aren't you?"

You roll your eyes, but your thoughts scatter the moment his fingers shove inside you, curling hard—so hard you gasp into the tie, your back arching violently off the desk.

"He ever get you this wet?" His voice is like gravel, each word grinding into your bones. "Nod your head if he did."

Your body reacts before your mind does, arching against him, but you don't move your head. As much as it hurts your pride to give him that win. You dig your fingers into his hair and pull—hard enough to make him grunt, hard enough to hurt.

His hand comes down hard on your thigh in response, a sharp smack that stings, a warning. You squeal, and his fingers start pumping faster, deeper.

He huffs. "That's what I thought."

His fingers make quick work of you, relentless, and his thumb presses to your clit, rolling circles in a rhythm that has your blood on fire, shame licking at the edges of your vision, but it only makes you burn hotter. This is all wrong. Everything about this is wrong, something you'll regret with every fiber of your being tomorrow, but right now, it's an ache you need.

It's the wound you keep reopening, the pain you crave because it's the only thing that ever feels real.

"Fuck, you're close, aren't you?" He sounds almost shocked, like he can't believe how easily your body betrays you, but you feel it too, the disbelief crashing through you as fast as the pleasure does. Too fast. Far too fast. "Did he ever make you cum? Huh? When's the last time you fucking came?"

You can't answer, just groan, yanking at his hair again. His response is immediate, another stinging slap to your inner thigh, sharp enough to make fluid prick your eyes. Your orgasm is right there, teetering on the edge, ready to tip over—but then he slows his pace, dragging it out, torturing you.

You whine. A pitiful, desperate sound you hate yourself for.

"Look at me." His voice cuts through the haze, and begrudgingly, you do. "He didn't make you cum, did he?"

Your face burns, not from his breath or his fingers or even the astronomical amount of shame you feel—but from the truth of it. You shake your head.

"How long?" His voice shatters the air between you. "A week?"

You shake your head again, biting into the fabric of his tie as his fingers curl deeper inside you.

"Two weeks?"

Another shake. He curses under his breath.

"You poor little thing." His words are venom, but the second they spill from his lips, he pumps his fingers into you again, massaging at your walls, and your vision goes white. "Can't even cum without me."

You would've slapped him if you could, would've torn him apart, but the orgasm hits you like a freight train, ripping through you with violent force. You clench around his digits, thighs trembling as you ride the wave of pleasure, convulsing, moaning into the tie as he watches you like he's won.

"So fucking easy." He withdraws his fingers, and immediately, his hands go to his belt. "We'll make up for lost time."

Everything about this feels like a rerun. The same scene playing out on loop, again and again—a cycle of self-destruction you know too well, like running headfirst into a burning building, certain you can handle the smoke only to choke on it.

He's taking off his belt, ready to fuck you stupid, and by morning you'll be back to the same familiar hatred, tearing each other apart in new, inventive ways. Your hands move sluggishly to rip the tie from your mouth, but you're slow, too slow, still dizzy from the release that blindsided you, one that you haven't felt in so long—the fabric barely grazes your fingers before Mattheo catches your wrists, yanking them back, dragging you to your feet in one rough motion.

The spin disorients you—arms pinned behind your back, his cock sliding between your thighs.

"You've done enough talking today," he hisses at your ear as he drags along your slit. "You want this, don't you?"

Your mind screams for you to shake your head, to end this here and now. You know he'd stop—he's an asshole, but not that kind of an asshole. You know it. You almost do it, almost say the word that would shatter this madness. But then he drags his tip against your clit and you moan before you can stop yourself.

Your head nods with a wanton moan, and it's so full of shame your eyes sting with tears.

"Yeah, I know, baby." He's taunting you, every syllable smug, condescending. "This pussy missed me so much, huh?" His hand tightens on your wrists until your skin burns, the other hand finding its way around your thigh, pulling you closer to him. "Fuckin' lost without me. S'all it's good for, isn't it? Taking my cock."

You groan, shaking your head in defiance, but even that feels like a lie. You hate him. You want him. You hate yourself for wanting him.

"No?" His fingers inch toward your clit, ghosting over it—you squeal, hips jerking for more. "Maybe we should call this off then?"

You blink once and his fingers are gone—wrenching a whine out of you, pathetic as you push your ass back against him, shame burning through you as you shake your head. Fuck him. Curse him. But you need him inside you, need him to fill the aching void that gnaws at you.

"That's my slut," he growls, and before you can process the words, he's inside you—one long, brutal thrust that spears you open, the stretch burning deep. The sting mixes with shock of his fingers returning to your clit, rubbing circles that make your knees buckle. "You know you're the only girl I've fucked raw? This pussy will always be mine."

He's fucking insane. Completely insane. And the worst part is, you're just as insane for wanting him. For needing him. You can't fight it. You don't even want to. Not now. Not when his voice drips like poison and he's tearing you apart in the only way you understand.

"Mmmf—" you groan into the tie and he's matching you, his teeth grazing your shoulder, marking you in ways that will last for days.

"I hope it hurts," he grumbles against your skin, his breath ragged. He's lying, you can feel it in the way his fingers are moving, coaxing you to cum, even as he pretends to wish you pain. "I hope it fucking stings."

Your hands ball into fists, trapped in his grip, and you imagine clawing at his back until you draw blood, sinking your nails in until he feels every ounce of your anger.

"I want you to feel it—fuck—I want you to remember this," he pants, his voice barely more than a growl as your climax crashes toward you, unstoppable now. "Remember how weak I make you. How much of a slut you are for me."

Another harsh thrust and then, you're there—falling into the void—pleasure is so strong it bleeds out of you, forcing your cunt to clamp tight around him, legs trembling, barely able to support you through it. Mattheo’s curses slip through clenched teeth, but this only fuels him—his rhythm picks up, brutal, hips slamming against your ass with a pace that borders on unhinged.

"Fuck. Oh, fuck." The words are barely audible, grunted against the shell of your ear. You're whining, still twitching with aftershocks, but he doesn't care. His hands are on your hips now, fingers digging deep as he thrusts you forward, slamming you over the desk. The wood bites into your palms as you try to brace yourself, but his anger is palpable, drilling into you— "you wanna bitch at me now?"

The moan you release is automatic, instinctual. You can't stop it. Can't control it. His fingers curl around your throat, shifting the tie down to shove two into your mouth.

"Hhhhh—" you're trying to form words around his fingers, but it's impossible. The garbled sound is pathetic, but he knows exactly what you're trying to say.

"You hate me. I know." It’s smug, punctuated by a sharp smack to your ass, the sting of it making you yelp. He pulls his fingers from your mouth, wiping the spit across your cheek before he grips your jaw, forcing your head to turn, to meet his eyes. "Open your mouth."

There's no time to process the demand. His eyes are molten, crazed, filled with something raw and uncontainable. His next thrust is punishing, slamming into your cervix, making you sob—your mouth parting just enough—

He leans in close, and then he spits into your mouth.

"Swallow it." His fingers dig into your cheeks, pressing the order into your bones. "Be a good girl for once."

You choke out a laugh, even as you're panting, even as he's splitting you stupid.

"Never." The word barely leaves your lips before you’re spitting back at him—your entwined saliva landing across his chin and lips.

For a second, you expect the worst—you brace yourself for the retaliation—the slap, the insult, the way he'll tighten his grip and take back control. But to your surprise, instead of anger, there's a grin—wide and feral, big and crazed enough to reach his eyes.

You smile back. His cock twitches inside you.

"Fuck me," he mutters, then crashes his mouth to yours.

You taste the salt and bitterness of mingled spit, a mess of his and yours, and it pulls a moan from somewhere deep inside you. He devours it, greedy, his hips growing erratic, sloppy as his high nears.

His hand drops to your clit, fingers pressing with a precision that obliterates every last shred of sanity—and it takes only moments before the pressure builds again, fast and furious. Your third orgasm rips you apart, your body clenching tight, muscles seizing as you're lost in it. You're not sure where you end and he begins—your breath congealing with his, your moans swallowed in the space between you.

His release follows right after, crashing over him as he buries himself deep, spilling into you with a groan that reverberates through your bones. You hate the way it feels. You hate the way he fills you. But you also can't deny the twisted satisfaction of it—the way you sought this punishment, needed it. The shame consumes you, but it's comforting in its familiarity.

He pulls out, and the silence between you is easy, broken only by your ragged breathing. The room feels impossibly small now, your body still thrumming with the aftermath, but the moment is over. You both start to move—piecing yourselves back together, pulling clothes into place, avoiding the weight of what just happened.

You don't understand how it came to this, how it always does, but you're not surprised. Not anymore.

After a long, silent moment, he looks at you. “I don’t regret what I did.”

You know he doesn’t.

“I know.”

He blinks. “I won’t apologize for it.”

You know he won’t.

“I know.”

He nods, now, a smirk on his lips as he watches you fix your skirt. You note the hair sticking to his forehead, how he’s still catching his breath even though he’s pretending he isn’t.

“You aren’t mad.” An observation.

“I’m not.” You reply. You know you should be, but the relief you felt when that Ravenclaw ended things tells you everything you need to know. “Just, never do it again.”

He nods again. “Sure.”

You’re pretty sure he doesn’t mean that—but, at least now, as you glance over at him, there's a small comfort in knowing you no longer want to kill him.

[silentheiss]

It starts with Shang Qinghua, as many unpleasant things do.

“Come on, Cucumber-bro,” He whines, lying on Shen Qingqiu’s floor and eating Shen Qingqiu’s snacks. “Do you have to go? You promised you’d read my draft, remember?”

“I do.” Shen Qingqiu says. “And I will. Later. I promised I’d help Binghe with his hair before he has to leave for his trip today.”

“You gotta get all the way back to the demon realm just to do his hair before he leaves again?”

“Yes.”

“Aw, bro. I’m sorry.”

Shen Qingqiu snaps his fan shut. He doesn’t like his tone.

“Why?”

“What?” Shang Qinghua blinks up at him from his position on the floor.

“Why are you sorry?” Shen Qingqiu repeats, slowly.

“Well, because you have to interrupt your evening to placate my clingy son?”

Shen Qingqiu isn’t sure what exactly about Airplane’s wording bothers him so much, but he doesn’t let it stop his ire.

“You think I prefer your company to my husband’s?” He hisses. Shang Qinghua sits up abruptly.

“Oh, shit, bro.” He mumbles, sounding apologetic. “I didn’t mean it like that. I know you love him and all.”

Does he? Not that Shen Qingqiu cares, of course, but- does he?

“Do you?”

“Yeah, it was hard to miss with all the rage comments and well, uh. Suicides?” Shang Qinghua laughs awkwardly and Shen Qingqiu opens his fan once again. “It’s just that I get that it must be hard for you to put up with his quirks sometimes?”

What quirks! Shen Qingqiu grips his fan tighter. Sure, Binghe can get a bit sticky and is prone to crying, but what’s so quirky about it? And who’s talking! As if Mobei-jun is a completely normal choice of a partner. Shen Qingqiu scoffs and moves to stand up.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He snaps. “Binghe’s perfectly normal. I enjoy spending time with him.”

“Of course you do.” Shang Qinghua nods hurriedly, also scrambling up to his feet. “Don’t be mad, Cucumber-bro. I didn’t mean to offend you!”

Shen Qingqiu know that. He didn’t mean to offend him, no. He meant to commiserate. Because, apparently, he thinks Shen Qingqiu must be tired of Luo Binghe.

“I’m leaving.” He says and promptly turns around and walks out of his own house. Binghe wouldn’t like it that he left his martial uncle in bamboo house unsupervised, but it’s either that or beating Shang Qinghua and Shen Qingqiu hasn’t yet formulated a reason inside his buzzing and spluttering mind for why he needs to do that.

Shen Qingqiu is still trying to understand what exactly about the conversation with Shang Qinghua addles him so much as he walks towards the designated meeting spot. Luo Binghe should be there soon to pick him up and take them both to the underground palace. When they last talked – just that night, in a shared dream – Luo Binghe asked if he could visit Shen Qingqiu in their bamboo house as he has some free time before he has to continue on his business, but Shen Qingqiu wanted to be alone with his husband for the short time that they would have, and he’s rarely left alone while on Qing Jing Peak.

“Shizun!” He hears, as almost reaches the stairs. He slows down, allowing Ning YingYing to catch up to him, but doesn’t stop completely. Binghe might already be waiting.

“What is it, YinYing?” He asks, smiling indulgently at his disciple.

“Why is Shizun leaving?” Ning YingYing pouts. “Didn’t he say that he’ll stay for a few days more?”

“Your Shizun will be back shortly.” Shen Qingqiu rolls his eyes, but his smile is still present. See, Airplane-bro? All his disciples are sticky! Luo Binghe is not worse than anyone else. Well, if only just a little. “This Shizun just has a meeting with your shidi.”

“Ah, A-Luo is back? When will this one get to see him?”

“Luo Binghe is very busy, so he won’t be coming to Qing Jing Peak just yet.” Shen Qingqiu says, stopping at the top of the stairs and looking downward. Binghe isn’t there yet.

“So he’s stealing Shizun all to himself?” Ning YingYing pouts again, but this time her eyes are sparkling with amusement. “Isn’t A-Luo the sweetest?”

And then it dawns on Shen Qingqiu. He quickly sends Ning YingYing back and starts his trip down the stairs, lost in thought. He’s taking Shizun all to himself. You have to interrupt your evening to placate my clingy son. They say it as if it wasn’t Shen Qingqiu who insisted on meeting somewhere else, so they could be alone. As if he didn’t insist on being interrupted whenever Luo Binghe had a minute to spare during his trip.

Because even if they know that Shen Qingqiu cares for Luo Binghe, they are certain that Luo Binghe cares for him more. More to the point of being annoying, even?

Shen Qingqiu sees red. He’s furious with Airplane, of course, because he started it, but most of all he’s furious at himself. Sure, he isn’t as shameless as his husband to declare his love left and right, but did he really let his cold and aloof facade lead people to believe that he is not madly in love with his husband?

Did he lead Luo Binghe to believe that, too?

Shen Qingqiu doesn’t notice the stairs end and almost stumbles, when his foot meets the ground sooner than he anticipated. A strong arm catches him around the waist.

“Shizun.” His husband breathes out and draws him closer, hugging him as if they’ve been apart for months instead of days. Shen Qingqiu is frozen in his arms.

That’s it, isn’t it? Luo Binghe never hesitates to show his feelings. But Shen Qingqiu’s thin face is not an indicator that he loves his husband less! It’s just that-

“Shizun?” Luo Binghe leans away, arms still circling his waist. His brow is furrowed, just a bit. Starry eyes are already watering from Shen Qingqiu's lack of response. How on earth could someone not love this man with their whole heart?

“Binghe.” Shen Qingqiu says, unable to hold the question back a moment longer. “Do you think you love me more than I love you?”

Luo Binghe’s arms drop. He takes a stumbling step back. His perfect, beautiful face freezes completely, not showing a single emotion. A second later tears start rolling down his cheeks.

“Binghe?” Shen Qingqiu takes his husband’s hand and squeezes lightly. “Are you okay?”

“Shizun said-” Binghe chokes, still looking at him without as much as blinking. “He said he loves…?”

Then, the dam breaks and Luo Binghe starts sobbing in earnest. Shit. Has he ever said the L word before? Shen Qingqiu swears on his own grave – on all of his graves – to never let the shame overtake him again.

“So, you do?” He asks, heartbroken and ashamed. He truly is an abominable husband.

“I do!” Binghe cries. “Of course I do. How can there be a love greater than my love for Shizin?”

How? Shen Qingqiu would love for Luo Binghe to see his old room right now. That’d show him how.

“What about my love, huh?” He snaps, fighting an urge to stomp his foot. “Why can’t it be greater?”

Binghe must realize his mistake. He hastily wipes his face and shakes his head.

“Of course this one knows Shizun cares for him! Shizun’s shown this one so much kindness, has been so generous, and-”

“No!” Shen Qingqiu feels his cheeks grow hot. “I don’t just care for you. I love you. I love my husband.”

Luo Binghe stares at him and doesn’t say anything for a very long time.

“Shizun?” He says, finally. “Did you happen to come across any interesting plants recently?”

Oh for fuck’s sake!

“I’m not under any influence!” Shen Qingqiu huffs.

“Do you mind if I…?”

“Go for it.”

A second later Shen Qingqiu feels the blood parasites start fretting. It’s not the most pleasant feeling, but if it’ll make his husband stop humiliating him, he’ll take it happily.

“Shizun is healthy.” Luo Binghe says dumbly. “But then why would he say that?”

“Because it’s the truth!” Shen Qingqiu cries. “Why is it so hard to believe? Why do everybody, including my own husband, keep suggesting that I don’t feel as strongly about Binghe as Binghe does about me?”

“Did Liu Qingge say something?” Luo Binghe asks, eyes narrowing.

“No!” Shen Qingqiu rolls his eyes. “But I’m sure he would, if he had a chance. Because apparently, I don’t look in love!”

Luo Binghe’s face is quite red, Shen Qingqiu notices.

“But they’ll see.” He continues. “Ang you! You’ll see too, Binghe.”

“I’ll see?”

“Yes.” Shen Qingqiu nods decidedly. He knows how to fanboy, okay? Binghe’s cooking and fretting and gift lavishing won’t stand a chance against Shen Qingqiu’s skill. “Take me home this instant. I have posters to paint.”

“Posters?”

“Now, Binghe!”

Luo Binghe squeaks and reaches for Xin Mo. Shen Qingqiu jumps through the portal before it even fully opens.

[ellecdc]

“yes the both of you look adorable, but can i please have my clothes back now?” With MoonKiller? (I think that’s the ship name for Remus and Barty)

oooooh a moonkiller! don't mind if I do

poly!bloodmoon x fem!reader who steal Remus' jumpers [352 words]

CW: whale vomit?, slytherin reader, barty and reader cannot be left unsupervised

Remus probably should have known better than to leave the two of you unsupervised in his dorm for any amount of time; this really was likely his own fault.

“What are you wearing?” He asked both of you as he stepped into the Gryffindor common room after his prefect rounds, the rest of Gryffindor long in bed and the two of you opting to leave his shared dorm to his roommates. And they said Slytherin’s weren’t polite.

You were the only one who answered him, though. “Chanel No. 5! Do you like it?” You responded cheekily, eyes shining with mirth and maybe a little bashfulness. 

“That has whale vomit in it, you know.” Barty interjected lazily. “You’ve doused yourself in whale vomit.” 

“Junior, why must you make everything disgusting?” You whined then, and Barty gave you an incredulous look.

“I didn’t put the whale vomit in it; ask Chanel.” 

“Okay,” Remus interrupted what he could tell was about to become an argument, “Junior, what are you wearing?”

“Probably some Chanel No. 5.” He offered quickly with a satisfied smirk. “I think it sort of rubbed off on me.”

“You’re wearing whale vomit too.” You snickered, blowing Barty a raspberry that saw him lifting you off of the ottoman you’d been kneeling on and folding you up in his lap with no shortage of delighted squeals from you. 

“Are both of you wearing my jumpers?” Remus finally asked, realising he should have started with the direct approach right from the get go. 

“Yes!” Barty answered excitedly. “Don’t we look cute?” 

“Yes, the both of you look adorable.” Remus deadpanned, though he knew his expression probably fell far softer than he was going for. “Can I have my clothes back now?” 

Your bottom lip jutted out comically as you began to pout at him, but Barty - ever the problem solver - offered him a solution.

“Lupin, Remus, Moony, darling light of my life; let’s not go to extremes, yeah? Why don’t we make a trade?” He countered rather conspiratorially. 

And whilst Remus wasn’t really a fan of quidditch, he did look really good in green.

[idontego]

Kaji Conceals His Relationship With You From His Friends

Summary: well, the title explains it, but do you think he can keep it a secret for much longer?

Warnings: swearing and suggestive violent behavior

A/n: I hope the ending didn’t disappoint! I thought it was a unique twist, pls.

As much and Kaji loves you, it was a mutual decision that your relationship be kept a secret from his friends because he didn’t want you to become a distraction because of how his friends would act towards him.

His friends knew who you were and looked at you as a mutual. They had no idea that you had a particular love interest and it was better kept that way. Kaji and you have been in a relationship for less than 6 months so far, but the more you stuck around him and his friends, the more they gained interest in you. Some of them even considered you a love interest and in fact had crushes on you. It wasn’t until recently that all of this unfolded.

Kaji was getting lunch with some of the second years, along with the first years. Kaji wasn’t too fond of most of the first years and would normally tune them out, that was until at Pothos you were brought up to the table. He immediately paused his music, but kept his headphones on.

Taiga was waving around his phone and said “Should i text y/n? I have her number and I’ve been thinking about asking her out on a date or somethin’.” Taiga said with his feet propped up on the table. “not if i beat you do it first, buddy.” Mitsuki said, leaning over the table grabbing Taiga’s phone from him. “There’s no way you haven’t even texted her yet. I’ve been knocking on that door for a few weeks. It’ll work soon, trust me.” Mitsuki proceeded.

“HEY GIVE ME THAT BACK!” Taiga said now also reaching over the table to get his phone back. Mitsuki was now typing something on his phone.

“I’m just gonna see if she at least responds to you! Don’t worry, you’re in good hands. You know how i am with the ladies.” Mitsuki reassured him.

Kaji sent over a piercing gaze to the both of them, crushing his lollipop between his teeth, making a loud cracking sound. He bit right through, all the way to the stick and he then realized he was gritting his teeth pretty hard and needed to keep listening to see if things got more out of hand. Would you actually respond to them? He wouldn’t expect you to say anything back to them, or at least he still hoped. He was now full of regret. Why did he not tell them sooner. It was for his own selfish reasons. He didn’t tell them because he felt he couldn’t genuinely handle them picking on him for being with you and making gushy jokes. Don’t even get me started on his phone. He just knows that if it was left unsupervised, they would try to send you some silly text or even worse, go through your messages.

Kaji began to mumble under his breath, completely consumed by the idea of their scheme and the reality of it happening right In front of his face. He ripped open another lollipop placing it in his mouth and put his headphones around his neck.

“You morons really think she’d say something back to ya’?” Kaji said with a straight face.

“What’s it to ya, Kaji? You like her or something? You’ve been pouting in the corner the whole time we’ve been here.” Taiga said.

Kaji’s eyebrows furrowed and he stood up and walked over to them stuffing his hands in his hoodie pocket. His fists were clenched so tight in this very moment he was breaking the skin in his palms from his nails.

“What’s it t’me?! Pick up the Goddamn phone, and send it, i dare you. Unless you wanna find out the hard way, ‘what it is to me’. ” He said. He closed his lips back around his lollipop and stood there, waiting for a response. His chest was heaving up and down, fast. The blood rushing to his face at a faster pace. Did he just give himself away?

“That’s it.” Sakura was now tuned into the conversation and started making his way to their table. He didn’t like all of this girl talk and was about to say something to all three of them until Nirei pulled Sakura’s arm, turning him around and saying “S-Sakura that is not a good idea! Please trust me! For starters, you know you don’t want to get Kaji fired up and second, it’s rumored that y/n is his girlfriend.” The room went silent. You could’ve heard a pin drop. Nirei’s face was unexplainable.

Kaji turned around to Nirei, spitting out his lollipop and lunging towards him, but Kaji was swiftly restrained.

“Of course you would be the one… TO FUCK EVERYTHING UP AND NOT LET ME HANDLE IT!” Kaji barked, his nose was scrunched and yelling at this point, showing his canines.

“I-i didn’t m-mean to, Kaji, please. Please forgive me.” Nirei pleaded.

Kaji took a deep breath and realized the two forces holding him back and relaxed his body, ripping open another lollipop, tossing it in his mouth. He knows you wouldn’t want him to be acting this way right now and concluded to own up to it. It wasn’t that he was ashamed of you by any means, he just wants to protect you so bad, even if that means from his own friends, but he truly doesn’t need to worry now that they all know.

“Secret’s out.” Kaji responded as he smoothed back down his hoodie and put his headphones back on. He walked out the door of Pothos by himself and the only thing that made a sound was the chimes of the bell on the door as he exited.