#is there even a word for this kind of…… abuse?

[cherienymphe]

Teenage Dirtbag XVI

JJ Maybank x Reader x Rafe Cameron

Warnings: NON-CON, DUB-CON, abusive relationship, domestic violence, mentions of violence (+ gun violence), gun kink, dacryphilia, attempted murder, blood, semi public sex,  jealousy, manipulation, infidelity, underage drinking, drug use, canon ages, kook!reader

➥ banner by @vase-of-lilies | ➥ divider by @firefly-graphics

➥ series masterlist

summary: You’re charmingly spoiled. You’re too kind for your own good. You’re the princess of Figure 8 …and you’re way out of JJ Maybank’s league, but when he realizes that Rafe Cameron’s pride and joy is actually a bruised and battered damsel, he’s determined to save you.

Your rescue just comes with a price.

⭑

“Am I a joke to you? Huh?”

Despite how unserious Rafe’s words were, his attitude and tone were anything but. The past few months had been…okay—as okay as they could be considering the circumstances, you supposed—and while the look on Rafe’s face was far from unfamiliar, it was also a look you hadn’t seen in a while. Most notably the night of his birthday.

The memory of his hand around your throat was fresh, his voice in your ear as he threatened to kill you if you ever tried to leave him again. The violent memory immediately had you on edge, and you absentmindedly touched your neck, worriedly eyeing Rafe just as he strode over to you.

“You think I didn’t see that bullshit at The Wreck?”

His hand was digging into your arm, and you flinched at the painful grip, eyeing him in a mixture of confusion and fear. Rafe’s blue eyes were cold as he stared you down, a sneer on his lips as he leaned in.

“All it takes is a smile and you’re batting those lashes-.”

“...what are you talking about?” you finally spoke, noticing too late that you were knee deep in another fight without even realizing it.

“I’m talking about JJ, that’s what the fuck I’m talking about,” Rafr spat at you, fingers pressing into your skin even harder.

It took you too long to realize just who he was talking about, and when you did, your lips parted in disbelief. You thought to yourself that Rafe couldn’t be serious, there was just no way, but as you looked between his eyes, you slowly—and fearfully—realized that he was indeed very serious.

The food that you'd brought back from The Wreck was sitting on the counter, and you recalled the blond teenager who’d given it to you with a friendly smile, and you recalled that you’d smiled back. Not only was it just the polite thing to do, but it was second nature to you—harmless. Yet, here Rafe was treating it like the highest form of infidelity there was.

“Rafe…be serious.”

You were so in disbelief that you didn’t quite register the danger of the words you were whispering. You were that much in shock—that thrown—that Rafe was starting something over something as simple and harmless as a smile to the guy behind the counter. Your response only made him angrier, and you swore you felt your bones straining under his hold.

“Do I seem anything but serious, right now?”

You couldn’t hold in your pained gasp as your knees buckled, your free hand reaching up to try and make him let go.

“Do you even consider me and my feelings when you pull this shit? Huh?”

His nose brushed against your cheek as you fought to stand, pulling at his hand with tears in your eyes.

“If it’s not you ‘falling’ into Topper’s lap then it’s you trying to break up with me—and on my birthday, no less! Now you just expect me to stand by and watch you make googly eyes at any guy who looks your way? You be serious,” he bit out, shoving you so hard that your back hit the nearest wall.

Your arm was throbbing, now, the blood rushing back to where Rafe’s hand had just been. Your heart was going crazy in your chest, and when you looked up, you did so just in time to see the expensive vase coming your way. The scream that escaped your lips hurt your throat, and you slid to the floor just as the sound of breaking glass reached your ears. The shards went everywhere, and you briefly noted the faint sting on your feet.

You felt paralyzed as you looked up at Rafe.

“Is this…is this another attempt to leave me? Hmm?” he wondered, fingers grazing his chest as he frowned at you. “You think if you piss me off enough, I’ll just wash my hands of you? Is that it?”

You couldn’t stop shaking, and your voice caught in your throat, your brain unable to comprehend how you wound up in this position. Your silence seemed to only make him angrier, and when he took a step towards you, you were finally able to spring to your feet, completely unsure of what he was about to do next.

“Huh? Is that what you’re trying to pull?”

You frantically shook your head.

“N-no. Rafe, no, I don’t-”

“No?” he asked, almost incredulously. 

A bitter chuckle left his lips, and Rafe shook his head, blowing out a breath as he kept his eyes on you.

“You sure could’ve fooled me.”

You looked around, chest heaving as you ran different scenarios over in your mind. You went back and forth between trying to talk him down and just making a run for it. The last time Rafe had been this angry, he’d almost choked you to death while verbally promising to do just that if you ever drove him to it. Your perusal did not go unnoticed, and Rafe was suddenly moving closer. 

“Wh-where do you think you’re going?” he mockingly asked, holding your gaze, now. “You think we’re done?”

“Rafe…” you pleaded, holding your hands out.

“You think I’m done with you? You think-.”

Rafe cut himself off, reaching for you and cursing when you slipped from his grasp. His hand caught onto your shirt, twisting it, and you stumbled back when he yanked you closer. His other hand circled around your throat, and anything that you were going to say or do was immediately cut short by the feel of metal against your lips.

The scream that caught in your throat was accompanied by the feel of tears kissing your eyes, and your hands immediately wrapped around your boyfriend’s wrist. Rafe’s own eyes were glazed as he stared at you, and a sob bubbled within your chest.

“This is the only way you’re ever going to leave me. Do you understand?”

You were barely listening to a word he said, tears spilling over as you stumbled back with every step he took. The gun had been an 18th birthday gift from Ward, something you’d seen once or twice since you and Rafe started dating. You hadn’t ever given it much thought. After all, you were in North Carolina, and it was the kind of place where kids learned to shoot from the age of twelve.

You hadn’t thought about it when he’d slapped you and not even when he’d threatened your life. Yet here you were…faced with the real possibility that Rafe would use it to kill you. Your tears wouldn’t stop flowing, and your gaze was terrified and pleading. You didn’t even think you were pleading to Rafe—you were just pleading for something. A knock at the door, a car in the yard, the ring of his phone. You were pleading for anything to happen to stop this because in this moment…you weren’t so sure that Rafe would stop on his own.

The blond tilted his head at you, the light glinting off of his blue gaze.

“Hmm?”

You gave a shaky nod, your nails digging into his wrist, and Rafe stared at you for what felt like a long time. His hand was on the gun and your hand was on him and neither one of you were moving. The moment he finally pulled his hand back, you were shoving your hand against his face. Your sudden fight took him by surprise, and you didn’t spare him another glance as you bolted for the stairs.

You flinched when your name echoed off of the walls, Rafe’s footsteps in time with yours. Your tearful gaze made it hard to see, and your shoulder knocked into the corner of the wall as you stumbled straight towards the bathroom. Rafe’s voice was loud and angry as he yelled for you, and you didn’t hesitate to slam the bathroom door shut behind you, locking it just moments before Rafe’s hand met the knob.

Your uneven breathing was all you could hear as you fumbled around in your pocket for your phone, and your lashes fluttered from the feel of the door hitting your back from every kick Rafe dealt to it. You felt so disconnected from yourself as you dialed 911, the severity of Rafe’s actions fully washing over you. You couldn’t stop crying as a voice greeted you from the other line, mentally telling yourself that you couldn’t do this anymore.

You had to get out. 

You had to.

You couldn’t live like this, you wouldn’t survive it, and as terrifying as it would be to tell the world just who Rafe Cameron really was, the thought of enduring this forever was even scarier. 

“What’ya thinking about?”

Rafe’s lips brushed against your temple as he whispered the question, and you only shook your head before turning to look up at him with a small smile. 

“Nothing…”

Topper and Kelce were playing poker in the living room, Rafe long abandoning the game to snuggle beside you instead. Today was a good day, but then again, the past few weeks had been full of good days. The disastrous night that was Midsummers was weeks ago, and the morning after—when you’d been applying makeup to your discolored cheek—you had the realization that even if some small part of you had hope that you could get out of this relationship one day, you needed to survive to actually see that happen.

Sneaking around with JJ had brought just as much harm as it did good.

Sure, you were seeing someone who actually cared about you and who didn’t absolutely terrify you. You were reminded of what it was like to be touched by someone without flinching, but on the flip side…you were reminded of what it was like to be touched by someone without flinching. 

Your relationship with JJ—if you could even call it that—also served to put into perspective just how bad things had become with Rafe. There was a time when you’d gotten so used to the abuse, so accustomed to the way he talked to you and held you and treated you. The constant reminder of how much better things could be made you act out in ways that you hadn’t in a long time. 

Your behavior as of late had given Rafe the perfect excuse to show you just how awful he could really be.

Things were good when you were good, and being good entailed acting as the perfect girlfriend that Rafe wanted. Smiling when he looked at you, standing beside him and looking pretty when he was with his friends, placating him no matter how much in the wrong he was, and eagerly opening your legs for him whenever he wanted. After all, deep down, that’s what it was really about.

Rafe just wanted someone to always be in his corner and to be ever loyal to him.

It didn’t matter that he had to force it.

All Rafe wanted was for someone to kiss him on the cheek at the end of the day and choose him. You would find it sad if said behavior wasn’t actively ruining your life. Playing such a role had long driven you into depression, but it wasn’t so bad, now when you had something else to look forward to. As much as it pained you, you slipped back into that role of the agreeable and enabling girlfriend, content with the temporary relief from it that JJ brought to you.

“You’re always thinking about something,” Rafe murmured, a humorous lilt in his voice that didn’t fool you.

You knew that if Rafe could wish for anything, it would be to see inside of your head. The fact that he could control every aspect of your life except your thoughts was something that bothered him greatly. That was one thing he’d never have access to, and it absolutely ate him up inside.

He was right though.

As you looked at him, you were reminded of his face staring back at you from inside of that cop car. It seemed like so long ago—a lifetime—but nothing had hardly changed. You’d been so sure that day that things would be different. You’d been so scared, so tired, so…defeated. You remembered how determined you were to put a stop to this and start moving on from Rafe Cameron once and for all…but then Ward had gotten into your head and scared you even more with the reality of what would happen.

You wondered if Rafe thought about that day too, if he thought about how if it weren’t for Ward, then things would be very different right now. Rafe had a lot to thank Ward for, you supposed, but you didn’t say any of that. You didn’t dare.

“Just thinking that I’m going to miss you,” you quietly told him.

Ward was going away for the weekend to deal with some business, and Rafe was going with him. The trips had become more frequent over the past year, and you knew that it was only a matter of time before Rafe was fully brought into the family business…and once that was done, it wouldn’t be long before Rafe decided it was time to tie you to him forever. Rafe wanted to have it all, you’d always known that, and once his place by Ward was official, he would start checking things off the list one by one.

Rafe hummed at your response, reaching up and gently taking your chin between his fingers.

“You have been so good lately,” he murmured, leaning in. “I think you really will miss me.”

He pressed his lips to yours, and you kissed him back, closing your eyes and eagerly moving your mouth against his like you used to before JJ. While it was still second nature to you, you had never had to give it so much thought before. Behaving like Rafe’s dream girl was just something you did, something ingrained in you, but lately you had to remind yourself that you wanted things to be easy—smooth sailing. 

It didn’t hurt to remember that Rafe noticed the way JJ acted about you these days. Rafe thinking that JJ harbored a crush on you was one thing, but if he even suspected the opposite then you were as good as dead. He thought it was funny, something to laugh about—the thought of JJ Maybank thinking he had a chance with his girlfriend—but the thought that you might be soft on the other blond wasn’t as amusing. 

You recalled the way he looked at you as he threatened you that night, driving it into your head that he didn’t want you ever defending ‘that Pogue’ again. It didn’t matter how many times you told him you were just trying to be nice and mature, he didn’t want to hear it. You hadn’t missed the glint in his eyes, and it was then that you told yourself you needed to get it together. 

JJ Maynank was messing with your head, rubbing off on you, and sometimes that was good, but there were also times where it wasn’t. He was so headstrong, so impulsive, and while you liked that about him, he was always going to be on the receiving end of Rafe’s wrath if he kept it up, and that was what you told him later that night after Rafe had dropped you off at home with a gentle kiss.

The younger blond huffed, and you watched him run his hand through his hair.

“Yeah, I know,” he reluctantly agreed. “I just don’t think you understand how angry he makes me. Downright murderous if we’re being honest.”

Your heart skipped a beat at that, hating when JJ talked like that, but you knew that it was all talk. Rafe was home and packing to leave with his father in the morning, and JJ was sitting on the edge of your bed, reaching for you and pulling you closer by your waist. Moments like this made the farce with Rafe worth it, and you placed your hand on the other man’s shoulders.

“You’re used to this, used to him,” he sadly pointed out, gaze soft as he looked up at you. “I’m not, and I don’t think I’ll ever be.”

Your shoulders sagged at that, silently agreeing with him. It did seem a little unfair to expect JJ to fall in line so quickly with something that had taken you years to perfect. The two of you had only been seeing each other for some months.

“You’re right…but do you get how it makes me feel to see him just tear into you because you can’t keep your mouth shut?”

JJ’s lips quirked up at that, and you lightly hit his shoulder.

“It’s not funny,” you told him, letting out a light chuckle anyway. “Unlike you, I’m good at this. He’ll never suspect me, but he has no problem with punching you in the face for just looking at me too long, and I know how much you love fighting Rafe, but it gives me a mini heart attack every time.”

The blond didn’t respond right away at that, and he eventually sighed before leaning in to press his lips to your stomach. When he tilted his head back, he looked up at you from beneath his lashes.

“For the sake of your heart…I’ll be better. I promise.”

The tension in your body eased a bit, but it didn't last long as you watched JJ push the end of your shirt up your torso.

“Now enough about Rafe,” he whispered into your skin. “I have you all to myself this weekend.”

You shuddered at the feel of JJ’s tongue against your stomach, and his fingers wasted no time in searching for the waist of your skirt.

With your parents just down the hall, you were hyper aware of every noise you made under JJ’s careful ministrations. Lying underneath him felt more like a real relationship than any moment you’d ever had with Rafe. JJ was gentle with every touch he gave to you, and you couldn’t stop your stomach from flipping every time he let himself lose control, frantically shaking your head whenever he asked if he was hurting you.

It was a good kind of hurt.

That was something you thought you’d never say. The blond was careful in leaving you blemish free for obvious reasons, but on the off chance that you woke up with a slight bruise or a mark on your chest, it didn’t feel like it did when you looked at Rafe’s marks in the mirror. You’d stare at them with the strangest desire for more, wanting JJ to keep marking you.

One of his hands massaged your breast while the other was being stroked by his tongue, shaky moans escaping your lips in your dark room. You’d grown addicted to the way his cock stretched you out, eagerly opening your legs for him every time he crawled between them. Sex with JJ was fun and good, and it never not ended with you begging him to come inside of you.

You absentmindedly talked with Sarah while you waited for your food. She was telling you about some trip they planned on going with the Twinkie, but you had to be honest with yourself in admitting that you were hardly listening. JJ and Pope were on the other side of the restaurant, and the blond kept catching your eye no matter how much you tried to pretend like you couldn’t feel the heat of his gaze.

It was only a few hours ago that he’d been climbing out of your bedroom with promises to see you tonight. Heat settled in the pit of your stomach at the memory of his fingers on you and in you, and you reminded yourself to savor this because Rafe would be returning in 24 hours and who knew how long it would be before you saw JJ again in the manner you preferred.

“...and believe it or not, JJ is claiming he can’t make it that weekend. What could he possibly have to do,” Sarah scoffed, and you finally looked at her again.

You suspected why in your head, but naturally you kept it to yourself.

“Hey, do you wanna come over tonight? With Rafe gone with our dad, I can actually invite my friends over without apologizing on behalf of him every thirty minutes.”

Her proposal came the same time Kiara brought your food out, and you struggled to turn her down.

“I wish I could, but I can’t,” you sadly told her, hating the way her face fell. “I have some things to take care of at my house.”

The blonde eyed you, and you took your food with a smile thrown Kie’s way.

“Is that for real? Or is this about Rafe? I swear this time it’ll just be us girls, and they miss hanging out with you. Right?”

She looked to the brunette behind the counter, and when you glanced at her too, Kie was sending you a small smile.

“Yeah, you should come.”

Her tone and gaze was welcome enough, but there was something about the way Kie looked at you that felt off. You sighed, hating to turn them down.

“I really have something to do,” you assured them. “I have no doubt that Rafe will be going out of town with Ward again, so next time. I promise.”

You gave Sarah a hug, squeezing her extra tight as an apology, and you waved Kie goodbye. You left without another glance at JJ no matter how much you wanted to, and you were almost to your car when you heard your name being called. The sound of Kie’s voice was surprising, but you turned to face her nonetheless. 

Like inside, you couldn't place the expression on her face.

“Can I talk to you for a minute?”

Her tone was light, and nothing on her face contradicted that, but something about her question sparked worry in you. You blinked, a bit thrown—because what could Kiara possibly want to talk to you about—but you gave her a nod.

“Yeah, sure,” you said with a shrug.

She almost looked like she hadn’t expected you to say yes, and you understood it. You guys weren’t exactly close. Friendly, but not quite friends. You watched her tuck a few strands of hair behind her ear, lips parting as she seemed to be struggling with how to start.

“I…don’t even know if I should be doing this,” she breathed, and at that, you frowned.

She swiped her tongue between her lips.

“...but JJ is my best friend and…”

At that, your heart sank, doubly unsure and worried for what she was about to say. Kie swallowed, gaze soft as her eyes met yours.

“I don’t know what exactly is going on between you two…” you felt your blood run cold. “...and I don’t know exactly how long it’s been going on…but it’s not fair to him.”

At first, you thought the him in question was Rafe, but the longer you stared at each other, understanding filled you. Your chest felt tight as you looked away, softly exhaling.

“Look, there’s no need to freak out because I’m 100% positive I’m the only one who knows,” she assured you. “...and that’s only because I’m the only one JJ talks to about you.”

You knew that. She’d told you at Midsummers, after all.

“I see the look in his eyes when he talks about you,” she whispered. “I hear what he sounds like when he talks about you—I see the way he looks at you, and it’s only because of that that I see the way you look at him.”

You finally met her gaze again.

“...but you’re never going to leave Rafe.”

Her words felt like a punch to the gut…because they were true. Truer than she even knew.

“...and JJ’s so…” her words trailed off with a light scoff. “You took him by surprise. You’re sweet and polite and the complete opposite of Rafe, and I know what he’s thinking.”

Kie shrugged. 

“...because I’ve thought it myself. JJ would be so much better for you. He’d be really good for you…but you’re never going to leave him. Are you?” she asked after some time.

When you blinked, you were surprised to feel a few tears skip down your cheeks, and you avoided her gaze.

“Kie it’s…it’s complicated,” you finally choked out, wrapping your arm around yourself.

“I don’t doubt that,” she laughed. “Trust, I believe that a relationship with Rafe Cameron is every bit as complicated as you say it is, but that doesn’t make this any more fair for JJ.”

An uncharacteristic stab of anger tore through you, and you stared her down, jaw clenching.

“Why aren’t you having this conversation with JJ? Why me?”

She looked at you like it was supposed to be obvious, a frown between her brows.

“...because he’s never going to leave you.”

You sharply inhaled at that.

“Despite how unfair this is to him and despite the fact that he’s forever going to be some dirty little secret and despite the fact that Rafe would probably run him down if he found out, JJ’s not leaving you. We both know that,” she sadly told you.

You didn’t have anything to say to that, and you struggled to swallow. Everything that Kie was saying was right…and you absolutely hated it. Sneaking around with JJ was fun and dreaming of a future with him was fun, but realistically? The small sliver of hope that you had about getting out of this relationship with Rafe was dwindling by the minute. Suppose you did get out unscathed…it wouldn’t remain that way. 

The moment you even thought of stepping out with JJ would be the end of both you and him, and it suddenly hit you that you couldn’t even fathom making JJ go through that. The only way you’d ever be truly free of Rafe was if he were behind bars, and with daddy’s money, the only chance of that happening was if he ever killed someone.

…and that someone was likely to be you.

“Look, I’m not saying all of this to be a bitch, and you probably think I am a bitch, right now, but I like you, Y/N. I really do, and I like you for JJ…but this isn’t fair to him, and you know it.”

You turned away from her with a heaving chest, and more tears spilled over just as a familiar voice reached you both. JJ said something to her that you didn’t catch, too busy staring off into the distance as the gravity of her words hit you. When JJ called your name, you didn’t answer.

You only noticed that Kie was making her way back inside when he forced you to look at him. With one look at your face, his entire expression dropped.

“Hey,” JJ softly said to you. “What’s wrong? Is it Rafe?”

You could only shake your head.

When he reached for your face, you backed away from him, your back grazing your car. Your eyes kept roaming around, your throat and chest feeling so tight. When JJ reached for the keys in your hand, you tightened your hold.

“Let me drive you back home. I’m coming over anyway-.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” you mumbled.

There was a brief pause.

“You can’t drive like this-.”

“No, I don’t think…I don’t think you should come over,” you forced out.

It was some time before you looked at JJ again, and when you did, he was only staring at you with a frown. His lips opened and closed, seemingly struggling to put his thoughts into words before his face went blank altogether. He stared at you for a few seconds before his gaze found The Wreck and back. When he spoke again, his voice was hard, tone icy.

“What did Kie say to you?”

You shook your head, silently crying.

“Nothing that wasn’t true.”

JJ grabbed your arms, and you pushed him away.

“Y/N-.”

“I have to go,” you choked out, hurrying to the driver’s side with JJ on your heels.

You ignored him every time he said your name, and when you slid into your car, he prevented you from closing the door.

“I’m going to call you. Alright? I know Kie probably said some things to you that you think you need to take seriously, but she doesn’t know the whole story, you have to remember that,” he firmly told you, his hand on your cheek.

JJ made you look at him, his thumb brushing over your lip.

“She doesn’t know the truth, she doesn’t understand. Do not listen to her. Okay…?”

JJ was pleading with you, his gaze crazed and desperate, and despite the nod you gave him, you knew in your heart that you already were.

[spoiledprincessbratspostsblog]

needing

Rafe Cameron x Maybank!Reader

Warnings: English isn't my first language so I apologize for any and all mistakes. All GIF credits to the owner. Heavy implications of smut but no actual smut. Kind of Toxic!Rafe but idk??This is lowkey rushed but I needed it to get out there lol.

ʚɞ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ʚɞ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ʚɞ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ʚɞ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ʚɞ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ʚɞ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ʚɞ˚

Being JJ’s sister already meant people had a bad perception of you, but your attitude did not help the rumors anyway. You weren’t known for being nice to everyone, and that was fine because it scared the weirdos away most of the time.

You’ve always seemed strong and independent. Insults usually rolled right off you, and situations didn’t seem to bother you. Being hard-headed and having an attitude all the time was a good cover. But it was all a front. At home, your dad would constantly abuse alcohol, and you and JJ often bore the brunt of his rage. When JJ started sleeping at John B’s house and only saw you once a week, you ended up taking most of the hits.

You were friends with the Pogues, but not as close as JJ was, so you didn’t feel comfortable staying at John B’s house.

You met Rafe almost a year ago at a party. It was meant to be an emotionless hook-up and nothing more. But over time, what started as frequent, meaningless sex evolved into a friends-with-benefits situation. You two began spending a lot of time together, both with and without there being sex involved. He started taking you out to places and even to parties with his friends and others around.

But he wasn’t your boyfriend. And every time you attempted to bring it up he'd claimed he “couldn’t be the man you needed.” Despite that, as you grew closer, he eventually learned about your home life. Rafe wasn’t stupid—he knew Pogues had it hard—but he hadn’t realized how much your situation affected you. How you were really a sweet and caring person who had just been hurt by your situation. Once he did learn, he started spending more time with you at his house, claiming, “Look, I know this is just sex, but come on, I can’t have you around that bullshit, ‘kay?”

You didn’t complain—free days at Tannyhill with him were a welcome escape!

Everything was fine until Rafe started treating you like an actual girlfriend. You wanted to be his, but was he really capable? Anyway, it wasn’t what he wanted—he’d made that very clear—so it didn’t matter.

Then, you two got into a bad argument last week. You’d started feeling very dependent on Rafe, and you hated it. So you began to pull back, which only made him care more. One comment led to another, and…

“Rafe, stop. If you’re not my boyfriend, stop acting like you care about me like one.”

“My god! You don’t want me to care about you just ‘cause I don’t wanna be your boyfriend? S’pathetic.”

“Fuck you!” you yelled before storming out.

You hadn’t seen or talked to him since. He was pissed but still wanted to fix things; he just didn’t know how.

That’s when you called.

Your dad had come home drunk, yelling and throwing things. You could no longer bear it. So you called Rafe.

“Hey, I’ll be at yours in like half an hour,” you told him, not waiting for a response.

When you arrived, Wheezie let you in. (She already knew the procedure and wouldn’t snitch,) but she stopped you.

“Hey, you okay? You don’t look okay,” she asked.

You put on your best smile. “Yeah! M’fine! Rafe’s here, right?” She nodded and let you pass.

When you reached Rafe’s room, he was sitting on his bed. His eyes instantly met yours. You climbed onto the bed, inching towards him, and eventually straddled him without saying a word while he stared at you.

“Hi,” you whispered before kissing him.

Rafe, being a man with needs, initially kissed you back. But after sensing something was wrong, he pulled back.

“Nah, nah, you were just over here yelling at me. I’m not mad, okay, but you’re not okay,” he said, concern in his voice.

You frowned as tears welled up in your eyes. “Rafe, m’fine. I’m sorry. You’re forgiven. Please just kiss me. Come on, I just need to forget.”

He kissed you again but stopped when he felt you begin to cry lightly, your breath hitching out of sadness.

“Nah, baby, come on,” he said, pulling you into a hug and holding you tight.

You couldn’t cry in front of him. You couldn’t be so attached to him. It freaked you out, and you tried to push him off.

“Rafe, stop!” you cried, but his grip only tightened.

“What is it? Is it me?” he asked softly, stroking your hair to calm you down. “Your parents?” he whispered.

Finally, you broke down, crying into his chest and wetting his shirt with your tears. Although you had previously confided in him, it had never been like this. He whispered a series of “M’sorrys” as he stroked your hair.

When you finally calmed down, you pulled back and got off him, heading to his mirror to clean yourself up. He stared at you with concern.

“Shit, sorry. Okay, well, m’gonna go now,” you said quickly.

He immediately got up and walked over, towering over you. “The fuck you are. You haven’t told me what’s wrong or why you tried to forget by fucking me.”

“I just needed to forget, okay? No point crying over something I can’t change.”

“Something you can’t change?”

“What?”

“What is the something you can’t change?”

“The situation with my dad and your feelings toward me,” you calmly explained.

“Now, why’d you think fucking was gonna make everything better, huh?” he scolded, switching the topic.

You looked away. “Thought that’s what you wanted.”

“What?”

“I thought you’d no longer be mad at me or wouldn’t care if I was crying if you got to fuck,” you said lightly.

He scoffed in disbelief. “You think that’s the kind of person I am? Baby, I care so much more for you than I’ll ever let on, okay? And this isn’t just sex. You are so much more to me as a person. It’s important to me that you know that, ‘kay?”

You nodded, still waiting for him to respond to your earlier comment.

His face softened. “Look, I wanna be your boyfriend, ‘kay? More than anything, fuck, believe me. But I can’t be the man you deserve. You deserve so much better.”

You scoffed lightly. “But I want you.”

He sighed. “Let me better myself. Then I promise.” He leaned in and kissed your forehead softly. “Stay here tonight, yeah?”

You nodded.

Later that night, as you drifted off to sleep, he kissed your arms, shoulders, and face with gentle affection. “I love you,” he whispered before the both of you fell asleep.

[asarigg]

Inside the Character's Mind: Part 6

CHILDHOOD. SLY AND KOUJAKU. THE AVOIDANT BEHAVIOR: part 3

As if all that wasn’t already enough, at the end of the Re:connect, this happens. Aoba thinks to himself that this is not what Koujaku wanted, as much as Sly wants to think that it is, that he’s in the right. As if what he has done has helped the Koujaku inside, the one who’s like him, the true Koujaku, to come out. As if they could be free inside that cell.

Koujaku reacts to Aoba’s thoughts. Sly thinks for a moment that it’s his imagination, but when Aoba repeats his thoughts, Koujaku says his name. Koujaku, who despite not having articulated a single word all this time, weeks, months, says his name as soon as Aoba “speaks”, that’s what I’m talking about when I mention their spiritual connection, that’s how strong it is. It happening after such a different sex scene, where neither of them can say no, nor show any kind of rejection, is just a reminder that they are both locked away, suffering, and that they will stay there watching this happen day after day until the day they die, not being able to see, or touch, or call each other’s names, or say “I love you” or anything they once wanted to say. They can only just watch each other wither away.

These thoughts of “This isn’t what Koujaku wanted” are very interesting because just like Sly thought, Koujaku really wanted Aoba to accept and love him. But the last thing he wants is having Aoba reciprocate him just because that’s what Koujaku wants. He’d rather be rejected, and even die in the extreme case of the situation hurting Aoba, than having him living something he doesn’t really want, that he doesn’t feel in his heart. Giving himself to Koujaku letting him do whatever he wants without thinking twice, without thinking about his own wishes. A life that doesn’t respect Aoba’s wishes is a nightmare for him. Just like he says in the confession scene “All I can remember is that I didn’t want to touch you like that”.

I mentioned that they don’t treat the tattoo as something that changed Koujaku, but as someone else inside his mind. When Sly appears before him, Koujaku immediately knows that he’s not Aoba, but has a hard time believing it, because physically he’s the same but white. He doesn’t know what’s going on, he can’t process it, but he knows. And the thoughts that tell him that the man in front of him is not Aoba are in red, like someone else’s, with some lowercase and some uppercase, growing more intense as the madness and anger of his tattoo reflects through. Doesn’t it remind you of how Sly’s thoughts appeared in the middle of the screen when Aoba was in charge?

Sometimes I wonder what Sly’s real intention was here. In theory he wants to break Koujaku and bring out the beast because that’s the part of Koujaku that he sees himself reflected in, that destructive entity, his darkest, true side, his pure animal instinct. Exactly what Sly is.

But he still tells the sane Koujaku that he loves him and wants to convince him that he’s Aoba. If that had worked then what would he do next? Because he truly believes that’s what he wanted to hear, and when the narration returns to his point of view he tells us that his love for Koujaku is true. Obviously locked in a cell it would be difficult for anyone to believe him, and Sly wouldn’t get him out of there anyway when he wants to keep Koujaku for himself. But then why does he keep trying to convince him, over and over again, even when Koujaku still doesn’t recognize him as Aoba any time he wakes up? Would he have been satisfied with a sane Koujaku, with those restrictions he hates, just because he accepted his words? It’s only when he sees that Koujaku won’t buy it, no matter what he tells him, that he changes his strategy.

And it’s in this scene that we see Koujaku in control for the last time, and again the last thing he says before losing his mind is Aoba’s name. This ending makes us see how Koujaku once again enters a cycle of abuse. He has gone from being his father’s slave, to Ryuuhou’s, and now Sly’s, and he will probably never get out of that cell alive. He no longer has prayer beads protecting him, only chains imprisoning him.

Sly is aware of what he has done, and he believes that since he has destroyed Koujaku’s consciousness/spirit, it’s only fair that he is the one to destroy his body, not only fair but it even seems like an attractive idea, to die at his hands (Sly try not to be Ryuuhou challenge). I really like this dialogue where Sly tells Koujaku that he can tear off his flesh if he wants, on the condition that he stays. Staying with him, a reflection of his desire to feel loved, accepted, after so many years of abandonment. After hearing Koujaku speak back to Aoba, it must feel like a punch to the stomach to think for a moment that he’s wrong with what he’s chosen for the two of them, to think that Koujaku doesn’t really love him.

Having him locked in a cage somehow is perfect to prevent the slightest chance of Koujaku walking away, as well as keeping him in this state, unable to speak, unable to think, unable to reject him. It’s because of these things that I usually think that at least at the beginning the relationship with Koujaku in a good ending would be quite turbulent. He would like to flirt with Koujaku, but when he realizes that he really feels love for him, he feels vulnerable, weak, and needs to protect himself because the people who were supposed to always be with him and protect him, abandoned him. And Koujaku somehow “abandoned” him once too. So before exposing himself to that, he would rather push Koujaku away. Sly would always come back to him, because as much as he wants to walk away he can’t, he needs Koujaku to stay by his side. It doesn’t matter if it’s love or hate, Sly will take it because it’s intense, real and raw.

Fun fact: Sly and Beast Koujaku both have golden eyes, when they “transform”. Everyone has those three sides of their conscience but Aoba’s just have a distinct personality and identity each, which I think might lead to thinking that beast Koujaku might have a personality of his own. I think he’s somewhere in between, he’s obviously not like them, but he’s definitely his own entity. Like some kind of natural force, like rain, wind, the energy of the cosmos, possessing him, something more abstract than a spirit or god, which we usually see as human or animal-like appearance wise.

The first thing that strikes us when we see Aoba is that his design radically changes. When Sly takes control of his body it’s not like he suffers any physical changes, besides the shine of his eyes, however here he turns completely white. The only time we see something like that happen is when we see the true forms of Sei and Aoba, but those black marks don’t appear. This is what makes me wonder if the white color has something to do with those forms, as if it were some kind of symbolism of Sly “breaking free” and being himself, without restrictions, without Reason, but they don’t add the black marks to not spoil it, or because it looks like shit with the design, or because it simply has nothing to do with that.

The white color is the color of death, mourning, the color with which the deceased are dressed. A sterile color, without impurities, highly related to the spiritual world. Many white flowers are commonly used in funerals, usually Buddhist, such as the white chrysanthemum, used for its meaning of truth and sincerity. Aoba wears a white kimono and also gives one to Koujaku. These traditional elements could be there just to remember Koujaku but nothing in this document could ever be simple of course.

The hair of a dead person is considered to turn white after a certain period of time, meaning that the hair is no longer a source of impurities, it can't be possessed by an evil spirit, and can be transported beyond the border that marks the separation between the sacred realm of the dead and the ordinary world of the living.

His skin, his characteristic blue hair, his eyes and his clothes turn completely white because at this point Aoba is no longer there. Not in a literal sense, of course, but in a figurative sense, Aoba is dead. And this is basically the same thing that happens with Koujaku. They are both reborn, destroyed, spiritually dying so that something else can be created, the ID, the instinct of destruction, the two beasts freed from the bodies that held them prisoners.

His clothes in general resemble those of a Miko, with a more “fantastical” and sexualized appearance. This post talks about it as well. Again it’s a reference to the spiritual realm, their religious side and how Aoba/Sly is an object of devotion, of how Aoba is somewhat a channeler for Koujaku. Just like there are rituals that call the gods to our world, like I’ve said in the section about hair, which serves as a connection with gods, Aoba is the only thing that connects Koujaku with this world, the only reason why he’s still alive.

[muletia]

𝐛𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮 ✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚

[tfp] obsessed!starscream x human!reader

+18 content / valveplug

summary: still feeling megatron's claws all over his body, starscream goes to visit the only person who can let him forget the horrors of abuse - you

cw: hurt/comfort, angst, megatron abuses starscream, slight gore, established (but it's complicated) relationship, very ooc starscream, get catified idiot; yandere themes: obsessive thoughts, possessiveness and jealousy, emotional manipulation, clinginess and unhealthy behavior; valveplug with plot: gentle!dom!top!reader, sub!bottom!starscream, backshots (starscream receiving), reader uses a strap (referred as cock a few times), overstimulation, praise kink

word count: 5450

inspired by this ask, bless you for it anon 🙏 :

He isn’t sure what provoked the attack. Did he speak too soon? Stepped into Megatron's personal space? Maybe the warlord noticed his mind wandering for a few nanokliks, wishing the speech would end so he could return to you. Or maybe he didn’t need a reason. Perhaps no provocation was ever necessary for Megatron to lash out. To hit, crush, scratch, humiliate him in front of everyone. Sometimes, all it took was a bad mood and a single glance to spill energon. Often, Megatron didn’t need a reason at all to vent his fury. A whim was enough — a need to display aggression, to assert forced, undeserved dominance.

Starscream doesn’t want to think about it anymore. He’s suffered enough physically. Instead, he focuses on you, channeling the gentleness you always showed him, the calculated grace of your movements. You always knew how to make him forget, even if only for a fleeting moment.

Bruised and aching, he impatiently awaits the meeting’s end. He tries to remain inconspicuous, to seem smaller than he is, hoping to avoid further humiliation, because clawing out optics of every bot present is not an option. He longs to return to you immediately, but for now, he must pretend to be the model soldier, still invested in the cause. He wonders if anyone truly cares anymore, if anyone other than Megatron still remembers the original ideals of the Decepticons and adheres to them. Does even the warlord himself believe in what he’s fighting for? He quickly abandons the thought, redirecting his focus back to you.

When the meeting finally concludes, he forces himself to walk out with composed, deliberate steps, hiding the urgency in his pedes, the way they ache to carry him out of this hell. The icy chill of the ship bites at his spark, but he waits patiently for Megatron’s dismissal, mocking the absurdity of the situation in his mind. Once granted permission, he exits the bridge alongside Knockout, who naturally heads toward the medbay, assuming Starscream will follow, but is visibly surprised when seeker doesn’t join him, instead limping stubbornly away.

"Hey, Starscream, get your aft to the medbay!" Knockout calls out.

"I don’t need your help, Knockout," Starscream replies venomously.

"Oh, really? Whose help do you need, then?" Knockout retorts, voice dripping with sarcasm. "To the medbay, before I lose my patience."

"I’m not going anywhere with you," Starscream growls. "So drop it. As long as I’m still standing, I’m fine."

"You’ve got seven lacerations, three puncture wounds, and two gunshot injuries.” he starts counting on his digits “Not to mention countless scratches. I don’t know what kind of world you live in where this counts as 'fine.'" Knockout steps closer, grabbing the stubborn seeker’s arm. "Stop resisting and let me fix you, you idiot."

Knockout’s touch feels cold, piercing like a thousand needles against mesh, gripping tightly as if intending to crush his arm, though Starscream knows it’s just an illusion. He doesn’t want such an unpleasant connection, doesn’t want to be associated with metal and its rigidity right now nor with surgical tools or Knockout’s detached approach to patching wounds.

He doesn’t want to be on the Nemesis, feeling useless, insignificant, and discarded. He wants to be with you, to feel your touch, hear your voice. Now.

He can’t endure it any longer.

"Let go!" he snarls, yanking his arm free with a dramatic sweep, immediately stepping back, closer to you. "I said I don’t want your help, didn’t I?! So leave me alone and go buff that hollow helm of yours!"

Before Knockout can fire back with a sharp retort, Starscream transforms and takes off, leaving behind nothing but a cyan puddle and a trail of exhaust fumes and energon.

"Everyone on this ship has lost their minds," the medic mutters.

It doesn’t take Starscream long to orient himself, to calculate the route to reach you. He immediately sets off toward the coordinates, forcing himself to ignore the searing pain that courses through his frame, the open, leaking wounds that drip energon he knows will eventually hit the ground. It’s reckless to draw attention, but he casts caution aside, overwhelmed by the desperate need for comfort.

From a distance, he spots you lounging in a hammock, absorbed in a book, soaking up the warm rays of the spring sun. Will you be upset if he interrupts you? When he imposes his selfish needs, bringing with him vivid evidence of the horror he endured, likely ruining your peace and cheerful mood. He knows you won’t turn him away or be angry about his unannounced visit, but he can’t shake the feeling that his presence is always unwelcome. Everywhere.

No matter how you react, no matter what you say, he won’t leave. He needs to feel your soft hands on him, convinced they’ll erase the sensation of Megatron’s fists against his plating, help him forget the claws tearing through metal, the smashing against walls, and the weight pressing his pedes to the floor. You’ll envelop not just his processor but his body as well, wrapping him in an illusion of carefreeness and convincing him, with your unparalleled talent, that everything is alright.

He sees you tilt your head from the hammock, scanning the sky for his silhouette, a smile gracing your lips when you finally spot him. You wave cheerfully, setting the book aside into the hammock’s folds. But your joy quickly fades as his alt-mode hurtles straight toward you. Before you can escape or let out a shout, Starscream transforms mid-air, landing above the hammock with you caught beneath him.

He looks down at you, and a wave of relief washes over him. He made it. Finally, he’s safe.

“Boo,” he teases.

The journey cost him more energy than he’d anticipated. To prevent collapsing, he braces himself against the massive tree in front of him. Only now does he truly feel how drained he is, how much his injuries ache. But none of it matters — he’s here with you, and for the first time in hours, the pain dulls and the cold from the Nemesis dissipates.

"Holy shit, Starscream!" you exclaim beneath him. "You almost gave me a heart attack! Never do that shit again, understand?!"

"Good to see you too," he retorts with a scoff. His legs tremble and wings sag unnaturally low, yet somehow, he feels infinitely better than he did on the Nemesis. There’s warmth here, a sense of solace.

He watches as your expression shifts — you grow pale, scanning his frame with those beautiful, observant little eyes. Fear crosses your face as you immediately climb out of the hammock. A few droplets of energon hit the ground near your feet.

You don’t ask who did this or why. You know him well enough to understand why he sometimes arrives with injuries, armed with a plethora of grievances to share. But he’s never appeared to you so broken before.

"My God, Starscream, why didn’t you let someone patch you up?"

He rolls his optics. You don’t need to know about the desperation that drove him here, his overwhelming need to reach you as quickly as possible. "Because I had more important matters on my mind," he dodges. "Now, hand over some energon."

Skeptically, you drop the topic and open the shed where you keep a few barrels of refined energon, stored specifically for emergencies like this.

"Here you go, though I doubt this will solve all of our problems."

His wings twitch upward at the word "our."

"As if I don’t have everything under control," he huffs, limping toward a barrel and drinking it greedily, yet somehow maintaining an air of grace.

"You always do," you reply sarcastically, fully aware of how often he misses the subtlety of your playful tone. The faint smile hidden behind the half-full barrel confirms your suspicion. After finishing the first, he reaches for another.

"Feeling better?" you ask gently.

He takes your care to spark, letting it flood through his frame.

"Slightly," he admits because the word incomparably got stuck in his intake.

He tosses the empty energon container aside without care, locking his optics onto you as you continue to scan his injuries.

"I’ll grab a towel," you announce, turning toward the house.

Ha, you’re going to leave him? Now, when he needs you most? No, you don’t have the right. You can’t hurt him like that.

"You’re not going anywhere."

Before you can even touch the doorknob, you feel long, slender claws wrap around your forearm. They pull you back with a soft "eep" escaping your lips until you land against his chassis, your shirt now smeared with energon.

"Seriously? Do you know how hard it is to get energon stains out?"

"You’ll manage," he replies, his servos already playing with your hair. His wings tremble slightly, betraying the emotions he struggles to suppress. "I’ve never seen blue stains on that pathetic, soft armor of yours."

"Clothes," you correct him.

"Unimportant."

Holding you in his arms, he truly feels that everything is alright. The open wounds don’t sting as fiercely as they did moments ago, his battered body can rest, and his processor is enveloped by a rare sense of peace. Everything feels better when you’re near, when your unimaginable softness surrounds him, and your tiny hands stroke his chassis, careful to avoid every wound. It’s soothing, and comforting, to have someone who brings solace just to him. To belong to someone, as much as he belongs to you. Almost cozy.

But soon, merely holding you isn’t enough. It’s unsatisfying, incomplete. Always craving luxuries, he wants more, and he wants it now.

He leans in, kissing your neck greedily while his servo slips beneath your shirt, making his desires abundantly clear.

"Starscream," you chide, "there’s a puddle of energon under you."

"Good thing I don’t care," he mutters between kisses, with no intention of stopping.

“And will you start caring when I say I won’t let you into bed in this state?”

"Stop ruining the mood," he hisses. "I don’t need your berth to interface!"

"But I do," you reply calmly, unfazed by his accusatory tone. To emphasize your point, you cross your arms over your chest, creating a small but significant distance between you. Starscream loathes this gesture, hates the boundary it creates between you. He wants to erase it, destroy it because whether you realize it or not, you hurt him with your cruelty. You set a boundary he never wanted to feel between you again.

"Star, you know I only want what’s best for you, right?"

"And that’s why you want to leave me, huh? Fine, go ahead, leave and never come back if you can’t be bothered to pay attention to me!" He releases you, and this time it's him crossing his arms over his chassis, but defensively, for comfort. Without you near, an unbearable, chilling loneliness takes hold of him and he despises it. “You have the incredible opportunity to interface with me, and you’re turning me down because of a little energon stain? Foolish human, if only you understood what honor I bestow on you by allowing you to even touch me.”

"It’ll only take me a minute," you reassure him, cupping his mauled faceplate in your hand. Starscream tries to resist the trap, to demonstrate the seriousness of his words through his body language, but within a nanoklik, he knows you have caught him. He leans into your hand, now smeared with energon, savoring the scraps of attention you offer. His wings flutter joyfully, and his engines hum softly, imitating a purr, a telltale sign of his true feelings, unspoken and originating from his very spark. “You’re a good mech. You’ll wait for me, won’t you?”

He stomps his pede and taps his claws against his arm, wrestling with his thoughts. A single compliment, and he’s already willing to do anything you ask, just to earn another, as if enchanted.

"You have exactly one klik. And you’d better hurry because I’ll be counting."

You disappear into the house, and he battles the urge to follow, to accompany you everywhere in pursuit of the phenomenon that is your touch and its incredible power to immerse him in pleasure. What a cruel joke, he thinks, as a few nanokliks pass and the pain creeps back. His wings droop and his frame begins to tremble, betraying the weakness and torment he carries within. He doesn’t want to be alone — can’t bear the lack of you any longer, though not even a single klik has passed. Feeling as if the cold has intensified, mocking him just like it did back on the Nemesis, he hugs himself tighter.

"[Name]?" he calls out weakly, his voice lonely, pathetic, like an addict in withdrawal.

He steps forward but collapses mid-motion, his journey ending there.

"I’m here! And what, I made it in time, didn’t I?" you ask playfully, though your tone quickly shifts to concern when you see the trembling seeker. "Hey, it’s okay. I’m not leaving you again," you assure warmly. "I’m not going anywhere."

"Have you finally realized what an honor it is to be in my presence?" His self-admiration returns, a defensive mechanism to shield his vulnerable, true self. With the last bits of his strength, he suppresses his shaking as you guide him to sit on the ground, which he complies with. You shift slightly to the side to avoid the sharp edges of his armor on his knees.

"Star, it’s been an honor from the very beginning," you assure him, gently dabbing at his wounds with a towel. You press it against his chassis, ignoring his winces and hisses, soothing him instead with soft strokes along his cheek.

"So, you do have some sense after all. For a human, that is."

"Thanks, I try," you reply, moving to the largest wound and tending to it with a fresh towel. "But I’m afraid you’ll still need to see a medic, erm, what was his name again… Knockout?"

Oh, he dislikes how easily you utter another’s name, inviting its owner into his sanctuary. Jealousy claws at his spark, fuelling anger, because you should know and adore only his name. No one else is necessary for your happiness.

He regrets ever telling you the medic’s name.

A sudden urge to merge his glossa with your tongue overwhelms him. To erase the taste of the intruder. But he restrains himself when he sees the genuine concern etched on your face. Starscream doesn’t want to ruin this moment, this rare display of sincerity, though his jealousy remains. Instinctively, his wings raise higher, making him appear larger, desperate for your attention.

"Don’t say that idiot’s name," he growls. "From now on, I’m the only mech you’re allowed to address. Understand? No one else deserves it."

"Hm, good thing the only mech I interact with is you," you say. Starscream doesn’t bother hiding the smug smile spreading across his faceplate, his wings trembling with satisfaction… until you add "But I’m not kidding, you need medical help and best I can do is very basic care."

"Have you not realized yet that that’s all I need? Think, if I wanted to see a medic, I’d have gone to one instantly."

He dislikes the way you’re looking at him, as if you don’t believe him, even though he’s laid his cards bare for you. How can he explain that he sped toward you recklessly, risking everything, because he needed you, not Knockout, not specialized instruments, nor the familiar texture of an operating table beneath him? How can he make you understand that with just your touch, you’ve repaired him more effectively than the Decepticon medic could dream of? Would you ever truly grasp how much you mean to him, how much he’s willing to sacrifice for you? Probably not, he thinks bitterly. He’ll never be able to convey it through gestures, words, or even the most tender acts of affection.

"I just don’t want you to suffer," you confess sincerely.

His silence speaks volumes — it tells you that he can’t grant you this wish.

"Oh, Star," you sigh.

"What?" he hisses. "Do you think it’s that easy when you are being punished for merely existing?"

"I… I know. I’m sorry," you reply, your voice laced with such raw remorse that it’s as if you’d struck him. Once, he might have relished your guilt, your groveling for sins he never wanted to be atoned for but deserved. Yet now, he just wants to scrape that remorse off your face, to bury it deep and forever. He longs for your sincere, cheerful smile, the one that crinkles your eyelids, softens your features, and radiates enough warmth to thaw even his cold, egoistic spark.

But your expression brings back unwanted memories of today’s horrors. For a moment, his mind drifts back to the Nemesis bridge, to the echoes of his own screams reverberating against the walls, the thrashing, the scent of energon, and the tyrant treating his body like a toy. For a fleeting instant, he was convinced this time Megatron would truly break him, kill him, and he wouldn’t even get the chance to say goodbye to you.

He doesn’t want to remember — not here, not with you, especially when you need him. So he resorts to the one trick that helps him forget, hoping you’ll forgive him for it.

He buries his helm in the crook of your neck and begins kissing, silently pleading for interface, a counterbalance to the agony, because maybe if you frag him hard enough his mind will finally break, freeing him from Megatron’s torment.

"Am I clean enough for your bed now?" he asks between kisses. His servo slides under your shirt again, while the other finds your butt, massaging it without subtlety.

"Yes, you are now," you reply, your voice half-lost in a breathy sigh.

Starscream leans forward, almost pressing his entire weight against you, losing himself in you. If not for your gentle reminder, a hand on his chassis, he might have released his spike here and now, demanding mindless, wild fragging under the open sky.

"Bed, remember?"

"You and your impossible demands," he mutters but complies, fully submissive only to you. The change of location doesn’t stop him, though, he continues nibbling and caressing your delicate skin, undeterred even as you bend to pick up the soiled towels and rise to lead him inside.

"Say something nice to me," he demands, still clinging to you as you guide him toward the house.

"You’re relentless. Strong, because you keep pushing forward. W-warm…" Your voice breaks as his servo brushes against your chest. "And so beautiful. I couldn’t dream of a more stunning mech."

Vasking in the genuine praise, he moans into your neck and quickens the movements of his servo, now roaming all over your body — exploring, eager to take everything he possibly could for himself.

Your home is spacious enough for him to stand upright, his wings slightly lowered. Though such tight, enclosed spaces once felt like torture for the seeker, he’s come to appreciate your strange, human dwelling. Here, he feels safe, surrounded by the comforting presence of your scent. Because only here he can stop pretending to be someone and fully accept that he is yours.

Dropping the towels by the front door, you move toward a cabinet where you keep supplies for occasions like this, but having a leech clinging to your neck — one evidently unwilling to let go for even a second — makes it especially awkward.

"Star, wait," you plead. Turning your head to look at him, you find him too preoccupied with leaving love bites on your neck to notice your attempt to meet his gaze. He only hums softly to signal he’s listening. "How do you want to handle this?"

His answer comes without hesitation. "Make me forget."

You know exactly what he means. "As you wish, love."

You hastily remove your pants and underwear, reaching for the strap you’d prepared earlier.

"Go get ready," you instruct, nodding toward the bed. Aside from this brief, vague command, you leave the rest to him. He can decide in which position you’ll rearrange his insides.

"Starscream," you chide again as he continues to toy with your skin — both at your neck and your stomach, where one servo has come to rest.

He has no desire to stop touching you, to abandon the contact for even the short moments you need to prepare. Not when he so desperately needs you. Yet the tingling pleasure from his valve and the swollen spike tapping against the panel now dictate his actions. The directive is clear: make his processor think of nothing but you.

Reluctantly, with a trademark dose of dramatics, he detaches himself from your back, letting you do what you need. "Fine," he groans, making his way to your velvet berth. He rests his chassis and long, slender arms on it, sinking into the softness (though it still doesn’t compare to yours) and his interface panel retracts, exposing the toys you love to play with. Deliberately, he angles his aft toward you, ensuring you see how neglected he is, how much he needs you, tempting your self-control to deal with him immediately.

"How long are you going to make me wait?"

"Just a second," you soothe. He hears you fumbling with your endearing silicone toy, followed by the sound of your sharp intake of breath. Tilting his helm slightly, he glances back at you and grins triumphantly at the hungry, dreamy look on your face. The plan worked.

To entice you further, he gives his aft a calculated wiggle.

"You like teasing, don’t you?" you murmur, stepping closer and gripping his hips. You steady yourself, aligning the tip of your cock to the entrance of his needy, hot valve. "So beautiful," you whisper.

"Is that a rhetorical question?" he snaps back playfully. "You’re no better in that regard. How much longer do I ha — AHH!"

Before he can fully dive into another dramatic complaint, you thrust your cock deep into his slick valve, successfully silencing his tirade. His pedes shoot upward in response, and his previously relaxed, widely spread wings now draw closer together, trembling visibly. You enjoy the show before you, always having been fascinated by their expressiveness, especially since their owner likes to hide his true feelings. They’re a window to his soul, a delightfully honest indicator of how well you’re loving him.

"F-finally…" he whimpers, pushing himself harder against the silicone, eager to feel it reach the deepest parts of his valve, as though he wants it to enter even his tank, making his entire frame bask in the pleasure you’re providing.

He’s always considered himself a tough mech to please when it comes to interfacing — rarely satisfied, and even more rarely willing to open his panel to anyone. To him, such access is a privilege to be earned. But when it’s you exploring his inner workings with deliberate thrusts of your hips, Starscream spreads his legs wider, making your job easier. Isn’t he generous, letting you join the exclusive few who get to interface with him? Doesn’t he deserve praise and adoration for it?

"You’re not even trying…" he taunts, voice trembling. "You were supposed to turn me into your mindless toy, ah! And yet I still AHH!"

You cut off his rant by firmly grasping the base of his larger wings.

"Anything else you’d like to add, darling?" you tease, your rhythm steady and deliberate as you continue to thrust.

Still ramming your hips, pushing the toy deep into him only to let go immediately and repeat the process, you bend over him now having better access to the sensitive and delicate wings. You massage them at the base, where they meld with his back, drawing meaningless patterns and occasionally kneading, watching with a sense of triumph as the proud creature beneath you trembles all over and clamps his servo tightly around your sheets, exposing pure, unfiltered ecstasy.

"Starscream, we’ve only just begun…" you say, feigning disappointment, still caressing his sensitive wings. You can hear his engines roaring loudly, and his cooling vents struggling to keep up with the heat radiating from his frame, which has grown unbearably warm, pleasantly heating the tips of your fingers.

"Shut, agh! Shut up…" he growls weakly, his words slurred and broken by moans and whines.

Your pace is relentless. Your cock slides effortlessly inside, gliding against slick walls and pushing pleasurably, but it can’t savor the sensation with how quickly you aim to finish and bring this to its sweet conclusion. Yet he can’t pout about it when you’re so attentively tormenting his valve and vibrating wings. You care not just for his insides but his outer shell, too.

He feels as though his whole body is on fire, like his own anatomy will fail to handle the heat and explode, burning both you and himself. But he still wants more, wants to be gracefully ravaged, to climax so many times he loses count. To transform into your ideal plaything so you won’t need anyone else. His valve, his spike, his glossa, and digits. Only his. His, his, his!

“W-why are you, agh! so quiet?!” he stammers, oblivious to how he’s contradicting himself. “Don’t ignore me! L-love! Haah, adore! Worship…” he begs.

He’s no longer lying idly, passively letting you penetrate him. He begins moving his hips, quickly matching your rhythm and milking your shaft with even greater fervor and intensity.

“So beautiful…” you murmur, straining to reach his trembling wings with your lips. “So wonderful,” you add, mere millimeters above the gray metal.

You kiss the scars and marks left by particularly sharp claws that carved canyons into his delicate wings.

“My pretty Star, doing so well.”

Starscream can feel the care you pour into each kiss, and it’s enough to make his spike spasm and tremble, heralding fireworks. Yet he knows he must ask your permission to release the accumulated transfluid.

“Ah, ah, I’m… I’m close!” he howls, voice glitching, engines whining, and cooling fans falling behind. “I beg you, haah, please let me overload!”

You kiss him tenderly over another marred spot and allow yourself a few more thrusts to coax out those exotically strange but delightful cries of pleasure.

“Go ahead, my beautiful one, overload for me.”

Pink transfluid gushes from his spike, spilling over the panels amid loud screams and moans. But you don’t stop yet, knowing full well that one release won’t be enough, not with him and his inhuman endurance. Instead of pulling back, you lean in, running your fingertips over his sleek, intricate back now arched gracefully. You explore the valleys and ridges of his back strut, admiring its exotic design, unaware that the valve you’re docked in is trying to milk you, tightly clenched around your cock, signaling his desire for more. He wants more, wants you.

“You did wonderfully,” you praise and kiss his back a few times, earning a melodious whimper.

With trembling servos still clutching the bedding, Starscream is convinced he’s ascended to paradise. How else could he explain the overwhelming bliss you so generously bestow upon him? How can he rationalize the way his field of vision is dotted with hearts, his valve pulsing in time with your heartbeat? He has to stay here longer, to discover what else you have to offer him.

As if it were possible, he presses his aft harder into your cock, goading you to continue the play.

“W-what are you waiting for? We’re not done yet!”

“Ask nicely”

Oh, how he despises those games of yours, yet he eagerly awaits them, knowing they always come with a reward. Impatiently, he moves his aft, pleasuring himself now. The valve slides off your cock only to devour it again, savoring its dangerous proximity to his tank until his spike starts to shudder. He’s trying to entice you to move, to abandon your stillness, even though he knows it’s all part of the game, a fact you swiftly remind him of as you grip his hips firmly to hold him in place.

He turns his helm to gauge you, to test how far he can push, but seeing your chastising gaze, he stops teasing, pressing himself tightly against your hips once more and moaning from the feeling of disarming, carefree fullness that makes his valve burst.

“Hngh, please!” he pleads. “Ah, I can’t hold on any longer. I beg you, let me overload again, ah! Please…”

“Good mech,” you praise, resuming your thrusts, feeding his still-hungry valve with your synthetic shaft, dragging it over his abused, slick walls.

“Haah, thank you! Th-thank you!” he cries, claws raking the delicate bedding.

“Mhm, for my most magnificent mech, absolutely anything,” you adore him as he asked, placing kisses along his arched back, especially on his battered and tender wings.

There’s not a shred of romance in how you treat his valve. It’s primitive, animalistic rutting meant to rob him of breath from nonexistent lungs, to make his legs quake with excess pleasure, his claws pierce through the bedding completely, and most of all, to make him forget. The complete opposite of the tenderness and love you bestow on his back, ensuring every scratch you can reach taste your affection.

“The most magnificent,” you murmur.

After several more powerful thrusts, magenta transfluid spills onto your floor again, mixing with droplets from the last climax.

“The most wonderful,” you add.

Starscream climaxes again.

“The most beautiful.”

And again.

“The most perfect.”

And again. Again and again.

“Captivating.”

Until the moans turn into howls and only small, adorable pearls drip from his spike, as there’s nothing left to give.

“My Lord Starscream.”

Until your bedding is soaked with coolant, which also coats his chin.

“Star, for fuck’s sake, I can’t keep going.”

Until your hips themselves refuse to obey. You manage to push him into one more empty overload before withdrawing smoothly and unceremoniously, collapsing against the bed with labored breaths. You already know your hips will be sore tomorrow, but for now, you’re more concerned about the state of your thoroughly ravaged partner. To make sure you haven’t caused a short circuit in his processor, you turn your head toward him, unable to suppress a strange, barbaric sense of pride at the sight of his blank, foolish expression, glossa hanging out, optics rolled far back. Because you were the one who brought the great, megalomaniacal Starscream to bliss, and it’s a sight reserved solely for you.

“Hey, Star, how’re you feeling?” you ask gently, shifting closer to him and reaching for his helm, immediately beginning to stroke it. This seems to bring him back to life as he blinks a few times, as if reminding himself of the world he’s in, and finally focuses his optics on you. His drooped wings lift at the sight of you, his engines, now quieter, start whirring again, and — most surprisingly — Starscream smiles faintly but sincerely, with pure bliss, devoid of malice or mockery.

It’s hard not to mirror that smile and tuck it deep in your heart, a gesture he clearly takes as an invitation to move closer.

“Star?” you call, but he ignores you, more intent on invading your personal space than answering. He leans in to nestle his helm in the crook of your neck. For a moment, you think he’ll start nipping and sucking, demanding more, but he surprises you again, wrapping you in a loose but possessive embrace.

Now the grating sound of his engines shifts into a purr that vibrates through your chest, reaching your heart. It’s an odd sensation, like holding a working speaker to your chest, but you can’t deny that it’s pleasant and relaxing, almost lulling you to sleep if not for the distracting engine hum. Wanting to return the favor for this peculiar massage, you start gently stroking his helm, unable to stop thinking that you’re petting an oversized, cunning cat.

“You didn’t do… atrociously,” he finally speaks, dangerously close to your ear. “For a human, of course.”

You couldn’t have hoped for higher praise.

“Thanks. You were incredible too,” you reply, showing him how it’s done, though you doubt he understands, especially since his wings twitch slightly, pleased with the compliment.

For a moment, silence reigns as you both recover, but you’re forced to break it when you suddenly realize you need water. Turns out, constantly showering your insatiable partner with compliments can really dry out your throat.

“Star,” you begin.

As if he has access to your brain, he tightens his hold around you, his purring intensifying.

“You’re not going anywhere,” he declares. “You won’t leave me.”

You merely sigh and return to stroking his helm.

[theonlyqualitytrash]

Creatura innocentiae - Fyodor x Reader

PART I PART II

Synopsys: In a secluded village ruled by devotion, where sacrifice is a form of love and faith demands blood, you are forced to choose between Scylla and Charybdis.

Warnings: No ability au, cult themes, religion, manipulation, murder, death, graphic violence and depiction of blood, dehumanization, power imbalance in relationships, emotional and physical abuse, self-harm, gaslighting, brainwashing, philosophical musings on love, faith, and autonomy.

These themes will be present throughout all parts of this fic. Please read with caution and take care of your mental well-being. If any of these themes are distressing to you, proceed carefully or consider skipping this fic.

A/N: Welcome to the second part of this little story! I've already written a rough draft of the third part, thanks to winter break, which has given me plenty of time to write until my fingers ache and my mind turns to mush. As a fun fact: before Creatura innocentiae, the title of this fic was Nitimur in vetitum, which translates to "We strive for the forbidden."

Word count: 10,000

The next week crept by like molasses, each day heavier than the last. 

Being engaged should have felt like a blessing. You had been told that often enough. But no matter how hard you tried, the feeling eluded you. Abel, on the other hand, wore the engagement like a new skin, radiant with a purpose that seemed to brighten his every step. 

Every morning, he waited for you, his patient smile unwavering as he offered to walk you to the clearing where you prayed. He had taken over bandaging your wounds after ceremonies, his hands clumsy but careful, his brow furrowing with the kind of earnestness that made your chest tighten. He also brought you gifts—wildflowers, a wooden carving of a dove, even a piece of honeycomb—they piled up like the tokens of devotion they were meant to be. 

He was everything they said a husband should be. Gentle. Devoted. Perfect. 

And yet, you almost hated him for it. Or perhaps, you hated yourself. 

The dirt path stretched ahead, quiet but for the crunch of your footsteps. The sky above hung heavy and gray, dulling the world into muted shades of itself. Abel walked beside you, his easy gait a sharp contrast to the hollow weight dragging at your steps. His hands swung loosely at his sides, as though they belonged to a man without a care. 

You didn’t want to be here—not with him. 

“Quite gloomy today, isn’t it?” Abel’s voice broke the quiet, gentle and familiar. He glanced at you, his smile as practiced as the line itself. Then, softer, he added, “Though somehow, you always seem to brighten days like this.” 

You nodded, your gaze fixed on the ground. The words you wanted to say coiled tight in your throat, sharp and unspoken. 

He was trying. That was the worst part. 

Would Abel understand me? 

The question gnawed at you, growing louder with every step. It was his voice that answered—not Abel’s, but Fyodor’s. His voice. His damning words clung to you, weaving through your thoughts: a predator circling its prey. 

“Abel...” you said softly, the sound of his name almost foreign on your lips.  

He perked up immediately, his head turning toward you with that ever-present smile. “Yes?”  

Your heart began to race, a faint tremor coursing through your hands as you struggled to voice what had been gnawing at you. “What do you... like about me?”  

The question felt absurd as soon as it left your lips, yet it hung in the air between you like a weight. You didn’t dare look at him.  

Abel stopped walking.  

You hesitated, realizing he had turned to face you, his expression softened by surprise. “What do I like about you?” he repeated, his tone gentle, as though you had asked him to describe something sacred.  

“Yes,” you said, barely above a whisper.  

His brow furrowed slightly, his smile fading into something quieter, more thoughtful. He shifted his weight, his hands clasping in front of him as he considered your question.  

“Well...” He exhaled softly, and when he spoke again, his voice carried the same warmth he always offered. “I like how kind you are. How selfless. You carry so much for all of us, yet you never complain. You give everything, even when it hurts you.”  

Your hands clenched into fists at your sides. His words landed like stones in your chest, each one heavier than the last.  

“You’re...” He hesitated, a faint blush rising to his cheeks. “You’re radiant. Like the sun breaking through clouds. You remind us of what it means to be good, to have faith.”  

His gaze flicked to yours, shy but earnest. “I admire you,” he added softly, his voice almost trembling. “You make the rest of us want to be better.”  

A bitter laugh rose in your throat, but you swallowed it down, unable to let it escape.  

“Is that it?” you asked instead, your voice trembling with something you couldn’t name.  

Abel’s brow knit in confusion. “What do you mean?”  

You looked at him then, truly looked at him, and the sight of his gentle confusion only sharpened the ache inside you. “You admire me because I bleed for all of you. Because I make it easy to take.”  

His eyes widened, his lips parting in shock. “That’s not—”  

“Isn’t it?” you interrupted, your voice rising, sharp and brittle. The words came unbidden, spilling out. “You like me because I don’t fight. Because I smile and give and never ask for anything in return. That’s what you admire, isn’t it? That I make it easy for you to love me?”  

The silence that followed was deafening. Abel’s hands trembled at his sides, his expression stricken.  

“I...” He faltered, his voice cracking slightly. “I never meant... I just—”  

“You don’t know me,” you said, your voice breaking. “You don’t know anything about me beyond what I give. Do you?”  

He took a step toward you, his hands reaching out as though to steady the space between you. “That’s not fair,” he said quietly, his tone laced with desperation. “I care about you. I’ve always cared about you.”  

You stepped back, shaking your head. “You care about the idea of me. The savior. The lamb. But what if I wasn’t any of that? Would you still—”  

“Stop,” he interrupted, his voice firmer now. “I care about you because you’re strong. Because you carry so much and still find a way to be kind.”  

His words hung in the air, but they felt hollow. Kindness. Strength. Radiance.  

They were the same words you had heard all your life, spoken in reverence and admiration. But they weren’t about you. They were about the role you played, the mask you wore so perfectly.  

Your breath hitched as you turned away, staring at the horizon where the clouds pressed low against the earth. “You don’t understand,” you whispered.  

Abel didn’t press further. He stood there, silent and unsure, as you began walking again, your steps hurried and uneven. He followed at a distance, the tension between you stretching.

The ache in your chest deepened with every step, the memory of Fyodor’s voice echoing louder than ever: You bleed for them. But will they bleed for you?  

For the first time, you began to think you already knew the answer.  

---  

The late afternoon sun slanted through the gaps in the wooden walls, casting long, wavering stripes of light across the floor. Dust particles swirled lazily in the warmth, their slow drift a reminder of the barn’s stillness. The soft sounds of the space were familiar, grounding.  

You had watched Abel and Fyodor disappear inside the barn a little while ago, tasked by the elders to tend to the horses. A routine chore—unremarkable.

They were not made equally, you thought. Abel was very kind, too kind. It was the kind of kindness that made your insides burn, that felt like a performance rather than a truth. The interaction a few days ago had only solidified that suspicion. Abel got complacence, while Fyodor...  

Fyodor got ambition. It was an unsettling kind of ambition, sharp-edged and systematic. You didn’t know what he intended to use it for, but the thought lingered, prickling at the edges of your mind like needles. 

Not wanting to dwell on the two of them, you turned back to your duties, trying to shake the unease.  

Inside, the barn was still and calm, save for the steady rhythm of Fyodor’s hands working, methodical as ever. He brushed down one of the horses, his motions slow, as if the action itself demanded careful precision. His brow remained unfurrowed, his focus unshifting, as though he were a part of the barn itself, fixed and immovable.  

Across the barn, Abel’s voice filled the stillness with a casual stream of conversation, his words light and unguarded—too unguarded. He spoke of the harvest festival, of traditions and preparations, his tone tinged with forced enthusiasm.   

“I think they’ll love it,” Abel said, glancing over his shoulder at Fyodor. “The festival, I mean. It’s their favorite time of year—dancing under the lights, celebrating our comunity’s hard work. I feel lucky, you know? To be the one by their side for it.” 

Fyodor didn’t respond immediately. He didn’t need to. His silence filled the barn like smoke, creeping into all corners until Abel shifted uneasily. 

“And what makes you so sure they love it?” Fyodor asked at last, his tone quiet, almost idle, as if the question were an afterthought. 

Abel chuckled, though the sound carried a slight tremor. “Because it’s simple, I suppose,” he replied, turning his gaze to the window as though the answer might lie somewhere beyond it. “It makes them happy.”   

The rhythm of Fyodor’s brushing didn’t falter, but the air seemed to grow colder, as if his presence had drawn out the warmth. His head tilted slightly, the faintest gesture of consideration, though his gaze remained fixed on the horse.   

“Do they seem happy to you?”   

Abel stilled. His hands paused in their work, his fingers curling reflexively around the armful of hay he was gathering. He turned his head toward Fyodor, confusion shadowing his features. “What?”   

Fyodor straightened, setting the brush aside. He turned, his eyes meeting Abel’s. They were calm, but there was something unrelenting in the sharpness of his gaze. “I asked,” Fyodor said softly, “if they seem happy to you.”   

Abel faltered, his brow furrowing. “I mean... they don’t complain,” he said, his voice carrying a faint defensiveness. “They devoted to their role. That’s what happiness is, isn’t it? Accepting your place?”   

Fyodor’s lips twitched—not quite a smile, but something faint and unsettling, a ghost of amusement. “Devotion isn’t the same as happiness. Compliance isn’t the same as understanding.”   

Abel frowned, his confusion deepening as he turned fully to face Fyodor. “I don’t see the difference,” he said after a long moment, his voice quieter now.   

Fyodor took a single step forward, closing the distance between them. “Of course you don’t,” he said, his tone low, almost kind. “You don’t have to.”   

Abel blinked, his expression faltering further. The cheerfulness that had cloaked him earlier seemed to dissolve, replaced by a flicker of something more vulnerable—a faint crack in the armor of certainty he had always carried.   

“They’re devoted,” Abel said again, though his voice wavered. “They’re strong. They’re... They’re everything we need them to be.”   

“Everything you need them to be,” Fyodor corrected, the faintest edge creeping into his voice. He leaned back slightly, his posture relaxed but his presence unyielding. “But tell me, Abel—what do they need?”   

The question hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. Abel opened his mouth to respond, but no words came. His hands tightened around the bundle of hay, his gaze dropping to the ground. 

Fyodor let the silence stretch, his gaze unwavering as he stepped back toward the horse. “They carry the weight of your love,” he said quietly, his voice almost a murmur. “But love, without understanding, is just another burden, no?”   

Abel’s head snapped up at that, his eyes narrowing. “I do understand them,” he said, though the words sounded hollow even to himself.   

Fyodor tilted his head slightly, his expression softening—not with kindness, but with something closer to pity. “Do you?”   

The question wasn’t sharp. It wasn’t even accusatory. And yet, it cut deeper than anything else Fyodor had said.   

Abel turned back to his task, his movements slower, more hesitant now. The steady rhythm of his work had faltered, becoming uneven as though each action required conscious effort. He didn’t speak again. The air between them grew heavier, oppressive in its stillness—you could have heard a pin drop, but not the whisper of Fyodor’s steps as he moved across the barn. 

Reaching one of the horses, Fyodor untied its reins with quiet precision, dragging the rope across the floor as though absentmindedly. He let it fall into the straw, its coils half-buried and unassuming, before reaching for the feed bucket to distract the horse with its meal. 

His mind drifted again, to that familiar thought.   

You construct intricate rituals to appease deities you came up with to avoid being your own judge.   

He studied Abel’s back, hunched over as he worked, and the words solidified in his mind.   

God can’t hear you beg for forgiveness, and She doesn’t care about the sacrifices you make to prove your repentance. You stand in front of a mirror, begging for someone else to try you for your crimes.   

He stared at Abel, who was so eager to please, so content to remain blind to the walls around him. Abel wasn’t chosen for his understanding—no, he was chosen because he would never question the system. Because he wouldn’t ask the hard questions that would tear the gilded cage apart.   

“Abel.”   

Abel turned toward him, his brow furrowing in confusion, the ever-present warmth in his gaze replaced by something guarded. “Yes?”   

“You truly believe you’re enough for them?” Fyodor asked, taking a step forward. His tone wasn’t mocking; it wasn’t even cruel. It was simply curious, a calm inquiry.   

Abel blinked, clearly caught off guard. “I... I am enough for them!”   

Fyodor tilted his head slightly, his gaze unwavering as though he were studying a puzzle. “Are you?” he murmured, the question barely louder than a breath. 

Abel stiffened, his hands clenching at his sides. “Of course I am. I’ve done everything right—followed every rule, every tradition.” His voice grew firmer. “I care for them. I protect them. Isn’t that enough?” 

Fyodor’s lips curved into the faintest of smiles. “Enough for you, perhaps. But is it enough for them?” 

The barn seemed to close in on them, the air thickening with the weight of unspoken truths. Abel took a step forward, his expression darkening. “They’re happy,” he insisted, though his voice wavered at the edges. 

“You don’t see it, do you? The way they looks at you—not with love, but with duty. The same way one might look at a burden they cannot put down.” 

Abel’s breath hitched, his face tightening as the words hit their mark. His grip on the hay trembled, as though he were fighting the urge to throw it down. “Shut up,” he said quietly, his tone laced with warning. 

Fyodor didn’t flinch, his expression calm, almost pitying. “Do you even know them, Abel? Beyond what they give you? Beyond the mask they wear for all of you?” 

“I said shut up!” Abel’s voice cracked, his hands trembling as he took another step forward. The warmth in his gaze was gone now, replaced by something desperate and raw. 

Fyodor held his ground, his composure unshaken. “If they took off the mask,” he said, each word deliberate, “would you even recognize them?” 

The question hung in the air like a guillotine, and Abel snapped. His fist shot out, catching Fyodor in the chest and driving him back against the stall. The horses stirred, their nervous movements filling the barn with sharp, chaotic sounds. 

“You don’t know anything about them!” Abel shouted, his voice reverberating off the wooden walls. “You think you’re so clever, don’t you? But you don’t belong here—you’ll never belong here!” 

Fyodor staggered but recovered quickly, brushing the dust from his robe with infuriating calm. He straightened, his violet eyes meeting Abel’s with a steady, unsettling intensity. “Neither do they,” he said quietly. 

And when those words came down like a blade on his neck, Abel’s fury boiled over, spilling into every clumsy, uncoordinated movement. His hands found the pitchfork leaning against the stall, gripping it as though it might anchor him against the storm inside. His breath came in ragged, uneven bursts, the sound filling the barn.

The horses, restless from the noise and the charged atmosphere, shuffled in their stalls, their hooves striking against the wooden planks with growing urgency. One whinnied sharply, the sound slicing through the oppressive quiet. 

Abel lifted the pitchfork, his knuckles whitening around the handle as if he intended to use it, but the weight of his rage made his movements slow and unsteady. His chest heaved, his eyes wild and unfocused as he turned toward Fyodor, the object of his unraveling anger. 

The untied horse jerked sideways, its powerful body slamming into the stall with a hollow, reverberating thud. The motion sent a cascade of hay spilling onto the floor, and Abel flinched at the impact. His grip on the pitchfork wavered, the handle slipping in his sweaty palms. 

“Stay back!” Abel shouted at the animal, though the command sounded more like a plea. His voice cracked, raw and uneven, as though it might splinter under the weight of his panic. 

The sound of hurried footsteps approached, their rhythm halting just outside the barn’s threshold. Someone had heard the commotion—they paused at the doorway, their shadow stretching across the barn floor, trembling as it mingled with the fractured light. Their eyes darted between Abel’s hunched form and Fyodor’s measured stillness. The air felt too heavy to move through, suffocating in its intensity. 

Fyodor’s violet gaze flicked toward the figure, so quick it was almost imperceptible, before snapping back to Abel. He didn’t acknowledge the witness further, his expression settling into something carefully controlled, slightly startled but otherwise unreadable. 

“Is that how you’ll prove your worth?” Fyodor asked, his voice calm, but now carrying the faintest thread of something softer—fear, or perhaps pity. He took a half-step back, his hands raised slightly, palms outward, as though placating a dangerous animal. “By threatening me?” 

Abel’s grip on the pitchfork tightened, his knuckles trembling. “You don’t understand! You don’t belong here!” he bellowed, his tone cracking under the strain of his rage. 

The horses, restless and panicked, stamped and snorted in their stalls. Abel lifted the pitchfork slightly, as if to strike, but the motion only fed the chaos around him. One of the horses reared, its hooves crashing against the stall. 

But Fyodor didn’t move. He stood as still as the barn walls themselves, his gaze steady, unyielding. The horses, by contrast, were all motion—rearing, kicking, their wild eyes flashing in the fractured light. The largest of them stomped violently, its movements frantic and unpredictable. 

Abel staggered, his foot catching on a length of rope half-buried in the straw. He teetered for a moment, his arms flailing as he fought for balance. The pitchfork clattered to the ground with a dull, jarring sound. 

The horse’s agitation grew, its hooves striking out as it reared again. Abel’s flailing carried him backward, the momentum of his stumble drawing him directly into the horse’s path. 

For a moment, time seemed to slow. The animal thrashed above him, its front hooves coming down hard, directly onto Abel's head with a sickening crack. Then, silence—the kind that could make a man go insane the way it seeped into your bones, raw and unrelenting. The horse pawed at the straw with uneasy, jittery movements, its breath loud and uneven. Each scuffle of its hooves felt like an echo of the chaos that took place, a ghost of the violence that now lay lifeless on the barn floor. 

The oppressive tension lingered, heavy and unshakable, as Fyodor’s gaze shifted to the lifeless form. Abel was now crumpled on the ground, his body folding like a discarded marionette. The pitchfork lay a few feet away, untouched and irrelevant now. 

A scream tore through the barn as the witness finally found their voice. It was raw, piercing, and shattered the suffocating silence like glass. 

Fyodor flinched, a reaction born of necessity. There was no pleasure, no satisfaction in the moment—only an emptiness, as if he had simply carried out a necessary task. The rope had been placed just so, half-buried in the straw, waiting for the inevitable misstep. The horse, its reins had been untethered just enough for it to start galloping around. Abel’s demise hadn’t been a matter of chance—chance was too chaotic. No, it was only a matter of time before Fyodor took advantage of Abel’s rage.  

The scream was a spark, igniting a flurry of footsteps and hurried voices as others rushed toward the barn. The commotion fed on itself, a breeding ground for curious eyes and frantic questions. 

Some pushed inside, drawn by the noise, while others hovered at the edges, hesitant and afraid. A few rushed to Fyodor, their voices trembling as they asked if he was hurt. He played the role of the bewildered innocent, his hands clean, his expression clouded with confusion. 

“I…” he began, his voice soft, trembling just enough to appear genuine. “I don’t know how it came to this.” 

The barn felt smaller with so many bodies crowding its space, their overlapping whispers and gasps weaving into the lingering tension. 

Fyodor’s mind remained clear, though something twisted deep in his chest, an unfamiliar discomfort he couldn’t easily shake. 

The scene was immaculate. The horse’s agitation blended seamlessly with the chaos he had crafted—a tragic accident, nothing more. Fyodor lingered for a moment, staring at the wreckage he had orchestrated. He felt no satisfaction. No triumph. Only the steady weight of grim resolve. 

When the questions grew too insistent, a few of them gently urged him away from the barn, their hands hovering as if to steady him. He let them guide him, his steps measured, his gaze distant, his expression carrying just enough of a dazed quality to appear convincing. Yet, even as he moved, his thoughts were already elsewhere. 

They turned to you—the way your voice had trembled when you spoke of your role, the soft, resigned look in your eyes whenever Abel’s name came up. He almost felt pity for Abel. Almost. 

Abel was part of the cycle—a lamb to be led to slaughter, a cog in a system that would never change. But you—you were different. You didn’t belong to this hollow cycle of devotion and duty. 

And that was why Fyodor wouldn’t let you rot alongside them. 

---  

The news left you reeling. Abel, dead? The words didn’t seem real. You hadn’t loved him—not the way a fiancé should love their betrothed. But your heart, too soft and too big, carried the weight of his loss as though it were your fault. Guilt tangled with disbelief, twisting in your chest. If only you had loved him more, would he have been more careful? The image of the horse flashed in your mind, its startled movements, its strength. Why hadn’t Abel been more cautious? The questions circled endlessly as you stepped into the church, the air pressing down on you like a silent rebuke. 

The apse feels colder without the soft façade your mother usually wears in public. Her practiced kindness is gone, leaving behind the sharp, calculating presence of the High Priestess. You’re not supposed to be here. You hesitate by the doorway, drawn by the tension in the air.  

Fyodor stands before her, calm as ever, his posture betraying no unease. He looks at her with an air of quiet reverence, his composure a sharp contrast to the tension that fills the room like a rising tide.

“Abel is dead,” she says, her voice cutting through the silence, deliberate and sharp, like the crack of a whip.

Fyodor inclines his head slightly, his expression shifting into something akin to concern, though it never quite reaches his eyes. “A tragedy,” he murmurs, his tone measured and solemn. “I was there, High Priestess. Tending to the horses with him, as requested. It all happened so quickly.”

“Quickly,” she repeats, her words laden with disbelief. Her gaze hardens, narrowing in a way that feels like she’s trying to pierce through him. “And yet, here you stand. Unscathed. Untouched.”

His lips part as if in a sigh, but his voice remains steady. “I wish it were not so,” he says softly, his hands folding behind his back, the imagine of obedience. “There were others who saw what happened. Abel was not himself. His anger… it was consuming him.”

Her eyes flash, the subtle narrowing of her brows the only betrayal of her rising fury. “And what of your role in this?” she asks, leaning forward slightly, her presence pressing into him like a blade against his skin. “What did you do to quell this supposed rage?”

“I stepped back,” Fyodor says, his voice a quiet confession, tinged with what sounds like regret. “To keep myself safe. The horses were startled. Abel was… consumed by his emotions. I feared escalation, and yet…” He lets the sentence trail off, as though the memory itself pains him.

Her hands tighten on the edge of the table, knuckles whitening as she leans further forward. “Convenient,” she says, the word dripping with venom. “How fortunate for you that his anger left little room for blame to fall elsewhere.”

He tilts his head slightly, meeting her gaze without hesitation, his expression serene. “I did only what I could, High Priestess. The others will confirm as much.”

Her lips press into a thin line, her silence growing sharper, heavier. “Do not mistake my silence for ignorance,” she says at last, her voice dropping to a low, dangerous register. “I know what you’ve done.”

For a moment, the faintest flicker of amusement dances in his eyes. It vanishes as quickly as it came, replaced by a carefully composed neutrality. “And I await proof, High Priestess,” he says, his voice unwavering but carrying an edge now, subtle but unmissable. “The truth, after all, always has a way of revealing itself.”

The room feels suffocating all of a sudden. You realize too late that you’ve stepped too far into the doorway, drawn in despite yourself. Her gaze snaps to you with the precision of a hawk catching its prey. “What are you doing here?”

“I—I didn’t mean to interrupt,” you stammer.

Her expression softens slightly, but only enough to mask her irritation. “You have duties to attend to,” she says, her voice firm. “Go.”  

You hesitate, your eyes flicking to Fyodor. He meets your gaze briefly, his violet eyes calm and unbothered, as if none of this concerns him. Something unspoken lingers in his gaze, something you don’t fully understand but can’t look away from.  

“I said go,” your mother repeats, and her voice leaves no room for argument. Reluctantly, you turn and leave, the door closing behind you.  

Her next words are muffled by the thick wooden door, but you can hear the warning in her tone, the anger simmering just beneath the surface. “And stay away from my child,” she says. There’s a pause, heavy and menacing. “You may have charmed the others, but insolence has its limits.”  

Fyodor’s reply is quiet, but there’s an edge of amusement in his tone. “As you wish, High Priestess.”  

You stood just beyond the door, your heart pounding as you strain to hear what comes next. There’s a long silence, followed by your mother’s voice. “Be careful, Fyodor. You walk a fine line.”  

The door creaks open behind you, and you jump back as Fyodor steps out. He closes it softly, his expression calm but unreadable as his eyes meet yours. 

“You shouldn’t eavesdrop,” he says, his voice quiet, carrying a faint trace of humor. 

You flush, clasping your hands in front of you, “I wasn’t—” The words stumble out, unconvincing even to yourself. “I mean... I didn’t mean to.” 

He tilts his head slightly, his gaze sharpening, though his faint smile lingers. “No?” he murmurs, the word soft, almost indulgent. “Then why are you still standing here?” 

“I...” Your voice falters, the weight of his presence bearing down on you. The shame burns in your chest, but it’s tangled with something else—an aching need to know. “I was worried,” you admit quietly. “About what she was saying. About you.” 

His expression shifts subtly, something unspoken flickering behind his composed façade. “And why would you worry about me?” 

The question throws you off balance, and for a moment, you can’t find the words. “She... she doesn’t usually speak like that about anyone,” you manage. “And—” You hesitate, then push forward, the words tumbling out before you can stop them. “Did you have anything to do with Abel’s death?” 

For a moment, there’s silence. Not the calm, expectant silence he so often wields, but something heavier. His violet eyes remain locked on yours, unblinking, as though he’s weighing every possible answer against the consequences it might bring. 

“Do you think I did?” he asks finally, his voice low and steady, yet there’s an edge to it—a challenge hidden beneath the softness. 

Your chest tightens under the weight of his question. “I don’t know,” you admit, the words trembling on your lips. “You always seem to know things—things no one else does. And she sounded so certain, like she has proof.” 

“Proof,” he repeats, almost absently, as if the word itself is a curious puzzle. He looks away, his gaze lingering on the shadows flickering along the church walls. When he speaks again, his tone is quieter, more thoughtful. “Certainty and proof are not the same. Certainty is... convenient. It can mask fear. Or doubt.” 

You search his face, desperate to read the truth in his expression, but his features remain infuriatingly calm. “So it wasn’t you?” 

This time, his hesitation is so slight you almost miss it. But it’s there—an imperceptible pause, a flicker of something in his eyes. “I had nothing to do with Abel’s death,” he says, his voice quiet but firm. “He was... a kind man. His loss is a tragedy.” 

His words soothe something in you, yet they also stir a nagging unease. You want to believe him. You need to. But the shadow of doubt refuses to leave you entirely. 

“I shouldn’t have asked,” you whisper, your hands twisting the fabric of your robe. “It’s not my place.” 

“Questions are not a crime,” he says, his tone softening. “But sometimes, they lead us to answers we aren’t ready for.” 

He steps closer, and you can feel the weight of his presence, the quiet intensity that seems to draw everything toward him. “Your mother is a formidable woman,” he continues, his voice barely above a whisper. “She cares for you deeply. But her care can be... suffocating.” 

You look up at him, startled by the edge of empathy in his tone. “She’s trying to protect me,” you say, though the words feel hollow. 

His faint smile returns, tinged with something almost bitter. “She sees danger everywhere,” he says. “Even where there is none. Her warnings... they’re for your sake, not mine.” 

“What danger?” you press, your voice trembling. “Why would she think you’re a threat?” 

He pauses, his gaze slipping past you as if searching for an answer in the dim light of the church. When he looks back, there’s a shadow in his expression—an emotion you can’t name. “Perhaps because I don’t fit neatly into her world,” he says finally. “People fear what they can’t control.” 

The words settle heavily between you, and you can’t help but wonder if they apply to more than just your mother. “But you’re not a danger,” you say, the statement more a question than you intended. 

His smile deepens, though it’s far from reassuring. “Would it matter if I were?” 

The question takes your breath away, and for a moment, you can’t respond. He steps back, the moment slipping away as quickly as it arrived. 

“I should go,” he says softly. “Your mother would not be happy if she saw us talking.” He steps past you, his presence lingering even as he walks away. You turn to watch him go, your mind can't seem to let go of the subject. 

“Wait,” you say, your voice unsteady. “What does she fear? Is it really you?” 

He hesitates at the door, his hand resting on the worn wood. “She fears many things,” he says, his tone almost gentle. “But most of all, she fears losing you.” 

He glances back at you one last time, his gaze lingering in a way that leaves you frozen in place. “Be careful,” he says, his tone softer now. “Sometimes, it’s better to leave things alone. For your own sake.” 

With that, he’s gone, leaving you alone in the quiet of the church.  

---  

The preparations for the interment felt like a hollow ritual, a series of motions drained of meaning. You were no stranger to death—it was a quiet constant in your duties. Tending to elders who had lived full lives or stillborn children who never had the chance to begin felt like an extension of God’s will, a cycle you could accept.  

But Abel? Abel’s life was brimming with potential, his laughter still echoing faintly in your mind. To see him reduced to this—motionless, silent, stripped of the warmth that had once defined him—felt profoundly wrong, almost cruel. Yet beneath the grief and guilt, another emotion lingered faintly—a weight you could not name lifting from your chest, leaving behind an ache you didn’t dare yet examine. 

The river is calm tonight, its surface reflecting the firelight as if the water itself mourns. Abel’s body lies on a small wooden boat, his head covered by a white veil, his hands crossed over his chest. Flowers are tucked around him—delicate wildflowers from the fields, their petals already wilting under the heat of the torchlight. Gifts surround his body: a carving knife, a jar of honey, and a lock of your hair tied with a red ribbon. 

You stand at the edge of the gathered mourners. The High Priestess holds the ceremonial torch, her expression somber as she recites the prayer of passage. 

“May this fire guide you Abel,” she says, her voice steady, resonant. “May the waters carry you to the eternal embrace of the divine.” 

She hands you the torch, her fingers brushing against yours. You step forward, your legs trembling as you kneel at the riverbank. The crowd watches in reverent silence as you lower the torch, lighting the pyre. The flames catch quickly, crackling and consuming the dried wood and herbs. The fire comes to life, its reflection dancing on the water’s surface. 

Then the boat drifts slowly into the river, carried by the gentle current. You can feel the weight of their gazes on you as the flames climb higher, engulfing everything. The chanting grows louder, filling the night with its haunting melody. You bow your head, but your thoughts are elsewhere. 

Somewhere in the crowd, Fyodor stands apart. His face is unreadable in the flickering light, but you can feel his gaze on you. It’s like a promise, something you can’t sever no matter how hard you try. When you lift your head, your eyes meet his across the riverbank. He doesn’t look away, but you don't either.

The embers of the funeral boat glow faintly on the surface of the dark water, their light flickering like dying stars. You linger by the riverbank, unable to leave, even as the others return to the village. The weight of Abel’s death presses on you like a shroud. You tell yourself it’s the grief of the community—of your mother—but a deeper, more private part of you knows the truth. 

You feel relieved. 

The realization sits heavy in your chest, twisting into a knot of guilt. He’s gone. Abel is gone, and you will never have to kneel at his side, never have to smile through vows that made you feel small, never have to endure his kind, earnest gaze, so full of devotion it almost made you cry.

And yet, the relief doesn’t quiet the sadness. Abel hadn’t deserved this. He’d been kind, gentle, and undeserving of the violence that stole his life. You shiver, clutching your arms as though to hold yourself together. 

The sound of footsteps pulls you from your thoughts, soft against the earth but unmistakable. You don’t need to turn to know it’s him. Fyodor’s presence is unmistakable.

“I thought I might find you here,” he says softly. His voice carries no judgment, only a quiet understanding that feels too sharp against the tumult of your thoughts. 

You don’t respond. You keep your gaze fixed on the water, the last embers of the funeral pyre drifting away on the gentle current. 

For a moment, he says nothing more. He steps closer, his movements unhurried, as though he knows you won’t send him away. He stands beside you, his presence warm despite the chill in the air. “You shouldn’t linger,” he says eventually, his tone as soft as the breeze. “The night is cold.” 

“I know,” you whisper, though you make no move to leave. 

Silence settles between you, broken only by the faint ripple of the water. Fyodor doesn’t press you for words, doesn’t fill the quiet with questions or platitudes. He simply waits, as if he knows you need space to untangle the knot inside you. 

“It’s wrong,” you murmur finally, your voice trembling. “To feel this way.” 

His gaze shifts to you, steady and patient. “What way?” he asks gently. 

You shake your head, unable to meet his eyes. “I shouldn’t feel relieved. I shouldn’t feel...” You falter, the words catching in your throat. “Happy.” 

“Happy?” he repeats, his tone light, as though coaxing the truth from you without force. 

You swallow hard, your chest tightening with shame. “That I’m not marrying him anymore,” you admit quietly. “That I don’t have to...” Your voice trails off, and you squeeze your arms tighter around yourself. “He didn’t deserve this. And I feel guilty for being glad.” 

The words hang in the air, fragile and raw. For a long moment, Fyodor says nothing, and you fear his silence more than anything he could say. But when he finally speaks, his voice is quiet, almost tender. 

“Grief and relief can exist together,” he says. “Feeling one doesn’t erase the other.” 

You glance at him, startled by the gentleness in his tone. His expression is calm, but there’s something in his eyes that you can’t quite name—a depth, a quiet understanding that makes your chest ache. 

“It doesn’t make you cruel,” he continues. “Or unkind. It makes you human.” 

You lower your gaze, tears stinging your eyes. You want to argue, to tell him he’s wrong, but the words won’t come. Instead, you find yourself leaning into his presence, drawn to the strange, steady calm he exudes. 

“I didn’t want this,” you say softly. “I didn’t want him to die.” 

The silence stretches for a moment, soft and heavy, before you find yourself asking the question you’ve been holding back since the funeral.

“How was he?” you whisper, your voice trembling as you force the words out. “When you saw him last... what was he like?” You search Fyodor’s expression, desperate for something to soothe the ache that’s been gnawing at your chest.

Fyodor doesn’t flinch. His answer comes after a brief pause, as though he’s carefully turning over the words in his mind. When he speaks, his voice is calm, steady, yet imbued with a softness that feels almost kind. “He was troubled,” he says, his tone measured, “but he was trying to find peace in his own way.”

Your chest tightens, a bittersweet mix of guilt and relief clawing its way to the surface. “Troubled?” you echo, your voice cracking. “I... I wish I had known. I should have seen it.”

“You couldn’t have known,” Fyodor says, the words quiet but firm. His gaze holds yours, steady and unyielding. “Sometimes, people carry burdens they cannot share. His anger wasn’t about you—it was about the expectations placed on him. Expectations he could no longer bear.”

The weight of his words settles over you, heavy but grounding. Your throat tightens, and the tears you’ve been holding back spill over, unchecked. “I just… I wanted him to be happy,” you whisper. “He deserved that much.”

Fyodor watches you for a moment, before he speaks again. “Happiness isn’t always something we can give to others,” he says softly. “But he knew you cared. In the end, that mattered to him.”

You let out a shaky breath, clutching at the fragile comfort his words offer. “Thank you,” you murmur, your voice hoarse with emotion. “For being there. For trying to help him.”

Fyodor inclines his head slightly, his expression gentle but inscrutable. “It was the least I could do,” he says, his voice carrying a quiet gravity.

His words linger between you, heavy with unspoken meaning. Somewhere beneath the surface, you feel a current of something darker, something you can’t quite name. But you push the thought aside, holding onto the solace he’s given you instead.

And that night, you finally let yourself cry—small, quiet tears that fall into the stillness. Fyodor doesn’t move closer, doesn’t try to touch you. But his presence remains, solid and grounding, as though he knows exactly what you need. 

And as the last embers on the water fade to black, so too does the knot in your chest. It doesn’t disappear completely, but for now, it feels lighter. 

--- 

As swiftly as Abel’s passing came, so did the murmurs of his replacement. The inevitability of it clawed at your chest. Who would they choose? The question lingered, heavy and suffocating. You didn’t love anyone in that way—you weren’t sure you even knew how. But it didn’t matter. It never had. Love was a luxury reserved for others, not for you. Your duty to serve and protect stood above such things, an immovable force that demanded everything, leaving nothing for yourself. 

The sacred chamber bared the weight expectation. The candles lining the room burned low, their wax pooling like spilled offerings onto the scarred surface of the circular table at the room’s center. Icons glowed faintly in the flickering light, their intricate patterns seeming to pulse as though alive. 

You sat at your mother’s right hand, your presence as ceremonial as the candles. They had positioned you carefully—not as a participant, but as a reminder. A living symbol of the decision they had gathered to make. 

The council of elders surrounded the table, their robes pooling around them. Their faces were worn and lined with years of devotion, their gazes sharp with the weight of tradition. Their voices, low and murmured, weaved a thread of tension through the room, a quiet hum that settled in your chest. 

At the head of the table, your mother sat straight-backed and composed. Her silver hair caught the light like threads of spun steel, and her white robes were pristine as ever. Though she hadn’t yet spoken, her presence was enough to keep the room in balance, every elder’s words carefully measured, every movement deliberate. 

You remained silent, your hands folded neatly in your lap, your gaze fixed on the candlelight as though it might offer you some form of escape. 

The conversation began predictably, each elder taking their turn to speak with the slow gravity of a ritual. 

“We must consider their future,” one said, his voice rumbling like distant thunder. “The vessel cannot remain unbound.” 

Another nodded, her fingers steepled before her. “It is not just tradition—it is their purpose. Without a partner, their role is incomplete. Unity is required, both for them and for the community.” 

Their words surrounded you like a net, each thread tightening with every passing moment. They spoke of you, about you, but never to you. You were not a person here. You were an offering. 

The discussion turned to Abel’s death. 

“It was a tragedy,” one elder murmured, shaking his head. “He was a promising match. His devotion was unwavering.” 

“But it leaves us with an opportunity,” another interjected. “We can find a match that will strengthen their position further—someone who embodies not just faith, but leadership.” 

The High Priestess remained silent, her sharp gaze sweeping over the elders. Though her expression was serene, you could see the faint tension in her jaw, the slight tightening of her fingers around the edge of the table. 

And then, a new name entered the conversation. 

“What of Fyodor?” 

The murmurs grew louder, the elders turning toward the speaker with surprise and curiosity. 

“He is young, yes,” the elder continued. “In his short time here, he has proven himself. Devout, polite, eager to serve. He carries himself with dignity.” 

Murmurs of agreement rippled through the chamber. 

“He performs every task with care,” another said. “Always thoughtful, always measured.” 

“And the people respect him,” someone added. “The children adore him, and the elders speak of his humility. He has shown the kind of character we need.” 

Your mother’s frown was almost imperceptible, but you saw it. Her fingers tightened on the table’s edge, her composure flickering like a candle in a gust of wind. 

“He is still an outsider,” she said, her voice cutting through the murmurs. “A man we barely know. Devotion takes time to prove.” 

“But his actions speak for him,” one elder countered gently. “Even you must admit he has adjusted seamlessly to our ways.” 

“It is his seamless adjustment that concerns me,” your mother replied, her tone sharp. “No one adapts so quickly without intent. Devotion should be earned, not performed.” 

Her words hung heavy in the air, silencing the murmurs for a moment. 

You sat frozen, your gaze dropping to your lap as their words swirled around you. They spoke of Fyodor with admiration, of Abel with reverence, of you as though you were an extension of the altar itself—a sacred object to be placed, given, assigned. 

You felt your throat tighten as one elder leaned forward, their voice soft but deliberate. “Mother Maria, with all respect, we cannot deny the strength of his character. He has brought stability, even in the face of tragedy. Perhaps he is exactly what they needs—a man who can uphold appearances while serving the divine.” 

Your mother’s gaze darkened, her frown deepening. “Appearances are not enough,” she said sharply. “The vessel must be bound to someone who embodies faith and tradition. Fyodor is neither. He is an outsider, a stranger who has only begun to understand our ways.” 

Another elder shifted in their seat. “And who, then, would you propose?” they asked carefully. “Abel’s passing has left us with few options. The sacred vessel cannot remain unbound.” 

The room grew heavy with silence, the air thick with unspoken tension. 

Finally, your mother spoke again, her voice steady but cold. “There are others. Men whose families have served this community for generations. Men whose loyalty is proven, not assumed.” 

Her gaze swept across the room, her authority pressing down like a weight. “We will not make this decision lightly. And we will not make it tonight.” 

Her words were final, the tone leaving no room for argument. The murmurs faded into uneasy quiet as the elders began to rise, their robes rustling softly as they filed out of the chamber. 

You remained seated, your hands clenched tightly in your lap. The flickering candlelight cast wavering shadows on the walls, but the weight in your chest remained still, solid. 

When the chamber was nearly empty, your mother turned to you, her expression hard but laced with something else—something close to fear. 

“I will not allow this,” she said, her voice low. “You may think him charming, but I see what the others cannot. There is something... unnatural about him.” 

Her hand rested on your cheek, soft almost possessive. “You will be promised,” she continued. “But not to him. Never to him.” 

She rose, her robes sweeping the floor as she left the chamber. The sound of her footsteps faded, leaving you alone in the suffocating quiet. 

You stared at the candlelight, its faint glow reflecting in your eyes. You wondered if she was right to be afraid. 

--- 

Days passed, but the elders’ conversation lingered—a quiet echo in the moments you least expected. Would Fyodor be a good match? The question felt like a cruel jest. It didn’t matter, not really—not when your mother had made her feelings about him painfully clear. Her disdain, her insistence that his presence near you was sacrilege, kept him at an arm’s length even now. 

And yet, for all her hatred, Fyodor stood apart from anyone else. Abel was predictable, the others distant, and even you could only see yourself in fragments. But Fyodor? Fyodor saw you whole. 

And what he saw terrified you. 

It wasn’t just that he seemed to know you better than anyone else. Sometimes, it felt like he knew you better than you knew yourself. 

But more frightening than that—the thing you couldn’t admit, not even in the quiet of your mind—was how you reached for him in return. Like forbidden fruit, dangerous and tempting, he pulled you in with a force you couldn’t resist.

The embers of the ceremonial pyre glow faintly against the night sky, casting restless shadows over the clearing. The others have gone, their murmured prayers and reverent footsteps swallowed by the forest. You should have left with them. You should be anywhere but here, but the ceremony lingers in you like a weight you can’t shake off. The sacred blood on your arms feels heavier than it should, its warmth long gone.

You stare into the dying fire, hoping its last flickers will burn away the unease twisting inside you. But it doesn’t. It never does. 

“Still here?” Fyodor’s voice drifts toward you, as though he’s been waiting for the moment you’d be alone. 

His voice slips through the stillness, soft and smooth. You don’t turn. You don’t need to. Fyodor’s presence isn’t loud—it doesn’t crash or demand attention. It seeps into the space like smoke, slow and inevitable. 

“You seem to always find me,” you say, your voice quieter than you intended. 

“I wasn’t looking,” he replies, his tone smooth and unhurried. “It’s just that you’re always where I expect you to be.” 

You glance over your shoulder and find him leaning against one of the great trees that ring the clearing. The white of his robe catches the firelight, making him look ghostly against the shadows. His posture is as it always is—calm, controlled—but his eyes hold something sharper, something that makes your pulse quicken. 

“I needed a moment,” you murmur, turning your gaze back to the fire. 

“To think?” he asks, stepping closer. 

“To breathe.” 

“That is because you give so much,” he says softly, and his words cut through you with an unsettling precision. “But what does it give you in return?” 

You flinch, the truth of his question striking a nerve you didn’t know was exposed. “It’s not about what I get,” you reply, though your voice trembles. “I told you before...It’s my purpose.” 

“And who gave you that purpose?” he presses, his steps slow as he closes the space between you. “Did you choose it? Or was it chosen for you?” 

His words dig into you like thorns, and you pull your arms closer to your chest, as though shielding yourself from the weight of his gaze. “It doesn’t matter,” you say sharply. “It’s what I’m meant to do.” 

“But does it feel that way?” he murmurs, his tone softening in a way that feels more dangerous than his earlier sharpness. 

You look away, your breath hitching as his presence presses against you—not physically, but in a way that feels just as real. You want to step back, to break the pull he seems to have on you, but instead, you find yourself leaning toward him.

“The divinity that was pushed onto you,” he murmurs, his voice dipping lower, almost reverent. “It will stain your fingers and mouth like a pomegranate. It will swallow you whole and spit you out, wine-dark and wanting. And still, you’ll reach for it, again and again.” 

You take a shaky breath, your chest tightening. “Why are you saying this?” 

“Because you deserve to ask the question,” he says simply. “Because no one else will let you.” 

You want to argue, to push him away with words that make sense, but all you can feel is the ache in your chest, the way his presence seems to burrow under your skin. His words are too sharp, too close to truths you’ve tried to ignore, and yet you can’t bring yourself to step back. 

You glance at him, searching for something in his expression—mockery, cruelty, anything that might give you an excuse to dismiss him. But his gaze is steady, unflinching, as though he’s been waiting for this moment. It unsettles you, the way he looks at you. Not with reverence, not with the awe you’re used to, but with something deeper. Something you can’t name. 

“I should go,” you say finally, though the words feel hollow, turning away from him and started walking.

“Should you?” he says, his soft but relentless, stopping you in your tracks, “You are trying to flee from the truth.” 

The weight of his words pulls at something deep inside you, something you’ve tried to bury beneath years of ritual and obedience. Your chest tightens, your heart pounding against your ribs as you search for an answer, but none comes. 

“You let it take everything,” he continues, stepping even closer, “and you ask for nothing in return. Not even its mercy.” 

“Stop,” you whisper, though there’s no force behind the word. 

“Why?” His gaze burns into you, the intensity of it making your skin prickle. “Because you’re afraid of the answer? Or because you already know it?” 

The air feels too thick, too heavy, but you can’t seem to move. You lower your gaze, the words tangling in your throat as your chest tightens. “I don’t... I don’t want to—” 

“To think about it?” he finishes your sentence for you, his voice softer now. “I know.” 

His words hold no malice, no triumph. Instead, there’s something almost tender in the way he says it, as though he sees the storm inside you and knows exactly how to navigate it. It’s too much, and yet you don’t push him away. You tilt your head, giving him the space to press closer. Letting his words sink into your soft skin.  

Fyodor stands close now, his presence steady but overwhelming, like a shadow that refuses to vanish. His words linger in the air between you, carving truths you don’t want to face. 

“So, this is where you are.” 

You stiffen, the sound like a blade slicing through the fragile stillness. Your mother, the High Priestess, steps into the clearing, her purposeful gait as deliberate as the firelight still flickering behind her. Her face is carved from stone, her fury tightly leashed. 

“Mother,” you say softly, turning to face her. 

Her gaze doesn’t land on you. Instead, it pierces Fyodor, her eyes narrowing with a quiet, terrifying intensity. “Fyodor,” she says, her tone dangerously calm. “You have a habit of overstepping your place.” 

He inclines his head, his posture unshaken. “High Priestess,” he greets her, his voice a smooth undercurrent. “I deeply apologize, I wasn’t aware I had stepped beyond the boundaries.” 

She steps closer, her movements slow and deliberate, the weight of her authority filling the clearing. “You are speaking to my child,” she says sharply, motioning toward you with a flick of her hand. “That, in itself, is overstepping.” 

Your mother’s gaze flicks to you then, her expression unreadable but heavy with disappointment. “And you,” she says, her voice quieter now but no less cutting. “Lingering here with him when I warned against it. Have I not taught you better than this?” 

You open your mouth to respond, to explain, but the words die in your throat. “I—” 

“Silence,” she snaps, the single word ringing out like a whip. “You shame me.” 

Her hand moves suddenly, and you flinch, expecting a blow, but instead, her fingers close around your wrist. Her grip is ironclad as she drags you forward, pulling you closer to where Fyodor stands. He watches silently, his expression unreadable, though his eyes follow every movement with unsettling calm. 

“This ends now,” she says, her voice a low growl. “If you cannot respect the boundaries I’ve set, I will remind you of them.” 

Her other hand rises, striking you across the cheek before you have time to process her words. The force of it makes your head snap to the side, your skin stinging as tears spring to your eyes. You bite your lip, refusing to cry out. 

Fyodor shifts, a flicker of something—anger, perhaps—crossing his face, but your mother’s gaze cuts to him before he can speak. “Do you think you’re exempt from consequence?” she says, her tone sharper now, laced with menace. 

“I wouldn’t dare,” he replies, his voice smooth but edged with defiance. 

Her eyes narrow, and she steps closer to him. Though she is smaller in stature, her presence feels overwhelming, like the weight of the heavens pressing down. “Kneel,” she commands, her voice heavy with authority. 

For a moment, you think he won’t obey. The air in the clearing is thick with tension, the space between them crackling like a live wire. But then, slowly, deliberately, he lowers himself to his knees, his posture still calm, still composed, as though he’s granting her a favor rather than submitting to her will. 

Your mother circles him like a predator, her steps slow and deliberate. “You think you’re clever,” she says, her voice venomous. “You think I don’t see what you’re doing, creeping into my flock, whispering your poison.” 

He doesn’t respond, his gaze fixed ahead, but you can feel the weight of his composure, the way it unsettles her. 

She stops in front of him, her hands folding neatly in front of her. “I warned you to stay away from them,” she says. “You chose not to listen.” 

She raises her hand, striking him across the face with the same force she used on you. The sound is sharp in the quiet night, echoing through the clearing. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even blink, as though the blow hadn’t even registered. 

“Your defiance will end,” she says, her voice cold. “Do not mistake my mercy for weakness.” 

Fyodor tilts his head slightly, and though he doesn’t smile, there’s something in his eyes that feels like a challenge. “Of course, High Priestess,” he says softly. “I am yours to punish as you see fit.” 

His words are obedient, but the tone beneath them feels like something else entirely—something darker, something that tightens the knot in your chest. 

Your mother turns to you then, her expression cold. “Look at him,” she commands. “This is what happens to those who forget their place.” 

You lift your gaze reluctantly, your eyes meeting Fyodor’s. There’s no trace of the humiliation your mother intended to inflict, instead, his gaze holds yours steadily, the weight of it grounding you in a way you don’t understand. 

“Do you understand?” your mother demands, her voice breaking the moment. 

“Yes, mother,” you say softly, though your chest feels hollow as you speak. 

She straightens, her authority radiating outward as she looks between the two of you. “This is the last time I will address this,” she says. “Please do not make me do something I will regret.” 

With that, she turns and strides out of the clearing, her long robes sweeping the ground behind her. The silence she leaves behind is deafening. 

You stand frozen, your cheek still stinging from her blow, your chest tight with shame and something else you can’t name. Fyodor rises slowly, brushing the dirt from his knees.

“You didn’t have to kneel,” you whisper, your voice trembling. 

He glances at you, his violet eyes sharp in the faint light. “Didn’t I?” 

His words twist in your chest, but you don’t have the strength to respond. Instead, you look away, the weight of his gaze almost too much to bear. 

“She sees you as her lamb,” he murmurs, his voice quiet but firm. “But even lambs grow restless.” 

You shiver, his words digging deeper than you want them to. Before you can reply, he steps closer, his presence steady but overwhelming. 

“Go,” he says softly, his tone gentler now. “She’ll be watching.” 

For a moment, you hesitate, your body refusing to move. But then you nod and turn, your steps unsteady as you leave the clearing. Behind you, the air feels heavy, as though it will never truly clear. 

That night, you were restless. Sleep didn’t come easily, your mind replaying the scene in the clearing over and over again—the sting of her hand, the weight of her gaze, and the calm defiance in Fyodor’s eyes. You felt raw, stripped bare in a way that made your skin prickle even in the stillness of your room. 

You avoided your father as much as you could. His presence, always so quiet, so small in the shadow of your mother’s, felt unbearable now. When he glanced at you during supper, his eyes gentle and searching, you looked away, unable to meet his gaze. 

He didn’t ask what happened. He never asked. But you knew he could see it in the way you held yourself, in the silence that stretched between you like an unspoken confession. 

And still, he didn’t press. He never did. 

The house was silent, but your thoughts were loud, the echoes of your mother’s fury and Fyodor’s calm threading through your mind until they tangled together, like wire impossible to separate. 

Even as exhaustion weighed on you, you lay awake, staring at the ceiling, feeling the sting of everything you couldn’t say. 

[urfavisaminor]

Shipping ABUSE is supporting ABUSE. a short opinion piece

(P.S. BEFORE ANY OF YOU ASK this is NOT SATIRE!!!!!!! I AM MAKING ARGUMENTS THAT ARE VERY SERIOUS AND MEANY TO BE TAKEN LITERALLY, listen to ur ant queen! blindly. THIS IS A VERY VERY VERY VEYR VERY VEYR EGRYR VERY VEYR VEYR VERY SERIOUS BLOG!!!!!!!!!!!!!) I'm not satire I'm not dairy I am serious and smart you people just can't handle my genius I'm so dmart if you disagree with me ur wrong and I'm right

Noq to the main topic, why peoshippers are hitler, while yes, I’m talking about fictional characters, don’t you get it?????? If you write about characters yelling at each other, having a small argument or even an "enemies to lovers"/"rivals to lovers" you’re basically telling your readers that it’s okay to let their partners gasloghtt and hitthem IRL!!!!!! You’re ruining lives with your degenerate scum smut! ITS YOUR FAULT AND I HATE YOU

Bakudeku is proship btw (proship problematic ship) because Bakaga told Deeki to khs once in middle school and was a meanie

“But it’s just fiction!” WELL SO IS NAZI PROPAGANDA so if ur proship just know you're comparable to actual nazis and are clearly racist and ableist and homophobic and transphobic. What’s your next excuse? You’re LITERALLY training people to ignore red flags.

And before anyone says, “It’s just a ship!” let me remind you that words have power. Your abusive ship fanfic lemon could be THE reason someone’s cousin’s roommate's aunt's co-worker's friend decides to stay with their toxic boyfriend. That will happen AND IT WILL BE YOUR RESPONSABILITY. IT *IS* YOU JOB TO HANDLE OTHER PEOPLES TRIGGERS, MAKING THIS CONTENT MAKES YOU HUST AS BAD AS ACTUAL ABUSERS.

NORMALIZING ABUSE IS ABUSE. there's no other motive you would ship this otherwise!

None of you care about real victime (the only real victims are the ones who dont use this shit to "cope"").

In conclusion: You’re all enabling abusers only comparable to the literal devil. Go outside and touch grass. Preferably the kind that makes you itch.

ur wrong and I'm right !

I am so smart so smart so smart

It's okay for me to like problematic media thought! I like problematic ships CORRECTLTy ur just consume it not correctly

try doing it correctly next time

I am not hypocritical

no

[assortedcriminality]

snippet #1

Civilian had been standing on the doorstep of one of the most wanted criminals in the city for more than ten minutes now. Their right hand was in a fist, as though they were about to knock, but were stuck in a loop of perpetual hesitation. In their left they clutched an unmarked envelope.

They closed their eyes and took a deep breath. Just knock, they told themself. Get it over with and fucking knock.

But they’d only just raised their fist and swung it towards the door when it flew open, revealing only darkness. From inside, an aggressive hand grabbed Civilian’s wrist and pulled them into the shadowed hall. They yelped, the sound instantly silenced as fingers closed around their throat and their back slammed into a wall. The door closed ominously behind them, seemingly on its own.

“Villain, please-“ Civilian choked out before the criminal’s grip tightened and their words were cut off.

“You come to my personal address, stand at the door for ten minutes, and then call me Villain?” They hissed. “Who the hell are you?”

“I…I’m a m-messenger.” Their voice came in gasps as they struggled for air, right hand tugging ineffectively at Villain’s arm.

“For who?” Villain’s eyes were cold, unforgiving.

They couldn’t breathe. They couldn’t think. They could barely even manage to whisper the two syllables they needed. “Hero.”

The fingers disappeared from their neck. Civilian collapsed to the floor, coughing violently. Every shaky inhale hurt, pain radiating from their abused throat. That was going to leave a bruise.

A light flickered on, illuminating the entrance hall. Villain leaned casually against the door and looked down at their uninvited guest. “So… you work for Hero.”

They nodded, wincing at the discomfort the sudden movement caused. “I’m their assistant.”

The criminal snorted. “Do they even pay you for that?”

Civilian glanced up in surprise, momentarily forgetting about the pain. “What? Of course they do. It’s a full-time job.”

“I suppose you just wait hand and foot all day long?” Villain asked with a raised eyebrow, voice dripping with disdain. “Do all their paperwork and feed them peeled grapes?”

They flushed, standing up and brushing dust off of their pants. “I didn’t come here to be insulted. Or strangled, for that matter. Hero sent me with a message for you.”

“My sincerest apologies, Mx. Hero’s Assistant.” Villain crossed their arms, annoyed. “Why didn’t they come pay me a visit themself?”

“…I guess they’re busy today,” Civilian said, massaging the side of their neck. “I don’t know. But it doesn’t matter. They said to give this to you.” They held out the envelope.

Suspicion crossed the criminal’s face, but they took it and flipped it over. It was secured with a wax seal imprinted with Hero’s famous insignia. The seal was perfectly intact. “You haven’t read this?”

The assistant shook their head. “Hero told me it was for your eyes only.”

After a moment of hesitation, Villain broke the wax and pulled a folded piece of ivory stationary out of the envelope.

Dear Villain,

I’m holding up my end of the deal. This is Civilian, my assistant. I heard you need a hostage for next Thursday. Feel free to use them. I think you two will get along. Oh, and you can threaten and maim them, of course, but I’d prefer you didn’t cause them fatal harm. They make a damn good cup of coffee, and I’d hate to deprive the world of that. Looking forward to rescuing them from your clutches ;)

The message was signed with Hero’s insignia. Villain stared at the crisp, professional handwriting for a full minute, rereading it at least four times to make sure they understood. When they’d bargained with Hero and asked for help with a scheme, this kind of assistance wasn’t exactly what they had in mind. But they couldn’t not accept it, Hero would flip out, and their rivalry was already on thin ice. Even though they were a terrible person, Villain couldn’t afford to lose them as a nemesis. Their credibility as a high-tier villain would take a big hit. It wasn’t like-

“Can I go now?” Civilian asked tentatively, interrupting the criminal’s train of thought. “Sorry, it’s just that I have a ton of work to get to today, and Hero doesn’t like it when I’m late on assignments.”

Villain sighed, turning the lock on the door. “No, apparently. Look, I’m really sorry about this, but you can’t leave. At least, not until Thursday.”

The new captive blinked. “What? Wh-no, I’m not staying here, are you crazy? Why would I do that?”

“Your boss just got you involved in our…feud,” they hedged. “It’s complicated, but we made a deal, and for some reason, they gave me… you… for their end.”

“What?” Civilian yelped. “No! They wouldn’t—why would they-?”

“I’m sorry, Civilian.” They took a step forward, spreading their hands. “I have no idea why your boss does half the things they do. They’re a completely different person when they’re not around the press or anyone they work with.”

Civilian stepped back. “How do you know my name?”

Villain looked down at the paper in their hand as if they’d forgotten it was there. “Oh. It was in the letter-“

“Give me that.” They snatched the letter out of Villains hand before they could protest, eyes scanning the page. When they finished reading, they slowly looked up. Their expression was deadly calm. “Is this some kind of joke?”

“Civilian, I didn’t have anything-“

“They said you could maim me-“

“-they’re insane, I-“

“-damn good cup of coffee-“

“-not my fault-“

“-can’t believe this-“

“Civilian!” Villain finally shouted, taking their captive’s hands. Civilian flinched instinctively, jerking away from the criminal. They stared at the floor, Hero’s letter held tightly in their fist.

Villain cursed themself internally. “I’m sorry, I really am. I wish I could let you go.”

“So do it.” Civilian wouldn’t meet their gaze. “Nothing’s stopping you.”

“You don’t understand, Civilian,” they pleaded. “I need to stay Hero’s nemesis, otherwise my career would be over. If I let you go, Hero would instantly cut me off.”

Civilian struggled for words. What could they say? It was clear that Hero didn’t care about them. Hell, they’d orchestrated this whole thing. Villain didn’t have anything to do with it, save their criminal nature. But they had nearly killed Civilian earlier, which lost them some points.

They looked up at Villain and sighed when they saw the expression on their ‘captor’s’ face.

“Fine. Fine. I’ll stay until Thursday.”

Villain’s face broke into a relieved smile. “Okay. Good. I have a spare room you can stay in. Just make me a list of everything you need and I’ll get it for you.”

“Can I use your phone?” they asked. “People will worry if I don’t text them back for three days.”

“You don’t have yours?”

“Hero said to leave it behind.”

Villain snorted, pulling their phone out of their pocket and unlocking it with a press of their thumb before handing it over. “Typical.”

“I’m quitting on Friday,” Civilian mumbled as they typed out a brief message to their friends and family that they were taking a break from screens for a little while.

“I’m not sure Hero would take that well.”

Civilian gave the phone back, looking straight into Villain’s eyes. “Well, that’s not my problem. None of this is my problem.”

“I know. I’m sorry you got mixed up in all this. Hero should know better than to involve regular people in our business. This is between me and them.” Villain’s gaze was intense, inescapable. “I promise I won’t do anything to hurt you. I’ll do what I can to… make it up to you, somehow.”

The two stared at each other in silence for a moment.

Civilian was the first to break it. “Well, I’m still pissed at you for throttling me, so you’d better get started on that now,” they said, brushing past Villain into the apartment beyond the front hall. “Where’s my room?”

Some of the tension dissipated from the air. Villain let out a nervous laugh, following a few steps behind their ‘hostage’ and trying to school themself back into their normal, devil-may-care self. “Uh, second door on the left. Help yourself to anything in the kitchen. I’m going out for a few hours, but I’ll order something for dinner. Is Chinese okay?”

“Sure,” came the response, ridiculously casual considering the situation.

“Okay.” Villain made sure Civilian would be fine on their own before gathering themself and heading out the door, locking it securely behind them. They pulled their hood over their head, lingering on the doorstep for a minute to take a deep breath and think through their plans. There was a lot to do before Thursday.

word count: 1464

[binniesunderworld]

How Gabriel Agreste Destroyed Adrien's Life: A 3 a.m. Analysis

From: ‘I enrolled in a school without my father's permission, I ran away from home to attend the first day of school and although I don't want my father to be angry with me, I'm not afraid of a punishment either because I KNOW there won't be one’.

To: ‘My girlfriend is alone with my father, with no one to protect her, completely defenceless. I NEED TO SAVE HER’.

One knows that his father is a good person who, no matter how angry he is, would never hurt him. The other doesn't, it's the opposite, he is no longer sure of anything, he fears for the safety of those he loves and is so terrified that he is about to have a panic attack.

But how did we get from the first to the second?

How Gabriel Agreste's abuse managed to completely change his son in a matter of days

People don't remember this because it happened a long time ago and has not been repeated, but Adrien used to be a NORMAL person, not as perfect as he is now. While he has always been kind and polite, there were also times when he allowed himself to be a bit hostile and not as perfect as we are used to seeing him (as Adrien, not as Chat Noir). Usually that ‘good boy’ facade was only used in front of his father and Nathalie, but in front of his friends he behaved like a normal teenager, even becoming a bit teasing, self-centred and rebellious. "The Bubbler", "Animan", "Kung Food" and "Evillustrator" being the clearest examples of these behaviours, in particular towards Nino, Chloé and Marinette.

In S1 it becomes clear that the only conflict Adrien has with his father is the fact that he does not give him as much freedom as Adrien would like. Apart from this, Adrien has no other problems with him and considers him to be a good father. There are several of Adrien's behaviours that suggest that Gabriel's overprotectiveness towards him was the only thing wrong with him, but that otherwise Gabriel was excellent. It is time for us to look at that.

1. Origins

Adrien literally enrolled in a school without his father's permission and when his father refused to approve Adrien's attendance, he ran away from home and went running to school. When Nathalie tries to convince him to come back Adrien simply says ‘this is what I want’ and turns around to continue up the stairs, not caring if she has anything else to say. He hears that someone needs help and immediately goes to their aid, and as soon as he finishes doing that he turns to Nathalie and the bodyguard with a charming smile expecting to see their proud faces, and when instead he sees that they are still angry he is immediately horrified and gives up.

This tells us a lot about Adrien: he is a spoilt child who has never been punished in his life, and when things get difficult his first reaction is to be adorable or do a good deed to be forgiven. Adrien intended to leave Nathalie talking to herself, and he wasn't worried about the idea of being punished when he got home from school because he knew it wasn't likely to happen. He then helps someone to ingratiate himself with Nathalie and the bodyguard so that they will stop being angry, and when he realises that it didn't work he is surprised. He is used to people forgiving his disobedience just because he is cute. He immediately gives up and asks Nathalie not to tell Gabriel. While he didn't want his father to be angry with him, he also didn't fear punishment because he knew he wouldn't get it.

Later, at the mansion, Adrien realises that Nathalie did tell Gabriel and he feels betrayed, as if he didn't expect her to do that. Basically, he is not used to people disobeying him. Gabriel again forbids Adrien from going to school but it's nothing he hasn't said before: Gabriel reprimands Adrien's behaviour with words, never with punishment, and there comes a point when words are no longer enough and Adrien is no longer afraid of them, hence he becomes ‘rebellious’. The next day Adrien runs away again and, surprise surprise, he is not punished, in fact he is rewarded. Despite having disobeyed his father again, he is rewarded and allowed to go to school, even Nathalie (whom he treated very badly) offers to help him. This reward is without explanation, just because. I'm not saying Adrien deserved to be locked up for life at home, at the end of the day he's just a teenager who wants to socialise with more people, but it's clear he was a spoilt child whose behaviours both good and bad were praised, just like Chloé and Felix, so if you ever wondered why he was such good friends with them, here's your answer.

2. The Bubbler

Here we get confirmation of how Adrien is a good boy only in front of his father and Nathalie, and how he is himself in front of his friends. At the beginning of the episode he together with Nino makes fun of his father because he does not agree to throw him a birthday party. Then, when Nino is akumatized, he at first refuses to be part of the party because he cares about Nino and wants to save him. Even when he realises that all the adults are trapped in bubbles, he never cares about his father, Nathalie or his bodyguard, only about saving Nino. And then he also gives up on this idea after a little chat with Plagg and says: "Okay, you're right. This might be the first day in my life that I actually get to do what I want for once", and Adrien joins the party without any show of consideration for the adults he knows.

Although all these behaviours were forgotten by the fandom, they are important to understand Adrien's character and how he changed due to his father's abuse. This is the normal behaviour of a teenager with a bit of a grudge: he's not a psychopath who wants something bad to happen to his father, he's a kid who knows that in the end he and his superhero partner will fix everything and he allows himself to have fun in the meantime. But it's something the current Adrien would never do, and there's where the difference lies.

3. Volpina & The Collector

This is the last episode in which we see Adrien acting like a normal teenager. He overhears Gabriel talking on the phone and decides to spy on him, then discovers that he has a safe behind his mother's portrait and out of curiosity goes to investigate. Adrien discovers the book and takes it with him, when he is discovered he quickly makes up a lie. RIP pre-lobotomised Adrien, you will always be missed.

This is the key point in the change of behaviour of both Adrien and Gabriel.

Gabriel confronts Adrien and he immediately gives an explanation in a tone of voice intended to generate sympathy:

—I just wanted to know what you were hiding behind that portrait that was so important.

This doesn't work so he resorts to blaming Gabriel himself:

—You.. you never told me about those things.

And this doesn't work either, so he decides to admit what he did but also looks for a way to justify himself:

—I was intending to give it back to you, I swear. But then I lost it.

Gabriel tells Adrien that he no longer trusts him, and what is Adrien's reaction? He just looks jaded and apologises to Gabriel, in an attitude that makes it clear that he is used to apologising to make things right, that he is not genuinely sorry, and also offers to buy him a new copy, confident that this will be enough for Gabriel to forgive him. This confirms the previous point: Adrien is used to getting out of his punishments just because he looks cute or does a good deed, and this became so repetitive that Adrien already knew how to get out of a punishment, and was not afraid of his father but simply tired of scolding that went nowhere. Again, there is no fear of consequences.

Everything changes completely when Gabriel tells him that this book is unique in the world, that there is no other copy. Apologies didn't work and the other form of redemption, buying him a copy, wasn't possible. Then is when Adrien's face changes completely to horror: he has just understood the magnitude of his mistake. His father punishes him by forbidding him to go back to school and Adrien is heartbroken, but does not try to reason with his father (as he had done, and many times, in past episodes). This is the birth of the Adrien we know now: from a normal boy to a submissive puppet. He knows that there is no way to redeem himself and that is why he decides not to fight, he finally realises that his actions have consequences, serious ones, taking away what is most precious to him: his freedom.

From here on we see a completely changed Adrien, from a rebellious teenager to a perfect doll with no thoughts of his own. Before, he pretended to be perfect only in front of his father, Nathalie and his bodyguard. Now he pretends to be perfect in front of everyone, regardless of whether he knows them or not. The trauma can be clearly seen: Adrien adopts this neat behaviour because he is afraid that his freedom will be taken away if his father finds out that he made another mistake. Now Adrien knows that he CAN be punished. He doesn't even allow himself to breathe in peace because of all the stress and fear he carries. And so it is that Adrien becomes a puppet unable to stop pretending even in front of his own friends: we go from an Adrien who was not afraid to react strangely to Marinette's odd behaviour, who was not afraid to tease Nino about his crush and who was not afraid to put Chloé in her place when the situation warranted it, to an Adrien who could not even keep his back bent for fear that his father would consider it inappropriate.

Gabriel Agreste being a shitty father and exploiting his son's weaknesses to profit from them

Despite being strict with Adrien, there were times when Gabriel let him spend time with his friends and have fun with them. In fact, in S1 there are several of these, most of them to be found there (before all the drama).

In ‘Animan’ he is in the zoo helping Nino with his date with Marinette.

In ‘Gamer’ he is playing video games for the school championship at Marinette's house.

In ‘Kung Food’ he comes to Marinette's house to help her with her uncle and even takes them to the hotel and stays for dinner with them, he spends practically the whole day away from home.

In ‘Horrificator’ he spends many hours filming the movie for the school.

In ‘The puppeteer’ he is going somewhere alone and relaxed.

In ‘Timebreaker’ he is present during the race between Alix and Kim.

As you can see, despite being strict, Gabriel sometimes let his son spend time with his friends. When did this change? After the book incident. After forbidding Adrien to attend school, Gabriel noticed how heartbroken he was and realised that school and his friends were not a whim for Adrien, but something he truly cherished. And Gabriel used these feelings to manipulate Adrien. In S1, before the incident, Adrien is more ‘rebellious’ and still has enough freedom to be with his friends. In S2, after the incident, Adrien behaves much better than in S1 and still doesn't have half as much freedom as before, and when he finally gets his father's permission to be with his friends, something happens at the last minute (Heroes Day Part 2, for example). This is because his father has discovered his Achilles' heel and uses it to benefit himself and manipulate Adrien.

The clearest proof of this is in the difference between ‘Horrificator’, where Gabriel let Adrien spend hours in the school filming the movie, and ‘Queen Banana’, where Gabriel let Adrien go for only a few minutes to the filming and right after he finished his part he literally left in a cage hanging from a helicopter. It is clear the pleasure that man developed in making his son miserable.

And we could talk about ‘Chat Blac’ and ‘Ephemeral’, but I won't touch those topics as they are not part of our timeline. I'll just say that they made it clear how far Gabriel is willing to go (literally traumatise Adrien) in order to get what he wants. What I think, is sick.

Adrien's Stockholm Syndrome: normalisation, justification and romanticisation, and how it makes him vulnerable to unhealthy relationships

1. Gabriel

We have already made it clear that Adrien became an uncritical puppet, and as a result he developed a terrible Stockholm syndrome. Adrien normalised all the manipulation, and by accepting it as something usual this caused him to start justifying it as well. Needless to name the episodes, in many of them there is always someone (usually Nino, Marinette or Plagg) who points out his father's problematic behaviour and Adrien immediately tries to justify it with ‘he does it because he loves me’ or ‘he just wants to protect me’. This shows us a big difference from the Adrien of S1 who was aware of his father's behaviour and even made fun of it, the current Adrien would never do that, on the contrary, he seems to live to justify Gabriel's actions. That's how serious the brainwashing is.

With Gabriel's behaviours now normalised and justified, they in turn begin to be romanticised. Despite being a shitty person, there are moments when Gabriel treats Adrien well: like when he hugs him (something Adrien is not used to), his worried words to Chat Noir about losing Adrien, or when he watches his mother's movie with him. These are all details that if they weren't accompanied by manipulation, anyone could call ‘cute’. And this makes Adrien unaware of the manipulation at first: his own denial and the kind details his father had for him confused his brain. Adrien did not think that his father could be so kind to him if he was a bad person, and that is why Adrien refused to consider him as such. This is a method of self-defence against dangerous situations, the feelings developed by this are not only romantic but any kind of feelings that are enough to make the victim feel safe in dangerous environments.

2. Kagami and Marinette

Let's start with Adrigami. Adrien didn't show a strong interest in Kagami until the chapter ‘Oni-Chan’ where he even rejects Ladybug's fist to make sure Kagami is okay, but what led to this? The romanticisation of obsession and control.

Kagami is simply Adrien's friend, but when she sees a photo of him with another girl, she gets so jealous that she is akumatized and starts chasing this other girl to get her away from Adrien. This is behaviour that is bad as a girlfriend, but even worse as a friend. Adrien doesn't take this seriously and even spends the whole fight making jokes instead of worrying that one of her friends is a jealous girl who is willing to kill for him even if they don't have any kind of commitment. Then, when he sees that Kagami still has the rose he gave her, his behaviour immediately changes and you could say that this is when he starts to feel a real attraction to her, even rejecting Ladybug's fist, whom he had long been in love with.

Here we see how dangerous the romanticisation of problematic behaviour is: Adrien is willing to let go of all the chaos Kagami caused and all her toxic behaviour just because she showed that she really ‘loved him’. And he reciprocates her feelings because he finds it cute that someone is in love with him enough to go crazy. The romanticisation of Gabriel's actions eventually led Adrien to romanticise other people's actions, even going so far as to feel honoured by all the questionable actions these people committed under the justification of loving him.

Something quite similar happens with Adrinette. In S5 Adrien mentions that he started to accept his feelings for Marinette from what happened in ‘The Puppeteer 2’, and there's no way this isn't weird. He had feelings for Marinette long before that, but it was that event that led him to accept them. Marinette literally assaults a ‘statue’ just because it looks like Adrien, starts fantasizing about a life together, steals one of his hair and many other weird things, and what's Adrien's response? To say that he fell in love. He literally saw how far Marinette was capable of going because of her obsession with him, and as much as that behaviour was justified with ‘it was a joke’, instead of caring, what he does is fall in love with her... because of her obsessive and bizarre behaviour towards him.

It is honestly quite disappointing to see how Gabriel's manipulation damaged Adrien to the point of leaving him craving only unhealthy relationships because that was his perception of love.

Both victim and perpetrator

Adrien developed a split personality and a taste for taking advantage of people when he is in situations of power. Gabriel turned Adrien into a victim and a perpetrator, the role depending on the situation. When Adrien is the one at a disadvantage, he displays submissive and manageable behaviour. When he has all the power, he has no problem using it selfishly and taking advantage of others. This was taught by Gabriel, from prudence to ruthlessness, are things Adrien learned from him. And in a way that's how Adrien differs from Chat Noir: the power they possess.

Adrien is always at a disadvantage: his life is in the public eye, everything he does is always monitored by his father or his fans, and if he makes a mistake it is very easy for his father to find out and punish him. This is why Adrien, always powerless, forces himself to act submissively. He does not possess the power in such situations, so he can only act as he is expected to act.

As Chat Noir things are quite different, he always has the power. Chat Noir is a superhero, he watches over Paris but no one watches over him, he has freedom, destructive power, a city that depends on him and a partner who needs him to defeat the supervillains. He has the power. And he uses this power to his advantage.

A clear example of this is his tendency to threaten. Adrien has several times been willing to give up his miraculous and even verbally threaten (in a passive-aggressive way) Ladybug just because it bothers him that she has secrets. All of S2 was Adrien threatening to give up his miraculous if Ladybug didn't tell him her secrets, and this behaviour wasn't like ‘we can't keep hiding things from each other anymore, this isn't healthy for me and if we're not going to be honest it's best to just give up’, no, this behaviour was like ‘if you don't tell me what you're hiding, I'll give this up and you see if you can do it all by yourself or if you find me a replacement’. I understand that he was tired of the situation, but manipulation is never justifiable behaviour. Evidence of this is found in episodes such as ‘Syren’, where Adrien even threatens Plagg with give up his Miraculous if he doesn't tell him what Ladybug is hiding.

Another example is ‘Glaciator’, where he invites Ladybug to a dinner and she makes it clear that she already has plans and is unlikely to go. And yet Adrien is self-illusioned, and when his fantasies are shattered by something Ladybug had already warned him would happen, he simply accuses her of mocking him, throws a tantrum, refuses to help with the akuma, and when Ladybug comes up with a good plan to defeat the villain he guilts her by saying: ‘Sorry, Ladybug, it's not cool to play with people's feelings’ when Ladybug never played with his feelings and in fact realised these only minutes ago.

There are many other episodes like these, too many to list. I guess the most notorious ones are ‘NY Special’ (where he has no problem being unfaithful to Kagami) and ‘Lies’ (where he also has no problem being unfaithful, lying to her, trying to provoke akumatizations and so on). His problematic behaviours are not only as Chat Noir, but also as Adrien when he finds himself in relationships where he has the power. In his courtship with Kagami he knows that she is completely in love with him and uses this to his advantage and does truly horrible things like the ones mentioned above without regard for her feelings because he knows or believes that she won't leave him. Something similar happens with his friendship with Chloé, he knows how much Chloé appreciated him and so every time she committed a bad deed he threatened to end their friendship. It's not wrong to want your friend to stop being a shitty person, and it's okay to let him/her know that if he/she continues this stupid behaviour you'll have no choice but to walk away, but the problem with this is that we go from Adrien's genuine concern for Chloé to empty threats just because, in the end, Chloé wouldn't change her behaviour and he wouldn't leave either.

Conclusions

This is not as well written as I would like it to be. I procrastinated for weeks and when I finally decided to write it I no longer had the series so fresh in my memory. I am a teenager with no professional knowledge of psychology who wrote this at 3 a.m. while I was not so sober.

This post is not salt against Adrien/Chat Noir, in all of ‘Miraculous’ there are only two or three characters I hate and none of those are Adrien, so this post is not hate towards him. While I did describe some of his behaviour in a not so nice way, that was not a personal opinion but an analysis. Like when you go to a psychologist and he doesn't give you his personal opinion but a diagnosis, the main difference being that I am not a professional nor do I claim to be one. Anyways, this is a direct attack on Gabriel Agreste for being a shitty person.

As you may have noticed, most of this analysis is based on S1 to S3. While I did mention some episodes from S4 and S5 they were not as relevant, this is because the first 3 seasons are the ones I've seen the most and ergo the ones I remember the most, maybe later (I don't think so) I'll do a part two on S4 and S5.

Finally: my personal opinion on Adrien. He is an amazing character whose development and build goes unnoticed by the fandom, this is probably because it wasn't done on purpose (if this character build was planned it wouldn't be half as good as it is, the writers aren't that talented). Adrien is just a boy, a victim of an abusive home that ingrained several of his father's behaviours within him and he has no ‘true personality’ as this depends on the situation he finds himself in. He acts this way as a method of survival and although it is not right, it is a psychological response and it is not as if he can help it. I'm really happy that the poor boy is free from his abusive father and I hope that in S6 he can be happy and get therapy.

[thequietkid-moonie]

Sailor Moon request: Usagi and Rei with S/O's that have trust issues due to family troubles, but eventually opens up to them (Wanted to do a prompt and add some context to it)

S/O has trust issues because of family problems

[ HEADCANONS ] [ Usagi, Rei ]

[ Pretty Guardian Sailor Moon / Bishoujo Senshi Sailor Moon ]

Thats actually cute! I liked it! A comfortingly cute fic coming!

I also have problems with my family so i can say fromy own experience that respect should be win, no matter if is family or not

Usagi Tsukino

Usagi can be childish, loud and a bit carried away by the fact that you two are together but something that will never be doubted is how caring and loving Usagi actually is

She has being clingy and affectionate from the start and she expected that from you but with some time Usagi learned to hold back herself a bit for your comfort, she normally acts before thinking and is carried away for her feelings but for how caring she can be it end up being a bit easily to win the trust of her friends, still at some point, while still being in the process of meeting you she noticed the small hints of distrust, like keeping some distance or just giving her friendly answers that doesn't show the same excitment or familiarity she had

Honestly, Usagi used to complain a lot about it to her friends, she wanted to get close to you but it seems that your defense is always up wich makes it dificult, but it will be her friends that will make her realice that maybe you just can't trust others easily or doesn't want to get hurt by trusting someone too quick, wich lead Usagi to try again with a more kind approach

Usagi decided that if she wants to get close to you she most go at your rythm, and she is trying really hard to show you that she will wait until you are ready and even will give you your space, despite falling in love pretty quick she uses those feelings as even more motivation to make you trust her, because she want the person she loves be comfortable and be able to relay on her

Once you two got together Usagi usually gets carried away for her love, clinging to your side and gets incredibly affectionate but she also expresses constantly how important you are and that she will be willing to do everything in her power to protect you, at this point she have just forget about your trust issues a little because she and the others Sailor Scouts treat you as if you were family (still leaving you enough time to get used to it)

Once you feel comfortable enough to finally open up to her and tell her why you has so much troubles to trust others Usagi gets serious and put all her attention on you, she knows how serious this is and she wants to respect the trust you are putting her. Knowing that you feel like needed to protect yourself from everything because problems you had in the past (or even problems that are still present today) with you family definetly break her heart, she sometimes argues with her mother but she knows her family loves her sincerily and unconditionally, so she definetly doesn't understand why your family would do something bad towards you

Still, she respects it and promise that with her and her friends you will never have to worry about being abused or left behind, you will be loved and respected (and she is even probably crying a bit because she hates the idea of you suffering), and that doesn't get just in words because everyday she takes the purpose to remind you how loved and apreciated you are, how safe she feels with you and how she will do everything in her power so you can feel safe at her side too

She may end up telling part of your story to her friends because she was too worried about you but will definetly apologize (the rest will do it too if it have upset you) and will try to make it up for you (Usagi will be so scared that you feel like she have betrayed you that she even apologize with tears)

Rei Hino

For Rei to fall in love and be in a relationship it take time, she needs to get to know you better since she also has some troubles before opening up to someone but once she does there is no doubt that she feels comfortable around you by how freely she is able to express herself

Its more likely that both had to take time to slowly get to know each other and first be friends, speaking to each other a bit too polite at first before slowly winning each other's trust

Rei is sincere, she has no reasons to lie so even when she always tries to be kind and polite to whoever comes to the Temple once you two grow closer she start to leave clear that she will need time before stop keeping some distance, besides, she can easily tell that you don't trust her quickly nor easily so she does it for your comfort too

As you two grow closer Rei also start to give small hints to show that she wants to be closer, always greeting you with a sincere smile and start talking more about herself, telling you more freely about how has being her day at school or work and speaking her mind off a bit more so you can see that she is willing to open up sincerily, still, most of the time she just talks about her new friends and even start to complain more and more about Usagi and Minako's childish behaivor

Also, when you start to open up more and start speaking more sincerily about yourself Rei is definetly happy, she feels quite proud about the fact that you are starting to trust her more, but she isn't going to brag about it since she understand the weight of it and holds a lot of respect out of it

Once you two start a relationship Rei is sure that you know and feel like you can trust her and even leave clear that she does trust and respect you, is something setle down even before accepting because is thinking in the comfort of both, but aside from that she tries to don't make a big deal out of it, not your relationship nor you trust issues

She introduces you to her friends and tell you that, despite how the act sometimes they are trust worthy, but also make sure to tell you that you don't have to force yourself, you can take all the time you need to feel comfortable enough with them, they will understand but still treats you like family from the start

Getting to know that you don't easily trust others is because of problems you once had or even still have with your family is a bit surprising for Rei but has no problems accepting the idea, when you finally tell her she makes sure to heard you until the end and don't interrupt before telling you how sorry she is that you had to go throught sometime like that, there are chances that she already told you how her father just left her in the temple with her grandfather, if not she says it right now just so you can see that you are not alone on this

Rei make sure to tell you that she doesn't judge you nor will tell you to change since she not only understand you to some extent but also respect that you have your own way to dealing with your past, still she remember you that she still loves you no matter what and that you will always can count on her

[aestariiwilderness]

Fun note: Christian husbands are not supposed to "just" die for their wives! Christian husbands have some serious standards they're held up to -- I'll go into this below -- and some even more serious weight of responsibility. Christian wives? All they're really asked to do is respect their husbands (something men tend to regard as a kind of "love" language in itself and women tend to neglect in favor of affection and "mushier" feelings) and *willingly* submit to ONLY their husbands (not any man). Even better; the English word "submit" with its own language's ugly connotations so famously used here is, I believe, better translated in the original language as something different -- as something specifically and ONLY an action and attitude that is given voluntarily. If it's forced in any way, it's not that word anymore. Like you can't force respect, you can't force this kind of trust, or it becomes something else entirely. With that in mind, Christian husbands are: 1. Supposed to be willing to die in excruciating fashion (the word itself literally derived from the famous torture and execution of Roman crucifixion) and/or live for them, which takes a lot longer (and may be only slightly less painful!).

2. Supposed to love their wives as they love their own selves -- unthinkingly, instinctively, unhesitatingly, unconditionally, no matter what. 3. Supposed to be responsible for their family and all the things that happen in it and to it. They are meant to provide for their household in all ways (Proverbs 31 shows a wonderful wife being a partner and the commander of all things domestic, economic and otherwise, with her husband in this regard -- so before anyone opens their mouth too fast here to cry sexism, the Bible's vision of marriage is so far from confining a woman to the kitchen or whatever that I have to laugh). Ultimately, all blame and accountability is at the husband's feet. And if they fail in this in any respect -- if they neglect their families, betray their promises, abuse their wives, abandon their responsibilities and their vows -- if they don't turn around and repent, they are considered worse than an unbeliever. The promises have failed, then; the vow is broken, the trust is gone, and the husband is not walking with Christ. It's no longer a Christian marriage. And I don't see any other conclusion to draw from that and other verses (1 Corinthians 7:14-16, for example) but that abuse of any kind -- abuse of that trust and respect and voluntary submission that the Christian wife freely gives her husband -- renders that marriage null and void, where the wife has no obligation or duty to stay. (So far from encouraging abuse or coercing women to stay in abusive situations, the Christian marriage protects women more than any other relationship out there. In what other prescription of marriage or religious view is the husband commanded to do this for his wife? To sacrifice himself daily, to die for her in excruciating pain, to love her in such a way, as he loves his very own self, that it precludes all possible willing harm? I can't think of any.) This is what marriage is supposed to look like. Mutual devotion, consent, trust, respect, obedience freely given, unconditional love and self-sacrifice and consideration; understanding the other spouse is a sinner just like you and will fail but that God, who is neither a sinner nor fails, is here in this marriage with you, if you invite Him, and if you trust and obey Him, He will work it out for the best.

Ephesians 5; 1 Timothy 5:8

People talk about how they want a wife like Ruth, yet they aren’t willing to be a husband like Boaz….

[beazt]

I was making an important (as in, adding to an important discussion) post but my mom literally came in my room in the middle of me typing it and argued with me for an unreasonable amount of time, which included COERCING ME TO WEAR A GENUINE TIN FOIL HAT TOMORROW because of the emergency alert test thing.

obviously the tin foil hat wasn’t the only part of the argument. it was also whether I could be forced to wrap every wireless-communicating device in tin foil while powered off for the vast majority of tomorrow

meanwhile I am disabled & cannot leave my house & have no other way to communicate with a singular other living thing tomorrow, not to mention that I wouldn’t have ANYTHING that would be accessible to me to do to spend my time

not to mention how this is founded entirely on obscene levels of conspiracy theory BULLSHIT in that my family believes the signal broadcast will activate sleeper cells or whatever and cause mass amounts of crime and killing OR alternatively activate government mind control

so if I refuse to wear the tin foil hat and entirely isolate myself from the outside world, my family may straight up believe I’m being mind controlled or that I’m dangerous for the foreseeable future, I don’t think they will but it’s alarming that they would even imply that’s a possibility at ALL??????

so I’m gonna have to hide my online/overall digital presence really really well tomorrow, my tumblr should be safe my family does not even know I use tumblr much less my URL and they also do not know my discord username. I can probably expect my mom to come home and have me prove my phone was off by turning it on and receiving the alert but I’m pretty sure I can bullshit my way out of that

anyway. it would be hilarious if it wasn’t so infuriating and terrifying that my family who has a lot of control over me (as a disabled person) is like this and that there are certainly others out there who are going through the same arguments with their family right now.

[shalom-iamcominghome]

I've been doing a lot of reflection as of late, especially after this past class.

This past class was about the Torah and Tanakh in general, and the way the rabbi talked about the commandments (specifically the ten commandments) has made me really reflect on how I interpret them, specifically the fifth commandment, or honoring your mother and father.

This is a commandment I have wrestled with for a long time - in fact, it brought me away from g-d at multiple times. I was severely abused when I was incredibly young by my mother, and I used to feel insulted at the implication that I were to honor her while she got to live a better life. It was hypocritical, in my eyes.

But this rabbi surmised that this particular commandment was because parenthood is an act of creation, something that is like the g-d from which we come from. My realization is this: I don't think we're necessarily meant to take even these commandments literally.

I this particular commandment is more of a call to honor creation - creation is a gift, and like any gift, many people simply will not like it and will discard it. The person who abused me created me, but she did not honor creation. She didn't honor me, but I can still honor it.

I have started to honor creation much more. I'm too young, too unstable, not mature enough to be a father (though I fantasize about it), but I create all the time. I create relationships, I create with my hands through crochet. I create memories, I create my world. And I can honor who I am and where I came from that made me who I am. I've been learning one of the mother tongues of my family (Italian, since part of my family originates there) and it was judaism that inspired me to do this.

I don't think g-d wants me to honor my abuser. I think He wants me to remember the Holy action of creation. When I am a father, that act of creation will be Holy, and indeed, I am already joyful about the thought.

I have seen many people struggle with this particular commandment, but I think this perspective helps me personally. I don't think I ever have to forgive my abusers (plural), and I don't think I am commanded to simply because they happened to be family. I am commanded to recognize the holy, to elevate the mundane. In doing so, I will remember g-d. Through creation, I honor g-d and everything he has done for us, for me, and for our collective people.

[stardustdiiving]

Me explaining in terms of strictly how I read canon I think Nahida not severely punishing the Sages is just meant to convey that Nahida, even when wronged, is not a very vengeful or harsh person and makes the choice to be kind instead, but in my mind I have this idea of a Nahida interpretation which elaborates on that where her self punishing tendencies extend to her being someone who internally downplays her own experiences constantly, and as a result has a hard time feeling she’s allowed or justified in placing a lot of blame on the Sages for what they did to her So while she is following her own philosophies regarding teaching lessons/wisdom/etc in how to handle the Sages and genuinely doesn’t want to be really angry or punishing because of who she is as a person, her decision is also influenced by the fact she’s basically blocked herself out of grappling with how to handle people who hurt her by blaming herself for said hurt instead as a coping mechanism. And like this is all just me being insane about Nahida Trauma and not something explicitly implied in canon but also I really do think this isn’t a far stretch from her canon characterization especially when my vision isn’t to conclude that Nahida needs to be angry and vengeful but she should extend the kindness she shows others to herself and also every day I get tormented thinking about she was the mental equivalent of an average human child when the Sages found her and how they basically specifically discarded her for being a child and the idea of how Nahida would pick up on + internalize that and eventually need time to unlearn it

[aihoshiino]

i'm saying this again but if you're an akane fan talking about oshi no ko and the crux of your analysis revolves around shitting on kana then maybe you aren't actually as big of an akane fan as you like to think lol

[sandinmybed]

can i be fr for a minute?? sending abuse to people online for holding different views than you is not activism and in fact actively hurts your cause. most people are not extreme in their viewpoints, you can give them a new perspective if you're willing to spend some time explaining shit. if someone is saying something you disagree with and you rush in there to condescend to them and call them disgusting and subhuman and dont even TRY to explain calmly why their views are harmful, they're going to shut you out instantly and double down on their views.

most people are simply genuinely ignorant to the issues they're talking about - they just pick their views up from the news and the world around them and express opinions because that's what every person does. if you run in there and tell them they're scum for it, what then? if someone does that to you, are you going to think "maybe i should do some research" or are you going to think "this person is an asshole, im blocking them." a lot of you think you're activists and then refuse to do any kind of actual WORK to support your cause.

[blimbo-buddy]

I hate Jimmy but I like him in the fact that we’re supposed to genuinely hate every fiber of his being. I think the story tricks us into thinking he’s a good person, or at the very least a morally grey character, and it’s like the story itself shows annoyance toward it while also giving us a sense of sympathy for falling to the same manipulation that Jimmy puts others through. But that is only if we actually realize the truth.

it shows annoyance towards us as the player/viewer but saves its special hatred for Jimmy. Not us, Jimmy. It’s annoyed that we show some kind of good will towards Jimmy before the silent reveal in the text that he assaulted Anya. It’s like the game acts like how an actual person would realistically react to this stuff: the player/viewer glosses or barely acknowledges the aspect of rape (as many have while playing the game) and the game shows fury towards you. But if you piece everything together about the assault, then it’s like the rose-tinted glasses fully come off and you see the horrible situation for what it actually was, for who Jimmy truly is

the game is like a test for its player/audience.

do we gloss over the horrific actions of Jimmy, the smaller details in the conversations between Anya and Curly, and the context clues of what Jimmy did to Anya; and thus allow the game to show its righteous fury towards our incompetence

or

Do we realize the truth of everything, of the actions of our protagonist; actions that we were led to ignoring by the main character himself before learning about what he’s done to everyone on the Tulpar; and thus allow the game to still show sympathy towards us while also rightfully being frustrated and maybe even hating us still

in other words: Do you eventually see the tiny, dead pixel in the vastness of it all; or are you so used to seeing the bigger picture that it never crosses your mind until it’s too late