#it was never personal. that's what it makes so cruel

[inkskinned]

i. there's this video of a guy dancing on his tiptoes. i will begrudgingly admit the song is kind of catchy actually. i don't think it's the worst song i've ever heard. he seems passionate about it. but it is embarrassing, how he's dancing.

ii. you know where this story is going, unfortunately, and so do i.

iii. three weeks ago i had to drag half a dead rabbit out of my dog's mouth. i was just recently discussing how cruel things feel lately. that the way the world is shifting feels mean. three days ago, a random woman rolled down her window to snap at me because she missed her turn. this is now routine.

iv. 11 years ago in october, i made a post about how we shouldn't make fun of people for doing brave, vulnerable things. it has over 400k notes. people - at the time - seemed to generally agree with me. we have all felt shy and insecure when we share an intimate part of ourselves. we have heard someone at a concert say "that's fucking embarrassing" and said to ourselves - oh, this person is unsafe to be vulnerable in front of. we have said i can't act like that in public. we have left our art and passion in the dark. i think there will never be enough graveyard space for the art we have killed because what if others shame me for it.

v. the thing i was bullied for in high school was because i was a "predatory lesbian." a popular girl i'd literally never spoken to just decided she didn't like me and announced i was "stalking" her. to this day i have no idea what motivated this - i think i was just shy and poor and awkward and ugly. the perfect target. what they don't really ever show in movies is how quickly it moves, how suddenly strange people in the hallways are attacking you about it. they also don't show you that the bullies get this strange ... glee out of it. like, it's fun for them. it's enrichment. everyone else is in on the joke. suck it up, kid.

vi. so far, from what i have seen, creators that stand up for the musician all seem to have the same story: when i asked why we're bullying a random guy, people actually got mad that i asked. i've had similar things happen to me when i ask for us to be less comfortable with our anonymous cruelty. when an internet stranger says "be kind, it saves lives" - people find it funny to say fuck you i hope everyone kills themselves. pages and pages of people saying the same bullshit. sitting in their little caves, eating their own humor. it's just genuinely exhausting. the natural endpoint of "cringe culture" is that even kindness is cringe-worthy.

vii. loneliness is an epidemic. but where are you going to make your community? call your representative. go back to bed about it.

viii. due to how i was raised, i am always confused by cruelty. i understand the american isolationist belief "i can do whatever i want" - sure. but why wouldn't you want to be kind? i have lived too many bad things. i cannot be the epicenter of someone else's bad dream.

ix. it's just that if we were going to bully someone relentlessly, why is it never the healthcare CEOs. why isn't it the fascists. why isn't it, like, someone who you could at least argue "deserves" it. why is it always just some guy in socks singing a pretty mid song? or a person that doesn't look like you, just, like existing.

x. it's just that i think people enjoy doing it. they want to do it because they get some kind of masturbatory release from it - like a shrug or a splinter, they all seem to say the same thing - come on, it's funny.

xi. the world is sometimes beautiful, and sometimes you make something. the world is sometimes terrible, and you are worried they won't accept what your hands can wring. you open the instagram comments and they're still saying all sorts of shit to just - like - a normal guy. and some part of you thinks: if that was me. good lord. if that was me i'd -

xii. somewhere there is a graveyard. someone is already burying their hopes and dreams.

[velvetvisionsaurora]

Alpha ATEEZ x Assistant Omega Reader

Warnings: omega reader, alpha ateez, scenting, heats, ruts, slow burn, eventual smut, forced command, more to come!

When Y/n accepts a position as assistant to alpha K-pop group ATEEZ, she's prepared with professional skills and scent blockers to hide her omega status. What she's not prepared for is the immediate, inexplicable connection she feels with all eight members—a resonance that defies her careful boundaries.

As Y/n becomes eerily attuned to their needs, her suppressed omega nature begins to emerge: purring for the first time in years, responding to alpha growls, feeling safe in ways she never has before. When a protective incident reveals the depth of the members' attachment to her, Y/n must confront the possibility that what binds them together is something ancient and profound.

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Masterlist Ko-Fi☕️

Chapter 17: Breaking Point

"Excuse me?" you said, your voice dangerously quiet as Hongjoong's words sank in. "What did you just say?"

Hongjoong straightened in his chair, his pack leader instincts making him double down despite the warning looks from his packmates. "I said that's what being mated means. Your priority should be the pack, your mates. Not some job."

"Some job?" you repeated, your voice rising with each word. "SOME JOB? I am more than just an omega, Hongjoong. I'm more than just your mate. I'm a person with skills, with ambitions, with a career that I built myself!"

"Nobody's saying you're not—" San tried to interject, but you whirled on him.

"Aren't you? Because that's exactly what it sounds like. You're all sitting here discussing my life like I'm some problem to solve, some biology to manage, instead of asking what I want!"

Hongjoong's jaw clenched as he felt his authority being challenged. "What you want isn't always what's best for the pack. As pack leader, it's my responsibility to—"

"To what? Control me?" you snapped, taking a step toward him. "To decide my life for me because you think you know better?"

"To keep you safe!" Hongjoong shot back, rising from his chair. "The entertainment industry isn't safe for a mated omega. Tonight proved that there are threats we can't always protect you from if you're out there working—"

"I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself," you said through gritted teeth. "I handled situations like that long before any of you came along."

Hongjoong's eyes flashed gold as his frustration peaked. "Like you handled yourself at the radio station?" he said coldly. "Because that worked out so well."

The silence that followed was deafening. Seven pairs of shocked eyes turned to their leader as the weight of his words sank in. He'd just thrown your most traumatic and vulnerable moment back in your face as ammunition in an argument.

Seonghwa's low growl cut through the silence like a blade. "Hongjoong," he said, his voice carrying a warning that everyone in the room could feel.

"Okay!" Wooyoung said with forced cheerfulness, jumping to his feet with exaggerated enthusiasm. "Who wants ice cream? I think we all need ice cream. Very soothing, ice cream. Helps with... tension and... terrible life choices in conversation..."

But his attempt at lightening the mood fell flat as everyone watched the fight drain out of you in real time. Your shoulders sagged as tears gathered in your eyes, Hongjoong's cruel words hitting exactly where he'd aimed them.

"You're right," you said quietly, your voice barely above a whisper. "I couldn't handle myself. I froze up like a helpless omega and needed my big strong alphas to rescue me."

The devastation in your voice made Hongjoong's stomach drop as he realized exactly what he'd done.

"Y/n, I didn't mean—" he started, but you were already backing toward the door.

"No, you meant it," you said, tears now flowing freely down your cheeks. "You all think I'm just some weak omega who needs to be managed and protected and kept at home where I can't embarrass myself or endanger the pack."

"That's not true," Yunho said desperately, rising from his seat. "Tulip, please—"

"It is true," you said with heartbreaking certainty. "And maybe you're right. Maybe I am just a weak omega who can't take care of herself."

You turned and walked toward the door with as much dignity as you could muster, which wasn't much considering the tears streaming down your face.

"Maybe I should just accept that I'm nothing more than a biology to be managed."

The sound of the door closing behind you echoed through the house like a gunshot. Seven alphas sat in stunned silence, processing what had just happened, while their pack leader stood frozen in the middle of the room, watching the door his mate had just walked through.

Hongjoong's heart felt like it was being crushed in his chest as the reality of his words sank in. He'd used your trauma against you. He'd thrown your most vulnerable moment in your face to win an argument about control.

"Well," Wooyoung said into the silence, his voice flat and disappointed. "That was possibly the worst thing you could have said."

"I know," Hongjoong whispered, his voice broken as he stared at the door.

"Do you?" Seonghwa asked coldly, his disapproval radiating from every pore. "Because what you just did was cruel. Unnecessarily cruel."

"She was challenging my authority—" Hongjoong started weakly.

"She was defending her right to exist as more than just our omega," Yeosang interrupted, his usually calm voice sharp with anger. "And you threw her trauma back at her for daring to want agency in her own life."

"I didn't mean..." Hongjoong trailed off, knowing there was no excuse for what he'd said.

"You meant to hurt her," San said quietly. "To shut her down. To make her feel small so she'd stop fighting you."

"That's not—"

"That's exactly what you did," Jongho cut him off, his young voice carrying more authority than usual. "You used her pain as a weapon."

Hongjoong looked around at the faces of his packmates—disappointed, angry, some barely containing their own rage at how he'd treated their mate.

"Go after her," Yunho said firmly.

"She won't want to see me," Hongjoong replied, his voice hollow.

"No," Seonghwa agreed coldly. "She probably won't. But you're going to try anyway, because that's what you do when you hurt someone you love. You try to fix it."

Hongjoong nodded numbly, his feet already moving toward the door. Behind him, he could hear Wooyoung's voice, no longer comedic but seriously concerned.

"This is bad, right? Like, pack-threatening bad?"

"Yeah," came Yunho's quiet reply. "This is really bad."

As Hongjoong stepped out into the night air, heading toward the guesthouse where his mate was probably crying because of his cruel words, he realized that being pack leader meant nothing if he'd lost the trust and love of the most important person in his life.

He'd won the argument about authority and control.

But he might have lost his mate in the process.

---

The guesthouse door was unlocked when Hongjoong reached it, and he stepped inside with careful, hesitant movements. The first thing that hit him was the absence—the complete lack of your scent in the air. His alpha immediately whined in distress, a sound he couldn't suppress as he realized you'd put your blocker back on.

The loss of your scent felt like a physical blow, a rejection that went straight to his alpha core. After hours of being surrounded by your natural jasmine and vanilla, the sudden return to sterile nothingness was devastating.

"Y/n?" he called softly, moving through the small living area. "Can we please talk?"

He found you in the bedroom, and the sight that greeted him there made his blood run cold. You were methodically packing your belongings into the same suitcases you'd arrived with months ago, your movements efficient and emotionless.

"What are you doing?" he asked, though the answer was obvious and terrifying.

"Packing," you replied without looking up from folding your clothes. "If I'm such a burden to the pack, such a problem that needs constant managing, then clearly the solution is for me to leave."

"You're not a burden," Hongjoong said desperately, stepping into the room. "That's not what I meant—"

"Isn't it?" you asked, finally looking at him with eyes that were red from crying but completely devoid of warmth. "You made it very clear that you think I'm incapable of taking care of myself. That I'm too weak, too helpless to exist in your world without constant protection."

"I was trying to protect you—"

"You were trying to control me," you corrected, turning back to your packing. "There's a difference."

The sound of the door opening interrupted whatever Hongjoong had been about to say. Wooyoung and San appeared in the bedroom doorway, having come to check on the situation, and both stopped dead when they saw the suitcases.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Wooyoung said, his voice rising with panic. "What's with the luggage? Are we going somewhere? Please tell me we're going somewhere fun and not... leaving."

"She's packing to leave," Hongjoong said, his voice hollow with the reality of it.

"Leave?" San repeated, shock written across his face. "Tulip, you can't leave. You're our mate. You belong here with us."

"Apparently I don't," you said calmly, continuing to fold clothes. "Apparently I'm just a problem that needs solving, a biology that needs managing. So I'm removing the problem."

All three alphas looked stricken, but it was Hongjoong who seemed to be spiraling the fastest. His alpha was already in distress from the loss of your scent, and now faced with the very real possibility of losing you entirely, his control was slipping.

"This is ridiculous," he said, his voice taking on that authoritative edge that had started this whole mess. "You're being irrational. It's just your omega instincts and your heat making you act crazy. You'll feel differently tomorrow—"

Your hands stilled on the shirt you'd been folding. Slowly, you turned to face him, your eyes blazing bright purple with omega fury.

"Did you just..." you said, your voice dangerously quiet, "call me crazy? Did you just dismiss my completely rational response to your cruelty as omega hysteria?"

"Oh for fuck's sake," Wooyoung groaned, actually slapping his forehead with his palm. "Why do we keep letting him talk? Seriously, at what point do we just tape his mouth shut to prevent further catastrophic damage?"

San was staring at Hongjoong with horror. "Hyung, please stop talking. Please. You're making everything worse."

But Hongjoong, driven by panic and the desperate need to make you stay, seemed incapable of stopping himself from digging the hole deeper.

"I'm trying to be rational here," he insisted. "You're upset, your hormones are all over the place from your heat—"

"GET OUT!" you screamed, your voice carrying such omega authority that all three alphas actually took a step back. "GET OUT OF MY SPACE RIGHT NOW!"

Your eyes were blazing purple fire, your omega nature fully emerged and absolutely furious. The force of your command, backed by the mate bonds and your own considerable will, sent all three alphas scrambling for the door.

"OUT!" you screamed again, and they went, leaving you alone with your packing and your shattered heart.

In the living room, three alphas stood in stunned silence, processing what had just happened.

"Well," Wooyoung said eventually, "I think it's safe to say that went about as badly as it possibly could have."

"She's really leaving," San said, his voice small and broken. "Our mate is really leaving because of us."

Hongjoong said nothing, his face pale as the full magnitude of his mistakes finally sank in. He'd called her crazy. He'd dismissed her completely valid feelings as hormonal instability.

He'd lost her.

And this time, he wasn't sure there was any way to win her back.

---

Wooyoung burst through the front door of the main house with all the dramatic flair of someone announcing the apocalypse, which, considering the circumstances, wasn't far from the truth.

"SEONGHWA!" he called at the top of his lungs, his voice carrying that particular pitch that meant someone was about to die and it might be all of them. "CODE RED! EMERGENCY! OUR CAPTAIN FORGOT HOW TO PEOPLE AND NOW OUR TULIP IS LEAVING US!"

There was a thundering of footsteps as the remaining pack members rushed toward the sound of Wooyoung's voice. Seonghwa appeared first, his face immediately shifting from concern to alarm at Wooyoung's words.

"What do you mean leaving?" Seonghwa demanded, his alpha instincts immediately on high alert. "Where's Y/n?"

"Packing!" Wooyoung said, gesturing wildly toward the guesthouse. "She's packing her suitcases because our fearless leader here—" he pointed an accusatory finger at Hongjoong, who had followed him and San back inside, "—decided that the best way to handle an upset omega was to call her crazy and blame her hormones!"

"He did WHAT?" Seonghwa's voice dropped to a dangerous growl as his protective instincts flared to life.

"I didn't—that's not—" Hongjoong started weakly, but San cut him off.

"You called her irrational and said it was just her omega instincts and heat making her act crazy," San said flatly. "Those were your exact words."

The silence that followed was deafening. Yunho, Yeosang, and Jongho had all gathered in the doorway, their faces showing varying degrees of shock and horror at this latest development.

"You called our mate crazy?" Jongho asked, his young voice carrying disbelief. "After everything that just happened, you called her crazy?"

"And now she's leaving," Wooyoung added, his dramatic flair giving way to genuine distress. "She's actually packing her bags to leave because she thinks we all see her as just a problem to be managed."

Seonghwa's expression was thunderous as he turned the full force of his disapproval on their pack leader. "How could you be so incredibly stupid?" he demanded, his voice carrying a level of anger rarely heard from the usually composed alpha. "After what she went through at the radio station, after everything she's been dealing with, you threw that back in her face and then called her hysterical?"

"I was trying to—" Hongjoong began, but Seonghwa cut him off with a sharp gesture.

"You were trying to control her," Seonghwa said coldly. "You were trying to make her feel small and weak so she'd stop fighting for her own agency. And when that didn't work, you attacked her mental state."

Hongjoong's face crumpled as the weight of his mistakes finally hit him fully. "I don't know what's wrong with me," he said, his voice breaking. "I keep saying the worst possible things. Every time I open my mouth, I make it worse."

"That's because you're losing control," Yeosang said quietly from his position by the doorway. His analytical mind was already working through the problem, trying to understand the root cause. "Your alpha is all over the place. The mate bonds, the territorial instincts, the stress of managing pack dynamics—you're not thinking clearly."

"What do you mean?" Yunho asked, though his eyes were still fixed on the guesthouse where their mate was presumably still packing to leave them.

"Alpha leaders often struggle when they first find their omega," Yeosang explained, his voice taking on that lecturing tone he used when analyzing complex situations. "The instinct to protect and control can overwhelm rational thought. Hongjoong's alpha is seeing challenges everywhere—threats to his mate, challenges to his authority, problems that need solving through dominance."

"So he's basically going feral," Wooyoung said bluntly.

"Not feral," Yeosang corrected. "But his instincts are overriding his better judgment. Every time Y/n pushes back against his attempts to control her, his alpha sees it as a threat that needs to be neutralized."

"Which is why he keeps saying increasingly terrible things," San said with dawning understanding. "His alpha is trying to establish dominance."

"But she's not a threat," Jongho pointed out. "She's our mate. She's supposed to be protected, not dominated."

"Try telling his alpha that," Yeosang replied grimly. "Right now, his instincts are telling him that an omega who won't submit is a problem that needs correcting."

Hongjoong was staring at them with growing horror as they dissected his behavior. "That's not... I don't want to control her. I love her."

"Your rational mind loves her," Seonghwa said, his anger giving way to concern as he saw the genuine distress on their leader's face. "But your alpha is in panic mode. It's been triggered by the mate bonds, by the stress of the past few days, by watching other alphas claim her while you're trying to maintain pack order."

"How do we fix it?" Hongjoong asked desperately. "How do I fix this?"

"First," Seonghwa said firmly, "you stay away from her until you can get your alpha under control. Every time you open your mouth around her right now, you're making things worse."

"But she's leaving," Hongjoong protested, his voice cracking. "She's packing to leave us."

"Because of YOU," Wooyoung said, his dramatic tendencies returning in full force. "Because you keep putting your foot in your mouth and then shoving it down your throat for good measure!"

"Wooyoung's right," Yunho said grimly. "You need to step back and let the rest of us try to fix this."

"And if we can't?" Hongjoong asked, the possibility clearly terrifying him.

The silence that followed was answer enough. If they couldn't convince you to stay, if the damage was too great to repair, they might actually lose their mate because their pack leader couldn't control his instincts.

"We'll figure it out," Seonghwa said finally, though his voice carried more determination than confidence. "But Hongjoong, you need to understand—if she leaves, it's because you drove her away. And that's something you're going to have to live with."

Hongjoong's face went pale as the full weight of the consequences finally sank in. He'd let his alpha instincts override everything else—his love for you, his respect for you, his understanding of who you were as a person.

And now he might lose you forever because of it.

"What do we do?" he whispered, looking around at the faces of his packmates with desperate hope.

"We try to save our mate," Seonghwa said grimly. "And hope that she still wants to be saved."

The room fell into tense silence as everyone contemplated the magnitude of the task ahead of them. How do you convince someone to stay when your pack leader had systematically destroyed her trust and self-worth in the span of a single argument?

Yeosang cleared his throat, his analytical mind already working through possible solutions. "I hate to admit this," he said slowly, looking around the room with reluctant resignation, "but sending Wooyoung to talk to her might be our best option."

"Me?" Wooyoung squeaked, pointing at himself in surprise.

"He's..." Yeosang sighed deeply, as if the words were being physically dragged from him, "he has the charisma. And he's... hard to say no to."

The moment the words left Yeosang's mouth, Wooyoung let out an ear-piercing squeal of delight that made everyone in the room wince.

"OH MY GOD!" he shrieked, bouncing on his feet with unbridled excitement. "You think I'm charming! You think I'm irresistible! I KNEW you were in love with me, Yeosang-ah! I'll send out the wedding invitations as soon as we fix this whole 'our mate is leaving us' situation!"

Before anyone could react, Wooyoung launched himself at Yeosang and planted a loud, exaggerated kiss on his cheek.

"BLEGH!" Yeosang immediately recoiled, making gagging sounds while frantically wiping at his cheek. "That's not what I meant! I meant you're annoying and persistent and she might cave just to make you stop talking!"

"That's the sweetest thing you've ever said to me," Wooyoung said with mock sincerity, clutching his heart dramatically. "I'm going to treasure this moment forever."

"I'm going to disinfect my face," Yeosang muttered, still scrubbing at his cheek with his sleeve.

"Can we please focus?" Seonghwa interrupted, though there was a hint of fondness in his exasperated tone. Even in crisis mode, Wooyoung's antics were oddly comforting. "Our mate is still packing to leave us."

"Right, right," Wooyoung said, immediately snapping back to seriousness. "Operation Save Tulip is a go. What's my approach? Charming? Pathetic? Desperately adorable?"

"Honest," Yunho suggested. "Just be honest with her about how much we all care about her. How much we need her."

"And maybe," San added pointedly, looking at Hongjoong, "apologize for our fearless leader's complete inability to speak like a rational human being."

Wooyoung nodded solemnly. "I can work with that. Honesty, charm, groveling—the holy trinity of relationship repair."

"Just..." Seonghwa said, placing a hand on Wooyoung's shoulder, "try not to make it worse?"

"When have I ever made anything worse?" Wooyoung asked with wide, innocent eyes.

The collective stare from six pack members answered that question without words.

"Okay, fine, point taken," Wooyoung conceded. "But this is different. This is our Tulip we're talking about. I'm not going to mess this up."

As he headed toward the door, determination written across his features, the others could only hope that Wooyoung's particular brand of chaos might be exactly what was needed to convince you to stay.

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[hard-core-super-star]

ruin my sleep [L.Calderu]

pairing: top!lilia calderu x bottom!reader

summary: after beating around the bush for far too long, you ask lilia to show you the darker side of her desires.

warnings: SMUT, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT -> bondage; impact play; SO many petnames; mommmy kink galore; praise + degradation; allusions to domme lilia; fingering; teasing; a dash of overstimulation; AFTERCARE; soft but kinda mean lilia; lilia's boobs deserve their own warning fr

wordcount: 1.7k

a/n: HELLO! am i about to start finals week? yes. do i have a bunch of essays to write? also yes. did i start a bunch of series that i still haven't finished working on? yes x3. did this idea grip me and force me to write it instead of doing anything else? right again, you win a prize and that prize is this fic. this is straight up just filth with feelings and i hope you enjoy <3

* * * * * * *

The only sound in the room is your heavy breathing and your speeding heart. Despite the lack of danger, your heartbeat still rings in your ears, making every second feel like a lifetime. It's dramatic, sure, but if you didn't love dramatics, you wouldn't be willingly tied up in Lilia Calderu's bedroom.

"Don't tell me you're already tired, sweetheart?" Her voice is equal part soft and dangerous. "We're just getting started."

The words draw out a groan from between your lips, the ache between your legs stronger than the ache in your limbs. Even though you want to complain, you know you can't. After all, you did ask for this.

You practically begged the witch for this moment. For the opportunity to submit. To explore the depths of your devotion to each other.

In your defense, Agatha had been the one to put the idea in your head and once Lilia found out, well…you didn't exactly need to break any of her rules to earn yourself a punishment. Not that she had many rules to begin with.

Despite all her years, and the kinks she'd acquired a taste for during them, she tended to be quite simple with you. While she loved the power she knew she held over you, she wanted your relationship to have a solid foundation before she rushed into anything too intense.

It was sweet in its own way. Almost like she wanted you to be completely sure about what you were doing. About the feelings you both knew were growing between you.

Her hesitation, her patience, made you take matters into your own hands. The few rules she had for you weren't ones you wanted to break, since most of them had been put in place to give you an incentive to take care of yourself, so you found another way. Or well, Agatha found another way.

The witch was far too nosy for her own good and while Lilia wasn't a jealous person by nature, she wasn't too thrilled when she learned you were sharing so many details about your sex life with someone else. At least, until you told her the reason why.

As embarrassing as it was to admit, if it wasn't for Agatha, you wouldn't be here right now.

Tied up and at your girlfriend's mercy. Just like you wanted.

"Please," you mumble, voice already hoarse from your constant begging. "Need you."

"Oh, I know, sweet girl but you asked for this. You wanted mama's attention, didn't you?"

The ease with which her title slips from her lips makes you clench around nothing, your legs fighting against the restraints in an attempt to rub together. The corners of her mouth quirk up into an amused smile and she moves forward to trail her fingers across your inner thigh.

The sensation sends a shiver down your spine, your back arching into her despite your attempts at staying still. You've never been good at controlling yourself around her, though. Especially not when she has that look in her eyes. The one that's equal parts soft and cruel. The one that lets you know she's not letting up until the only thought inside your head is her name.

Her teasing touch ligers for a few seconds more before she brings her hand down with a sharp smack. You gasp, your hips bucking against the air. "Mama-"

"Shhh, I know," she coos. "Just a little more. You can take it, can't you? You'll be good for me?"

Your answer rushes out before you can second-guess yourself. "Yes! I'll be good. So good for mama."

"Good girl." Her praise is honey sweet and replaces the stinging across your inner thighs with a delicious ache between them instead. "You're doing so well."

You're practically dripping onto the sheets, your skin reddened and marked from your girlfriend's harsh treatment and constant spanks. Even the fact that she had avoided your ass and decided to torment your thighs was a punishment on its own. A punishment you enjoyed, although you weren't too keen on sharing that information just yet.

Clearly, your cunt had other ideas.

"Oh, baby, you're soaked." Lilia chuckles, landing a quick slap to your puffy clit just to watch you arch for her. "You're enjoying this far too much."

"Maybe," you mumble, eyes fluttering closed as her fingertips ghost up and down your folds. "Can't help it, feels so good."

"I know, you've been moaning like a slut since we started."

The word makes you whine although you're not sure if it's in pleasure or protest. "Mama…"

The witch simply shushes you as she settles between your legs, front pressed against the mattress and chin resting on your knee. "Settle down, little one, or you won't get what you want."

That gets your attention.

Instantly, your eyes fly open, and you crane your neck down until you're able to see her. Seeing and feeling her proximity helps your tense muscles relax, the ropes around your wrists helping you ground yourself.

Lilia's careful eyes notice every movement, every twitch of your lips, every crinkle of your brows. She waits, though, one hand stroking the outside of your leg as you settle back into the scene. "Breathe, darling. Color?"

You take a moment to do as she says, breathing in and focusing on the air in your lungs and her steady presence. "Green. I'm okay."

She hums in response. "Good girl. Taking everything I give you so well."

The praise is exactly what you want but like always, the witch keeps you on your toes. She shifts closer only to land three quick slaps to your cunt, directly onto your clit.

The breath gets stolen from your lungs as your mouth drops open into a long moan. Your body jerks uncontrollably, the stinging pain turning into pleasure that flows out of you.

There's no doubt in your mind that you look like an absolute mess but your girlfriend doesn't seem to mind. In fact, she seems to be enjoying it more than you.

"Look at that," she murmurs. "So beautiful. And all mine."

"Yours," you confirm before she even asks. "Please-"

"Such good manners, too."

Despite her almost absent-minded tone, her fingers make their way to your cunt, teasing through your folds before she easily slips inside. The relief is immediate, even though she's purposely starting with only one finger.

You're far too ecstatic to care, though, mumbling senseless profanities while your hips buck into her touch. "Mama…"

"Patience, sweet thing, don't get ahead of yourself."

You try to follow the soft instructions, to savor the feeling of her filling you up slowly, but you're far too wound up for that. As much as you crave the slow intimacy you two usually have, there's no denying that you need more. You need to fall apart completely.

And she knows.

You're sure she knows because she can't stop herself from smirking. From watching you with half-lidded eyes and darkened pupils. Watching you like she's drinking up your pleasure.

Slowly, almost reverently, she adds another finger, working you up with a satisfying stretch. Your cunt clenches around her, beckoning her in deeper until she's the only thing you can feel.

"You take me so well, tesoro. So good for mama."

The praise turns into molten need inside your veins and you cry out when her lips trail across the sensitive skin of your inner thighs. She hadn't gone that hard, you knew that on some level, that despite how much she had enjoyed being fully in control, she hadn't wanted to hurt you.

That didn't mean she hadn't left you ridiculously sensitive, though. A few well-placed spanks and a subtle incantation had made every graze against your inner thighs feel like the lash of a whip. Just because she wanted to start slow didn't mean she didn't love driving you wild.

Her kisses continue up your thigh, her teeth grazing the skin in the most maddening of ways. Her free hand lands on your stomach and she holds you down as much as she can, forcing you to stay still and take what she gives you.

And endure what she doesn't.

She curls her fingers inside your wet cunt, her thumb grazing your clit just enough to make you gasp. "What do you want, darling? Use your words."

"Wanna cum," you say shamelessly. "Please, please let me cum."

Her fingers slow down for a moment, stopping with her knuckles buried inside you and her thumb slick with your need. She waits there, watching you tremble and whimper until the silence makes tears well up in your eyes.

Once you're teetering on the edge of too much and not enough, she starts again. Her thumb draws relentless circles while her thrusts speed up once again. "Go ahead, baby. Cum for me, let me hear you."

Your body responds to her before your mind can even catch up. The pressure in your stomach snaps and you're thrown head-first into the depths of pleasure, your body shaking beneath Lilia.

She works you through it, peppering kisses across your thighs and letting you feel how well she fills you up. You don't even register when the stimulation grows to be too much, floating somewhere between your orgasm and the pleasure that begins mounting once more.

All you can do is gasp and whine, begging her to keep going until your throbbing clit can't take it.

It's either one long orgasm or two intense ones but you don't know or care. All you know is her and that's all you need.

You don't know where you go or how long it takes you to come back but when the fuzziness in your mind clears and your eyes focus again, you're wrapped up in Lilia's arms, your head tucked safely into the crook of her neck.

When you lift your head to look at her, she coos, her hand coming up to cup your cheek. "There you are. Where'd you go, sweet girl?"

The question makes you giggle and you lean further into her touch. "Dunno. Felt nice, though."

"I gathered that much," she says with a chuckle. "I didn't go too far, did I?"

You shake your head before shifting down and resting against her chest. Her hand moves into your hair, lightly scratching your scalp as you recover.

Her skin is warm under your cheek and you can't help the way your lips make their way onto her breast, kissing the soft wrinkles scattered across her chest. "Can we stay like this?"

She hums, a soft smile on her face. "Only for a little. You need a bath and some ointment."

"Later," you grumble.

Her laugh is indulgent and sweet as she agrees. "Okay, later."

[sylestine-redacted]

Interrogation Chain

f!reader x Ghost

Part 2 here

A/N: it's so long... and brutal...and confusing...and YOU DONT GET RELEASE. HEED THIS WARNING AND THE WARNINGS BELOW. I AM CRUEL. Still turned me on though... excitedly working on part 2 this was just getting so long XD also this app feels like it's breaking due to length so no italics/formatting for now. Tysm for reading!

Tw: mention of drugging, intense sustained edging, toys, no comfort (yet), mirror play, breath play, psychological degradation, 5k 7k words and no climax (I'm so sorry)

The first thing you notice is the humidity.

It clings.

To the walls. To your skin. To your tongue, cracked and swollen behind your teeth. The air has the weight of a mouth already full of breath—not yours—like someone’s been breathing down your neck for hours and never left.

The room is bare, concrete from wall to ceiling to floor.

No mirrors. No camera lens that you can see.

No furniture.

Just the metal frame.

It creaks when you twitch.

The cuffs—two at the wrists, two at the ankles—aren’t standard. They’re older. Repurposed. Military issue at best, dungeon-grade at worst. The wrist irons are welded directly into the vertical bars that flank either side of you, keeping your arms half-raised. Not enough to dislocate—but enough to ache. Elbows locked. Shoulders heavy. Collarbone begging for mercy.

Your legs are worse.

Spread too wide. Ankles strapped down so flat your knees have gone numb. Your boots were removed hours ago—stripped along with your vest, your comms gear, your top half. You’re still in cargoes, soaked to the thigh from sweat and something else—something hotter, wetter, involuntary.

The drugs make sure of that.

You’d tried to fight it. At first.

Not with screaming. Not with spitting or thrashing. That was what they expected.

No—you fought with stillness.

With silence.

You gave them nothing but your own heart ticking slow as a knife being drawn.

But then came the needle.

Between the ribs. Slick with cold saline. The prick so fast you didn’t even feel it until your skin started burning.

It took minutes.

Now it’s been hours.

---

Your skin doesn’t feel like your own anymore.

Everything's too sensitive.

Cloth feels like wire.

Air feels like tongues.

Your scalp aches from where your hair’s stuck to your face, temples damp with fever. Breathing is obscene—the rise of your chest, the way your nipples drag against nothing, already peaked from a touch that hasn’t come yet. Every beat of blood between your legs feels like a pulse pressed to the barrel of a gun.

And the worst part?

You're not alone.

You haven't been.

You can feel it. Past the locked steel door. Past the concrete corridor and the buzz of unseen lights. Someone has been waiting. Watching. Not through a feed—closer than that. Somewhere in the seams of this building, a shadow has been listening to your silence.

You can taste him in the walls.

And you know he’s coming.

Any minute now.

---

You close your eyes.

Only for a second. Maybe two.

Long enough for a flicker of memory.

Not a dream. Not a hallucination. Just—

Blood.

On your fingers.

Someone gasping into your shoulder, wide-eyed and dying.

“Stay awake.”

“You’re not done yet, keep—fucking—keep breathing—”

You had held him.

You had held him like something sacred.

And now you’re here. In chains.

And he—

He doesn’t remember. Or maybe he’s pretending.

Maybe that’s part of the punishment.

---

Footsteps.

They start soft. Just one.

Then another.

And another.

Boots.

Not rushed. Not military crisp. No rhythm drill-taught. These are heavier. Louder. Personal.

You don't open your eyes. You wait.

Let him come to you.

Let the grave walk up and take your name off the list.

The door opens with a sound like metal yawning. The scrape of old hinges. Weight pressing in.

You smell him first.

Not cologne. Not soap.

Just—

Gun oil. Rubber. Old sweat in thick gear. The faint, coppery stink of a man who lives in his clothes, sleeps in his mask, kills with his hands.

Your pulse stutters.

You hate yourself for that.

The drug makes your thighs twitch against the restraints—just once, just enough for the cuffs to groan.

Still, you don’t look.

He doesn’t speak.

The door clicks shut behind him.

A pause.

Then a lock. Manual.

Padlock.

Not part of the door.

His own.

Your breath stutters out through your nose.

He brought a fucking lock.

---

You feel him walk the room.

Not fast. Not impatient. Not even deliberate.

Measured.

Every step like he's confirming what he already knows. That you can’t run. That you’re stretched out, breathing too fast, blinking too slow. That you’re dripping into your own pants and trying not to whimper.

He stops two feet in front of you.

The air shifts. You smell latex now—gloves.

You open your eyes.

And there he is.

Ghost.

In black. In shadow. In that mask.

Skull-painted and sweat-darkened, staring at you like he’s already imagined you gutted and praying. He doesn’t speak.

His arms are folded. Biceps drawn tight across his vest. Neck thick with tension.

He looks at you like you’re something half-dead in the dirt.

You swallow.

“Took you long enough.”

It comes out dry. Rough. Your throat isn’t ready for talking, but you give it to him anyway.

He stares.

Then:

“Didn’t want to interrupt.”

That voice.

Low.

British.

Each word worn at the edges.

It hits you like a slap. Like a bruise blooming from the inside out.

You don’t show it.

You just let your head tip to one side, slow and heavy.

“Not shy, are you?”

He moves.

A single step forward. Close enough now that the heat of his body touches your knees.

“Y’look like shit,” he says.

You smile.

It’s not nice.

“You should see the other girl.”

He looks down at you. No change in posture. No mocking grin. Just that silence, pressed right up to your skin.

He tilts his head.

“You smell it yet?”

You blink.

“What?”

“The need. Pissin’ off you like steam.” His voice gets quieter. “They said it’d hit fast, but this?”

His gloved fingers flex once at his side.

“Fuckin’ hell.”

Your body shivers, involuntary. The restraints bite in. You want to cross your legs. You want to dig your nails into your thighs. You want to hide it.

But you can’t.

And he knows that.

He leans down, just enough to speak into the crook of your neck.

"Y’want someone to touch you that bad, sweetheart?”

Your jaw clenches.

You won’t give him the answer.

Not yet.

---

He’s drops to a crouch in front of you.

Not on one knee—he wouldn’t give you that. He balances like a soldier, spine straight, hand braced on his thigh. You can hear the creak of his gloves when he flexes his fingers.

His face is close now.

Too close.

Your breath catches, and he hears it.

“There it is,” he murmurs.

His voice drops like it’s private. Like it’s just for you. Just the two of you in this box of sweat and metal and heat-soaked concrete.

“Knew I’d hear you crack. Didn’t think it’d be this soon, though. Thought you were supposed t’be trained for this shit.”

You don’t answer.

You can’t. Not with the drug dragging heat through your stomach and down the inside of your thighs like oil poured into a firepit.

“Y’don’t feel it in your chest?” he asks, lazy now. “That tight little coil? Like your lungs’ve gone and curled around your clit?”

His words are soft. Measured. A slow drip of filth.

You hate that he’s right.

You hate that it helps.

You swallow hard.

Your voice breaks a little on the way out.

“I’ve been through worse.”

He chuckles. Quiet. Cruel.

“Yeah? Doesn’t look it. You’re sweatin’ like a girl in confession. And fuck me—”

He leans in further, breath hot against your stomach.

“The smell comin’ off you... You poor little thing.”

You try to twist away, but the restraints hold.

The chains groan. Your shoulder bites.

His hand lifts.

You flinch—but he doesn’t hit you.

He just... traces.

A gloved finger, dragging down your neck. Soft. Lazy. Like he’s just curious.

You close your eyes.

You breathe slow.

You try to disappear into the sensation before it swallows you whole.

“Y’want me to make it stop?”

That makes your eyes snap open.

He’s watching you. Face unreadable. Mask unmoving. But his eyes?

Sharp. Amused.

“I can. Just a few little touches. You cum, pressure goes down. You’ll think clearer. S’just science, really.”

“You’re disgusting,” you breathe.

“Yeah,” he says. “But I’m right.”

You try to look away. You try to hold anything in your mouth that isn’t a moan or a whimper or a plea.

But he’s moving again.

Gloved fingers tug at the front of your pants. Not rough. Not a rip. Just a test.

You suck in a breath.

He hears it.

“Let’s have a look then.”

“Don’t—”

He shushes you.

“Quiet, now.”

He undoes the top button like it’s a fucking ritual. Unzips. And tugs open the crotch so hard the zipper breaks clean off.

You're on display.

“Look at that,” he murmurs. “Soaked straight through. Fuckin’ ruinous, this drug.”

He doesn’t pull them down yet. Not all the way.

Just enough to expose the truth. The wet patch. The way the fabric clings. The heat of your shame now out in the air between you like a second mouth.

“There’s my girl,” he mutters.

“Don’t call me that.”

“Why not?” He looks up at you, head tilted, dark eyes locked to yours. “You’re givin’ me everything. Your scent. Your tension. The little quake in your knees—”

He presses one hand to the inside of your thigh. Just resting there.

“Darlin’,” he says, voice dropping into gravel, “your cunt’s screamin’ for me.”

You choke on the breath trying to escape your chest.

He leans back.

No rush.

Then pulls a black case from one of his cargo pockets.

You watch. Heart hammering.

He opens it. Inside—tools.

No blades.

Just things that buzz.

And a syringe.

“Wanna keep pushin’?” he says casually. “Fine. But you don’t get t’decide how hard.”

He picks up the vibrator—small. Clinical. Military issue, maybe. Straps it onto his finger like he’s cleaning a rifle.

Then he looks at you.

You glare.

He smiles.

“One word,” he says, voice even. “That’s all it takes. You say please—I’ll take care of it. Gentle. Get it out of your system. Maybe even let you sleep.

You breathe through your teeth.

“Go to hell.”

He shrugs.

“Already there.”

Then he turns the toy on.

Low hum. Steady.

He presses it just above the soaked fabric between your legs—not touching. Just close enough for the air to vibrate.

You flinch.

He watches.

“Let’s start slow.”

---

He holds the toy steady.

Doesn’t push. Doesn’t test the pressure.

Just hovers it.

Right above the fabric. Right where you’re already wet enough to see it.

The hum is low. Mean.

You don’t realize you’re grinding forward until the cuffs pull tight on your wrists.

You freeze.

He doesn’t say anything—yet.

Just watches.

The irises of his eyes behind that mask glint once. He shifts his hand slightly, tilting the angle of the toy until the buzz shudders across the outside of your pants.

Not inside.

Not against skin.

Just near enough to make you feel it in your molars.

You hiss.

“Sensitive, are we?”

He says it so casually it might as well be weather talk. His voice is lower now, a little huskier. You can’t tell if it’s from arousal or authority or something worse.

He lifts the toy again.

Breaks the contact.

Your body jerks. Knees tremble. Your eyes flick up to him—half-lidded, angry, begging, you don’t even know anymore.

"Pathetic,” he says.

And that one hurts.

You bare your teeth, try to make it mean something, but it doesn’t. You’re flushed, your thighs are soaked, and the ache is pulsing deeper now—spreading from your gut to your spine.

Still, you fire back.

“Big talk from a man who’s afraid to take his gloves off.”

His eyes narrow.

He lowers the toy again—this time to your inner thigh.

Right into thw fissure between your cunt and your groin.

Lets it press.

Not hard.

Just long enough to make your head tip back and your breath catch in your throat.

“That what you want, sweetheart?”

He tilts his head.

“Want me bare? Y’want skin?”

“Want these hands inside you, real gentle, real slow—like I give a fuck what you want?”

The buzz is steady. That low, humming burn that hits deep and lingers. Your hips jerk, trying to twist away—but there’s nowhere to go.

“You’ll get skin,” he murmurs. “But not until I see what you’re like when you break.”

His words land like a slap.

You gasp, but try to mask it.

Try to speak, anything to distract from the heat gathering at the base of your spine.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” you manage. “See me fall apart. Moaning your name like some—fucking—sleeper cell you activated.”

He chuckles.

Fucking chuckles.

“You think I wanna hear my name in that mouth?”

He shifts the toy again.

Now it’s hovering just above your clit, separated by nothing but soaked fabric and your last shred of pride.

“Nah. I don’t want a name. I want a sound. That raw, ugly fuckin’ noise you make when you cum so hard y’start to cry.”

Your whole body shivers.

Not from pleasure. From how real it’s getting.

You blink. Your throat feels thick.

You mumble something—low. Not even meant for him.

“You sound like him.”

It just... slips.

You think it’s quiet enough he won’t hear.

You’re wrong.

Ghost stills.

The toy stays where it is, humming low and relentless, but his voice changes.

“What’d you say?”

You shake your head. Your mouth floods with heat and shame. You didn’t mean to give him anything.

“Nothing.”

“No,” he says.

He lifts the toy. Turns it off.

Just like that.

Silence explodes in the room.

“Say it again.”

His tone isn’t playful. Isn’t teasing.

It’s cold. Lethal.

You go quiet.

Swallow. Look away.

“Didn’t mean to.”

“You know me from somewhere?”

Your mouth opens. Closes.

“Wasn’t about you.”

“Bullshit.”

He stands.

Steps away.

Your body cries out for the pressure—the vibration—the heat—and all you get is distance.

He watches you.

Then turns away.

And walks toward the black case.

Opens it again.

Picks up the syringe.

You flinch.

“You want it back?” he asks.

Voice soft again. That mocking kindness that makes your teeth hurt.

“Buzz in your blood? Ache in your gut?”

“Gimme a name, sweetheart. One name. Yours, mine, doesn’t matter.”

He clicks the syringe between his fingers.

“Or I give you somethin’ stronger.”

You shake your head, weak.

“You can’t keep doing this.”

“Sure I can.”

“You’ll break me.”

He tilts his head again.

That same slow predator tilt.

“That’s the point.”

---

The toy is back on you. The hum stays low.

Just a steady pulse—more threat than pleasure.

Enough to make your clit throb. Enough to keep your hips twitching, helpless in the restraints. But not enough to give you anything you could use.

The cuffs groan with every tremor that runs through you. Ankles spread wide. Arms locked above your head. Your spine’s starting to cramp from the way your body keeps straining forward—toward the thing you swear is barely fucking touching you.

And Ghost?

Ghost just crouches.

One hand holding the toy. The other resting lazy on his thigh. Watching your cunt clench through your ruined trousers like it owes him an apology.

His mask doesn’t move.

But you can feel the smile underneath it.

“Don’t twitch.”

His voice cuts through the heat—low, flat, northern.

“Ain’t control. Just looks like beggin’.”

You try to speak.

Can’t.

Your voice breaks on the way up your throat.

He leans in.

Just a little.

Lets the vibrator drag upward—not on your clit. Near it. Almost.

Your legs jerk. Shoulders tremble.

“That’s it.”

You hate that he says it like he’s encouraging you. Like he’s training a dog.

“Didn’t even touch skin yet, pet. Still drippin’.”

Your head tips forward.

You manage to grind out a breath.

“Y’think this is power?”

He laughs.

Not a big laugh. Just a soft exhale, dry and cruel.

“Nah. This is truth.”

The toy shifts—again, slightly—and the vibration rocks into you through your soaked clothes like a secret only your body knows how to tell.

“This is your cunt talkin’. Not you.”

You want to die.

You want to scream.

You want more.

He watches.

Like he’s reading a fucking report.

“Never seen anyone fall apart this quiet,” he mutters. “Bet they��d be disappointed.”

You blink hard. Tears sting the corners of your eyes, not from pain—just frustration. From that knife-edge you can’t crawl off of.

You suck in a breath.

“You’re not even—fuck—you’re not hard.”

“Don’t need t’be.”

He shifts his wrist again, letting the toy buzz harder right against the line of your inner thigh.

“Not here for me. Here for this.”

Your hips buck.

The cuffs rattle. You gasp.

He lifts the toy away.

Instant. Cold.

The emptiness makes you ache.

“There.”

He stands. Toy dangling from his fingers.

“Didn’t take much, did it?”

You glare up at him, wild-eyed, humiliated.

“You’re sick.”

“Yeah.”

He looks down at you like you’re already fucked.

Like you already lost.

“But you’re the one leakin’ all over the floor.”

And you were. You’re soaked.

Not a little. Not damp. Not flushed.

You’re dripping. The crotch of your trousers’s gone dark. There’s heat smeared across your thighs, wet between your ass and the steel brace behind you, and still—still—the toy’s only on the first setting.

Ghost hasn’t moved since the last time he took the vibrator away.

You’re panting. Legs trembling.

And he just sits there. Crouched low.

Arms crossed.

Mask tilted slightly like he’s watching a dog trying to chew through its own leash.

“You keep grindin’ like that,” he mutters, “and I might think you like it.”

You don’t answer.

You can’t.

There’s too much saliva in your mouth and not enough air.

The restraints creak with every shallow thrust of your hips. You're not even trying to do it anymore. Your body just does, trying to find that sweet spot through the layers of wet cotton.

And Ghost—fucking bastard—puts the toy back.

Just rests it where he knows it hurts most.

Not a cruel angle.

A perfect one.

And it doesn’t push you over. No, never that.

It keeps you exactly there. Overloaded. Denied.

You sob once—just a little—jaw clenching so hard your teeth hurt.

“There we go,” he breathes. “There’s the noise I’ve been waitin’ for.”

He leans closer.

Unrushed.

His hand comes up—fingers still gloved—and brushes a lock of hair from your cheek.

You flinch, but not from fear.

From the gentleness.

“Sweet thing,” he murmurs. “All tied up and buzzin’ like a live wire. Nobody told you it gets worse before it gets better?”

He leans close.

His breath at your ear is warm, damp through the mask.

“Think I’d let you come this easy?”

“Ghost— p-please,” you choke out. A whisper. A mistake.

He freezes.

Then laughs.

A low, broken chuckle that drips into your spine like cold water.

“Please?”

"F’what?”

You shudder.

“Touch me.”

“I am touchin’ you.”

He taps the toy once.

You jolt.

Your whole body lights up like he flipped a fucking switch.

“Y’wanted skin?” he whispers. “Y’want fingers in that mouth, or in that wet little hole twitchin’ under your trousers?”

You sob again.

“I asked you a question.”

You bite your lip.

“Both.”

“Course you do.”

He moves the toy again—just slightly, barely pressing now. Enough to make your hips jerk, enough to push you back into the cuffs.

“Came in here actin’ all teeth and scars. Now you’re beggin’ like a whore with her face in a pillow.”

He clicks the toy off. Stands up.

Silence.

Your head drops. Your breath is broken.

“Eyes on me.”

You try. God, you try.

His fingers catch your jaw. Force you up. Mask inches from your face. His voice drops low.

“Let me make this clear.”

A beat.

“This body? This mess?” He gestures at your thighs, the wetness, the way your trousers are sticking to your skin.

“Not yours t’keep.”

You make a sound—somewhere between a moan and a cry.

He lets you sit in that.

Then? He flicks the toy back on.

You scream.

Quiet. Shattered.

“Shhh,” he breathes. “Almost done teasin’. But not yet.”

---

The toy stays on.

Still low.

Still buzzing against your soaked trousers.

Still not enough.

It’s worse now—because your body’s gotten used to the rhythm. Because your thighs won’t stop twitching. Because every time you start to crest, Ghost just moves it.

Not far. Not off. Just... enough.

Just enough to ruin the build. To make your cunt pulse around nothing.

You’re beyond sweat now.

Your chest heaves.

Your arms tremble in the restraints.

And Ghost? Ghost is just watching.

Silent.

Until he speaks again.

“Y’wanna hear somethin’ fucked up?”

His voice is low. No grin in it. No mockery.

You don’t answer.

You don’t need to.

He already knows what your body’s screaming.

He crouches beside you again, one hand still holding the toy steady between your thighs. His other hand dips to his belt.

Unclips something.

Small. Black.

Comm unit.

With a playback dial.

He flicks it.

Once.

Click.

And you hear it:

A moan. Yours. Soft, wet, desperate.

“G–Ghost—please—”

Your breath catches.

You hear it again.

And again.

“Recorded that, y’know. Didn’t think I did.”

“But I did.”

The moan loops.

Ghost—please—Ghost—please—

He stares at you.

Dead calm.

“Listen to yourself.”

“Didn’t even sound like you. Voice all warped. Like you forgot you had one.”

You shake your head, mouth open like you want to protest, but no sound comes out.

He clicks the comm off. Sets it down on the floor beside him.

You hear your own breath now. Wet. Gasping.

“You like hearin’ it?” he asks, tone casual. “Bet you do.”

“I didn’t—” you gasp.

“Didn’t mean it?”

“Didn’t know?”

“Don’t fuckin’ matter, pet.”

He leans in again.

That mask, those dead eyes, right in your face.

“It’s mine now.”

Your stomach flips.

He lifts the toy again—just an inch—then slams it back down onto your clit through your trousers. Same setting. Same hum. But the pressure is harder now. It hits direct.

Your back arches.

A sound rips from your throat. You try to muffle it but it leaks out anyway, low and hoarse and needy.

“There she is.”

He shifts—slow, deliberate—and brings his gloved hand up to your face.

Not a slap.

Not a caress.

His palm comes down over your mouth.

Covers it.

Presses firm.

No warning.

Your eyes go wide. You gasp—but it’s smothered. Heat and leather and his hand, covering your whole mouth like he’s sealing in the noise.

“Shhh,” he says.

His other hand does not stop.

The vibrator stays locked in place. Your body convulses. Your cunt clenches so tight your hips jerk in the restraints. You moan into his palm, a broken, pleading sound.

He leans in close.

“That’s better.”

His voice is so calm. So fucking warm.

“Can’t hear you beg when you’re breathin’, pet. Gotta pick one or the other.”

You blink fast.

Your lungs start to scream.

He waits. Just long enough.

Then he pulls his hand away.

You gasp like you’ve never tasted air before.

He chuckles. Just barely.

“Good girl. Didn’t panic. Bet you’d let me keep goin’, wouldn’t you?”

You sob once.

Not from fear.

From fury. From need. From how close it all is.

He tilts his head.

“Y’ever cum from just sound? Just your own voice in your ears, beggin’ like that?”

The toy hums.

You’re right there again.

He sees it.

Your thighs twitch. Your hips grind against the vibration. Your mouth opens—

And he turns it off.

Dead.

Cold.

Gone.

You scream.

“Fuck—!”

Ghost rises to full height.

Looks down at you.

“No,” he says.

“You don’t get to want things.”

He doesn’t touch the comm at first.

He just leaves it on the floor beside you. You can see it there—matte black, the green LED blinking.

Ready. Waiting.

Like a second set of eyes in the room, recording everything you won’t admit.

The toy hums back to life.

You didn’t see him flick it on—you just feel it again, pressed right to the soaked seam of your trousers. He finds the spot effortlessly, like your body told him where to put it.

You gasp—sharply, too loud. It hits like a current.

“That easy, pet?” he murmurs.

He crouches again. One knee to the concrete. Same height as your dripping cunt. Same distance to your mouth.

“Barely touched you.”

Your hips buck.

Your throat clicks as you swallow. Your mouth opens.

And then—

Click.

“Please—Ghost—please—”

Your own voice, from the comm, plays through the silence. Soft, soaked, ruined.

You freeze.

It loops again.

“Please—Ghost—please—”

Ghost watches your face shift. The shame sink in. Your eyes blink wide, breath catching on the edge of a sob.

“Y’hear that?” he asks.

The toy never stops. Still pressed. Still steady. No mercy in the angle.

You whimper.

He leans forward. Reaches up. One hand on your jaw.

“Want it louder?”

“No,” you whisper.

“Didn’t ask.”

Click. He turns the dial.

Now it’s louder. The whole room filled with your own broken voice.

> Please—Ghost—please—

Ghost hums.

“Sound like you’re prayin’.”

You choke on breath.

He sees it.

His hand slips from your jaw to your mouth.

Covers it.

Full palm. Gloved fingers dragging over your cheeks, his thumb pressing just enough to make your lips part beneath it.

He waits.

Not long. Just a few seconds. Just enough.

Then cuts your nose off too.

Now you’re smothered.

You thrash.

Not hard. You can’t. There’s nowhere to go. Arms locked overhead, legs wide open, vibrator humming, your own moans echoing off the walls while Ghost holds your face and your fucking air hostage.

Your chest heaves.

You blink. Once. Twice.

Black creeps at the edges.

Then—

He pulls away.

You suck in air like it’s fire, chest jerking, lips wet with your own spit.

You moan.

You didn’t mean to.

“There she is,” he says, soft now. “Knew you were in there somewhere.”

“Fuck—” you sob.

“No.”

His hand’s back.

Covers your mouth again.

Not as hard. Just there.

The other? Still working the toy. A slow, steady torture. Just enough to make your thighs clench and your hips twitch.

“Y’cum” he says, “you stop breathin’.”

You blink through tears.

He leans in, voice at your ear.

“That’s the rule now, love. Every time your cunt starts twitchin’ like that—every time y’feel it buildin’—you hold your fuckin’ breath. Understand?”

You nod.

Barely.

“Good girl.”

He pulls away. But keeps the toy in place.

The audio loop clicks again.

> Please—Ghost—please—

You’re panting now, trying to control it. Trying to hold back.

But the pressure builds. The ache between your legs spikes hard, sudden—unbearable.

And you try to hold your breath.

Try.

But it slips. A moan breaks your mouth.

He slaps a hand over your face again. Harder this time. Not enough to hurt—just enough to seal it.

“Too loud.”

The toy stays. The hum gets sharper. It’s not the setting—it’s your body’s betrayal. Every second it rides the line. Every second it dares to snap.

Your thighs are shaking. Your stomach’s tight. Your vision blurs.

He lets you breathe.

You sob again.

“Y’feel like cryin’, pet?”

You nod.

“Good. That’s how I know it’s workin’.”

And then—he lifts the toy.

Takes it away.

Again.

Just before the edge. Just before the crest.

You make a noise that isn’t a word. Isn’t a scream. Just a sound no one’s supposed to hear.

He sets the toy down. Wipes his gloved hand on his thigh. Like he’s finished a job.

“You don’t cum,” he says, “until I can’t fuckin’ stand it.”

He stands.

Leaves you hanging.

Body twitching. Mouth open. Tears slicking your cheekbones. The comm still looping.

> Please—Ghost—please—

---

You can’t tell how long it’s been.

Your wrists are numb. Shoulders screaming.

The steel cuffs haven’t shifted, and neither has he.

The vibrator stays low. He’s got it pinned right where you’re soaked through—just enough pressure to tease your clit through your trousers. Just enough to make your legs spasm every time your hips twitch toward it, desperate, betrayed.

You’ve lost count of how many times he’s taken you to the edge.

Too many.

Your thighs are trembling.

Your mouth’s open, tongue dry, spit stringing from the corner of your lips.

And the fucking comm unit still plays.

> “Please—Ghost—please—”

Your voice.

On loop.

He plays it like it’s music.

Like it means nothing.

He’s crouched again—elbows on his knees, just watching.

Watching you strain. Watching your cunt twitch. Watching your face crumple with each fresh wave of almost.

Then he reaches out again.

Gloved hand covers your mouth.

Again.

Firmer this time.

His other hand presses the toy a little deeper between your thighs.

Your body jerks.

The heat shoots up your spine. You buck—moaning hard into his palm, chest heaving like it’s trying to escape your ribs.

“Quiet,” he mutters. “You're not fuckin’ cute when you beg.”

You can’t breathe.

You want to scream.

You’re not even sure which urge is stronger—the one that needs air, or the one that needs release.

You try to nod.

Try to obey.

He lets go just long enough for you to inhale.

And slaps his hand back again, cutting you off mid-breath.

You moan into his palm—raw, messy.

And then—

It slips.

A whisper.

Not a scream.

Not even a thought.

Just a fragment.

“...Simon—”

He freezes.

Completely.

The toy still hums.

Your breath stops.

You don’t even realize what you said.

Your body’s too far gone—trembling, soaked, cunt throbbing against the vibration like it’s trying to suck it through the fabric.

He stays crouched.

Hand still over your mouth.

He leans in.

Slow.

His voice is flat.

Colder than it’s been all night.

“What did you just call me?”

You whimper.

Tears sting your eyes.

You don’t answer.

Can’t.

Not with his hand there.

Not with your brain fogged and boiling from air deprivation and arousal.

But he heard it.

He knows.

He lets the toy hum a few seconds longer. Doesn’t move it. Doesn’t say anything.

Just watches your thighs shake. Watches your eyes roll back.

Then he pulls it away.

Turns it off.

You scream into his hand.

Choked, muffled.

Devastated.

He yanks his hand off your mouth.

You inhale so hard your whole ribcage lifts—body snapping forward in the cuffs, back arching like a bow.

Ghost stands.

Wipes the glove down on his thigh like he touched something disgusting.

“Simon,” he repeats, voice quiet. Too quiet.

He looks down at you.

You can’t meet his gaze.

You’re sagging now. A ruined thing in chains. Your body still trying to grind on air, still clenching for something that isn’t coming.

“Didn’t think you remembered.”

You blink up at him, dazed, lips parted.

He kneels again.

Picks up the comm unit.

Clicks it off.

Then looks at you.

“You're not done.”

“Please—”

“No.”

He slaps the toy back into place.

Turns it on.

Then palms your mouth again.

This time?

He keeps it there.

No air.

No sound.

Just your ruined voice in your head, and the low hum of suffering grinding into your cunt.

---

Minutes go by. Maybe hours.

You’re still sagging in the cuffs when he brings the mirror in.

He doesn’t say a word.

You hear it before you see it—metal dragging against concrete, the low scrape echoing off the walls like a threat. It comes into view at the edge of your blurred vision—tall, heavy, bolted into a wheeled frame.

He stops it just a few feet in front of you.

Tilts it.

Adjusts it.

Now you can see everything.

Your arms above your head, trembling. The sweat glistening down your collarbones. The soaked ruin of your trousers. Your own face—red, wet, ruined, lips parted in a permanent moan, breath dragging in shallow bursts.

“There.”

Ghost’s voice. Low. Almost thoughtful.

“Look at you.”

He crouches again.

You flinch—but there’s no slap, no touch to your mouth.

Instead, his gloved fingers come to the waistband of your trousers.

He moves with purpose. One hand tugs them down—not fully, just enough to expose the soaked fabric of your panties, clinging to your cunt like a second skin.

“Still drippin’,” he mutters. “Still twitchin’.”

You bite your lip hard.

He lifts the toy.

You sob—not out of fear, but relief—and then panic again when he reaches under the elastic. Inside.

You gasp. Your hips jerk.

He doesn’t push it in far.

Just enough to nestle the head of it against your clit, snug and pulsing.

And he leaves it there.

Lets the waistband snap back over it, holding it in place.

“Don’t cum.”

You blink up at him.

“I—I can’t—”

“Don’t.”

“Please—”

He taps your chin.

“Listen.”

He walks behind you again.

And starts to speak.

His voice is quiet. Different. Like it’s not for you, not really. Like he’s narrating something to himself.

“Wasn’t fast.”

You gasp, feeling the toy pulse harder now that it’s under the fabric. Every step he takes seems to shift it, the pressure changing just enough to ache.

“Didn’t black out. Didn’t even scream.”

Your head lolls forward.

The reflection shows everything.

Your thighs clenching.

Your mouth open.

The heat building again, wet and full and desperate.

“Laid there… back full of shrapnel. Couldn’t move my hands.”

“Heard ‘em comin’. The ones who did it. Heard the boots. Thought—maybe—if I held still—”

His voice hitches.

Just once.

The toy buzzes steady. Your body hums with it, trembling against the cuffs, unable to move, unable to breathe deep.

“But you came.”

You flinch.

He stops.

The silence stretches.

“Didn’t know it was you. Not at first. Couldn’t see.”

Your legs shake.

You try to breathe through it. Try to stay still. Try not to clench around the pulse of that toy tucked against your cunt.

You fail.

“But I felt your hands.”

“Right here.”

His fingers ghost over your ribs.

You scream into the silence—just a choked breath, a sob of need. The heat’s too much now, the pressure on your clit perfect, unbearable, wet friction trapped in cotton.

“Felt you hold me.”

His voice softens again.

Almost nothing now.

“Said my name. Again. And again.”

You gasp.

Your body jerks.

Your hips roll forward, grinding—you can’t help it—seeking friction, seeking anything.

He sees it.

Steps forward.

Grabs your face.

Tilts it toward the mirror.

“Look at you.”

You can’t even cry anymore. Just tremble.

“You cum,” he says, “and I start again.”

You whimper.

“From the beginning.”

---

The toy hasn’t moved.

It’s still there—tucked under your panties, pressed to your clit like a warning, humming on low.

Not enough to cum. Never enough.

Just enough to make you shake.

You’re panting. Again.

Your chest rises in short, sharp bursts.

Your arms ache above your head. Your thighs twitch.

And your eyes—your fucking eyes—keep slipping shut.

But he doesn’t let you.

“Open them.”

His voice is close. Near your shoulder.

He doesn’t shout. He doesn’t need to.

You force your gaze back up.

The mirror’s right there, tilted perfectly. You see all of it.

The trembling.

The blush down your chest.

The soaked cotton clinging to your pussy.

And your face—ruined.

He leans in beside you.

Doesn’t touch.

Just speaks to the reflection.

“Look at you,” he murmurs. “Tried so hard t’keep your mouth shut.”

His hand rises. Not to your skin—to the glass. Gloved fingers tap lightly against the mirror, right where your parted lips reflect back.

“Didn’t last, though. Not when you said it.”

The word’s still heavy in the room.

Simon.

He hasn’t said it again. Won’t.

But it’s in the air. Between you. Between your legs. In the space between your pulse and your need.

He reaches out suddenly.

Not to you.

To the waistband of your panties.

And he pulls.

Not to remove them.

Just to tighten the pressure of the toy against your clit.

Your body jolts.

You moan—short, sharp, pitiful.

“Fuck—!”

“Quiet.”

He doesn’t cover your mouth this time.

Just waits.

Lets your shame echo off the walls and settle back into your bones.

“You remember the blood?” he asks softly.

You blink.

“From that day?”

Your breath catches.

He does this thing, then—small, devastating.

He places a single gloved finger against the side of your neck. Just the tip.

The exact spot your pulse is hammering beneath the skin.

“You smelled like cordite. I remember that.”

The toy keeps humming.

Your thighs clench.

You look down. Can’t help it.

And he snaps his fingers beside your cheek.

“Eyes. On. Me.”

You flinch. Force your gaze back to the mirror.

“There.”

His voice drops lower.

“You see it now?”

"See the shape you make when you suffer for me?”

You choke on a sob.

The toy shifts slightly. A different angle. It hits direct now, right where you’re throbbing.

“Don’t cum.”

You nod fast—too fast—tears streaking your face.

“Don’t fuckin’ waste it.”

He’s behind you again.

And then—his glove returns.

Covers your mouth.

Again.

Cuts the air off.

The mirror shows your eyes widening. The panic. The tears.

You clench your thighs. Your cunt pulses against the toy.

And just before you lose consciousness—just before—he pulls away.

You suck in air so violently you almost gag on it.

He leans close to your ear.

Breath hot.

“Almost.”

---

You don’t know how long you’ve been begging without words.

You’re beyond coherent now—half-slumped in the cuffs, arms dead above you, cunt twitching involuntarily around the humming pulse of the toy shoved against your clit.

The mirror shows it all.

Your reflection’s gone red-faced, slack-jawed. Your hips keep twitching forward, seeking friction. Every few seconds, a moan escapes—too broken to mean anything, just breath and sound and need.

Ghost is still behind you.

But closer now.

His hand hasn’t moved from your jaw, two fingers pressed lightly beneath your chin, like he’s checking if you’re still alive or just shaking on reflex.

“Where were you,” he murmurs.

You don’t respond.

Not because you’re silent.

Because you can’t.

You’re panting too hard. Moaning too often. The vibrator won’t stop, and your thighs are clenching again and again like your body’s chasing something it can’t fucking reach.

“Tell me,” he says.

You sob once.

Your lips try to shape words. You think maybe you say “wasn’t me”—but it comes out a mess. Just syllables, spit, vowels dragged over a shuddering tongue.

“You ran, didn’t you?”

You gasp.

Try to shake your head—but the movement comes out jerky, uneven.

“Didn’t even fuckin’ look back.”

“Nnn–no—”

“Didn’t hear me choking?”

“I—I carried—”

The word slams out of you like a sob.

He freezes.

You feel it in his breath. The way it stops against your ear for half a second.

“You what?”

Your mouth opens.

You’re panting so hard you nearly choke.

“Pulled y’out—”

“Blood—‘member blood—my hands—fuck—”

“Y’said ‘don’t follow’—you said—said—”

Your whole body jerks forward—hips twitching, breath caught between a cry and a moan so thick it makes your vision flicker.

The toy won’t stop.

You can feel the orgasm rising again—too sharp, too wet, so close it tastes like metal.

“Stop.”

His voice—low. Guttural.

“You’re gonna fuckin’ cum—don’t—don’t you dare—”

You wail.

Shake your head.

Try to suck it back in—but your cunt contracts, and your body rocks forward and—

He rips the toy away.

You scream.

“Fuckin’—GOD—”

He grabs your face again—harder this time. Your jaw clenched tight in his glove. Your mouth open.

“You said I left.”

You nod. Barely. Weakly.

“Said I told you not to follow.”

Another nod.

He stares at your reflection in the mirror.

At your chest rising and falling.

At your legs slick and trembling.

And says nothing.

But his fingers curl tighter around your face.

Not rough.

Just possessive.

---

The toy is gone again.

Your thighs are clenched despite the ankle braces, cunt pulsing around nothing, your panties soaked straight through. Your mouth hangs open, lips slick and trembling. You’re gasping—sobbing—barely aware of it.

Your own voice echoes in your ears still. The loop from the comm stopped minutes ago, but the sound is etched in your head now.

> Please, Ghost—please—

Ghost is in front of you again.

Kneeling.

Not close.

Just watching.

His head’s tilted slightly, mask turned toward the mirror, toward the image of you slumped in your restraints, your whole body twitching in the aftershocks of another denied orgasm.

You can feel him staring.

And then—he speaks.

“You said I told you not to follow.”

You nod.

Barely.

“Said I was bleedin’. Dying.”

You whimper. Try to answer.

But the words get tangled in your throat.

“Then tell me what you saw.”

You blink hard.

And something breaks.

The memory slips out—not like a story, but like a wound tearing open.

“Y-you were shaking,” you whisper. “S’much blood, I—I couldn’t keep it in—kept pressin’—fuck, y’didn’t blink—”

Ghost doesn’t move.

Your voice cracks again, high and wet.

“Said... said you couldn’t feel your fingers—said your ribs were—gone—an’ I told you I’d fix it—told you not to sleep—”

He snaps.

Not out loud.

Just—still. Frozen.

Like your words hit something inside him he didn’t know was unguarded.

You keep going.

Tears dripping down your cheeks now, voice slurred and useless and desperate.

“You had... had a photo... inside your vest—”

His head jerks.

“—ripped in half, water-damaged—family, maybe? Face was gone—held it like you thought it’d stitch you together—”

“Shut the fuck up.”

His voice isn’t raised.

But it’s shaking.

“How do you know that.”

You sob.

Try to answer.

But you’re not faking this.

You’re not strong. You’re ruined. Shaking. Edged within an inch of your sanity.

And that’s the truth he can’t fight.

You didn’t leave him.

You stayed.

You stayed until he left you—spitting blood, clutching a ruined photo, still breathing because of you.

The silence between you now is heavy. Slow. Alive.

The mask doesn’t shift.

But the man under it?

Is no longer in control.

He leans in.

Close.

So close you can feel his breath through the mesh, brushing your mouth.

And what he says next?

Isn’t cruel.

It’s soft.

Almost broken.

“You weren’t supposed to remember that.”

You don’t speak.

Can’t.

Because he presses the toy back into place.

Without turning it on.

Just rests it against your swollen, aching clit like a promise.

His voice is quieter now.

“You weren’t supposed to still want me.”

A beat.

Then—

"Do you?"

[eriace]

strings of fate ; monoma neito

oneshot & fluff ↪ in which y/n can see everyone’s red strings of fate—except her own. she opens a soulmate matchmaking agency and becomes the cupid of musutafu… until one day, a loud, dramatic blond named monoma waltzes in, and suddenly, her own string lights up—straight to him. ↷ monoma neito ; my hero academia

↳ an order of espresso shot from @sailorstar9 in the comeback cafe event !

Y/N HAD LONG accepted she was the human embodiment of irony.

Born with a Quirk that let her see the Red Strings of Fate—yes, the ones that tied soulmates together—she had the one job that basically made her a magical Cupid.

And yet.

Her string? Invisible.

Not just invisible. Blank. Empty. A tragic red question mark in a sea of intertwined lovebirds. A matchmaking agency owner without a match.

Cruel. Funny. Typical.

“Maybe the universe just knows you’d be too powerful in love,” her friend once told her.

She accepted that. Mostly. Kind of.

Until he walked in.

It was a Tuesday. Tuesdays were usually slow.

Y/n was behind her desk filling out paperwork and debating if she should sneak in a nap when the front door burst open like it owed someone money.

“I demand to speak to the matchmaker of legends!” came a theatrical voice.

She looked up.

And nearly choked on her own breath.

There, standing in the doorway with the energy of someone who probably narrated their own mirror pep talks, was Monoma Neito. Loud. Blonde. Probably too pretty for his own good.

“Um. That’s me,” she blinked, setting her pen down.

He marched forward, coat swishing like he was on a runway.

“I’ve heard rumors—whispers!—of your talents. If anyone is worthy of finding someone who can handle my brilliance, it’s you.”

Y/n blinked slowly. “…okay.”

He plopped into the chair across from her. “Make me a match.”

She opened her mouth to reply.

And that’s when she saw it.

A glowing, crimson string shooting from his pinky… and tying itself right to hers.

She stared.

Her mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

“…what?” she croaked.

“Exactly!” Monoma grinned. “That’s the correct reaction to meeting me.”

She kept staring at the string.

No way.

No. Way.

Her invisible, unattached, traitorous Red String was no longer invisible. It was now glowing like a neon ‘OPEN’ sign… and it was connected to Monoma Neito.

“…I think my Quirk just glitched.”

“Excuse you?”

She stood up, panicked. “Wait right here. I need—I need tea. Or water. Or wine. Or all three.”

Ten minutes later, she sat across from him, string still intact, tea in hand, and brain fried.

He sipped his own drink, unbothered.

“So. Who’s the lucky person I’m destined for?”

She stared.

He smiled.

She opened her mouth.

“It’s me.”

He blinked. “…excuse me?”

“Your string’s tied to me. My Quirk never let me see mine before. But now it’s glowing like a Christmas light.”

Silence.

Then he blinked again. “Are you saying you’re my soulmate?”

“Unfortunately.”

He leaned back with the air of someone who’d definitely practiced this speech in the mirror. “Hah! Of course. Only someone of my caliber would be fated to the city’s most elite matchmaker. It was destiny!”

“You were two seconds away from getting paired with someone named Koji who collects rare rocks.”

He gasped. “Blasphemy!”

She laughed, finally relaxing. The tension in her chest fizzled away like steam.

Monoma was chaotic, loud, and dramatic to the point of cartoonish. But somehow, it… fit. His string was tied to hers. And despite all her complaints, her heart didn’t seem too mad about it.

He leaned forward, smirking now.

“So, does this mean our first date is free?”

“Only if you stop calling yourself ‘matchmaking royalty.’”

“Impossible. I’m soulmate nobility now.”

She sighed, sipping her tea.

“…fine. But you’re paying for dinner.”

“Deal. I’ll bring you a rose too. Soulmates deserve flair.”

She rolled her eyes—smiling.

Yeah. She could get used to this.

© eriace ;; don’t repost my works.

[is-the-fire-real]

Conversion student, Masorti tradition, with a Sephardic community and an Ashkenazi Rabbi.

I've struggled a LOT with the concept of G-d. I have a differing perspective than most of the Jews you're talking about, though, for obvious reasons.

I was raised in a Christian-ish cult. This cult was extremely centered on a Heavenly Father. They are obsessed with him. They taught me a lot about how to pray and how to worship and so forth. They used my belief in Heavenly Father to trap me further into the cult. I wanted to believe in a Heavenly Father because a lot of really horrible things happened to me as a child. I wanted to feel like someone cared about me. No one in my life did, including cult members, so I figured Heavenly Father was obliged to.

I prayed a lot as a child. Until once I prayed for a miracle, a miracle my elders promised me would absolutely happen because my faith was pure and I was loyal and Heavenly Father was real and he would listen, and...

... nothing happened.

Nothing ever happened.

For a long time, I took that personally: as G-d simply not listening or caring. But eventually, long after I left the cult, I finally started thinking: It's because there's no G-d.

I engaged with neopaganism for a while. Nothing ever happened. I engaged with Buddhism for far longer. Nothing ever happened. I would still periodically pray when I was at my extremes of stress or pain or strife, and...

... nothing. ever. happened.

Religious trauma's damage cannot be overstated. It's not just the obvious and headline-grabbing stuff; it's stuff like what happened to me. Taking a child's natural sense of trust and twisting it for the purposes of cruel or indifferent humans. Building my expectations so high, and then blaming me whenever they failed. Taking lonely kids who have zero friends and telling them that G-d will be their friend, and then, when G-d isn't your friend... well, it makes sense nobody else likes you, right? After all, you've even been rejected by G-d Himself.

You don't just feel abandoned, you feel foolish for trusting G-d or anyone, and you feel foolish as an adult whenever you try to trust anyone. Anyone mentions G-d and you struggle not to roll your eyes because oh yeah this crap again, you're just trying to trick me into turning off my brain, I won't fall for it this time.

So why am I converting? What do I get out of it?

I started out mostly an atheist who admired so much of Jewish culture and thought that, to be honest, I was okay with being around people who talked about Hashem as though He spoke to them personally. I figured that if Jews pray the Shema, I ought to pray the Shema, and even if I didn't know how to feel about the subject of the Shema, it was important to do. That is how I have approached a lot of my conversion so far.

But. Like. In the past month or so? I think maybe I'm starting to glimpse Someone. I feel like learning about the real purpose of prayer has helped me to pray more effectively. The more I learn about how Jews as a people view G-d, the more that G-d seems like someone I could follow, and the more I start to suspect that maybe, possibly, He's there.

So much of the Torah describes Israel as a lover and G-d as a wooer. Well, how do you fall in love with someone if you never have a single disagreement with them, ever? If you never bicker? Maybe some folks are struggling with G-d as a concept because they want to know who they'd be loving, if the vulnerability is worth it. (Apologies to the aromantics out there.)

By wrestling with the concept of G-d, I came around to a better understanding of G-d, and feel far differently about Him than if I'd just been told at the outset "believe in Hashem or else you can't be a Jew".

Anyway, I have no idea if this will clarify anything for you, but it's what came to mind when I read your query. I would gently suggest it's not so much a Reform thing as a "humans that have been hurt very badly by other humans" thing.

I’m genuinely so confused at where this idea that Jews have this tradition of grappling with the concept of G-D comes from like?? Last time I checked like the most important thing in Judaism is to believe in Hashem ?? Like am I missing something cause I’m so ??? over this

[thethronezone]

A pleasant thing about having wings is the fact that flight provides you access to places no one else can reach. The top of trees, roofs, nooks and crannies that most people aren't even aware exist.

The palace on Terra is no different.

Up in the rafters, hidden in the shadow of a beam thicker than he is, Asher hides, curled up with his face tucked against his knees and wings carefully folded around him, encasing him like a cocoon. Perhaps if he's lucky, he'll be someone else when he emerges.

Down far below, he hears voices calling his name in search of him. They sound stressed. Frantic. Almost terrified. If he bothered to part his wings and look down, he'd most likely spot the familiar gleam of red armor darting around like ants.

Part of him feels guilty. They are looking for him, after all. A week ago, Asher would never even have dreamed of worrying them like this.

But time is a strange thing and a lot can change in a week. In a week, people can fall in and out of love. In a week, unbreakable friendships can be forged. In a week, wars can be waged, peace can be declared and history can be written.

And a week ago, Asher's father was still alive.

Terra stands, but at what cost? As much as it shames Asher to admit, he would rather the planet had burned to the ground rather than losing his father. But in the end, they had won, and where did it leave them? The Imperium in shambles, the Emperor is confined to his throne, half of Asher's uncles and their traitorous legions having escaped to who knows where and people- People keep trying to talk to him.

It would be better if they were cruel. Uncaring. If they wanted favors and influence like they always used to whenever they approached him. But the truth is, they do nothing but offer him their condolences.

Serfs and nobles alike, they all but fall to their knees, eyes wet with unshed tears as they lament the tragic demise of the Great Angel. They tell Asher how brave and fantastic his father was. Some even have personal stories, personal experiences to share about how Sanguinius affected them specifically. Then they say that it's such a travesty what happened, that they wished it had ended differently.

And Asher agrees with them every time. He nods and does his best to smile at them, offer them the comfort and reassurance that they probably so desperately needs in these trying times. Yes, his father was brave. A fantastic man. A hero. Again and again and again he repeats it until the words lose value and something in him breaks.

It feels like they are dragging their fingers through a fresh wound that is not given the time to heal. Everyone just keeps digging the blade that is grief deeper into his soul. Do you know how amazing your father was? Do you know how sad we are all about his death? His sacrifice was great and we will never forget him and neither will you.

Like that was ever an option.

Truth to be told, Asher feels like screaming at them. Tell them to shut up and leave him alone. Sometimes, he even imagines himself lunging, tearing out their hair in large fists while clawing at their faces until they're unrecognizable. These people don't know him, they didn't know his father and they certainly don't know what he's going through. It's not fair that they are trying to share his grief with him when he's lost so, so much. To them, Sanguinius was a leader, an icon but to Asher, he was his father! How dare they think that he and they are one and the same!?

But then he calms down as melancholy and guilt washes over him like a great tidal wave. How could he blame them, when they are just trying to be kind? Trying so hard to support him in this trying time? It would be selfish and wrong of him to lash out, to take out his rage on people who have done nothing wrong when they don't know any better.

What would his father have thought?

The thought makes his hearts ache and his eyes sting but he has no more tears left to shed. Instead he just curls up further, arms tightening around his legs and wings trembling as a silent sob escapes him.

Just a few more minutes, and then he will stop hiding from his entourage and the countless people that want to see him. But for now, he just wants to pretend that the wings folded around him belongs to somebody else.

[bellherald]

Law and Caring; Cora-san's Wish

I think it is both very funny and incredibly touching that Law had helped Cora-san and Luffy by saving their lives through either mercy of keeping a damning lie or direct medical intervention and then they do not leave him alone. Both of them refuse to leave him behind during his self-destructive episodes, literally picking Law up and carrying him off to face his fears and keep him alive. For Cora-san this included hospitals for his disease, but both of them end up going against Doflamingo directly.

They face down Doflamingo and ultimately he loses. Because of Cora-san, he lost Law and the Op-op no mi; because of Luffy, he lost everything—including Law and the Op-op no mi once again.

Both Luffy and Cora-san are known for being rather determined people and physically violent when mad. Luffy was not being the most gentle ride and accidentally hurting Law compared to Cora hurting Law from hospitals, their relentless drive to ensure Law makes it causing some damage in the progress. The fact that both would rather die first then let Doflamingo kill off Law, pushing him out of Doflamingo's reach and taking the attention upon themselves.

It’s fascinating how for both Law and Luffy the other can remind of loved ones they've lost so fiercely. No wonder they both care for each other.

Luffy has never doubted that Law is a good person; if anything, he ends up taking him for granted and assuming he will agree with his behavior, like with expanding the alliance. Law does, but to him that's really besides the point!

Law's got a facade of a cruel pirate and a reputation to back it up. Apoo calls him out as known for brutality at Maineford and the G-5 marines are terrified at the sight of Law, wanting to turn tail immediately. Hawkins is intimidated by the murderous man that doesn't fear not reaching tomorrow. He's known for taking a hundred hearts to become a Warlord, and, in all respects, the man is terrifying. Law can dice people into bits and do as he pleases.

And yet, despite what you hear, we see repeated moments like this. Flipping the script from last time where Luffy was advocating for action on a countries behalf, Law is the one actively arguing for the citizens. A captain of a silly, friendly crew that loves him, cherishing his accomplishments and hyping him up even as he's exasperatedly sighing in the back. He saves Luffy's and Jinbe's lives for no good reason that could justify a cruel pirate intervening in a war just to save people. Law cares for the Punkhazard children of his own volition when the goal is accomplished even knowing Doflamingo is on the way. He repeatedly saves people by teleporting them from certain death, from Sanji, Luffy, the samurai, Viola and Rebecca. Law doesn't directly kill anyone, even stating that he doesn't like killing. His abilities are centered around not the taking of life but instead to preserve it.

Law has a tendency to help people out despite him trying to seem uncaring and a scary pirate and then that coming around and biting him because they end up caring for him back. Cora-san, Bepo, Penguin & Shachi, Jean Bart, Luffy & the Straw Hats, Punkhazard, Dressrosa, Zou, Wano. It's a consistent facet of his character that I thoroughly enjoy.

Despite his bluster with the samurai being on the ship, everyone knows better and is genuinely thanking Law for letting them on. After all, he’s the one who saved them from sinking in the first place. Then he saved the plan too! It was a small but super cute interaction that made me very gleeful while also very clearly summarizing the Trafalgar plight. A doctor cursed to save lives and then pretend that he doesn't do that, actually. No one listens to him trying to be a scary pirate, he's constantly undermined in his efforts.

Saying this seems counter intuitive considering the last time they parted as enemies Law proceeded to save Luffy's life, but whatever helps him sleep at night!

Law doesn't admit to caring easily, it's incredibly terrifying for someone who has been burned so severely in his life to face down potentially bonding with other people as anything other than inviting more pain. Especially when he's keenly aware of the active hunt his fruit draws upon him and the name he bears. He ends up confessing to it in his actions. It's part of why he is so consistently disgruntled with being seen positively, being kept at a distance keeps him safe. Law has multiple layers to keep from connecting with those around him but we see people getting through the cracks in them. Law can't help but leave those gaps because he is a doctor.

Even when it seems hopeless in Law’s life, where he is unable to move and faced with once again being dehumanized, coveted, used because he is not a human to a monstrous Blackbeard but instead a valuable tool—Law is saved by people he’s saved before. Law’s bluster about being enemies was passed over by both the Straw Hats and his own crew who had worked together even with their alliance ‘over’ and the goal complete. Chopper had been working on something for Bepo and because of that bond, it is the Straw Hats helping Law and Bepo avoid a fate we saw for another D. defeated by Blackbeard all those years ago in Pre-TS. Not seen as a human, but a tool for the powerful to use and kill for their own gains and greater schemes.

Law knew Doflamingo was a monster. He didn't care. He wanted to use Doflamingo to become one himself and being use as a tool by Doflamingo was fine by him. After everything that happened to him, he wanted to be a monster in his last years because the world stripped everything away from him.

His family, his home, his dignity and rights as a human being, his future… Cora gave them back. Law got to be human again, not a monster.

Cora-san got what he had wanted from the beginning, for Law to have the opportunity for a free life. He safeguarded Law's heart and helped bring him back, making sure that the boy who cared enough to keep him alive wasn't snuffed out. Destined not just for destruction but greater than that, Cora-san freed him from Doflamingo's strings by making him care again.

Law keeps that spirit alive through the carefully considered kindness he keeps tucked away from open view. Seeing it is always a treat, but seeing the kindness as the gift that keeps on giving? Law is surrounded by care, both his own and the people around him.

[sturnzsblog]

empty dreams and false promises 27

summary: y/n life changes and not for the best she is forced to move in with three people that she barely knows. She ends up falling for one of these strangers, but who will it be?

Warnings: mentions of death, stalking, drugs ( not actual use) and smut! this is for all parts of the story! please let me know if i missed any!

The house was cold.

Not in the way where you grab a blanket or close a window, but the kind of cold that settles in your bones. The kind that comes from silence — thick, heavy, and suffocating.

I woke up with that silence pressing on my chest. No voices. No laughter. No distant footsteps or quiet talking down the hallway.

Just the faint ticking of the clock on my nightstand and the ringing in my ears from everything I’d done wrong.

I reached for my phone.

Nothing.

No texts from Matt. No texts from Chris. No missed calls, no streaks, not even a dry meme from the group chat. Just emptiness.

I stared at the screen for a long time before I locked it again and let it fall on the bed beside me.

My fingers twisted in the comforter as I lay back, staring at the ceiling.

The party.

The kisses.

Matt’s lips on mine beneath the glow of string lights and laughter.

Chris’s mouth on mine in the quiet dark of my room.

The heat, the confusion, the way everything had twisted into knots I didn’t know how to untangle.

And now here I was.

Alone.

I got dressed slowly, letting the quiet pull at my nerves. Every step out of my room felt like I was walking into a battlefield.

No one was in the hallway. The air smelled like toast — someone had already eaten. Or maybe everyone had, without me.

I found Matt outside.

He was sitting at the edge of the deck, hoodie hood pulled up over his head, hands dangling between his knees as he stared off toward the trees.

There was a half-empty water bottle beside him and a set of earbuds hanging loose around his neck. He looked like someone who hadn’t slept.

“Matt?” I called out gently.

He didn’t look at me, but he didn’t move away either. So I stepped closer, heart pounding against my ribs like it wanted to run the other direction.

“Can we talk?”

A beat. Then another.

Finally, he gave a single nod. Quiet. Cautious.

I sat a few feet away, not daring to close the distance.

“I just wanted to say thank you,” I said quietly. “For being honest with me. For caring when you didn’t have to. You were the first person to make me feel seen when I moved here, Matt.”

His jaw clenched, and I saw him blink hard.

“I’ll always care about you,” I continued, voice trembling now. “But… I don’t think it’s the way you want me to.”

That’s when he looked at me.

His eyes were dim, hollowed-out from days of hope crashing into reality.

“You’re choosing him,” he said flatly.

I swallowed the lump in my throat. “I think I already did… I just didn’t know it.”

He stared at me for a long time. Then he looked back at the trees like he couldn’t stand to look at me anymore. “Don’t break his heart too,” he said softly.

At first, I didn’t even know what to say.

Because it didn’t sound like a warning. It didn’t sound bitter or cruel. It just… hurt. Like he’d already accepted something he didn’t want to.

My chest tightened.

I looked at him — at the way his eyes stared straight ahead, like if he looked at me one more second, he might shatter. His jaw clenched, but his face was unreadable. And for some reason, that made it worse.

“Matt,” I said, my voice shaky, barely holding.

He didn’t answer. Just stood up slowly, like every movement weighed more than it should’ve.

“I never meant to hurt you,” I said, standing too. I didn’t even realize I had tears in my eyes until one slipped down my cheek.

Matt finally turned his head, just enough to look at me out of the corner of his eye. His expression was hollow. Like something had been drained from him.

“I know,” he said. “But you did.”

The words landed like a punch to the chest.

He turned away, taking one step toward the porch steps. I panicked.

“Matt, please—”

“Don’t,” he said, still not looking at me. “You said what you needed to say.”

His voice wasn’t angry. It wasn’t anything. And that scared me more than if he’d yelled.

It meant he was letting go.

I watched him walk away, and all I could do was stand there like I was stuck to the ground. My legs felt numb.

My heart pounded so loud I could barely hear the door creak open behind him.

When it clicked shut, something inside me broke.

I sat back down on the porch, hugging my knees to my chest. I pressed my forehead against them, trying to breathe, but the guilt was too heavy, too loud. It sat in my throat like a scream that couldn’t get out.

I covered my face with both hands, trying to hold myself together.

But his words wouldn’t stop echoing.

Don’t break his heart too.

A sob slipped out before I could stop it.

Then another.

It wasn’t just about Matt. It was about all of it. About how messy everything had gotten. About how I didn’t want to hurt anyone — and somehow ended up hurting both of them anyway.

I cried because Matt had been the first person to really see me here. Because Chris was the first one I really felt something for.

Because now everything was a mess, and no matter how many times I apologized, it didn’t fix what I broke.

I buried my face deeper into my arms and cried quietly, hoping no one would hear.

I didn’t want to be comforted.

I didn’t deserve it.

~

It was late when i found chris.

The house had gone dark, only the hum of the fridge and the faint creak of floorboards echoing through the kitchen. He stood by the sink, arms folded, staring out the window like he was trying to see something past the night.

“Chris,” I said softly.

He stiffened — just barely — before looking over his shoulder at me. His jaw was tight. Eyes unreadable.

“I don’t want to fight,” I added quickly. “I just… I need to say something.”

He turned back to the yard.

“I’m tired, Y/N.”

“I know,” I said, stepping closer. “But I’m tired too. Of pretending I don’t feel something when I do. Of letting you walk away when I know I should’ve stopped you.”

He looked at me again, this time with something sharp behind his eyes. “So why didn’t you?”

That made me flinch a little.

I swallowed. “Because I was scared.”

Silence.

“I was scared that I ruined everything between us,” I said. “That I made a choice I couldn’t undo. And I didn’t want you to think I was just confused or using you to get back at Matt—because it wasn’t like that. I swear.”

Chris didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

“I kissed you because I wanted to,” I said, voice trembling. “I wanted to so badly it scared me. And when you held my hand or looked at me like I was the only thing in the room—Chris, I’ve never felt anything like that.”

Still nothing.

I stepped closer, into the light. Close enough to see the tired crease between his brows. “When I’m with you… I feel like I can breathe again. And I haven’t felt that in so long, I forgot what it was like.”

Finally, his eyes flickered.

I reached out but stopped myself before touching him. My voice dropped to a whisper. “You made me feel safe. Seen. Like maybe I wasn’t completely broken. And I’ve been trying to ignore that, to protect everyone else—but all I’ve done is hurt people.”

Chris looked down, his voice low and strained. “It felt like I was your second choice.”

“You weren’t,” I said quickly, stepping in front of him. “I didn’t know how to choose. I didn’t trust myself. But I do now. And I know I hurt you, but—Chris…”

I looked up into his eyes, begging him to believe me.

“I’m choosing you.”

His expression wavered — just for a second — then he looked away again. “You’re just saying that.”

“No,” I said, and this time I did reach for his hand. I laced my fingers with his and held on tight. “I’m not just saying it. I feel it. I’ve always felt it… I just didn’t know it.”

He didn’t pull away, but he didn’t squeeze back either.

I felt the lump in my throat swell, and when I spoke again, it was barely a whisper:

“I know I messed up, and I know you have every reason not to… but please. Just trust me.”

He looked at me.

Really looked.

The kind of look that cracks something open in your chest.

Then — slowly — he raised his hand and brushed a strand of hair from my face, the back of his fingers soft against my cheek.

His voice was quiet.

“Are you sure it’s me?”

Tears blurred my eyes. “It’s always been you.”

He stared at me like he was still trying to believe it.

And then — gently, hesitantly — he leaned in and kissed me.

It wasn’t rushed or wild or heated.

It was careful.

Like he was still scared I might break.

Like we were both made of glass, and this was the only way to fit the pieces back together.

Chris stayed with me that night.

We didn’t say much as we lay in bed. Just silence and heartbeats and the slow exhale of two people trying to start over. He held me like I was fragile, like I might fall apart if he didn’t.

Neither of us slept.

Around 2 a.m., I rolled over to face him in the dark. “I know I made a mess of things.”

“I know,” he whispered.

“But I don’t want to keep running from something good.”

His fingers found mine under the covers. “I’m scared too, Y/N. That this… could hurt both of us.”

I leaned in, close enough to kiss the corner of his mouth. “Try with me. Just… trust me.”

Chris was quiet.

Then, finally—

“Okay,” he whispered. “I trust you.”

YIPPIE

so so sorry if you were rooting for matty poo

next time 😌

janae 💋

taglist 💋

@n00dl3zzz @pip4444chris @sturnzzlovee @bernardmatthews @badbishkayleee @katiebae333 @dummyslut00 @eszt1 @kalel2005

[emptybagel]

Oh, so Alien Stage really is about how love can never be truly pure in extreme circumstances?

So both Mizi and Sua lied to eachother, for the other one's sake?

So Sua found comfort in Mizi's innocence, even if she knew it was a lie? Despite knowing it will be her demise and Mizi's source of hurt?

And still, she allowed herself to be willingly deceived in order to find something, anything, to live—and die—for? To selfishly find an escape from the reality of her own abuse and play the willing martyr who died for Mizi's sins?

So Mizi found comfort in others' perception of herself? So she fully embraced the pure, innocent Holy Mary that everyone saw her as and became what others believed her to be in order to cope with the unfair reality and survive?

So her own facade was what gave her the ability to keep going? So the very thing that brought her comfort was also the source of her suffering, as others' shallow feelings for not her, but the icon of a saint she set up disgusted her? So she kept up the act, even though she knew Sua saw through her, even though she knew that it was going to be her lover's demise, the very thing that will break their beautiful bubble?

So she tried so hard to simplify keep living, because, despite everything, she is so undeniably, incredibly human? But, in the end, the very same humanity that caused her not to stop Sua despite knowing the consequences was what caused her to wonder: was it really worth it? was it really what I wanted?

So even though they loved eachother so, so much, death hovered over them like a raised hand they couldn't help but recoil under. So they tried and tried to find comfort in eachother, but as the time went on, both of them became more and more desperate—for the other, for the lies, for the beautiful, but small world that they created, for the only source of comfort they ever knew.

So, their collision destroyed them—killed Sua, broke Mizi's facade together with her mind. So they lost everything, all they had—and for what? For the Segyein to cheer for them as they kept their acts to the very end? For nothing, nothing at all?

And they were so selfish—holding onto something that brought them peace in this cruel world for their own sake, knowing how much it hurt the person they love the most.

And they were so selfless—holding onto something that brought peace to the person they loved the most for their sake, knowing how much it hurt their own selves.

And, really, the only fault of their own was being born in the first place; being caught in the crossfire of circumstances they would never—could never—understand, of a system they had no say in.

So it was only natural, their sick nature. It was inescapable, the way in which they only found comfort in violence and eachother.

Oh, they're so dark and twisted. But that's what makes them human—the constant chase of the holy and divine, of eachother. Because the universe has no meaning if there's no-one to observe it and a God without worshippers is as good as dead.

In the end, all they could do is play their respective roles—the pure virgin Mother Mary and a holy martyr.

Each one yearns for the other so much, but they only ever hurt eachother, just to comfort eachother in an apology moments later. They play their roles because that's what is expected of them, because that's what they need to do to survive, because that's what they need to do so that the other will survive, what they think they need to be happy, so that the other will be happy, even if just for a moment.

And it really couldn't be any other way, could it? Because they were given no choice: they didn't decide to be born on their own, they didn't decide to enter ALNST, everything was already predestined by a higher being, one that served as a real, physical God that they couldn't rebel against. So the only piece, scrap of freedom was the pain: in Mizi's palm and Sua's cheek, and in both of their glances as the melody they sang, practiced over and over was beginning to end. But while they sang the final notes together, they were free.

I don't know if anyone will even get the reference but Mizi is almost exactly like Jacob of Cloyes from The Gates of Paradise by Jerzy Andrzejewski if he was a girl and Tenjou Utena from RGU simultaneously. Isn't it crazy how similar all these characters are? Hurting people for their own reasons, so selfish and so selfless, and disguising it under a mask of innocence and oblivion. And they play their roles so exceptionally that even the viewer is blindsided by it, until the very end. And, most important of all, each and every one of them is just a person, caught in something so much bigger than themselves, wanting something, someone so desperately, that eventually their own play, the one thing they had control over, is the end of them. Forever tainted, forever alone, forever caged.

This changed. Everything. Changed Mizi, changed Sua, Till, changed Alien Stage as we know it. People who will join the fandom from now on will have it so much worse, because you just had to be there when this dropped. ALNST is coming to an end and the question that lingers isn't "who will survive?", neither it is "will someone survive?". "Alien Stage will have a happy ending!" they said... Well, perhaps they really will be happier in paradise. But I still can't help but wonder: will they be able to change something, anything in the status quo of their world?

(Oh my God, that's my longest yap-session ever, I think)

[reit0o]

his resolve .ᐟ ⋆˙

★ summary- caleb x fem!reader. caleb has never known safety, but he’s learned what it means to protect it. so when he finds four guys cornering you, he knows he can finally do something about it. because you're the reason he fights—the only thing that makes surviving feel like something more.

★ wc- 3.4k

based on these calebweek prompts 🍎

The park near your house was the perfect place for finding unusual flowers—the kind that didn’t usually make it into flower crowns or get crushed into pigments for paint, but held their own kind of charm. They were perfect for breathing life into Caleb’s and your little ‘secret base’, as you called it. Your personal touch.

Today was different from normal. You had snuck out early, your plan carefully plotted. You wanted to surprise him with a flower garland—something beautiful and a little messy like the both of you—to hang above the entrance of your shared haven. A quiet declaration that ’this place was ours.’

The park was always alive with soft background noise—murmurs of old ladies working out on the creaky fitness equipment, the tinny laughter of toddlers being pushed on swings by their mothers, and the steady hum of everyday life. But you didn’t head toward the open areas. You turned a sharp corner and slipped through the patch of thinned-out shrubs, worn down from all the times the two of you had snuck through, until you reached it: a little corner garden, hidden just out of sight. The community had planted it to help wildflowers grow freely.

The waft of the flowers was both overwhelming and alluring. It always smelled sweet here, sweet enough to make your chest ache. You leaned in, wide-eyed, fingertips brushing gently over the blooms. Primrose. Sunroots. Asters. You picked the fullest ones, stems breaking with a soft snap as you tucked them into your dirt-streaked hand, careful not to overpluck from any one patch.

The only other kids nearby were four older boys from the neighbourhood loitering around on the swings. You kept adding to your bundle, unaware of the swing’s squeal as it came to a stop. Unaware of the gritty sound of gravel underfoot, drawing closer—until they stood right behind you, shadows obscuring the sight in front of you.

“You’re that girl,” a voice said behind you. Older. It belonged to one of the four from the swings. “The orphan.”

The word cracked against your spine like a branch splitting.

“The one who clings to that boy like his tail. Caleb, right?”

You turned slowly, unsure if you should respond. But before you could speak, one of them stepped forward and grinned. There was something sharp and cruel beneath it, something that made your stomach twist.

“What are you even doing here?” another scoffed, then looked down at your bundle of flowers. “Trying to play house in the dirt like some stray?”

Then one of them kicked the flowers out of your hand.

You dropped to your knees instantly, grabbing at them, but they were already crushed. One of the petals tore in your hand. You sat there, crestfallen, eyes lingering only on the scattered remains lying defeated at your feet.

“Guess it doesn’t matter,” another boy sneered. “Nobody’s gonna care what some charity case brat wanted to hang up. You and that moron Caleb—no wonder you stick together. Freaks find freaks.”

Laughter broke among them. Your knees stayed rooted to the ground, the weight of their words clinging to your back like wet clothes. You didn’t dare look up.

“What’re you doing?”

The voice cut through clean like a blade.

Caleb turned to her, kneeling beside the scattered flowers. He crouched beside you, eyes scanning the crushed remains before landing gently on yours.

“You okay?”

You nodded, just barely. Your voice caught in your throat, unable to form a sound, eyes grazing past his shoulder at the boys who were still watching.

The boy frowned. “We were just talking to her.”

Caleb stepped closer.

“Didn’t sound like talking.”

Caleb didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t scowl or shout. But something in his presence shifted, almost quiet and terrifying, like the still air before a thunderstorm.

Your eyes scoured him, your only sign of guidance, unsure of what to do next.

“I’m just gonna have a chat with these guys,” he said, brushing a bit of dirt off your knee. “Don't worry about me, pipsqueak, I’ll be back soon.”

Then he reached up and gave your nose a gentle squeeze, the smallest curve tugging at his lips.

“Why don’t you start hanging these around our base?” he added, nudging your shoulder gently in the other direction. “Make it look nice and pretty when I get back.”

You hesitate and take a step back, anxiety clouding your thoughts with each movement at the mere idea of Caleb might do—or worse, what might happen to him. The crushing thought of him coming back injured made you glance over your shoulder, but before the thought could fully form, gravity seemed to drag you forward, and you stumbled into the garden.

The tall metal gate loomed before you, and the sharp click of its lock echoed in your ears, sealing your fate.

Dread began to pool in your stomach. Your plans from earlier vanished swiftly from your mind. The bouquet slipped from your hands, dirt clinging to the once-vibrant petals. Panic rising, you lunged for the gate, trying desperately to pry it open with your bare hands. But it held firm. Locked.

Your hopeless struggle left you with nothing other than guilt-ridden fear.

Your knees, now sore and reddened, buckled beneath you. You crawled back to the mound of dirt where the flowers had fallen, now bruised and broken, and collapsed limply beside them.

Part of you feels like this was your punishment for sneaking out. Now forced to sit alone, swimming in guilt for the foolish decision to leave after lunch against Gran’s and his wishes.

You only wanted to do something nice for him. But the cost of that decision left you locked away at the edge of your garden, cut off from the world beyond the stupid gate. And Caleb—the one always eager to take care of you—was now out there fighting your battles.

Tears welled, blurring your vision. You sniffled, trying not to break down completely, trying not to seem even more like a helpless case in need of saving. But every passing minute drove you deeper into despair.

The sun dipped lower, casting hues of gold and pink across the sky. Its last rays clung to the walls of your house like soft brushstrokes. The flowers in your hand drooped, nearly bare now as you sheepishly plucked the petals one by one, letting them pool around you. Just as you reached for the last one, the familiar creak of the gate split the silence.

It swung open slowly.

And there he was—Caleb. Stiffly stepping into the garden, flashing you a weak smile.

His hair was dishevelled, dirt-streaked his knees, and a purple bruise was beginning to bloom on his cheek. One hand clutched his stomach; his wince betraying the pain he tried to hide behind that familiar, reassuring grin.

Your legs sprang into motion as you stumbled forward, knees weak and numb as you tried to regain your balance. Small hands clung to his rumpled clothes, searching desperately for more injuries, for an explanation.

“Caleb, what happened to you?”

A short, humourless laugh escaped him as he braced himself against the wall. “It just got a little rough,” he muttered. “You don’t need to worry about the details. All you need to know is—they won’t be bothering you anymore.”

You searched his face for something—pain, fear, even regret, but found none. You didn’t care about the kids who had been teasing you. The only thing that mattered was the boy in front of you, wincing with every breath as he tried his best to bite down  any pain he was feeling.

“Cale—”

“What happened to your knees?” he interrupted, hunched over anxiously, examining the light marks and abrasions turning into bright red sores.

“I tried climbing over the gate,” you weakly admitted.

“Didn’t I tell you to stay put? Come on, let’s go inside before it starts to get infected.”

“But—”

“I said don’t worry about me,” he cut in again, softer this time. “I’m okay, I promise.”

He was lying. And you both knew it. But you didn’t fight him on it. Instead, you let him loop an arm around your shoulders and guide you into the back door of the kitchen.

The kitchen smelled faintly of antiseptic. The quiet hum of the fridge filled the silence as you sat on the wooden chair.

Caleb had already cleaned your wounds, applied antiseptic, and plastered your knees with care—even drawing a little smiley face on one of the bandages as if that could somehow undo the chaos of the day.

Even when he was hurt, he still took it upon himself to tend to you. You always had his full, undivided attention.

He commended your bravery and promised to make your favourite snack as a reward. The skin around your nails reddened from the constant picking, and your legs could do nothing but swing from the wooden chair. Brave? That was the last word you’d use to describe yourself.

No. Liar. Selfish. Weak.

A brave person wouldn’t let someone they care about get hurt in their place.

“This is all my fault,” you whispered. “I shouldn’t have snuck out.”

You sniffled, wiping your nose roughly on your sleeve.

“I just wanted to make our base look pretty… add something of my own. But instead, you got hurt because of me. Why didn’t you let me stay?”

The last word cracked, almost squeaked out, betraying the tears pushing up behind your eyes.

Caleb didn't say anything at first. He just wiped your cheeks with the edge of his shirt.

“How come when I see you, you always have tears running down your face?”

“You got seriously hurt, Caleb!”

“And you think I would’ve let you fight them all alone?”

You hiccuped. “No… but we could’ve gone home together, where it’s safe. Or fought them together.”

Silence hovered between you for a moment. Caleb’s brow softened as he let out a long, tired breath.

“Look at me,” he said, flexing his arm in a half-hearted show of strength. “I may not look it, but I’m strong. Stronger than you think. I don’t need you going out looking for trouble when I’m around.”

His eyes drifted to the window. He stared at the fading light, and for a second it looked like he wanted to say more. But whatever thoughts stirred behind his eyes stayed there—unspoken.

“Not everything ends in a fair fight.”

“Next time,” he said finally, turning back to you, his tone firm, “tell me. You don’t have to tell Gran everything. But let me know.”

His gaze held yours, unwavering.

“I don’t think I could forgive myself if you got hurt.”

“I’m sorry, Caleb.”

“Don’t apologise,” he said gently. “Just promise me. Promise you’ll tell me everything.”

He raised his pinky toward you.

You wrapped yours around him, tugging tight with all the strength in your small fingers.

“I promise.”

The evening had quietly settled over the kitchen by the time Gran returned home. At the dining table, you had already fallen asleep, leaning into his side, your arm still wrapped tightly around his, like you were trying to hold onto him even in your dreams.

Earlier, you’d practically begged him not to leave. Sleep had made your head bob, and eyelids heavy, but you fought it with everything you had, clinging to him as he fed you snacks. When he offered to carry you up to bed, you refused outright. Your grip on him only tightened.

You didn’t want to lose sight of him. Not again.

The kitchen was eerily still as Gran slipped into the seat across Caleb, quietly applying ointment to his injuries. There were no thoughts, no distractions, no outside noises leaking in, only the soft, steady rhythm of your breathing rising and falling beside him.

His usual easygoing demeanour had all but vanished, replaced with a hollow, strained stillness. His eyes tracked every motion of Gran’s hands, each cut and bruise slowly bandaged. There was no pretending when you weren’t awake. His limbs hung slack, lacking their usual tautness and strength. It felt like he’d just run a marathon, every muscle screaming with exhaustion.

Gran’s brow furrowed deeply when he lifted his shirt, revealing a particularly nasty bruise blooming just below his left rib.

“Caleb,” she murmured, her voice low and resigned. “I don’t want you getting into these fights anymore. When I took you in, I asked you to look after each other, but… this isn’t what I meant.”

His nostrils flared outward, fingers spread white against the edge of his seat.

“If I hadn’t been there,” he swallowed hard, “she would’ve gotten hurt. Badly.”

“Just look at the number of bruises on your legs.”

He winced as the ointment touched a deep scratch along his leg, muscles twitching against the sting.

“This is nothing,” he hissed.

But another flinch betrayed him when the ointment brushed against his arm, pain flashing through him in waves he couldn’t fully hide.

The events of that afternoon flooded his mind, threading through his thoughts like a shadow he couldn’t escape.

Any smart kid would’ve backed off the moment they saw the odds—four against one. The others were older, bigger, meaner. But Caleb didn’t flinch.

They were fast. Fast enough that two of them had grabbed him, wrenching his arms behind his back while the others took their turns. Each picked their blow with cruel precision, mocking him before finally knocking the wind from his lungs. When they were done, they dropped him like a broken toy—discarded, unwanted, like some street dog left to rot.

It didn't last long. It felt pitiful to drag out what already seemed like a losing battle. His knees and elbows took the worst of it, scraping hard against the gravel as he crumpled to the ground, helpless and abandoned.

His hands still prickled as he flexed his fingers, remembering the sharp sting of humiliation. He could still see them—laughing, sauntering away without a care, their figures shrinking as they disappeared from view.

He thought of the garden. Your safe place. The promise that he made to you every time his name trembled and failed to leave your lips.

He never knew his heart could sink that low, twisting deep in his chest, his stomach unravelling into a pit of guilt and helplessness with every step of that memory.

He remembered how powerless he felt in the lab—how his voice hadn’t mattered, how his body hadn’t been his own. But now… now he had freedom. And freedom was a weapon. A chance.

He’d be damned if he let that go to waste.

“What happened to those boys, Caleb? The lady on the corner said she looked out her window and saw four young boys crying, clutching their arms in pain. They were screaming loud enough for the next neighbourhood to hear.”

Her words fell through the silence like water flowing into a gutter. His mind was far away from the conversation.

Her words broke through his thoughts like a knife. “She said one of their arms was broken.”

Gran licked her thumb and gently wiped a smudge from his cheek, then gently cupped his face. He looked at her expressionlessly. There was no guilt, just a quiet acceptance of what he’d done. She peered at his face, looking for any hint of reasoning. His eyes didn’t waver, just stern and fixed, backed by a quiet determination. A look that said all how he was feeling, full of something far older than his years. He wasn't scared.

He wasn’t like kids his age who had the freedom to do as they pleased. Caleb had seen the horrors, what it was like to be powerless. To have choice ripped away. He knew things weren’t guaranteed in this life. He knew fear better than anyone else, and he didn’t flinch in the face of it anymore.

“I won’t lose,” he said, voice low. “Not to them. Not to anyone.”

I have someone I must protect.

He would break the world first, than lose you. Gran’s gaze softened with sorrow, with helpless guilt. No child should know the weight of survival like this. Fearing for his safety is a burden she wishes she could lift from him. The wounds on him serve only as a reminder of her inescapable remorse.

“I don’t want her to be in pain again,” he whispered, barely louder than a breath, the last word catching at the edge of his throat.

And she saw him, for a brief second before he turned away, casting a glance at the sleeping girl beside him before discreetly wiping his eye with the back of his hand.

She saw it clearly then: his legs dangling off the edge of the chair, and his tiny fists clenched tight around the hem of his stained shorts.

Just a small, terrified boy, trying to protect someone even smaller than him.

She carried them both to the couch, settling them gently before tucking a blanket around their small, tired bodies.

“You two only have each other in this world,” she whispered, brushing a strand of hair from his face. “She looks up to you, Caleb. When she sees you hurt, she hurts too. I need you to look after yourself, just as much as you look after her.”

She never knew if her words ever truly reached him. Deep down, she suspected he would never see things her way. To him, there was only one truth: that they had no one else. Just each other.

He gave her a silent nod.

She leaned down, kissing them both softly on the head.

“Goodnight, my dear.”

His eyelids felt heavy. With a small, sluggish shift, he tried to adjust his arm into a more comfortable position, but your hold only tightened. You burrowed closer, murmuring in your sleep, “Caleb… don’t go…”

He turned his head toward you. Your face was still blotchy from tears, the bottom of your nose marked with dried snot. His arm had long since gone numb beneath your weight, but he didn’t move.

Instead, he let out a long, tired sigh, resting his head back against the couch cushion.

He was the product of an experiment before he was ever a child. A child who met more tears than laughter. The sterile confines of the lab taught him his first lesson—that tears were worth less than the dust collected on the floor.

That feeling of helplessness was less a memory than a constant reminder. The image resurfaced in his sleep every night, the haunting picture of your unconscious body on the operating table, surrounded by people who treated you like nothing more than data. Watching it all unfold like he was living through a tragedy he had no power to stop.

He would always remember how gently he’d introduce himself to you, again and again, with a softness neither of you had ever been given. It was the only thing he could offer then—tenderness in a world that had given them none.

The promise you made in the safety of your shared haven was bound tighter that night. And so too was the vow Caleb made to himself.

A tethered kite can only soar so high. But he swore he would fly farther. Farther than the weight of fear, farther than the gravity that tried to keep him grounded. He’d make sure your days ended in laughter. That your joyful cries would finally outnumber the tears you no longer remember shedding. He would be your anchor when every adult had failed you. Your home, when the world gave you none.

To him, failure wasn't an option. Failure meant losing you.

His hand came to rest gently on your head, fingers brushing back the hair that had fallen along your cheek. Caleb looked at the dim reflection cast in the glow of the living room lamp—your image softened in its warm light, quiet and still, as if untouched by the chaos beyond these walls.

The steady rhythm of your breathing pulled him closer to sleep, like a lullaby only he could hear.

He wrapped the blanket more securely around you, drawing you into him as if the simple act could protect you from every shadow waiting just beyond reach.

His purpose came from you, and what had left that lab was a love born from survival.

He stroked the back of your head slowly, gently, each pass easing him closer to rest. Soft fragments of a promise lingered on his lips.

“Don't worry, I’m not going anywhere.”

If he could help it, he would shape the world into something safer for you. He would stand in the way of anything that tried to hurt you.

He would build something better.

A world so far out of reach that harm could never graze you again.

⋆. 𐙚 ̊ likes, reblogs, and feedback are always appreciated! feel free to ask me anything or pop in and say hello ૮₍˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ₎ა

a/n- let's ignore the fact im already a few days behind in this calebweek. im still a firm believer josephine cared for caleb but their relationship was def rocky and not the same she had with MC. i love this prompt so much bc caleb was still a child when he took on his protective role, like they were both just babies. also if you see me spam post to catch up, no u didnt

as always hope you enjoyed reading!!

[rasolomonwrites]

I want some Daniel/Armand/Louis bouncing on it crazy style.

He'll yeah brother.

Daniel bit his tongue, shame flooding him, unable to believe the noises he was making.

For some reason that was the line he couldn't cross. Going to a notorious gay bar? Fine. Following home the most beautiful man he had ever seen? Fine. Sucking him off for some coke? Fine. His boyfriend too? Wonderful.

Enjoying cocks in his ass so much that he almost sobbed when they paused taking turns entering him to tease the rim of his fluttering hole was the line.

Daniel could feel himself clenching and unclenching on nothing, his hips baring down as if they had a mind of their own, his thighs shaking.

Daniel felt so empty inside that he could have screamed. It was like an illness. He bit down on his tongue even harder to stifle the moans. Blood filled his mouth and he started to choke on it.

Louis slapped his ass and he couldn't help but gasp against the bed, blood dripping out of his mouth onto the sheets.

"I don't think the boy wants any more." Said Armand, ever so soft, sliding a single finger into his gaping hole. It was a cruel tease. "He's being so quiet. So selfish. Swallowing all of his cries of desire."

Daniel blushed with embarrassment down to his pubic hair, where a hard, weeping cock bobbed as a cruel finger teased him inside. His balls felt hot and heavy and they twitched in Louis' hands as he caressed them.

Louis slapped his ass again and Daniel felt himself attempt to clench down on Armand's circling finger.

"If he's so embarrassed maybe we should kick him right out." Said Louis and Daniel started to babble and whine, borderline hysterical.

"Let's cast him out into the night just like this, hard and aching and empty." Armand agreed, voice wicked and dark.

If Daniel was in his right mind, he might have noticed the sardonic undertones of the vampires' voices.

As a man who had been on his hands and knees getting teased for what felt like hours, it was enough to make him snap.

Daniel launched himself at Armand with such ferocity that the vampire found himself shocked for the first time in decades.

Armand allowed himself to be pinned to the mattress, and did nothing as Daniel bent over him, impaling himself on his cock with a triumphant groan.

Daniel bobbed up and down like a man possessed, his knees audibly cracking and popping and his dark brown curls stuck to his forehead and neck, plastered down with sweat.

"Give it to me!" He yelled again and again, fists pounding against Armand's chest as he rode him with complete abandon, the mattress creaking and the headboard slamming against the wall.

"Holy shit." Was all Louis said as he watched Daniel bend like a bow, his ass cheeks audibly slapping against Armand's thighs as they bounced on the mattress together.

He watched as Armand dug savage claws into his hips and ass cheeks, drawing blood. Daniel responded by slamming down against him even harder and letting out a little cry.

Daniel clawed into Armand's chest, leaving scratches that would have gored a mortal, but disappeared in minutes.

"You want me to give it to you, boy?" Armand snarled and Louis couldn't help but notice the raw edge to his voice. It was one that he had never personally heard before. This was not a performance. This was not play. Armand sounded utterly wrecked.

Louis watched as the pair stilled together, Armand reaching up to wrap long fingers around Daniel's pale throat. He squeezed lightly and Daniel nodded into it even as his breath caught.

He ground his hips down, rocking into the hard cock inside him as the grip on his throat tightened.

Daniel's eyes fluttered shut, inky lashes wet against his cheeks, still trying to speak even as his throat was squeezed.

"Speak." Armand demanded, releasing his grip but leaving his fingers around the mortal's neck like a collar.

"Everything." Daniel finally said, air rushing into his lungs, the pain sharp and exhilarating. "Give me everything."

[nataliaphantomhivesblog]

SEBASTIAN AND HIS ROLE IN THE PHANTOMFAM RANT

Heyyy kurofans!!!

Just dropping by to talk about the Phantomhive servants and their complicated little family dynamic with the demon butler!

I just find it intresting how Sebastian tends to morph his personality depending on which servant he is directing to, and there is a reason for each.

(Btw im only gonna focus on Finny, Bard and Meyrin on this post btw, sorry Snake lovers he just didn't interact with the demon much for me to talk about him here!!)

Finnian and the demon who took in the role of his teacher and subtle caretaker.

I have to say, Finnian definitely looks up to the butler. While he fears him, it always comes in flickers, what never leaves is his appreciation and care for Sebastian.

It's worth noting that Sebastian adopts a gentler approach when training Finnian: marked by patience and restraint.

The demon recognizes the blonde's fragility, so he tends to be kinder to him than with the other servants.

Bard gets sarcasm, Mey-Rin gets teasing, Snake gets cryptic warnings, but Finnian? A simple sigh and a patient redemonstration.

I love how in the picture below, Sebastian lets Finnian embrace him, giving him quiet comfort while gently reminding him of his strenght.

Now, I know Sebastian does these things in order to gain obidience and trust from Finnian, but i love to see how he really does treat him like the child that he is. (look at the way he quietly tucks him in bed.)

While no doubt, Sebastian can get frustrated by the gardeners antics, he also sees the potential in Finny and respects him as a servant of the phantomhive household.

Also yes, I know what Sebastian did to Finny in the green witch arc, but he could've killed him so yk what i think throwing him to the ground is a better outcome lol. Also!! Sebastian literally warned Finnian to get out of the way before doing anything, so yk for a demon, I do deem that as a wierdly good deed. And even when he threw the blonde out of the room, he acknowledged and thanked him for taking care of the young master.

In that scene, Finnian was confused by Sebastian's behavior, showcasing how the blonde truly isn't used to the butler being rough with him in a way that would truly hurt him. To the gardner, Sebastian was "acting wierd".

All in all, Sebastian doesn't take the roll of a abusvie tyrant who attempts to make Finnian obey him into submission.

And the reason for it is quite simple: Finny, the kid who was deprived of movement and sunlight when he was young, got employed by the young earl with the promise of freedom and sunlight as exchange for his loyalty.

So if Sebastain where to completely restrain Finnian, the blonde's loyalty to the phantomhive household would've wavered. That's why the butler takes a gentle and caretaker approach towards him, which explains Finnian's love, greatfulness and attachment to the butler.

He doesn't see him in the same light as those cruel men in the lab who abused him, i dare say that he views him as family.

Sebastian allows the child to embrace him, even after mistakes that anger him greatly. Still, the boy feels safe enough to admit his wrongdoings and finds solace in the butler's presence.

He scolds him gently, and gives him the liberty to choose which plants to buy to design the garden. Respecting Finnian's position as he does so.

Sebastian praises the boy when he performs his tasks correctly and even takes the time to teach Finnian about the plants in the garden.

His approach, as I’ve mentioned, is entirely gentle: he never belittles Finnian for his lack of knowledge but instead patiently guides him.

Finnian doesn’t know what Sebastian is, only that he’s the one who taught him how to hold a teacup without breaking it. And for a boy who was once a lab experiment, that kindness matters more than fear.

Soldier to Soldier: Bard’s Tactical Recognition of a Superior Force

Sebastian's way of gaining Bards obidience was...intresting to say the least. (lol)

God, that pannels never fails to make me laugh.

Anyway, Bard was rebellious at first. He had no respect for Sebastian or his commands. The cook couldn't stand the "pristine, high-class butler" act.

After spending so much time in war, that polished demeanor doesn’t just irritate Bard, it unsettles him.

And the butler sees through that and so he decides to switch tactics.

What does Sebastian do in order for Bard to obey him? He bitchslaps him across the face.

He resorts to the same amount of violence that a higher rank officer would use on a disobeying soldier.

Sebastian creates an enviormennt Bard was used to in order to ease him into the mannor.

(As a small side note: Sebastian initially refused to call Bardroy “Baldo” out of professionalism — much to the cook’s annoyance. But once he realized that the nickname made Bard feel more comfortable, he eventually gave in and started using it.)

Mey-Rin worships Sebastian, Finnian adores him, but Bard? Bard’s the only one who sees through him, and that’s exactly why Sebastian respects him for it.

Sebastian said it better himself, Bard is the only one in that manner who isn't afraid of death,he’s sharp enough to notice what Finnian and Mey-Rin overlook.

The Butler doesn't have that humane quality in order to guide MeyRin and Finnian to not be too careless about their feelings and lives they hold, so he needs Bard to teach them instead.

And in time, Bard rises to the task, becoming their anchor, their unshakable rock.

Before long, the cook felt comfortable enough to open up and share his own backstory with the butler.

This is a huge turning point for Bard and his relationship with Sebastian.

It was the aftermath of Bard’s recruitment test that made the cook feel he truly belonged at the manor. And it was Sebastian who carefully crafted that sense of normalcy and comfort that allowed Bard to settle in.

It wasn’t just the sense of comfort Sebastian carefully built around him or the feeling of belonging that followed the recruitment test, it was the butler’s quiet, deliberate speech, “You are not afraid of death,” that truly resonated with Bard.

In that moment, something shifted.

A validation of the life Bard had lived, the pain he carried, and the grit that had kept him alive through war. For the first time in a long while, he felt seen for who he was, not just what he could do.

And in that moment of clarity, he finally understood his place in the manor: not just as the cook or a soldier, but as someone who mattered and could make a change.

And in time, we can see various ways in which Bard tends to guide Finnian and MeyRin in ways Sebastian (a demon) fails to do so.

Not only that, but Sebastian's role as a harsher and less romanticized teacher is also what made Bard trust him and create a space for him to feel emotionally secure around him.

Bard learned to truly respect Sebastain.

Sebastian had to struggle to get Bard not only to adjust to the manor, but to trust him as well. And if that meant landing a punch and delivering a symbolic speech about Bard’s strengths, then so be it.

Mey-Rin and the superior who she has a crush on.

Sebastian’s approach to winning Mey-Rin’s loyalty and trust is quite interesting, a delicate balance of gentleness and firm command.

When Sebastian first set his sights on recruiting Mey-Rin, his approach was enthusiastically forceful.

He wasn’t about to let her slip away easily; every word and gesture carried the weight of his conviction, compelling her to see beyond her own doubts and recognize the role she was meant to play.

however, Meyrin suprisingly, didn't give in to Sebastian's offer (it was o!Ciel's later strategtic food bribe that made her accept the job).

it is important however, to highlight just how crucial Sebastian is to Mey-Rin’s drive and dedication within the manor.

His compliments and subtle affirmations fuel her determination, giving her a sense of purpose and worth that she deeply craves. Without his steady presence and approval, Mey-Rin’s motivation would falter, but with him, she feels empowered to face any challenge the manor throws her way.

Mey-Rin ends up developing a crush on Sebastian and while I am certain it wasn't the demons intention for her to fall for him, he expertly plays into her feelings, carefully weaving just enough sweet words and gestures to keep her longing for more, deepening her attachment while maintaining an inscrutable distance.

Look at Sebastian's use of words in this pannel, the way he refers to her as "lady".

After a life spent surviving with grit and grit alone, being seen as more than just a weapon feels like a quiet luxury.

She clings to the little moments—wearing pretty dresses, adjusting her ribbon just right, blushing at a compliment—because in them, she rediscovers a softness she thought she had lost forever.

And with Sebastian, who sees her not just as a sharpshooter but as a lady worthy of poise and praise, that desire to indulge only grows stronger.

I daresay that out of the three original Phantomhive servants, Mey-Rin holds the deepest affection for the butler.

While Finny adores him with wide-eyed loyalty and Bard treats him with begrudging respect, Mey-Rin’s feelings run deeper: tinged with romantic yearning and idealization.

While Sebastian never explicitly encourages it, he certainly doesn’t shy away from feeding into her idealization. A well-placed compliment here, a soft smile there: it all adds fuel to the fire of her feelings.

And for Mey-Rin, who had lived so long without kindness or softness, the fantasy of him becomes a refuge she’s not quite ready to give up.

IN CONCLUSION

It’s compelling to observe how Sebastian interacts with each of the servants, his approach carefully tailored, almost tactical, to draw out their loyalty.

At this point, it wouldn’t be far-fetched to believe they’d take a bullet not only for the young master but for Sebastian as well.

He didn’t simply harvest loyalty, he nurtured love.

Sebastian is an integral part of the familial bond that ties the Phantomhive servants together—whether he likes it or not.

This one hell of a butler will forever be family to Bard, Mey-Rin, and Finnian in their own unique ways.

No matter the chaos, the orders, or the secrets they carry, Sebastian remains at the heart of it all: not just as their superior, but as someone they’ve come to trust, admire, and quietly love.

To them, he isn’t just a servant of the Phantomhive name—he’s home, just as much as Ciel is.

[boiledkwamaegg]

i was wondering, what is faenil’s relationship with religion? do they hate the gods for making them the dragonborn, or maybe they never cared about that stuff at all? did they dabble in making deals with the daedra?

You've unlocked a topic I'm very passionate about LOL I wanted to ponder on this one for a bit but I finally got around to answering, yay!

To start off, I'm linking a song here from Faenil's playlist that I think sums it up well. After all, the story of the dragonborn to me has always been about ascending to god status. Being something so big all in one single mortal body, that the rest of the gods are fighting over it. A soul sent by the god of time all the way to the afterlife to kill the end of the world. In Faenil's case, this soul is so bitter, so angry and so very very hurt, and they will do all of this while rubbing a big nasty middle finger in Akatosh's face.

I'm putting the rest of this text under a cut - TW: i explore religious trauma here and mention suicidal tendencies briefly...

I am really fond of the idea that the chosen one, the hero, is reluctant or almost unwilling to play their part. I mean, Faenil is straight up UNQUALIFIED to be the dragonborn. Yes, they are skilled, they are powerful, they are resilient, and they get shit done, but they are definitely not a hero, and they're just one mental breakdown away from letting the whole world end. And like, they know they're unqualified, and they are so very confused by it all. Well, someone has to do it, but why them specifically? And while they might use this hero title to get away with some questionable things every now and then, they kind of hate that they can do that. After all, Faenil has always believed that you get your way through hard work and planning, so the dragonborn stuff just feels... almost like some sick joke from the gods.

I can't imagine Faenil was ever religious or cared about following any gods at all, and as a skilled conjurer they know how dangerous the daedra are so they don't dabble with that sort of worship either. But since in the Elder Scrolls universe deities are very much real, they're obviously kind of unavoidable. I'm sure Faenil had their fair share of visits to the church with their father, and I'm sure he liked Auri-El a whole lot and had this facade of a good holy man that only Faenil could see through. And I'm sure Faenil must feel quite weird when they get to Skyrim almost a hundred years later to find out that all those mind-numbingly boring sermons their father forced them to go through as a kid applied to them more than they realized.

No, Faenil doesn't like the divines, not only because they're the annoying facts and logic type science person lol, but because they genuinely believe the gods are so cruel. They know that they're just a playing piece in the divine interdimensional time travel chess board, and they absolutely hate it from the bottom of their rotten heart. And why should you even waste your breath praying to something that doesn't give a single flying fuck about you? They will maybe sarcastically gasp Auri-El's name during some humorous situation, but that's as deep as it goes. No, as far as Faenil is concerned, they're a god themself, unworthy of any worship, but welcoming of it nonetheless.

I always say that Faenil was supposed to die a long time ago, but they're just really, really good at surviving. Like, they thought that they were going to die many times, and yet, they just never do, because the gods have all these mysterious plans for them. Every time they come to peace with the fact that this was it, the end is here and they had a good run but now it's time to rest - it just... never happens. They never get to rest. And Faenil has never really been actively suicidal or anything, they're stupid destructive but very good at carrying on and surviving against all the odds. Like it's gone to the point that it's almost funny even, that they always get blown and torn apart, and they just continuously pick their parts up and stitch it all back together and keep on going. But it's a pretty gruesome existence, to have it happen to you over and over again - to have someone do that to your body, and still having the strength and pure determination to pick yourself up over and over again like it's nothing and screaming fuck you at the world and saying that your body is YOURS and that you are indestructible as long as you choose to be. And at that point, you might as well be divine.

Well, it's beautiful, and it's sad, and I hope there's something for everyone to take away from that.

[secondarysefikura]

Pre Nibelheim Sephiroth is convinced to make a dating profile, and when he’s describing what he wants in a partner he’s literally describing Cloud

Lets be real, Sephiroth would never set up a dating profile of his own accord. No amount of peer pressure can break him from his stance.

Genesis, however, would set up a dating profile on Sephiroth's behalf based on months of careful questioning to determine what sort of person would be a perfect match for Sephiroth.

Genesis, pointing at some, tall, muscular, guy: He seems like your type.

Sephiroth: Hardly. I'd prefer someone I could easily wrap my arms around. Someone I could hold close.

Genesis: I see.

*a week later*

Genesis: You know, you should dye your hair my colour. It is the best hair colour after all.

Sephiroth: I...actually prefer blonde.

Genesis: I see.

*a few days later, the two walk past Scarlett and her footstool personal troopers*

Sephiroth: I will never understand a person's desire to be with someone cruel. If I were to fall for someone, they would have to be a kind soul, but not a push over of course.

Genesis: So someone sweet and kind but who also doesn't put up with your bullshit.

Sephiroth: Yes?

Genesis then takes all this information and creates a profile, all the while carefully concealing Sephiroth's true identity. Eventually he comes across Cloud's profile, begins to talk to Cloud as Sephiroth, and even plans a date. He then invites Sephiroth to meet him at the time and location of the date he planned with Cloud.

The day of, Sephiroth is waiting for Genesis at a cafe when he gets a call.

Genesis: Can't make it. Go talk to the blonde at the corner table.

Sephiroth: What? How do you know that there is a blonde at the corner table if you can't make it?

Genesis: Gift of the Goddess. I have been gifted with clairvoyance,

Sephiroth: You set me up on a date, didn't you?

Genesis: Yep! Have fun!

[rumitome]

✎ ᝰ ⌗ OO2 LETTER: modern genshin dr | page OO7

introducing scaramouche aka spiderman

you might find it hard to believe that the friendly neighborhood spiderman is, in reality, a pretentious jerk behind the mask. yeah, the same hero who helps old ladies cross the street? that very same person makes it his life’s mission to get under my skin.

but he wasn’t always like that. when we were kids, he was actually quite kind—gentle even. if you had asked me back then whether i had a crush on him, i probably would’ve said yes. we were close, so close that we even made a pact: if neither of us had found someone by the age of twenty-five, then we would marry each other (his idea btw). he even crafted little paper rings for us which is honestly so sweet of him. i still have mine, tucked safely in my drawer, untouched.

everything changed when i became close with mona. he kinda grew... distant? he started avoiding me and saying really mean things that made my younger self cry. at first, i thought it was just another one of our petty fights—that we’d make up eventually like we always did. but it escalated so badly that even our guardians noticed.

one day, i decided to be the bigger person and make amends, even though i had absolutely no idea why he was acting that way in the first place. but before I could even try, he was gone. he left our town without a word. no goodbye, not even a explanation.

then, six years later, i see him again—in the same class at my uni, no less. but this time, he’s grown more arrogant and confident—completely opposite to the shy, kind boy i knew six years ago. And just when i thought we’d left all that bad blood behind… turns out, he still hates me. in that moment, i asked myself, “what the fuck happened in those six years?”

all i remember is that he became a really famous model—landing brand deals left and right. i see him everywhere: from eating at my favorite restaurant back home to seeing his face on the label of the skincare brand i use. i’m trying not to go insane seeing him on every damn billboard, but of course, his rise to fame makes perfect sense—his mother is the fashion designer i idolized growing up.

his mother is a well-known fashion designer i’ve looked up to for years—i absolutely adore literally everything she designs. i never knew she was scara’s mother, especially since it was always his aunt taking care of him back in our hometown. i never even considered that he might be the son of my favorite designer! maybe thats why he left—to be with her. or maybe he wanted to become a model. or maybe she wanted him to become one. who knows?

and if that wasn’t enough, he’s also the lead guitarist in a band called 5wirl. playing live music for pubs and bars near our uni. like seriously? he’s a model. a fine arts major. a musician. talented in every possible way. is there anything this guy can’t do? honestly, i feel like god really looked at him and said, “let’s give him every damn gift imaginable”… and then made him a total asshole while they’re at it.

and another thing is that… i just don’t get it. i don’t get how someone so arrogant, so insufferably blunt—especially to me—can have such a massive fanbase. he’s sharp-tongued, cruel when he wants to be, and it seems like he alwayswants to be. it’s as if his day doesn’t feel complete unless he’s made me want to scream.

well atleast he has a pretty face… that’s one thing i have to agree with his fanbase… a pretty face to punch, that is.

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