[@AlphaTradition88:So he goes there voluntarily, asks for drugs, and now it's abuse? Sure.]
[@MarkIsSacred: Bond removal AND false accusations? This family really thinks rules don't apply to them.]
[@LegalWatcher: Funny how the lawyer dad represents "abuse victims" while the Omega dad tampers with marks. Pattern much?]
[@DominanceDynamics:People need to stop kink-shaming. Consensual BDSM can look intense to outsiders. Regret doesn't equal assault.]
[@ConcernedCitizen:If he has a history of addiction, how reliable is his version of events? Just asking.]
[@BlackwellLegacy: This smells like a setup to destroy the Blackwell heir before he takes over the company.]
[@OmegaVoice: Or maybe an addict can still be assaulted? Addiction doesn't cancel consent laws.]
[@StormChaser: The timing with the case is way too convenient. I'm not buying it.]
[@LegalClerkAnon: Notice how the article never actually says what the "full footage" shows. That's interesting.]
[@TruthMatters: He asked for drugs on camera. That's not exactly victim behaviour.]
[@Softhearted: Or maybe he was desperate? This comment section is disgusting.]
Eamon read the comments the way a surgeon studies a wound. Not with surprise, and certainly not with outrage, but with a quiet, tightening precision that came from understanding exactly how damage was done.
He had seen this kind of thing before. Not online perhaps, but in courtrooms where reputations bled just as easily.
Halfway down the screen, he stopped scrolling and rubbed the edge of his eyes beneath an old pair of glasses he had dug out of a drawer in his childhood bedroom. The thin frames had long since fallen out of fashion, and one of the arms was slightly bent, but the lenses still softened the sharp ache behind his eyes. They still helped to alleviate the strain.
They did nothing, however, for the images in his head, because no matter how many comments he read, all Eamon could see were still frames from the video.
Of Acheron's shoulders shaking, his silver hair hanging wet and disordered around his face. His hands pressed together as if he were praying, but the worst of all was the tremor in his voice when he begged please.
That word had lodged somewhere under Eamon's ribs and refused to leave.
He exhaled slowly through his nose and leaned back on the couch. Eamon had spent years inside courtrooms where language was sharpened into weapons. He knew this tactic intimately.
All you had to do was strip away the context, cut the footage into fragments and present desperation as consent.
Frame Acheron's humiliation as proof of willingness.
It was crude, but it was also brutally effective.
Eamon stretched his arms above his head until his shoulders pulled tight, trying to ease the stiffness creeping down his spine. He had been sitting in the living room with his laptop since dinner the previous night, barely moving except to refill a glass of water or pace once around the room before returning to the screen.
Outside, streaks of pale sunlight were beginning to climb over the horizon. Thin blades of gold slid between the tall windows, spilling across the floorboards. Dawn was the only clock he had bothered to notice.
His laptop screen glowed in the dim room, cluttered with an overwhelming number of open tabs. There were news articles, forums and social media threads. All of which were discussing the video. Comment sections seemed to multiply faster than he could read them.
Every corner of the internet had discovered the same piece of bait, and they were tearing it apart with enthusiasm.
Eamon had already sent a wave of takedown notices during the night. Legal warnings, privacy breaches, copyright claims— anything that might slow the spread— but the internet behaved like a hydra. Remove one post, and two more appeared somewhere else.
While he read, he documented everything. Archiving pages, screenshots and usernames.
Some of these people would be receiving formal letters very soon. A few of the more reckless posters might even find themselves answering uncomfortable questions in court. Eamon had no illusions about silencing the entire crowd, but fear had a way of thinning a mob.
His jaw tightened as he scrolled further down the page. A muscle ticked faintly in his cheek. The deeper he went, the uglier the comments became. Some were openly vicious. Others hid behind polite language while still twisting the knife. But most of all, he noticed the ones that seemed far too calculated; it's obvious they were made to lead the narrative.
Using the same arguments, the same questions and repeating certain phrasing. They were trying to be subtle, but it was unmistakable. These posts weren't reacting to the story. They were steering it.
Whoever had orchestrated this understood the machinery of public outrage. They knew how easily people could be nudged toward suspicion, how quickly doubt could spread if it was planted carefully enough.
Once doubt took root, it was almost impossible to change. By the time this case reached the courtroom, half the audience would already believe Acheron had invented the abuse.
The sky outside continued to brighten, soft light slowly filling the room around him. Eamon stared at the screen for a few seconds longer before finally closing the laptop.
He needed to call Acheron.
Normally, he would have waited longer. Allowed the morning to settle, allowed Acheron to wake slowly instead of being dragged into the day by bad news, but that was before the internet decided to attach him.
If Acheron saw the headlines first, alone and without warning…
Eamon's chest tightened.
He wanted to shield him from all of it.
Eamon reached for his phone. The device was still vibrating intermittently against the table, lighting up every few seconds with new messages, missed calls, and notifications. It had been ringing on and off throughout the night.
He ignored them all.
Eamon didn't need to scroll far through his contacts because Acheron's name appeared near the top.
For a moment, Eamon simply stared at it.
His thumb hovered over the screen as his heartbeat thudded steadily in his chest. He drew in a slow breath, steadying himself before the conversation he knew was coming.
Then he pressed call.
Black curtains breathed slowly in the morning air, swaying where a thin breeze slipped through the slightly open window. The room still carried the quiet softness of early dawn, pale light filtering across the bed in gentle stripes.
Acheron stirred beneath the covers. Soft silver hair drifted across his cheek as he shifted, strands lifting faintly with the moving air. His eyes fluttered open with the reluctant slowness of someone who had not truly slept.
He felt a warm weight resting against his neck. Must be Nimbus.
The kitten was curled into the hollow beneath Acheron's jaw. Tiny paws kneaded lazily against the collar of Acheron's sleep shirt while a steady, vibrating purr buzzed against his skin.
Acheron blinked at the ceiling for a moment before releasing a small, crooked smile.
"Good morning to you, too," he murmured sleepily.
The kitten answered by pressing his face deeper into Acheron's throat and purring louder.
Acheron had not slept well. Nimbus was still very much a kitten, which meant the night had been an endless parade of tiny emergencies. At some point, Acheron had been woken by indignant squeaks that apparently meant food immediately, or I will perish. Later, it had been urgent scrambling paws that translated to escort me to the litter box like the dignified creature I am.
Thankfully, the litter box had already been waiting in the bathroom beside the toilet. His father must have placed it there earlier. It was both efficient and thoughtful, but also slightly humiliating.
Which meant that sometime around three in the morning, Acheron had found himself half asleep on the bathroom floor while Nimbus conducted extremely serious business in the litter box beside him.
They were, apparently, bathroom buddies now.
A soft yawn escaped him. He lifted a hand and rubbed at his eyes with the back of his wrist, blinking away the last stubborn threads of sleep. His body still felt pleasantly heavy, that warm morning sluggishness clinging to his limbs.
Part of him knew he would feel better after washing his face; the rest of him, however, had no intention of moving. Especially not with the small vibrating furnace still draped across his throat.
"Mm… five more minutes," Acheron whispered to no one in particular.
Nimbus responded by headbutting his chin.
Acheron huffed a sleepy laugh and gently rubbed the kitten's head with two fingers. The fur was unbelievably soft, black as midnight except for the small white patch on one hind leg.
Nimbus's ears twitched every time Acheron stroked him.
The kitten stretched like a noodle, back arching dramatically before collapsing back into Acheron's neck with a satisfied rumble. The morning was shaping up to be wonderfully slow.
Acheron had every intention of staying right here and enjoying it. Unfortunately, something in the room had other plans; a faint buzzing noise cut through the quiet. Acheron frowned slightly, squinting at the ceiling.
Buzz.
Buzz.
Buzz.
It took his sleepy brain several seconds to recognise the sound; it was his phone. Acheron rolled his head toward the bedside cabinet but found the usual place completely empty.
He blinked, "...That's strange."
Nimbus lifted his head briefly, then decided the mystery was not his responsibility and returned to dreamland.
Acheron carefully shifted the kitten aside and sat up in bed, his hair falling into wild silver disarray around his face. He patted the surface of the nightstand, but still found nothing. He opened the top drawer, nothing.
"Where did you go?" he muttered softly.
The phone continued to ring; the sound was definitely coming from somewhere close.
Acheron slid his legs off the bed and crouched beside it, squinting into the shadows like a confused detective. His hair slipped over one eye, and he blew upward to move it out of the way. Just as he was about to give up, a small square of light flickered beneath the bed.
Acheron tilted his head.
"How did you get there?"
Nimbus, awake and sitting upright on the mattress, watched the investigation with round blue eyes and absolutely no guilt.
Acheron leaned down and stretched his arm under the bed, fumbling around until his fingers brushed the phone. He pulled it out triumphantly. The screen flashed with the final seconds of the incoming call, and he barely managed to swipe the answer button before it disconnected.
He lifted the phone to his ear, slightly breathless from the small scramble.
"Hello?"
There was a brief pause on the other end. Then Eamon's voice came through, low and slightly rough, as though the morning had not fully reached him yet.
"Did I wake you?"
Acheron blinked, then smiled faintly.
"Surprisingly not."
He glanced over his shoulder at the bed where Nimbus had flopped dramatically onto his back, paws in the air like a tiny fallen warrior.
"Nimbus kept me up the entire night," Acheron said with a quiet laugh. A soft blush crept across his pale cheeks, though Eamon couldn't see it. "I've barely slept."
He paused, then quickly added, almost apologetically, "He's very small. And very loud when he's hungry."
Eamon listened intently, and for the first time since the articles had begun spreading across the internet, something in his chest loosened.
Acheron continued speaking, a little more animated now that he was awake. His voice carried that soft, thoughtful rhythm Eamon had started to recognise over their messages.
"He also escorted me to the bathroom twice," Acheron added earnestly. "I think he believes I work for him now."
Nimbus chose that exact moment to flop off the bed and trot across the floor with great authority. Acheron followed the movement with fond eyes.
"He's very bossy."
For a brief moment, Eamon almost let himself stay in this conversation, allowing himself to have a normal call with a sleepy Omega talking about his kitten. But the reason for the call sat heavily in his chest.
He couldn't avoid it any longer.
Eamon cleared his throat softly.
The small sound cut through the line, which caused Acheron to draw quietly immediately. The shift in tone did not escape him.
He straightened slightly where he sat on the floor beside the bed, fingers unconsciously curling into the blanket.
"Achie," Eamon said softly.
Acheron's heart skipped at the softness in the name.
"What happened?" Acheron asked as calmly as possible, but still straightened his posture, instinctively preparing himself.
On the other end of the line, Eamon drew in a slow breath.
"The Blackwells have made their move."
A small silence followed.
Then Eamon continued.
"There's a video of you trending."