#intentionally cryptic

[skybristle]

......more about chimes and ochre????? :))))

[rbs > likes]

someone who cannot let go, and a mission who aids no one.

ochre is doomed to the overgrowth. and she has known this since it began. but chimes simply cannot comprehend the fact she cannot and does not want to be saved anymore. he will keep trying. he's already failed one iterator.

the gardener will return with two rarefaction cells, the one it began with never given to its recipient, and her final sacrifice begging him to keep living.

the crash that follows thereafter is deafening.

[spilledkaleidoscope]

soon

[cybershock24601]

keep thinking about a veilguard time travel au with rook being sent back to inquisition times to be Solas' no. 1 hater. The only thing I'm torn on is would it be better for Rook to end up there while trying to bust their way out of the regret prison and stumbling out of a fade tear in the past OR should it be a regression style time travel story with Rook waking up ten years in the past as teenager again because the idea of Solas beefing with a 13 year old is objectively hilarious.

Dorian and Vivienne are pros of the Minrathous and Orleasn social scenes but nothing they can say will ever get Solas as close to biting people as the pointed yet cryptic comments being directed at him by a pre teen Rook. It would probably be a little demoralizing that nothing they can do can get Solas to crack but getting to watch Solas lose it and get into shouting matches with a child is entertainment enough.

[cryptic-underground]

Part 3 WIPS ///////

[smoshidiot]

the ailments you listed for redacted!! no wonder CSK would baby him. i too would baby him if i could. i imagine him all sleepy, fluffy hair after staying up late watching a new documentary over american history that further proves one of his theories. also the thought of his bag consisting his notebook, an energy drink, an old burner phone, his inhaler and and an epipen. all of those always with him. the daddy issues also adding more lore to him that's so good. truly inlove with this loser

csk would NEVER admit to babying [redacted] but you're totally right that he does. i'm not sure if [redacted] ever realizes how much csk cares about him and how much he does for him until he's gone

[iwouldlovetoeatyourtoast]

i was looking for a post in A Certain Tag on my blog and even though it's been years, it's still like someone's gradually applying pressure to my chest the longer i scroll

every now and then i think i've numbed myself to it enough that maybe i could casually peek at one of my wips to finish it now that i'm further removed and then i engage with the damn thing even a little bit and realize i have not numbed myself at all

[eroticlizardfiction]

If they wait to sell out these dates to announce more shows I'll be fully in the belief that this is just a cash grab and we all fell for marketing

[katyswrites]

So um hehe

Hint: ❄️🥶🦠🫖🍰

[forthedancingandthethriving]

(Inspo)

Tiresias has been walking for what's probably days before she finally stumbles across someone. She knows, instantly, that whoever this is is not Harmonian nor of this world. Frankly, she's quite sure she'd stumbled upon a Changeling, but the blind oracle doesn't speak on it.

Especially since you can usually see the futures of Changelings. She has, anyway, in her long time upon this world. But this one's future is fuzzy and muddled, and while pricks at her similar to the Snake's when she latches to that thread of his, its much kinder.

Tiresias doesn't speak on it.

"Miss, are ya alright?" The Changeling asks, and briefly, the prophet's face falls flat under her hood. That was.. such a bad accent. But the younger one was trying, so Tiresias didn't speak of it.

"I've left from a Snake's burrow, kit." She speaks, voice soft. "While Umbra has done his best to guide me, it's been my own threads of fate that have led me here."

"A snake?" The one in front of her seems startled. "Then why not jus'-"

"He is larger, and has his body coiled around our home." The oracle cuts her off. "Had I stayed a moment longer, he'd have sung his fangs into me, kit."

She turns her head back to the kingdom of Devos. "My home.. is nothing more than a burrow now. With the gates of orange and yellow scales guarding it, threatening to turn inwards."

The Changeling is quiet before offering, "I've gotta place where ya can stay, if ya need to."

Tiresias ponders it for a moment before nodding. "A sansuctary so cold no snake will dare to enter. I gladly accept."

"Ah'm Dapple, miss.."

"Tiresias." With that, the Cat follows her. "Tiresias the blind prophet, younger performer."

"Prophet.." Dapple seems to realize quickly. "Wait, so yer a' oracle? Ya can see th' future?!"

"The stream is mine to dive in."

"Can.. ya see mine?" The Changeling is hesitant. "See th' happy endin' ah want?"

The oracle is quiet as she mulls that over. Dapple was an unusual case. Her threads were there, but her future and past were so fuzzy that she couldn't really make out much.

But pain and suffering was prevalent in the past, and more seemed to come.

"Your stream is unique. It starts from a waterfall, raging and violent, and tapers to a river that bends and twists." She pauses. "From there, I cannot say. Fate is a fickle thing, and she may change at any moment."

"But a happy ending, you ask.."

The air is tense before she hums.

"I see it possible."

With that, they continue their trek.

[littlelav107]

hi just added smth new to my "this is unrealistic! actually no, i only call this unrealistic because i could never see this for myself in real life"

this is third to be added on that list and all of them have something in common but i dare not say it

[inkedmoth]

First chapter of the Big Re-Write is done!!! It's rather different to the rest of OSW but I'm hoping people won't mind that too much

[snekdood]

so august 2018 is when my peak being-crazy-made art craziness happened, huh

[alcetryx]

the hardest thing about one of my fics right now is that there's a thing in it that a lot of people hate. but I'm also going to be turning the thing on its head. but the same people that hate that thing won't stick it through to know what happens because they're just going to think "oh shit it's one of those again no"

meanwhile the people that like the thing and are reading might end up annoyed oops

[alvadee]

gonna see barbie on tuesday, until then i need to avoid spoilers 🌸

[starlit1daydream]

On the subject of Equius Zahhak: hypersexuality and patriarchy.

It's been a hot minute since I promised to write something like this, and I've been meaning to test a new writing style for these big posts anyways - so I'm going to try my hand at explaining my personal interpretation of Equius Zahhak.

Equius is one of my favourite side characters in Homestuck, and though the individual components of his characterisation are intentionally facetious and humourous, all of these components then come together to form a fantastic and deeply layered commentary, however unintentional.

Let's begin with the basics: our introduction to Equius proper.

The narrative makes it clear from the start how you're meant to feel about this guy for starters - he's a creep and a weirdo. Nepeta says as much in their very first interaction on-screen:

This is backed up by the narrator themselves exhibiting a discomfort with him, painting him as a cryptic and eerily observant loner:

Once again, he's making people uncomfortable. Discomfort is going to be a very common theme going forward, particularly once we tap into Equius' personal interests and the justification behind them.

The next sign is when we first see him properly on-screen, and the narrator is immediately mortified by the state of his room and advises us to move on with the story.

So, immediately, any cognizant reader knows what's up. This guy is a joke character. A punchline, a fool, a weird asshole with no redeeming qualities. This is, of course, the intended reaction.

...Which then brings us to the subversions involved with Equius' character. Every single off-putting and strange thing about him is subsequently repainted in a more flattering light by the conclusion of his screen-time.

What begins as an overcontrolling, possessive demeanour towards Nepeta becomes a genuine, albeit perhaps overbearing desire to protect his moirail from harm. The context of him being Vriska's neighbour helps us infer that he's very, very aware of the dangers of FLARPing.

What starts as a bizarre and testosterone-poisoned obsession with strength becomes more of a fleshed-out character flaw. It's an inherent fault that Equius cannot control that brings him more distress than anything else. We'll delve into that later.

This is not, of course, to say that Equius is without genuine fault. You are still meant to find problems with his behaviour, of course you are; the Aradiabot fiasco is an intentional violation of personal agency based around an unhealthy obsession. He allows himself and his moirail to die because of his refusal to disobey the vapid and classist hemospectrum.

Okay, so why is he like this?

I'm glad you've asked. This is where this delves more into conjecture, based around a few different things.

The state of the internet and online culture at the time of Equius' inception; and the ramifications therein.

What we know to be true about the aspect of Void, and how Equius interacts with it.

The added retroactive context of Hussie's handling of queer topics (as a non-binary person themselves!), particularly on the subject of gender identity.

Let's start with point one.

Equius and hypersexuality.

At the time of Homestuck's inception, it was a veritable fact that the internet was overrun with overt sexuality, oft for the sake of shock value as opposed to arousal. Screamers and shock sites like 2girls1cup, goatse, Mr. Hands... (that last one is particularly relevant).

I cite Mr. Hands in particular because therein we get to the use of bestiality as a gross-out punchline. This is what Hussie's invoking with Equius; you're looking at this guy and seeing a gross freak who hangs horse porn on his walls. It's appealing to the fact that:

Homosexuality was considered a funny punchline.

The furry fandom was considered a funny puchline.

Bestiality was considered a funny punchline.

And so, this thirteen year old child hanging gay horse porn on his walls is meant to be played for laughs.

But with the retroactive lens we're looking at this through now? It's not only deeply disturbing for reasons I don't think I need to explain, but it's also a portrait of unhealthy teenage sexuality and the ramifications of exposure to explicit content at a young age.

Because it's a veritable fact that Equius does not understand boundaries and has a deeply flawed relationship with his sexuality. It's the kind of hypersexuality induced by childhood exposure to sexual material, and I would go as far as to call it a kind of CSE.

Need more proof of this? Dave Strider. Bro's weird sex puppets and usage of pornography as a punchline undeniably fucked Dave up, and explains the way he so regularly uses sex, particularly gay sex as a source of humour. Dave is the same problem that Equius rises, played seriously at a point in the story wherein these things are no longer treated so facetiously.

Furthermore, it becomes clear that Equius does not actually understand what he is consuming and emulating. Pornography isn't pornography to him, it's fine art. He's uncomfortable and unhappy with his sexuality because he lacks a label for it and doesn't know what it is he's feeling. This is tied to his Aspect of Void; but more on that in just a second.

This is uncomfortable. It is meant to be uncomfortable.

Equius' toying with casteplay and power dynamics is a clear representation of this frayed relationship - and it also segues into our point about his lack of self-worth.

Equius, the Heir of Void.

The Void Aspect. The Aspect of irrelevance, secrecy, ignorance, simplicity and absence, amongst other things.

The Heir Class. The Class that indicates an overabundance of the player's Aspect that overwhelms them and embodies them.

Equius is he who inherits, becomes and is consumed by emptiness. Because Equius Zahhak does not have a sense of selfhood or self-worth. The inference brought about by his title as the Heir of Void is that Equius is overwhelmed by nothingness.

Combine this with his Dersite status and the consensus on Lunar Sway (Prospit indicating externalisation, Derse indicating internalisation) and you get a very clear image of how Equius' title translates.

An overwhelming, consuming sense of internalised absence and nothingness. This is where Equius' hemospectrum adherence comes in! It's a cover up to compensate for his purposelessness and lack of meaningful identity. He sees himself as being deficient in anything real or of substance, and so adheres to the system placed before him because it is the only thing he feels he understands.

Once again, this is uncomfortable and a real phenomenon amongst teen boys. We see it with Eridan, too; young and confused teenagers with no sense of purpose falling into harmful and bigoted pipelines because they have no sense of direction otherwise.

(In a roundabout sense this explains Tavros' role as well; The Page indicates a deficit in their Aspect throughout the session and so the trolls lacking Breath in the form of directionlessness fits fairly well).

It's almost like watching a young boy fall into the alt-right, or start feed into Andrew Tate-style snake oil bullshit. It's the exact same kind of exploitation on a much larger scale; because it's the whole of Alternian society orchestrated by Doc Scratch.

You know... the Doc Scratch meant to represent online groomers?

So, we've been over about all I can cover about Equius' sexual trauma, lack of boundaries and emptiness/lack of self. So, how does this translate? Particularly thinking on the last point, I'd like to give my two cents about a very interesting headcanon for Equius that's been circulating a lot lately.

Equius, and gender identity.

A transfeminine reading greatly enhances the content of Equius' character, and provides a narratively satisfying character arc and means of development for them.

(From hereon out, I will be referring to Equius by the pronouns she/her).

I've seen Nekropsii sum this up beautifully, and I'll paraphrase this interpretation to the best of my ability; Equius' manifestation of masculinity is akin to a poison to her.

It makes her into a grotesque, testosterone-poisoned freak that physically cannot interact with anything around her without hurting it. It is the metaphorical confusion and fury of dysphoria made literal. It is the emptiness and lack of self that I myself can corrobate as a trans woman myself.

Masculinity is a curse for Equius. Much like quite a few other Homestuck characters (Dave & Jake come to mind), Equius really fucking hates being a guy.

So, this ties into my final point.

How I personally would have developed Equius had she been given the screentime to keep being relevant to the story.

The transfeminine character arc seems obvious. I believe that, if a person would be willing and able to tackle the more obscene and deliberately uncomfortable components of Equius' character, you could make an incredibly raw and interesting portrayal of transition and identity.

What's more; this is corroborated by Equius' closest relationship. Nepeta Leijon, the Rogue of Heart. The girl whose role indicates the ability to share identity and selfhood. Nepeta could very, very easily function as a catalyst for Equius gaining her own identity and being helped through the transition process. It makes an already STRONG and stable moirallegiance all the more interesting and heartwarming to witness.

This is not to say that Equius should not have agency herself, of course; an important part of this development would be the formulation of an independent self without debilitating outside influence. It would be allowing herself not to be consumed needlessly by Void.

Equius, and further relationship dynamics.

Equius' relationship with Gamzee (which I have always read as a one-sided kismesis) is also very important to me. This is not healthy. Equius is using Gamzee as a vessel for her fantasies and lack of boundaries, and through her black feelings she vents out her frustration with her sexuality and intrinsic need to obey and serve someone of a higher caste.

I don't think I need to tell any of you how well that works out once Gamzee goes sober. (I'd rather not dwell on the topic of the Makaras too long; that's something for a wholly separate post - and one that I'm sure would end up being rather scathing towards Hussie).

Finally, Equius' relationship with Aradia. This is also one I feel is unhealthy and once again one-sided. It is the same principle as Gamzee; merely in the red quadrant as opposed to the pitch one. Equius is using somebody as a vessel to vent out her feelings of purposelessness and frustration, and deliberately ignoring the lack of reciprocation.

Both of these connections are similar; and both of them end with Equius getting her shit kicked in.

How one would retool and treat these relationships post-character development is up to them, but I personally think it would be healthier for Equius to step away from both of them. I don't think Aradia would want or need Equius' continued presence in her life, and Gamzee is notoriously terrible at relationships. (We know damn well how a reciprocated blackrom with him turns out, just ask Terezi).

Equius, in conclusion.

That's all I really have to say on this matter; a long-winded and ultimately self-serving wall of text that I'm sure will come off as masturbatory and stupid when I read over it again. That being said, I wanted to lay all of this down in one place.

tl;dr - Equius Zahhak is a complex and interesting character with commentaries on teenage hypersexuality and unhealthy masculinity, and reading her as a trans woman provides an incredibly interesting character arc for her in the long term.

[ruewritesoccasionally]

Confinement | Terry Richmond

^^prompt pairing: dark!terry richmond x black reader

warnings: extreme dark themes and smut (18+), psychological manipulation, power imbalance, emotional coercion, orgasm denial, use of restraints, obsessive dynamics, blurred professional boundaries, surveillance implications, d/s dynamics, captivity, moral ambiguity and references to murder

summary: she locked him up, or so she thought. terry wanted to be caught. and he liked the way she looked at him through the bars.

vibe: hannibal meets loki-in-the-glass-box meets joe goldberg. he’s behind glass, but he’s always in control. psychological cat-and-mouse, only she's the mouse who thinks she’s the cat.

word count: 3.3K

a/n: no taglist on this one because i'm not sure that this is everyone's cup of tea.. but i hope this is what you were looking for anon 🫶🏾

The room was sterile. No sharp edges. No handles. No metal exposed beyond what was absolutely necessary. Every fixture had been scrutinised, every panel engineered to strip a person of leverage, of power, of hope.

The lighting buzzed overhead - cold, clinical, inescapable. White fluorescence that flattened every angle, turned skin sallow, eyes glassy. It should’ve been the kind of space designed to crush someone like him.

But he looked comfortable.

Terry Richmond sat perfectly still in the centre of the observation room - legs spread lazily, hands cuffed to the bolted chair behind him, head tilted slightly like he’d been expecting company. Not a twitch. Not a slouch. His back remained impossibly straight, like he wasn’t just tolerating the restraints but performing for them.

He wasn’t bruised. Wasn’t panicked. Not a single scratch on him. The orderlies said he didn’t resist when they brought him in. Didn’t speak. Barely blinked.

And when she stepped into the room, clipboard tucked against her chest, trying to keep her pulse from betraying her —

He smiled.

A slow, wolfish curve of his mouth that didn’t belong to a man who had been captured. It belonged to someone who had allowed it.

“Took you long enough, sweetheart,” he murmured, voice like warm molasses. “Miss me?”

She didn’t answer. Not right away. She couldn’t.

Her shoes echoed across the smooth floor, the only sound between them besides the buzz of fluorescent lights and the low crackle of the mic feed. The glass wall between them stretched floor to ceiling - reinforced, shatterproof, unyielding - yet the weight of his gaze pressed through like heat.

She moved to the other side of the glass, stopped exactly seven feet away - the legal minimum. Any closer required full restraints, full observation, full clearance.

He watched her the entire way. Like a hawk. Like a predator who didn’t need his claws to be dangerous.

His wrists were bound. His ankles, too. All precautions she had signed off on herself. Triple-checked. Terry Richmond had been a ghost - a methodical killer who left bodies posed like artwork, the calling cards always just cryptic enough to suggest obsession, never enough to suggest target.

Until she read the patterns between the lines. Until the messages started to feel personal.

The composition of each scene. The significance of the locations. A flower from her hometown. A book she'd once written a thesis on. The way every victim resembled someone she used to know.

Until it became obvious: He wanted her to find him.

And now here he was.

Caged. Supposedly.

And yet every time she looked at him, it was her who felt stripped bare.

“You don’t get to speak unless I ask you something,” she finally said, clipboard held a little tighter than necessary. “Understood?”

He leaned forward. The restraints strained just slightly, enough to remind her he was, technically, under control. But the way he moved, the glint in his eye, told a different story.

He licked his bottom lip, slow. Deliberate. “You came all this way just to play dress-up, baby girl?”

“Terry.”

“You wore the lipstick I like.”

Her jaw clenched. She hadn’t. Not intentionally.

But he was right.

He always was.

Terry never raised his voice. Never struggled. Never made a show of resistance.

He simply spoke in calm, syrupy tones - each word a drop of heat sliding under her skin, burrowing deep, finding places she didn’t know were soft. Didn’t want to know.

She interrogated him daily. Always the same seat. The same distance. The same rehearsed control.

A clipboard in her lap. A stopwatch ticking beside her. Procedure as armour.

He gave nothing. Not unless she gave something first.

At first, it was harmless. Minor concessions. A pause when she should have pressed. Letting him talk longer than protocol allowed. Laughing once when he said something unexpectedly dry.

Leaving her jacket behind on purpose. Maybe just to see if he’d notice.

And he did.

He began to notice things. Little things.

How she wore her hair differently on anxious days, clipped back when she needed discipline, down when she felt tired and exposed. How her breath hitched - barely audible, but unmistakable, when she read certain words aloud from his case file. The ones tied to ritual. To obsession. To violence wrapped in longing.

He catalogued her the way he had his victims. But she wasn’t prey. Not yet.

She was an equation. A puzzle.

And Terry Richmond loved puzzles.

He began to tilt the interviews - pushing gently, methodically. A look held too long. A question phrased like curiosity but delivered like temptation. Until it wasn’t about his crimes anymore. Until it wasn’t about the victims.

It was about her.

And then came the questions. Questions he had no business asking. Questions that didn’t belong in an interview room. Questions that felt more like… confessions.

“You ever make yourself come while thinking about me in here?” he asked one afternoon, voice thick with amusement, eyes glinting just behind the glass.

She didn’t respond. Couldn’t.

The pen in her hand stilled mid-note. Her pulse thudded loud in her ears, drowning out the hum of the recording equipment.

He smiled. Slow. Patient. Like he already knew.

“What were you wearing when you read my file?” he drawled, watching her like a man watching a fire catch. “Did you touch yourself, or did you just imagine what I’d do to you if I wasn’t behind this glass?”

Her fingers curled just slightly tighter around her pen. But she didn’t leave. Didn’t report the breach.

And from his chair shackled, restrained, supposedly caged - Terry simply watched. And waited.

Because she hadn’t told him to stop.

And he knew she wouldn’t.

It started small. Harmless, even.

She lingered a little longer after each session. Asked one more question than necessary. Let her eyes trace the line of his jaw when she thought he wasn’t looking.

She told herself it was tactical. That she was watching him closely. That his micro-expressions mattered. But then she started wearing lipstick. A softer red, just enough to feel… intentional. Then darker. Deeper. The kind that left faint smudges on paper coffee cups. And maybe, just maybe, on the rim of a pen she passed between her fingers while questioning him.

She wore lower necklines. Not scandalous. Just slightly less severe. Just enough to feel it when his gaze dipped, slowly, deliberately.

And Terry noticed. Every. Single. Time.

His gaze didn’t linger. It devoured. Not with hunger. With knowing.

Like he’d seen this before. Like he’d planned this.

The glass between them stopped feeling like a barrier. It became a mirror.

And all she saw in it was her own want - staring back, reflected in the eyes of the man she was supposed to control.

He never begged. Never pressed.

He invited. Lured. Opened the door and waited to see if she’d step through it.

And somehow, it was her who started bending the rules. Little ones at first. Just to test. Just to push.

She let him speak off-record. Just once. Then again.

She came outside of protocol hours. Told herself it was for “observation.” For “data.” Told herself no one needed to know.

She sat closer. Then closer still. Crossed one leg over the other. Noticed the way his eyes flicked down, then back up - never hurried, always composed.

Until the glass no longer felt safe. Until the idea of his voice in her ear felt more intimate than touch.

His words changed, too. He started weaving double meanings into every sentence. His voice coiled around her like smoke - thick, warm, inescapable.

“I can’t touch you from here, baby,” he murmured one evening, low and velvet-slick, a knife hidden beneath every syllable. “But I can make you fall apart anyway.”

Her breath caught. She didn’t answer. Didn’t need to.

Because he was right. She already had.

The spiral had begun. And she was no longer sure whose hands had started turning it. Worse - she wanted to keep falling. Especially if it was his voice waiting at the bottom.

It didn’t happen all at once. The unravelling was slow. Surgical.

Precise, like the man himself.

He only spoke when she gave him something first. Never demanded. Never pushed. Just waited. Patient, quiet, coiled like smoke behind glass.

“Tell me a secret,” he said once, voice low, lazy. “One you’ve never told anyone. Then I’ll tell you where I left her body.”

And she did. She didn’t even hesitate.

The words tumbled out in a hush, too fast, too unguarded. She wasn’t sure who she was trying to impress or confess to. She just wanted him to keep looking at her like that. Like he knew her.

She didn’t remember when the lines blurred. But they had. Somewhere between her long nights and longer stares, between the click of her heels and the soft, slow drawl of his voice calling her back again. And again.

She stopped calling him Mr. Richmond. Formalities cracked under the heat of his gaze.

He called her darlin’. Sweetheart. My good girl.

Every time he said it, something in her stomach fluttered. Tight. Wrong. Addictive. It wasn’t affection. Not really. It was control. Drenched in honey, cloaked in charm, but still control.

He never touched her. But he didn’t need to.

His words filled in the spaces where his hands couldn’t go.

One night, when the lights were dim and the reinforced glass gleamed with twin reflections - her lips parted, his head tilted in that always-ready calm; he leaned forward. Calm as anything. Calculated, as always.

“Put your hand under the table.”

Her breath caught. She didn’t ask why.

“Now sit on it.”

And she obeyed. Like she always did.

The chair creaked beneath her. Her thighs tensed. Heat bloomed in her chest and pooled low in her belly. She kept her eyes forward, but he saw everything.

“Tell me what it feels like,” he said, voice dipped in hunger, low and thick like honey warmed on the stove, “when you imagine it’s mine.”

She trembled. Bit her lip. Said nothing.

Didn’t need to.

The silence between them vibrated, thick with want, shame, power.

He made her fall apart like that. Knees clamped together. Breath shaky. Shame burning under her skin like a fever she didn’t want to break.

And through it all, he watched.

Cool. Composed. Unmoving.

A man shackled and caged. And yet somehow still the one in control.

He never touched her. Not once.

But it was already too late.

She’d let him in. Not with a key. But a confession.

And he knew it. He’d always known.

They called it a controlled interaction. A trial run. Monitored. Supervised. Contained.

Every word was meant to suggest safety - layers of oversight, forms signed in triplicate, a room designed to neutralise danger.

No glass this time. Just four walls. One table. Two chairs. And him.

Unshackled, save for the thick cuffs looped to the base of the bolted-down table. A gesture of caution. A gesture of control.

He looked… serene. Almost reverent. As though this moment had been prophesied, and he had simply waited for the world to catch up.

She told herself it was protocol. That he’d earned this after weeks of compliance. That proximity didn’t mean permission.

But when she crossed the threshold, when her shoes sank into the silence and her body moved on automatic, she felt it the shift.

She sat. He watched. And in that single, unwavering moment, when his eyes found hers, dark, steady, devouring - she forgot why she ever thought distance had mattered at all.

His gaze was a gravity well. And she, foolish and human, kept stepping closer.

The silence stretched between them, thick and pulsing, like breath held too long. It wasn’t awkward. It was intentional.

Then slowly and deliberately, he leaned forward.

Not enough to breach the unspoken line between them. Just enough to make sure she could feel it. The heat of him. The nearness. The way his breath stirred the tiny hairs at her neck, sent a full-body ache humming through her chest like a memory.

He didn’t touch her. Didn’t kiss. Just breathed her in like she was his first taste of freedom.

And she let him.

“You don’t want me free,” he murmured, voice a growl beneath velvet. “That’d be too easy.”

His tone was all sin and certainty - not smug but assured. A man who’d read the last page of a book long before she even opened the cover.

She stayed still. Barely.

A single twitch of her hand. A tightening in her throat. Her eyes dropped, then lifted and dragged back to him like tide to the moon.

“You like knowing I could take you…” he continued, voice low, hypnotic.

His gaze flicked downward - not to her lips, but to her throat. To the place where her pulse betrayed her. Where it jumped, visibly.

“…but you let me wait.”

The words sank between them like ink into paper - irreversible, permanent.

And God help her, he was right.

Not because she feared him. But because somewhere deep inside, shameful and throbbing, she wanted him to be the one to cross the line.

And worse still… she wanted to let him.

She unlocked one wrist.

It was supposed to be procedural. A test of trust. Supervised. Temporary.

Every measure in place had been agreed upon - clearance signed, surveillance confirmed, every heartbeat accounted for. It should’ve felt clinical. Bounded. Safe.

But the second the cuff clicked open - a sharp, final sound that seemed to echo too loud in the still room, his hand shot up to catch hers.

Not violently. But firm. Possessive.

It was the kind of grip that wasn’t born from panic or impulse, but planning. He held her as if he knew she would allow it.

And she had.

He kissed her knuckles like a gentleman - lips soft, reverent, almost mocking. But the way he gripped them… that was no courtesy. That was a warning dressed in silk.

Then, slowly, deliberately, he guided her down onto his lap.

No command. No plea. Just intention.

And she let him.

The cameras caught it. They must have. But in that moment, she didn’t care. Couldn’t.

One hand still chained to the table. One hand free to ruin her.

And yet somehow, it was her who moved like she had the power.

She straddled him slow, deliberate, thighs tightening around his hips as if anchoring herself to a storm she had no chance of surviving. Her fingers pressed into his shoulders, not for balance, but to remind herself that she was choosing this.

Choosing him.

She rocked against him with the illusion of control - rhythm steady, spine straight - like she was orchestrating the encounter. But every time he growled, low and feral, every time he bit into her skin like a claim, breath hot against her neck like fire at the fuse... she remembered:

She never had been in control.

Not really.

His mouth found her jaw first, then her collarbone, then the hollow beneath her ear. Each kiss a brand. Each bruise a declaration.

He didn’t speak at first. He devoured.

Then, lips brushing her pulse point, he rasped: “You want to cum?”

The voice was syrupy. Sacrilegious. A sin served in velvet.

“Use me for it.”

She shivered.

Her hands curled into his shirt, gripping tight, grounding herself as much as claiming him.

“You don’t even have to let me finish,” he murmured against her throat. His free hand gripped her hip, hard enough to ache. “Just leave me like this. Begging. Desperate. Caged.”

And she almost did.

Because the way he moaned for her, quiet but guttural, like it scraped up from somewhere primal. The way his teeth clenched, eyes wide and ravenous like he was both starving and thankful to be starved - it was punishment enough.

Torture wrapped in reverence.

Biting. Bruising. Bruised knees. Bruised egos. Bruised morality.

Her movements grew more ragged. His voice dropped into something darker.

Praise spilled from his lips between snarls and whimpers.

“That’s it, baby. That’s it.” A tremble in his jaw. A twitch in his bound wrist. “Use your favourite monster. Make me your fucking ruin.”

And she did. Again. And again.

Until there was no question of who had surrendered first. And no doubt that he would never stop waiting for her to do it again.

The sex had been her undoing. The final piece he needed.

He hadn’t just wanted her body; he wanted her addiction. Her loyalty. Her testimony. Her surrender.

And she gave it to him - day by day, breath by breath - each sigh slipping past her lips like a secret she thought he didn’t already know.

But Terry Richmond had known everything. Planned everything.

Every visit. Every glance. Every angle of his voice. Every subtle arch of his brow. The exact tilt of his head when she’d walk in with a file tucked against her chest like a shield. Even the camera blind spots, the ones she’d insisted were coincidence. They weren’t.

He knew the boundaries she would cross before she did. Knew exactly how much rope to give her before she’d tie it into her own noose and call it devotion.

Every protocol she broke, she’d justified. Just this once. Just this risk. Just this man.

She thought she’d kept him caged. That he was hers because he stayed.

But he’d made the cage comfortable on purpose. A place she could return to. A place where he waited – steady and knowing while she convinced herself she still had control.

She hadn’t just let him in. She’d brought him in. Offered him a place beneath her skin, behind her rules, inside the one part of her that had always been off-limits: her certainty.

Let herself feel safe. Special. Wanted.

And that— That was his favourite part.

Some said the glass had always been two-way. That he recorded her confessions. Her trembling. Her moans. Played them back while she slept, whispering memories back into her own body like lullabies dressed in shame.

Others said it was worse, That she’d let him out. Just once. Just for a moment.

A moment of real touch. Of breath. Of whispered ruin traced down the curve of her throat with lips she should’ve never let near her.

And now?

Now the cell was empty.

She sat alone in the chair where he’d once waited, still warm from the last time she’d crossed every line that mattered. The same position. The same table. The same silence. But now, it rang hollow.

The cuffs she’d undone herself had left a faint ache around her wrists. Not from force but from memory. From the weight of choosing him. Again and again.

The glass in front of her was smudged with fingerprints, her fingerprints like a ghost pressed into the room. A history written in oil and breath.

And there it was. A folded piece of paper left behind. Crisp. Precise. Neat handwriting. No signature.

Just one sentence:

“Don’t let me out… unless you’re ready to be mine.”

And she had.

God help her, she had been ready. Too ready.

Had opened the door not with ignorance but with something worse. Hope.

And now?

Now he was gone.

No alarms. No breach. No noise at all. Just absence, echoing like a verdict.

But he’d left a part of himself behind. Inside her. In her breath. Her memory. Her rules rewritten in his voice.

She thought she could close the door again. Thought she could sit still, go silent, play penance in his place.

But Terry Richmond didn’t need walls to haunt a woman. He didn’t need chains to keep her his.

She’d given him the key. She’d let him in. And now, even in his absence…

He was everywhere.

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