#she would be fully transcendent

[ireallydohateyou2]

i am so sick of liars :-( why wont people tell the truth!!!?

my poor, sweet baby :// unfortunatelyy, if i just so happened to possess the answers to questions such as this one, i most definitelyy would not be on this site, of all places ...

[smuttysabina]

A Month With Aespa (Ch 4): What Goes Ning In the Night

(Ningning x Male Reader, 3.7k Words) Tags: Diva sex, Spectacular sex, Surprise Sex, Anal Sex, Squirting, Like a lot of squirting, This one sure took a while to come out didn't it, More Aespa sex, Drama-ma-ma-ma-ma, The girls may not be in the back, but they are taking it in the rear, creampies.

(Part 1) (Part 2) (Part 3)

Nothing can quite equal the sublime joys of waking up on a cold morning. The stuffy heat of your blankets, the faint glow radiating down from the skylight, the cool air against your face, the stiffness of your manhood, and perhaps most of all, the transcendent joy of someone's warm lips wrapped around it. You sigh, relishing in the sensation of your maid's mouth sloppily bobbing up and down your length, her body nestled between your legs. You feel another pocket of heat brushing up against your left leg, no doubt another one of your servants had wriggled her way under the covers to join the fun; and a passionate ménage-a-trois beneath the sheets was hardly a poor start to one's morning. You must admit though, that the lady hard at work between your thighs was unusually enthusiastic; gasping and slobbering noisily as she sucks you off. Somewhat bemused by her ardor, you pull up the duvet, cracking open an eye and glance down to see what all the fuss was about (not that you would complain of course, but matters were usually much more relaxed at the start of the day). You blink at the sight, and blandly open the other eye to provide reinforcements to your beleaguered first, hoping that would clarify the situation. Giselle beams innocently up at you, her hand pistoning the head of one of your maids against your crotch; who gags and squirms as she struggles to breath. You stifle a groan as pleasure shoots along your length, causing the idol's smile to turn predatory,

"Good morning, I thought I might help out a little, to make up for yesterday..."

Giselle smirks with serene indifference as she presses the maid's head down further onto your manhood, holding her down so that her nose is buried in your (nicely trimmed, thank you!) bush, "After all, dear Karina seemed ever so upset after dinner, and why, Ningning looked as if she were about to murder you!" The idol giggles demurely, "Not that Winter minded though, I'm sure she was feeling quite smug that she avoided getting her asshole despoiled- Oh, oopsie, I forgot about you." Giselle finally deigns to notice the maid who was now clawing at the sheets as she tried to pull up, her eyes rolling back as she labors to breath around your meat in her throat. Giselle blandly hauls the poor asphyxiating girl off of you, tossing her aside like so much trash as she gracefully slides herself atop of you. You groan as she smoothly mounts you, her sex devouring every inch of you until she has sheathed fully inside of her. You manage a pithy remark as your mind whirls, commenting on her unusual enthusiasm considering her conduct the day before. Giselle bashfully covers herself as well as a smile, her bared breasts squishing together most pleasantly, before answering your question by starting to ride you. Further interrogation is put on hold however, as she expertly maneuvers her way up and down your shaft, banishing any notions of matter more complex than the act of breeding.

The sex was quite different compared to your earlier dalliance with Giselle, instead of the sordid passion that had accompanied your forced anal coupling, she was now entirely professional and composed. If anything she seemed bored as her hips described non-Euclidean paths through the air that would have had your old physics professors frothing at the mouth (and no doubt masturbating furiously), her body performing gravity defying feats as she skillfully rode you. You reach up to grope her swaying breasts as they wobble enticingly around her chest, an act which seems to add a hint of enjoyment to her coolly mocking demeanor; not that it changed the inevitable outcome one iota. Unlike your meeting with Karina, which had transformed from a clinical milking into something more enjoyable, Giselle was this time utterly merciless in her technique to drain you. She completely disregarded her own pleasure, as she steadily dragged your unwilling balls upwards, fucking you as if you were nothing more than a practice dildo. But as you enter into the final stretch, she slows enough to plateau your building climax, leaning down to whisper conspiratorially, "So you are going after Winter next, hmm..." This non sequitur was sudden enough to cause your brain to click back into its usual habits, and you breathlessly request some advice on the matter then. Giselle stops cold, her waist bent at what must be a painfully angle as she stares at your incredulously, "Advice? I simply want to watch you fuck that cold bitch until she squeals," She resumes as suddenly as she halted, now with a bit more vigor than before, "I don't particularly care really, so long as you keep busy rutting with the others, which allows me to keep to myself." Giselle pats your chest without much affection, cocking her head as she feels your manhood begin to pulse rhythmically. At that she abruptly unmounts you, leaving your cock twitch against your chest in the cold morning air; her body twirling as she swiftly hops off the bed, striding gracefully towards the door. Giselle pauses at the doorway, glancing back at you with a mischievous smirk on lips, "What? I helped, a little," She leaves you with her delighted laughter ringing in your ears, as your member mournfully starts to shrink back on itself. It seems of late that your mornings have been quite unsatisfactory.

You leave your room with a mind heavy with thought, though not before tending to the poor dear who still lay gasping upon the sheets. It would have been ungentlemanly to take advantage of her after she had so valiantly braved asphyxiation; and more notably refrained from gnawing upon the delicate flesh filling her mouth. You ponder upon what Giselle had told you, and trusted her "suggestion" not in the slightest; no doubt she hoped to stir up more trouble as seemed to be her wont. You muse upon the issue as you take your breakfast in the library, peering out of the frosted windows as sunlight fills the sprawling gardens behind your residence. No doubt pursuing Winter would only needle both Karina and Ningning more than you already had; and while revisiting Giselle held a certain appeal, it would not mend your relationship with the other pair. Speaking of which... Karina had seemed oddly affected by the revelation that you had been with GIselle, and if anything Ningning appeared as outraged. She had been quite receptive that morning though, at least until you had started questioning her about the maid Giselle had ravished. Perhaps you should pay Ningning a more, attentive, visit then...

Though the sun had been shining for several hours now, the idol who cracked open her door bore little evidence that she had even bothered to leave her bed. The stale reek of alcohol invades your nostrils as Ningning squints unhappily up at you, peering suspiciously around her door. Her response to your cautious advances is nearly as crass as her appearances, "Shouldn't you be fucking that whore's asshole right now, or was even that hole too loose for you?", with that she once again slams the door in your face, leaving you somewhat piqued. Evidently there is little love lost between the two, or perhaps something else is at work here... So you return to the library, slowly wandering the bookshelves as you plan your next move, taking inspiration from the romantic titles gracing the novels there. You nod to yourself, before motioning a waiting maid over, and after jotting down a quick note, you direct her to take it to the recalcitrant idol. The maid scurries off, and you return to your perusing, running your finger along the spines of the books as you chuckle nostalgically upon remembering their sordid contents. You raise an eyebrow when the maid returns, the poor dear drenched with whiskey but most importantly, returned without your note. You thank the darling girl as best you can, hoisting up her skirt and plying her cunt until she gushes all over the floor; delicious. To tip the scales, you send another maid (the slut no doubt giddy at the thought of being rewarded for her troubles), under strict instructions to visit Ningning. With the trap baited, you merely need to wait.

An hour later Ningning swept into the library, her earlier slovenliness banished as the dawn dispels the darkness, now as radiant as the day she had stepped into your abode. Her sapphire outfit clings to her curves, its cascade of beads shining brightly in the noon sun, her makeup had been applied to perfection, her hair pulled back to roil down her shapely back. Ningning glares at you as you genuflect towards her as if she were of the divine, her foul mode seemingly undiminished as she demands your reasoning for requesting she join you. You attempt to sooth the furious idol, protesting grandly that it should be obvious, why should you not wish to be graced by such a beautiful lady's presence? Her eye twitches slightly, as rank jealousy passes over her face, "Have you not enough sluts to vent your lusts upon? Or have you tired of their slack holes already?" You murmur some soft platitudes on behalf of the other members of Aespa, and are rewarded with a look of smug superiority; it truly was that simple then... So with a submissive smile you beg of her to let you accompany her for the day, to allow you to bask in her radiance and wait upon her every need. Ningning preens at your grandiose declaration, no doubt unduly pleased that she has your full attention, and acquiesces to your request with ill-concealed delight. She puts her leg up on a chair, tastelessly dirtying its fabric with her footwear (though to be frank, that old thing was bleached white for a reason), inadvertently showing you a flash of skin, and grandly orders you to give her a tour of the gardens. However could you refuse?

With the haughty idol on one arm, you graciously escort Ningning through your expansive greenery, showing her all of the little nooks and hidden glades she missed when she rampaged through with her fellows days ago. There were dozens of intimate areas scattered throughout the gardens, where lovers could slip away into so as to enjoy one another in relative privacy; relative being the operative word here. Before grassy hollows, marble benches, and outdoor mattresses, you would pause and subtly inquire if the lady required your services, which Ningning haughtily refused of course, though your fervent attentions visibly pleased her greatly. Eventually she grew tired of erotic statuary and gently burbling fountains (which helped immensely in disguising the sound of vigorous lovemaking), and demanded a repast to sate her hunger. It was little trouble to organize a luncheon for her, the pair of you comfortable resting under an awning as your maids fill the small table between you with a bountiful spread, the harlots bustling to and from the kitchens to accomplish this feat. Meanwhile you and Ningning chatter amiably about a variety of topics, until she eventually begins to gossip incessantly about the girls of Aespa, which you listen to with rapt attention. Which invariably led to prying into your own encounters with the other idols, while the one in front of you leans back with interest, revealing a surprising amount of bare skin leading up around her crotch...

Ningning unerringly interrogates you about the other girls' performances, nodding amiably as you slowly tell her of your sex with Karina in the showers, and your much more brutal session with Giselle in the theatre, and then the unexpected pleasure you had with her this morning... The idol unconsciously strokes her thigh as she listens to how you had made love to her dear friends, smirking as you describe in detail how roughly you had take Giselle; evidently there was little love lost between the two. She smiles dreamily as she imagines how it played out, "You know, that whore gets turned on by shit like that, no matter how much she wails about it, if you just force yourself on her she fucking gushes," Ningning nods as she notes the realization in your eyes, "Oh yes, if you had just held her down and fucked her this morning, she would have loved it, you should try it more often," then she frowns, jealousy flashing behind her eyes, "I have no idea what Karina's problem is though, you should just avoid her if she's being difficult. After all," her expression growing smug once more, "why bother with her, when you could have me." At which Ningning leans back fully in her chair, opening her legs for you and revealing the glisteningly wet flesh between her lithe legs. She glances down before giggling seductively, "I knew I forgot something."

Your eyebrows are practically at your hairline, and you must admit that your pants are currently enduring a rather great amount of strain as you struggle to contain your growing arousal. You had thought that Ningning would require far more wooing before she would acquiesce to your intentions, that it would take a herculean effort to sooth her ruffled ego into submission. Instead she was practically gleeful as she flashed you, as if the thought of showing her fellow idols up aroused her to an unbearable degree. So you are more than pleased to simply watch with rapt attention as Ningning seductively slides her hand down her supple thighs, and you idly wave to dismiss the crowd of maids fluttering about. But the idol opposes their departure vehemently, as she arrogantly proclaims, "I require an audience," before starting to touch herself more sensually. And my, what a show she was putting on. Ningning's sex was as showy as her personality, with a prominent mons supporting a magnificently puffy pair of lips, squished together like a clam, opening eagerly to reveal the pearl within its gooey depths. She licks her lips as drinks in the sensation of being watched by a dozen people, reveling in being the center of attention as she seductively begins to pleasure herself. You are enraptured as the idol shamelessly masturbates in front of you, her performance as eye-catching as it would be on a stage in front of thousands, staring directly at you as her breath quickens and the sloshing noise coming from between her nubile thighs grows ever louder. With a pleasant moan Ningning climaxes, squirting spectacularly all over your brunch as her shuddering legs make the table tremble unsteadily.

A younger you would have filled your pants at such an arousing scene, embarrassingly wasting your precious semen into the fabric as you joined Ningning in orgasm. Luckily for you both however, your mast stood unbowed and undiminished (admittedly, you had leaked a fair amount, but that is not important), and as you wrenched off your pants to reveal it the idol looked entirely too pleased with herself. Of course, the dear maids around you both had fared less well than you, with several of them having produced their own messes on the stone tiles; four of them were still energetically going at it! No matter, as you rise to join Ningning though, the lady in question stops you, and instead saunters over and straddles you, the dark lips of her slit softly kissing your tip. Shaking slightly, you feel your hips treacherously thrust upwards, your member boorishly eager to feel the warmth of this diva wrapped around it. Smirking smugly, Ningning gently rocks her hips, smearing the head of your penis with her fluids, laying her own claim to your manhood; until with an indulgent sigh, she slowly sits on it. You groan as her fleshy folds swallow every inch of your cock, slathering it with her divine nectar and leaking more out onto your crotch. Your balls twitch faithlessly, only too eager to empty themselves into such a fertile woman, uncaring of the gentlemanly need to pleasure your partner. You needn't have worried much however, as Ningning starts to ride you it soon becomes evident that she is relishing this as much as you are. Moaning lewdly, she bounces vigorously atop you, her showy pussy slobbering fluids all over your stomach as she drowns your dick in her cum; her cunt was astoundingly wet. Soon her dress was soaked where it had pooled around the site of your joining, but neither of you were interested in removing it; the both of you aroused by dirtying such an expensive garment. Groaning, you grasp her waist to guide her movements, and to guarantee that this idol would not be jumping ship before you finished properly. But Ningning was as intent on receiving your seed as you were to giving it, and she keeps up her pace even as the first ropes of semen erupt inside of her. Both of your eyes roll back as your load paints her insides, even as she squirts so much it drips down out of the pool forming in your chair, her pussy spasming pleasurably around your cock.

Breathing heavily, Ningning wears a triumphant grin as she looks down at you, "I told you I was better than Karina, now let me put that whore Giselle in the shade as well..." Shivering slightly, the idol promptly unmounts you, staggering a little as a gush of your conjoined fluids comes out of her hole, before turning about and clambering back into your lap. Grasping your still-sensitive manhood firmly, Ningning promptly inserts the quivering length into her anus, letting out a modest yelp as it slides inside of her. With the slop of your previous joining still coating your cock, there was little need to worry about lubrication, which she swiftly assures you, "Fuck me harder than that bitch, I can take it better than she can!" You are hardly one to disappoint, so you comply with her wishes. Ningning's squeals of pleasure echo through the gardens as you relentlessly pound away at her guts, her cries loud enough to be heard over the burble of fountains; and much like a fountain, the idol was producing an impressive quantity of liquid. Stirring her clit constantly, she hoses down the pavement continuously, her fluids spraying wildly over the stones until a vast area in front of her was damp. The thicker juices coursed down her asshole and onto your balls, further lubricating your already messy sex. Grunting, you tirelessly plow Ningning's ass, working out any lingering frustrations you had with Giselle's teasing on her groupmate's rear; who to her credit, had only continued to urge you on. The stimulation of railing her tight coils was fast growing unbearable though, and the excitement from using the prima donna of Aespa's anus like you would a cheap whore's was too delicious to resist. But you knew that more than anything, she would want to put on a show, so you make sure to loudly announce your intention to orgasm some time before you reached that point. Upon hearing this, Ningning cranks things up to eleven, no longer content to simply take your plowing with idle passivity, now she through herself back against your thrusts as if she was attempting to impale herself. Her sweet moans grow ever louder, supported by a choir of wailing coming from your maids, and her urgings to creampie her grow increasingly salacious as the supreme moment approaches. Ningning screams in exultation as your semen spews into her guts, squirting far enough to splatter over the maids as they watched in awe, her body writhing atop yours as your second load fills her stomach with sticky warmth. Purring in the afterglow of her orgasm, the idol is content to lay back against your chest as your balls slowly empty themselves inside of her.

Once she was satisfied that you were finished, Ningning gingerly unmounts you once more, your cock exiting her with a sordid pop that presages a somewhat fouler slick of fluids than last time. Her posture betrays her immense satisfaction with her performance, as she glances around as if expecting rapturous applause from the maids. The perverse ladies had shown their appreciation in a far more honest manner than banal clapping though, as the resultant messes coating themselves as well as the floor gave evidence to their passionate enjoyment. Ningning gives you a look of utmost cockiness as she vainly attempt to smooth down her now ruinously stained dress, grossly confident that she had superseded her compatriots in raw sexual ability. Perhaps she had, you muse, as she languidly makes her way through the gardens back to the mansion, no doubt intent on washing the mingled sweat of your coupling off of herself. Your train of thought is interrupted as one of your maids begins to dutifully clean you off with her mouth, and you recline with a sigh on the soggy seat of your chair as her head bobs energetically upon your cock. You relax as the other maids gradually finish masturbating and start to clear the table, until with a grunt you fill the one kneeling between your legs' mouth with your now thin seed. What a pleasant morning it had been...

Back inside of the mansion, you make your stately way towards the public showers, you yourself were as messy as Ningning had been, and were eager to clean yourself off (not that you minded being coated in sexual fluids of course, it was the height of fashion in some circles). Dumping your soiled outfit into the laundry bin, you enter the main chamber and to your surprise find yourself confronted by the idol in question once more. Nor was she alone, as she had someone's head pinned against the wall, and seemed to be forcing them to clean out her used anus. Ningning glances over at you when you enter, biting her lip and groping her modest breasts as her perhaps unwilling partner gorges upon your leavings. You greet her with a polite nod, before heading to a shower on the opposite side of the room, content to allow the idol to enjoy herself. As you wash yourself off, and your mind wanders, you realize that the body of Ningning's lover had looked somewhat familiar, but when you glance over to confirm your idle thoughts, they had already vanished. How odd.

You could but hope that tonight's dinner table would be somewhat more subdued than the last, but from what you knew about Ningning, you had little confidence that it would be so...

A/N: Haha well this one took a little longer than expected... it took a while for me to figure out how exactly I wanted to write dear Ning2, and even longer to find the time for it, I have been a touch busy writing other girls cough cough. But hopefully the next chapter will cum sooner rather than later, heh

[reidmarieprentiss]

hii wondering if you could write a little something about to how spencer would react to an undercover mission going wrong with his gf??<3 whether she’s on the mission alone or together with him is up to you

Where We Were Meant to Be

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader

Category: fluff, angst

Warnings/Includes: kidnapping, guns, typical case talk, break ups (not spencer), feelings talks, being injured

Word count: 7.8k

a/n: i took a little bit of creative liberty with this one i hope that's okay! it's spencer's best friend that he just so happens to be in love with heheh --- also this is meant to be a treat because i only posted once yesterday <333

main masterlist

Spencer Reid was a man of many secrets, but the one that weighed the heaviest on him was the love he harbored for you. It was a love that grew quietly over time, nurtured by the countless hours spent together, the late-night conversations that often veered into deep, uncharted emotional territory, and the shared experiences that bonded you in ways that words could never fully capture.

Everyone at the BAU knew how close the two of you were. It was impossible not to notice. From the way your eyes would light up whenever Spencer entered a room to the ease with which you could communicate without saying a word, it was evident that you shared a connection that transcended the ordinary.

"You two are like two halves of the same brain," Derek would often joke, a knowing grin on his face as he watched you and Spencer exchange another one of your silent conversations.

"Or the same heart," Penelope would add with a playful wink, causing you to blush and Spencer to give her a half-smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

But despite the teasing, no one knew the depth of Spencer's feelings. No one knew that every time you smiled at him, his heart ached with a longing that he buried deep within himself. No one knew that every time your hand brushed against his, he had to remind himself that it meant nothing more than friendship—because that was all you could offer him.

You had a partner. A good one, at that. Spencer had met them a few times, and he couldn't find a single flaw. They were kind, intelligent, and treated you with the love and respect you deserved. It made things easier and harder all at once. Easier, because he knew you were happy, and that's all he'd ever wanted for you. Harder, because he couldn't help but wish that he were the one to make you feel that way.

But Spencer was nothing if not practical. He had always been good at compartmentalizing his emotions, and he used that skill now to keep his feelings in check. He accepted your relationship with grace, never once letting on that every "we" you mentioned with your partner's name attached chipped away at his heart. He forced himself to focus on the friendship you shared, cherishing every moment, every laugh, every secret confided.

In his quieter moments, Spencer allowed himself to dream. He imagined what it would be like to be the one who held your hand as you navigated life’s challenges, to be the one who made you laugh on your hardest days, to be the one you turned to when the world felt like too much. But those dreams were fleeting, and he always pushed them away, reminding himself that you were happy, and that was what mattered.

One evening, after a particularly tough case, the team decided to unwind at Rossi's place. The atmosphere was relaxed, the tension of the day slowly dissipating as everyone gathered around with drinks in hand. You sat next to Spencer, your shoulder lightly brushing against his as you leaned in to whisper something that made him chuckle softly.

"See, this is why you're my favorite," you teased, poking him playfully in the side.

"Flattery won’t get you anywhere," Spencer replied, his voice tinged with affection as he looked at you, his gaze lingering just a moment too long.

You caught it, your smile softening as you reached out to squeeze his hand. "You're the best, you know that?"

"Only because I have the best friend," he responded, squeezing your hand in return before letting go, trying to ignore the way his heart raced at the simple contact.

The night continued, filled with laughter and stories, but Spencer couldn’t help but feel the weight of his unspoken feelings pressing down on him. It was a bittersweet sensation, knowing that he would never be able to tell you the truth, that he would never be able to cross the invisible line that separated friendship from something more.

As the evening wound down and people started to leave, you lingered behind with Spencer, helping him clean up the remnants of the gathering. It was something the two of you often did, slipping into a comfortable rhythm as you worked side by side in silence.

Once the dishes were done and the living room tidied, you both collapsed into your car, a comfortable silence settling between you.

"Thanks for sticking around," Spencer said, his voice soft as he turned to look at you.

"Of course," you replied, meeting his gaze with a tired smile. "You're my person, Spencer. I wouldn't want to be anywhere else."

Your words hit him harder than you could have imagined. He swallowed, forcing himself to smile even as his heart twisted painfully in his chest. "And you're mine," he whispered, more to himself than to you.

You rested your head on his shoulder, letting out a content sigh as you closed your eyes. Spencer remained still, afraid to move, afraid that the moment would shatter if he so much as breathed too loudly.

In that moment, Spencer allowed himself to believe, just for a second, that things could be different. That maybe, in another life, in another world, he could be the one you chose. But as your breathing evened out, signaling that you had fallen asleep, he knew that such thoughts were futile.

He pressed a gentle kiss to the top of your head, his lips lingering for a moment longer than necessary before he pulled back, his heart heavy with the weight of what could never be. 

And so, he continued to keep his secret, burying it deep within himself as he held onto the one thing he could have—your friendship. It wasn't everything, but it was enough. It had to be enough.

—

The briefing room was unusually quiet as Hotch laid out the details of the mission. The tension in the air was palpable, the seriousness of the situation evident in the way Hotch’s voice took on that hard, steely edge he reserved for the most dangerous of cases. You sat next to Spencer, your hands folded neatly in your lap, trying to keep your expression neutral as the reality of what was being asked of you sank in.

The unsub had escalated, and the BAU was running out of time. The only way to catch him was to go undercover, to insert yourselves into his world, to become the very thing he was hunting. And for this, Hotch had chosen you and Spencer to pose as husband and wife.

The room emptied out after the briefing, but Spencer lingered, his brows furrowed, a storm of emotions brewing behind his eyes. He looked at you, searching your face as if trying to find a way to convince you to change your mind before he even spoke.

“This is too dangerous,” he began, his voice low and urgent. “You shouldn’t go. We can find another way—there has to be another way.”

You reached out to him, placing a comforting hand on his arm. “Spencer, we’ve been through worse. We can handle this.”

“No,” he said, shaking his head, his voice trembling slightly. “This isn’t just another case. This is… it’s different. If something goes wrong—if he even suspects for a second that we’re not who we say we are—” His voice caught in his throat, and he looked away, swallowing hard.

You squeezed his arm, trying to anchor him. “Spencer, look at me.”

Reluctantly, he turned back to you, his eyes filled with a mix of fear and desperation that broke your heart.

“We’re the best shot at stopping him,” you said gently. “You know that. If it were anyone else, I’d be just as worried. But it’s us. We’ve got this.”

His hands balled into fists at his sides, his knuckles white. “But what if something happens to you? I couldn’t—” He stopped, his breath hitching as he tried to compose himself. “I couldn’t live with that.”

You felt a pang in your chest at his words, at the raw vulnerability he was showing you. “Spencer,” you whispered, stepping closer, “I know it’s risky. I know you’re scared. But I’m scared too. And that’s why we have to be careful, why we have to trust each other.”

Spencer’s eyes softened, but the fear was still there, clinging to him like a shadow. “I do trust you. It’s just… I can’t lose you.”

The intensity of his words hung in the air, a confession of something deeper, something unspoken between you. You felt your heart twist, knowing how much he cared, how much he had always cared.

“You won’t lose me,” you promised, your voice steady even though your heart was pounding. “We’ll go in, do what we need to do, and get out. Together.”

He nodded slowly, though the worry in his eyes didn’t diminish. “Promise me you’ll be careful. No risks, no heroics.”

You smiled softly, trying to ease the tension. “I promise. We’re in this together.”

The days leading up to the mission were a blur of preparations, briefings, and final checks. Spencer was quieter than usual, his mind clearly racing with thoughts of what could go wrong. You tried to stay focused, knowing that you both needed to be sharp for this to work.

When the day finally arrived, you found yourselves in a small, nondescript hotel room that served as your cover. The ruse was simple: you and Spencer were a newlywed couple, traveling through the area, the perfect targets for the unsub’s twisted games.

The charade was almost too real, the way Spencer’s hand rested on the small of your back as you entered the hotel lobby, the way he leaned in to whisper something in your ear as you checked in. The familiarity of it all was both comforting and disconcerting.

The hotel room’s dim lighting cast a warm glow over the space, but it was nothing compared to the light in Spencer’s eyes as he looked at you. You had just finished getting ready for the final phase of the mission, slipping into the elegant dress that completed your undercover persona as the charming, newlywed wife. As you turned to face him, adjusting the last of your jewelry, Spencer’s breath seemed to catch in his throat.

“You look absolutely stunning,” he murmured, his voice low, almost reverent. There was a softness in his tone, a tenderness that seemed to seep into every syllable. His eyes, those expressive hazel eyes, were locked onto you with an intensity that made your heart skip a beat.

For a moment, the world outside the room ceased to exist. The mission, the danger, the need to keep up the pretense—it all faded into the background. All that mattered was the way Spencer was looking at you, with so much love and adoration that it was almost overwhelming.

But then, as quickly as it had surfaced, Spencer seemed to reel it back in. He blinked, his expression shifting as he forced a small smile, trying to play it off. “I mean, it’s… it’s perfect for the mission. You look exactly like someone who would turn every head in the room.”

You could hear the faint waver in his voice, the way he tried to rationalize the emotion he had just displayed. He chalked it up to the nature of the mission, to the need to sell the story, but deep down, he knew there was more to it.

“Thank you, Spencer,” you replied softly, your voice barely above a whisper. You could feel the tension between you, a silent acknowledgment of the feelings that were bubbling just beneath the surface, unspoken but undeniably present.

Spencer nodded, averting his gaze as he adjusted his tie, trying to focus on the task at hand. But the way his hands trembled ever so slightly, the way his jaw clenched as he fought to regain his composure, didn’t go unnoticed by you.

You took a step closer, reaching out to touch his arm, your fingers brushing against the fabric of his sleeve. “We’ll be okay, you know,” you said, trying to reassure him, to reassure yourself.

He looked up at you, his eyes once again filled with that same deep, intense emotion. “I know,” he replied, his voice barely more than a whisper. “As long as you’re with me, I know we’ll be okay.”

For a moment, neither of you moved, the air between you thick with unspoken words and hidden desires. It was as if the world had paused, holding its breath as you both stood on the precipice of something that could change everything.

But then, with a deep breath, Spencer forced himself to step back, his professional mask sliding back into place. “We should get going,” he said, his voice firmer now, though there was still a lingering softness in his eyes.

You nodded, trying to push down the emotions that were threatening to spill over. “Right. Let’s do this.”

And as you left the room together, hand in hand, the lines between mission and reality blurred just a little more, leaving you both wondering what would be left once the dust settled.

—

The situation had spiraled out of control so fast that it felt like a nightmare, the kind where everything you feared the most came true. One moment, you and Spencer were navigating the careful dance of your undercover roles, blending into the crowd at the lavish party where you hoped to catch the unsub off guard. The next, everything went dark—both literally and figuratively.

The unsub was smarter than they’d anticipated. He saw through the act, his twisted mind zeroing in on your every move, every glance exchanged with Spencer. And then, in an instant, the plan unraveled. The lights flickered, and when they came back on, you were no longer standing by Spencer's side. You were in the unsub’s grip, his arm around your throat, his gun pressed against your temple.

“Spencer!” you cried out, your voice filled with a terror that tore through him like a knife.

Spencer’s heart stopped in that moment. The blood drained from his face as he saw you, saw the fear in your eyes, the way you struggled against the unsub’s iron grip. His mind raced, every possible scenario playing out in rapid succession, each one worse than the last. He could feel his entire world crashing down around him, the panic setting in, making it hard to breathe, hard to think.

“Let her go!” Spencer’s voice was raw, desperate, his hand reaching out instinctively as if he could pull you back to him by sheer force of will. “You don’t want to do this. We can help you. Just—just let her go, please.”

But the unsub only sneered, tightening his hold on you, dragging you backward toward the exit. “Help me? You’re the ones who need help. You think I didn’t see through your little charade? You think I didn’t know?”

Spencer felt his knees buckle as he watched the unsub’s every move, his heart hammering in his chest. He couldn’t lose you. He couldn’t. The thought of it was too much, too overwhelming. He tried to take a step forward, but the unsub jabbed the gun harder against your head, making you gasp in pain.

“Stay back, or I’ll blow her brains out right here!” the unsub snarled, his eyes wild with a dangerous mix of paranoia and rage.

“Please,” Spencer begged, his voice cracking, his eyes pleading as he tried to reason with a man who seemed beyond reason. “Don’t hurt her. You don’t have to do this. We can talk, we can—”

But the unsub wasn’t listening. He was already backing out of the room, dragging you with him. And then, before Spencer could react, you were gone—thrown into a nondescript van that peeled away from the curb, leaving Spencer standing there, frozen in horror.

The moment you disappeared from sight, something in Spencer snapped. He was a man undone, no longer the composed, brilliant profiler but a man in the throes of utter despair. He spun around, his eyes wild as he looked at the rest of the team, who had arrived just in time to witness the tail end of the horror show.

“We have to find her!” Spencer’s voice was a shout, laced with a hysteria that made everyone in the room tense up. “We have to find her now!”

“Reid, we’re going to do everything we can,” Hotch said, his voice calm and steady, trying to contain the situation, but it only seemed to fuel Spencer’s rage.

“You sent her in there!” Spencer roared, pointing an accusatory finger at Hotch, his voice trembling with fury and anguish. “You sent her in there, and now she’s gone! You did this!”

“Spencer, we’ll find her,” JJ said softly, trying to step in, but Spencer wasn’t hearing it. His mind was a blur of panic, grief, and guilt. All he could see was you, the terror in your eyes, the way you had been dragged away from him.

“No! You don’t understand!” Spencer was nearly hysterical now, his voice breaking, tears streaming down his face as he continued to lash out. “She’s out there alone, and it’s our fault! We have to get her back! We have to—” 

“Reid, stand down!” Hotch commanded, his voice taking on a sharper tone, but it did nothing to calm Spencer.

“No!” Spencer screamed, his hands shaking as he pointed at Hotch again. “You don’t get to tell me to stand down! You don’t get to tell me to do anything after what you’ve done!”

Hotch exchanged a quick glance with Rossi, who gave a small nod, understanding that Spencer was too far gone, too deep in his emotions to be reasoned with right now.

“Reid, go back to the hotel,” Hotch ordered, his voice firm and leaving no room for argument. “We’ll handle the search. You need to stand down.”

But Spencer didn’t move. He just stood there, shaking, his eyes wild and red-rimmed, the pain etched so deeply into his features that it was almost unbearable to look at. He wanted to fight, to do something, anything to bring you back. But all he could do was fall apart, right there in front of everyone.

“Please,” he whispered, his voice breaking as he finally gave in to the grief that was tearing him apart. “Please bring her back.”

“Go back to the hotel, Reid,” Hotch repeated, softer this time, but still with that commanding presence. “We’ll find her.”

Spencer didn’t want to go. Every fiber of his being wanted to stay, to fight, to tear the city apart if that’s what it took to find you. But he was too broken, too shattered to argue anymore. So, with one last, desperate look at Hotch, he turned and left, his heart heavy, his mind spinning with every horrible possibility.

Back at the hotel, Spencer was a man possessed. He couldn’t sit, couldn’t think straight. He paced the room, his thoughts running in endless circles, every one of them coming back to you and the unimaginable fear that you were out there, somewhere, hurt or worse. The room felt too small, too suffocating, and he found himself screaming, yelling out your name, cursing at the walls as if they could give him answers.

When the anger wasn’t enough to dull the pain, the tears came full force. He collapsed onto the bed, burying his face in his hands as he sobbed, the grief pouring out of him in waves. He couldn’t lose you. He couldn’t. The thought of it was too much, and yet it was all he could think about.

Hours passed, though it felt like an eternity, and still, there was no word. No update. No sign of you. Spencer felt like he was drowning in the silence, the waiting, the not knowing. Every second that ticked by felt like another piece of him being torn away, until there was nothing left but the hollow shell of a man who had once been whole.

When the phone finally rang, Spencer lunged for it, his heart in his throat as he answered, his voice shaking with desperation. 

But it wasn’t you. It wasn’t even news about you. It was Hotch, telling him to stay put, telling him that they were still searching, still trying to find you. It was a command wrapped in reassurance, but it did nothing to calm the storm inside Spencer.

“Just bring her back,” Spencer whispered, his voice barely audible, broken. “Please, bring her back to me.”

And as he hung up the phone, Spencer curled up on the bed, clutching your jacket that still held the faintest scent of you, and prayed with every ounce of his being that you would come back to him, that this nightmare would end, and that he wouldn’t lose the most important person in his life.

—

Spencer was pacing the floor of the hotel room, his mind a whirlwind of fear, guilt, and desperation. The silence of the room felt like it was closing in on him, pressing down on his chest until he could hardly breathe. Every minute that passed felt like an eternity, and the only thing keeping him from completely unraveling was the hope that the team would find you before it was too late.

His phone buzzed in his pocket, and he nearly fumbled it in his haste to answer. “Derek?” he gasped, his voice tight with panic.

“Reid        , we think we found her,” Derek said, his tone serious but laced with urgency. “She’s at an abandoned warehouse on the east side, just off of River Street. We’re heading there now.”

Spencer didn’t wait for another word. He grabbed his keys and bolted out of the hotel, the thought of you in danger propelling him forward with a speed he didn’t know he was capable of. The drive to the warehouse was a blur of speeding cars, red lights he didn’t bother stopping for, and the singular focus of getting to you as fast as he could.

When he pulled up to the warehouse, he barely threw his car into park before he was out the door, sprinting toward the cluster of agents and medics near the entrance. The sight of them only made his heart race faster, a mix of relief and dread coiling in his stomach.

“Where is she?” he shouted, his voice hoarse with desperation as he pushed his way through the crowd.

The sight of you nearly brought him to his knees. You were lying on a stretcher, your body bruised and battered, your face pale and drawn, as if the life had been drained out of you. The medics were working quickly, checking your vitals, hooking you up to an IV, but all Spencer could focus on was the faint sound of your voice, weak and trembling, as you mumbled incoherently.

“My love,” you whispered, your voice barely more than a breath. “Where is my love?”

The words broke Spencer’s heart into a thousand pieces. He rushed forward, ignoring the shouts of the other agents as he made his way to your side. You were so fragile, so small against the harsh metal of the stretcher, and all he wanted to do was gather you in his arms, protect you from the world, from everything that had hurt you.

The medics began to wheel you toward the ambulance, but as they moved, you caught sight of Spencer, your eyes fluttering open just enough to recognize him. Despite the pain, despite the exhaustion that weighed you down, you tried to sit up, your hand reaching out toward him as if he were the only thing that could keep you tethered to life.

“My love,” you said again, your voice cracking with emotion, your eyes filled with tears as you looked at him.

Spencer was at your side in an instant, grabbing your extended hand and squeezing it tightly. “I’m here, I’m right here,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion as he held onto you like you were his lifeline.

The medics glanced at Spencer, recognizing the emblem on his jacket, the desperation in his eyes. “I’m riding with her,” Spencer told them, his voice leaving no room for argument.

The medics nodded, understanding the gravity of the situation. They helped Spencer climb into the ambulance, making room for him next to you as they continued to work. Spencer never let go of your hand, his thumb brushing gently over your bruised knuckles, his heart breaking at the sight of you so weak, so vulnerable.

As the ambulance sped away, sirens blaring, Spencer leaned in close, his voice soft and soothing as he whispered to you. “You’re going to be okay. I’m here now. I’m not going anywhere.”

Your eyes fluttered open again, your gaze locking onto his as you tried to muster the strength to speak. “I was so scared,” you whispered, tears slipping down your cheeks as you clung to his hand.

“I know,” Spencer said, his own voice cracking as he fought back his tears. “I was too. But you’re safe now. We’re going to get through this, okay? I promise.”

You nodded weakly, your eyes drifting shut again as exhaustion took over. But even as you slipped into unconsciousness, you kept your hand in his, holding on as if he were your only anchor in the storm.

And Spencer held on too, refusing to let go, refusing to let the fear, the guilt, the overwhelming emotions consume him. All that mattered was you—keeping you safe, getting you through this. He couldn’t think about anything else, couldn’t allow himself to imagine a world where you weren’t with him.

As the ambulance raced toward the hospital, Spencer pressed a gentle kiss to the back of your hand, his voice a quiet promise in the chaos. “I love you,” he whispered, the words slipping out before he could stop them, before he could overthink them.

But it didn’t matter now. There was no taking it back, no more hiding how he felt. And as the ambulance tore through the night, Spencer made a silent vow that he would do whatever it took to keep you safe, to bring you back to him—because losing you wasn’t an option. Not now. Not ever.

—

The antiseptic smell of the hospital was a sharp contrast to the warmth of Spencer's presence beside you. The sterile environment only emphasized how vulnerable and fragile you felt, lying in the hospital bed with a sling supporting your broken collarbone. The pain was manageable, dulled by the medication the doctors had administered, but the emotional whirlwind you were caught in was another matter entirely.

Spencer had been there since the moment you arrived, never leaving your side. His eyes, red-rimmed and exhausted, had stayed fixed on you, watching over you with a mix of concern and something deeper that you couldn’t quite name. He was a mess of emotions—fear, relief, and something bordering on anger, though you knew it wasn’t directed at you.

You were just beginning to doze off when a nurse entered the room, gently informing you that your partner had arrived. Your heart clenched at the words, not out of relief or comfort, but out of a confusing sense of dread. Spencer’s hand tightened slightly around yours, a small, almost imperceptible gesture, but one that spoke volumes. He was still there, still holding onto you, but you could feel the shift in the air, the way his grip loosened as the footsteps approached.

When your partner stepped into the room, their eyes filled with worry and love, Spencer immediately withdrew his hand, standing up to make room. You could see the tension in his posture, the way his jaw clenched as he forced himself to step back, to let go.

“Thank you for taking care of her,” your partner said softly, their voice sincere as they looked at Spencer with genuine gratitude.

Spencer nodded stiffly, the bitterness in his expression barely hidden. “Of course,” he replied, his voice tight. “It’s what anyone would have done.”

But you knew that wasn’t true. Spencer had done more than anyone else would have, more than your partner could even begin to understand. He had been your anchor in the storm, the person you had instinctively reached for when you were at your weakest. And now, with your partner standing there, all you could think about was how much you had wanted Spencer—needed Spencer—when everything was falling apart.

Your partner leaned down to kiss your forehead, their touch gentle, comforting. But it wasn’t the same. It didn’t ignite that spark inside you, didn’t calm the commotion in your heart the way Spencer’s presence had. Your mind kept replaying those moments in the ambulance, when Spencer had whispered those three words that had changed everything.

“I love you.”

The weight of those words settled heavily in your chest, making it hard to breathe. You couldn’t ignore it, couldn’t pretend that it hadn’t meant the world to you when he said it. But now, looking up at your partner, you felt trapped between two worlds—one where you were safe, where everything was familiar, and another where your heart was pulling you toward something deeper, something more complicated, something you weren’t sure you were ready to face.

Spencer stood there, watching the exchange with an expression that broke your heart. You could see the pain in his eyes, the bitterness that he was trying so hard to hide. He had given you everything he had in those terrifying moments, and now he was being pushed aside, as if all of that meant nothing.

But it did mean something. It meant everything.

“Spencer…” you began, your voice soft, uncertain.

He looked at you, his eyes searching yours, waiting for something—anything—that would tell him what you were feeling, what you were thinking. But you didn’t know what to say. You were too confused, too overwhelmed to put your emotions into words.

Your partner squeezed your hand gently, drawing your attention back to them. “I’m so glad you’re okay,” they whispered, their voice filled with relief.

You nodded, trying to smile, but it felt hollow, forced. “Yeah,” you murmured. “I’m okay.”

But as you looked back at Spencer, you knew that you weren’t okay. Not really. Because all you could think about was how much it had hurt to watch him leave, to see the pain in his eyes as he stepped back, knowing that he was walking away from something that had just barely begun.

Spencer took a step toward the door, his shoulders slumping as if the weight of the world was pressing down on him. “I should go,” he said quietly, his voice barely audible. “You need time with your partner.”

The word "partner" seemed to catch in his throat, and you could see the way he flinched as he said it, as if acknowledging their presence hurt more than he could bear.

You wanted to call out to him, to tell him to stay, to tell him that what he had said in the ambulance had changed everything for you. But the words wouldn’t come. You were too afraid, too unsure of what any of it meant, or what it would mean if you acknowledged it out loud.

So you said nothing, letting him walk away, letting him leave the room with a heavy heart and a bitterness that you knew was only going to fester.

As the door closed behind Spencer, you felt a tear slip down your cheek, the weight of everything crashing down on you all at once. Your partner was still there, still holding your hand, still trying to comfort you, but it wasn’t enough. Because the person you needed most had just walked out the door, and you didn’t know if you had the courage to bring him back.

—

When you returned to work after your medical leave, there was a part of you that was eager to get back to a sense of normalcy. You thought that once you were surrounded by your colleagues, by Spencer, things would start to feel right again. But from the moment you stepped into the bullpen, you knew something was different.

Spencer was there, of course, as he always was—dutiful, courteous, offering you a small, polite smile as you walked in. He asked how you were feeling, made sure you had everything you needed, even went out of his way to help you catch up on what you had missed during your absence. But there was a distance to him, a careful politeness that felt foreign between the two of you. It was as if there was an invisible barrier between you, one that he had constructed with precision and intention.

He wasn’t your Spencer anymore. He was still the brilliant, kind-hearted man you knew, but the easy closeness, the spontaneous laughter, the silent conversations that you had once shared—those were gone. And as much as it pained you, you couldn’t bring yourself to confront him about it. You were too afraid of what you might find out, too scared that if you asked him what was wrong, you would only confirm your worst fears.

So you stayed quiet. You forced yourself to smile when he spoke to you, even though his words were measured and distant. You nodded along when he offered advice or assistance, even though the warmth you used to feel in his presence was replaced by a hollow ache. But the more time passed, the more you began to realize that this wasn’t just about Spencer pulling away—it was about what that distance did to you.

It felt like half of you was missing, like you were a shell of yourself without him by your side. You’d never felt this way with your partner, not even when they were out of town or during the rare arguments that led to hours of silence. There was something about Spencer, something about the bond you had shared, that had become an integral part of who you were. And now that it was gone, you were lost.

It was that realization that led to the end of your relationship. You couldn’t keep pretending that everything was fine when your heart was somewhere else, when the person you thought you loved couldn’t fill the void that Spencer’s absence had left. Breaking up with your partner was one of the hardest things you’d ever done, not because you were still in love with them, but because they were such a genuinely kind-hearted person. They deserved better than to be with someone whose heart wasn’t fully in it.

When you sat down with them, your voice shaking as you tried to explain, they listened with a quiet understanding that made you feel even more guilty. “I’ve known for a while that something was off,” they said softly, their eyes sad but not angry. “I just didn’t want to admit it to myself.”

“I’m so sorry,” you whispered, tears stinging your eyes. “You didn’t deserve this.”

They shook their head, reaching out to gently squeeze your hand. “You don’t have to apologize. I’d rather you be honest with yourself—and with me—than stay in a relationship that doesn’t make you happy.”

Their kindness only made the pain of ending things more acute, but you knew it was the right thing to do. You couldn’t keep living a lie, couldn’t keep pretending that you were in love when your heart was somewhere else. And as much as it hurt, you felt a strange sense of relief when they walked away, knowing that you were finally free to face the truth.

But now that the relationship was over, you were left with an even bigger question: What do you do about Spencer? The very person who had unknowingly driven you to this decision was the one you felt you had already lost. The thought of telling him how you felt was terrifying, especially when you weren’t sure if there was anything left between you to salvage. Would he even care, or had he already moved on, content to keep you at arm’s length for the rest of your lives?

As you sat alone in your apartment that evening, the silence pressing in on you, you found yourself picking up your phone, your fingers hovering over Spencer’s contact. You wanted to call him, to tell him everything—to tell him that this whole mess had made you realize just how much you needed him, how much you missed him, how much you loved him.

But fear held you back. Fear that he wouldn’t feel the same way, fear that he would reject you, fear that you had already lost him forever.

In the end, you put the phone down, your heart heavy with the weight of your unspoken feelings. You didn’t know what to do, didn’t know how to move forward. All you knew was that you couldn’t keep living like this, trapped in the limbo between what you had lost and what you could never have.

But as you lay in bed that night, staring up at the ceiling, you made a silent vow to yourself: You couldn’t let things end like this. Spencer had meant too much to you for too long to let him slip away without a fight. And even though the thought of confronting him scared you more than anything, you knew that you had to try. You had to tell him how you felt, even if it meant risking everything.

Because losing Spencer without ever telling him the truth—that was something you couldn’t bear.

—

Spencer sat in his reading nook, surrounded by books that had once brought him comfort but now served as a distraction from the thoughts he couldn’t escape. The words blurred together as he tore through page after page, trying to keep his mind occupied, to drown out the memories of you, the sound of your voice, the way you used to laugh at his terrible jokes. It wasn’t easy, keeping you at arm’s length, but it was the only way he knew how to protect himself. He couldn’t endure watching you be with someone else, not when every part of him yearned to be the one you turned to, the one you loved.

The soft knock on the door startled him, pulling him out of the world he had tried so hard to lose himself in. His heart raced as he set the book down, a sense of unease settling over him as he stood up. He wasn’t expecting anyone, least of all you.

When he opened the door, the upper chain still in place, his breath caught in his throat. “Y/N?” he asked, his voice full of surprise.

You stood there, looking up at him with an expression that was both determined and vulnerable. It was clear you had made a decision, one that had led you to his doorstep on a Friday evening, one that had left you standing there, waiting for him to let you in.

“Spencer,” you began, your voice steady despite the nerves fluttering in your chest. “I think we need to talk. Can I come in?”

He hesitated for a moment, his mind racing with the implications of what this conversation might bring. But the sight of you, the sound of your voice, was too much for him to resist. He needed to hear what you had to say, even if it meant reopening wounds he had tried so hard to close.

With a sigh, Spencer undid the chain and opened the door fully, stepping aside to let you in. “Of course,” he said, his voice softer now, tinged with the familiarity of your presence.

You stepped inside, taking a deep breath as you crossed the threshold. The air in the apartment was thick with unspoken words, with the tension that had been building between you for weeks. You could feel it, the weight of everything you hadn’t said, everything you were about to say.

Spencer watched as you took a moment to compose yourself, his heart aching at the sight of you in his space, a place you had once felt so at home in but that now felt foreign, distant. He wanted to reach out, to close the gap between you, but he held back, reminding himself of the boundaries he had set.

“I’m sorry for showing up like this,” you said, turning to face him, your eyes searching his for any sign of what he was feeling. “But I couldn’t wait any longer. I have a lot to say, and I kept repeating it in my head. I was driving myself insane,” you laughed a bit at your own expense.

Spencer nodded, his throat tight as he gestured for you to sit on the couch. He took a seat across from you, his hands clasped together in his lap as he waited for you to speak, his heart pounding in his chest.

You took a deep breath, trying to find the right words, the ones that would convey everything you had been feeling, everything you had realized over the past few weeks. “Spencer, I know things have been different between us since I came back. And I know it’s because of me, because of what happened.”

He opened his mouth to protest, to tell you that it wasn’t your fault, that he had been the one to pull away, but you held up a hand, stopping him.

“Please, just let me finish,” you said, your voice trembling slightly. “I’ve been thinking a lot about us, about what we had, and what we lost. And I realized that… I realized that I can’t keep going on like this. I can’t keep pretending that everything’s okay when it’s not. I miss you, Spencer. I miss my best friend.”

His heart twisted at your words, the pain of losing you sharper than he had expected. “I miss you too,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “But… it’s complicated.”

“I know it is,” you said, leaning forward, your eyes locking onto his with a determination that took him by surprise. “But that’s why I’m here. I need you to hear me out.”

Spencer nodded, his hands trembling slightly as he braced himself for whatever was coming next.

You took another deep breath, your heart racing as you finally found the courage to say the words that had been weighing on you for so long. “I ended things with my partner.”

His eyes widened in surprise, the words catching him off guard. “You did?”

You nodded, feeling a strange sense of relief at finally saying it out loud. “Yes. I did. Because I realized that I couldn’t keep lying to myself, or to them. I realized that the reason I was so unhappy, the reason I felt like something was missing, was because… because I was in love with someone else.”

Spencer’s breath caught in his throat, his heart pounding as he tried to process what you were saying. “Y/N…”

“I’m in love with you, Spencer,” you said, your voice steady now, the weight of the truth lifting from your shoulders. “I’ve been in love with you for a long time I think, and it took almost losing you to realize that. I don’t know how you feel, and I’m terrified that I’ve already lost you, but I couldn’t keep it to myself any longer. You deserve to know the truth.”

The room fell into a heavy silence as your words hung in the air, the enormity of what you had just confessed settling between you. Spencer’s mind raced, a thousand thoughts colliding all at once, but the one thing that stood out above everything else was the overwhelming relief, the joy, that came with hearing you say those words.

You loved him. You loved him.

“Spencer, please say something,” you whispered, your voice trembling now as the fear of rejection crept in.

He looked at you, his eyes filled with a mix of emotions—relief, love, fear. “I’ve loved you for so long,” he said, his voice thick with emotion, “that I didn’t think it was possible for you to feel the same way. I’ve been trying so hard to protect myself, to keep my distance, because I didn’t want to get hurt. But all it did was hurt me more, because all I wanted was to be close to you.”

Tears welled up in your eyes as his words sank in, as the truth of what he had been feeling all this time became clear. “Spencer…”

He stood up, crossing the room in a few quick strides, and pulled you into his arms, holding you tightly against his chest as if he was afraid you might disappear. “I’m so sorry for pulling away,” he whispered into your hair, his voice choked with emotion. “I thought I was doing the right thing, but I was wrong. I need you in my life, Y/N. I need you more than anything.”

You wrapped your arms around him, burying your face in his chest as the tears finally spilled over. “I need you too,” you whispered, your voice trembling with relief, with love, with the overwhelming emotion of finally being in his arms again.

For a long moment, neither of you moved, holding onto each other as the weight of everything you had been through, everything you had felt, finally began to lift. 

“Please don’t ever pull away again,” you whispered, pulling back just enough to look up at him.

He shook his head, his thumb gently brushing away your tears. “I won’t. I promise. I’m done hiding.”

With that, he leaned down, capturing your lips in a kiss that was long overdue, a kiss that spoke of all the love, all the longing, all the unspoken words that had been building between you for so long. It was a kiss that sealed the promise of a future together, a future where you didn’t have to pretend, didn’t have to hold back, a future where you could finally be with the person you loved.

When you finally pulled away, breathless and smiling, Spencer rested his forehead against yours, his arms still wrapped around you. “You’re my best friend, Y/N. And I’m never letting you go again.”

“I love you, Spencer,” you whispered, the words feeling right, feeling true.

“I love you too,” he replied, his voice full of conviction, full of the certainty that this—being with you—was where he was always meant to be.

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[tarotwithavi]

You from the eyes of your future lover/future spouse

Read part 1 here

How to choose a pile?

Take a deep breath and close your eyes. Kindly ask your spirit guides to show you the right pile for yourself and then open your eyes. Whichever pile catches your attention is the right pile for you.

For my female audience , I'll be using she/her pronouns in this post.

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Pile 1

When I'm with her, I feel an overwhelming sense of strength and confidence, as if I could conquer any challenge that comes my way. She embodies everything that brings me joy and fulfillment. Being in her presence makes me feel like the luckiest person in the world because I have her by my side. Her mere existence has the power to make my wildest dreams a reality. Not only does she inspire me to reach for the stars, but she also motivates me to become a better version of myself. Her influence pushes me to strive for greatness in all aspects of life. Just knowing that she is there for me, supporting me, and believing in me, helps me heal wounds that were never caused by her. Her presence alone has a transformative effect on my well-being, bringing me solace and restoration. If her love were poison, I would willingly drink it without hesitation or remorse. Such is the depth of my devotion and the extent to which I value her affection. I yearn to be of assistance to her, to be a reliable pillar she can lean on. I aspire to be her rock, her unwavering support, providing comfort and strength whenever she needs it. Being with her fills me with an indescribable sense of empowerment and joy. She is my beacon of happiness, encouraging me to strive for greatness and inspiring me to become the best version of myself. Her love and presence heal me in ways I never thought possible, and I am eager to reciprocate by being her steadfast support and ally.

Pile 2

Describing her is a challenging task, for she possesses a depth that transcends the confines of ordinary words. She carries an aura that attracts wealth and prosperity wherever she ventures, as if they were faithful companions by her side. From a distance, she appears strong and bold, yet I sense a vulnerable little girl hiding within her, fearful of the harshness this world can wield. She has distanced herself from those around her, for nobody has truly comprehended her essence. No one has made an earnest effort to unravel the intricate puzzle of her being. My deepest desire is to be the one who unravels that enigma, the person who embraces the challenge of understanding her complexities. I yearn to discover every missing piece and gently place it in its rightful position, completing the beautiful picture that is her. I want to penetrate the walls she has built, to listen to her unspoken fears and insecurities, and to offer solace and understanding. By becoming the person who comprehends her deepest self, I hope to bridge the gap between her and the world that often fails to perceive her true nature. I want to be the companion who supports her unconditionally, providing comfort and encouragement as she navigates through life's labyrinth. It is my aspiration to create an environment where she can fully express herself, knowing that she is truly seen, heard, and appreciated.

Pile 3

The moment our eyes met, I was immediately captivated by her essence, as if an invisible force had bound my heart to hers. Prior to meeting her, I had been skeptical of love at first sight, dismissing it as a mere romantic notion. However, in her presence, all doubts were washed away by the sheer brilliance of her beauty. She has bewitched me completely, leaving no room for retreat. Even if her allure leads to my demise, I would embrace it willingly, for the privilege of experiencing her presence outweighs any consequences. Her presence has an intoxicating effect on me, causing me to lose my composure in the most enchanting way. It is as if she holds the power to unravel the layers of my soul, igniting a fire within me that I cannot control. My hands yearn to touch her, to explore every corner of her body, as if searching for an uncharted territory that only she possesses. Every flaw she may perceive within herself, I view as perfect imperfections, enhancing her unique beauty and making her all the more irresistible. Words fail to fully express the depth of my admiration for her. She is a work of art, a masterpiece without blemish in my eyes. I am eager to shower her with praise, to extol every facet of her being, and to make her feel cherished beyond measure. In her presence, I find myself stripped of pretenses and laid bare, drawn to her like a moth to a flame. It is an indescribable sensation, this all-consuming affection, where reason and logic are overshadowed by an overwhelming desire to be closer to her. She has become the center of my universe, a gravitational force pulling me toward her. To love her is to lose myself willingly, surrendering to the magnetic power she holds over me.

[zapreportsblog]

The Comfort of Imaginary Arms

➥ summary: Earth42!Miles misses his girlfriend so much he decides to sleep with his body pillow imagining that it’s her, but she won’t allow that

➥ one shot

The moon cast a soft glow through the window, gently illuminating Miles Morales' room as he lay in bed. Restlessness filled his mind, his thoughts consumed by memories of (Y/n), the person who had captured his heart. Though they were physically apart, the bond they shared remained strong, and the ache of longing for their presence grew more intense with each passing night.

Unable to find solace in sleep, Miles reached for the body pillow tucked beside him, a makeshift companion he had fashioned to provide comfort in (Y/n)'s absence. He hugged it tightly, the soft fabric against his cheek an imperfect substitute for the warmth of their touch.

Closing his eyes, Miles allowed his imagination to take hold. In his mind's eye, he pictured (Y/n) lying beside him, their laughter filling the room, and their fingers intertwined. He could almost feel the weight of their head on his shoulder, the gentle rise and fall of their breath against his skin.

As he clung to the body pillow, Miles whispered softly into the night, "I miss you, (Y/n). I wish you were here with me."

In the quiet darkness, memories flooded his mind—moments shared, conversations whispered in hushed tones, and the connection they had forged. He longed for those stolen glances, the way (Y/n)'s eyes would light up in his presence, and the laughter that filled the spaces between their words.

Miles traced his fingers along the contours of the body pillow, imagining that it was (Y/n)'s hand he held. He closed his eyes, his mind painting vivid pictures of stolen kisses, tender embraces, and the warmth of their love enveloping them both.

The silence of the night allowed his thoughts to wander freely, carrying him to cherished memories of their time together. Each memory was etched into his heart, a testament to the love they had shared. The pillow, now a vessel for his longing, provided a bittersweet comfort—a reminder of the depth of his emotions.

As the night wore on, Miles found solace in the intimacy of his imaginary embrace. It was a connection that transcended the physical realm, reaching deep into his soul. Though separated by distance, he held on to the hope that their love would bridge the gap and bring them back together.

With the gentle rhythm of his breath and the warmth of the body pillow against his chest, Miles allowed himself to drift into a fitful slumber. In his dreams, he walked hand in hand with (Y/n), their laughter echoing in the air, and their love radiating from every pore.

But even in his dreams, there was a lingering ache—an awareness that his imaginary embrace could never fully replace the tangible presence of (Y/n). He longed for the day when their arms would intertwine once more, when he could feel their heartbeat against his chest and whisper words of love into their ear.

The moon hung high in the night sky, casting a silvery glow over the city as (Y/n) stealthily made her way through the shadows. She moved with the grace and agility of a spider, her movements purposeful and silent. The wind whispered through the streets, carrying with it a sense of anticipation.

Tonight, (Y/n) had made a decision—a decision that defied the boundaries of distance and longing. She couldn't bear to spend another night away from Miles, her heart aching with the need to be near him. So, she had taken a leap of faith, climbing through his window to surprise him.

As she silently slipped into Miles' room, her eyes fell upon the sight that made her heart flutter with both tenderness and sadness. There he lay, wrapped in the embrace of a body pillow—a makeshift companion that served as a surrogate for her absence. (Y/n) couldn't help but feel a twinge of longing, realizing just how much she had been missed.

Determined to make her presence known, (Y/n) gently slipped the body pillow out of Miles' arms. As she did, he stirred, his eyelids fluttering open in confusion. He blinked, his drowsy gaze meeting hers, his voice caught in his throat as he tried to form words.

"What—" Miles began, his voice a soft murmur.

But before he could complete his sentence, (Y/n) placed a finger on his lips, her eyes sparkling with mischief and affection. "Shh," she whispered, her voice gentle but firm. "Go back to sleep, baby."

Miles blinked, his mind momentarily overwhelmed by the whirlwind of emotions and the unexpected sight of (Y/n) standing before him. He couldn't help but feel a mixture of surprise, joy, and confusion. But as he looked into her eyes, the longing in his heart subsided, replaced by a deep sense of contentment.

Unable to resist the allure of her presence, Miles settled back into his pillow, his eyes never leaving (Y/n)'s form. The room filled with a comforting silence as he watched her climb into his bed, her movements graceful and unhurried. She settled herself into his waiting arms, her head resting against his chest, their heartbeats aligning in a rhythm of connection.

The warmth of (Y/n)'s body against his, the softness of her breath against his skin—it was a moment of sheer bliss. Miles wrapped his arms around her, pulling her closer, as if afraid that she would vanish if he let go. In the safety of his embrace, (Y/n) felt a sense of belonging—a homecoming that filled the empty spaces within her soul.

As they lay together, their breathing synchronized, Miles couldn't help but whisper, "I missed you so much, ma.”

(Y/n) lifted her head, her eyes meeting his, a tender smile on her lips. "I missed you too, Miles. But I'm here now, and that's all that matters. Just let go and rest. We have all the time in the world."

Miles nodded, the weight of his weariness settling upon him. He closed his eyes, allowing himself to be enveloped in the comfort of (Y/n)'s presence. Her words washed over him, soothing his restless mind, as he succumbed to the embrace of slumber once again.

Wrapped in each other's arms, (Y/n) and Miles drifted into a peaceful sleep—a shared dream that transcended the limitations of their physical bodies. In the realm of dreams, they found solace and the promise of a tomorrow filled with togetherness.

And as the night unfolded, the moon whispered its blessings upon the lovers, casting its gentle light upon their entwined forms. It was a testament to the power of love—a force that defied distance, embraced vulnerability, and forged unbreakable bonds.

In each other's arms, Miles and (Y/n) found solace and a home—a sanctuary that welcomed them with open arms. And together, they would continue to navigate the intricate web of their lives, their love serving as a guiding thread, leading them towards a future where their dreams would become their reality.

[corrupte3d-mindz]

Behind Closed Doors

Cillian Murphy x F! Make-up Artist Reader

Summary: Cillian uses you.

Wordcount: 8.3k

Warnings: THIS IS RAPE

Smut with a plot! but the plot sucks?, unsafe sex, switch! Cillian, extremely perverted! Cillian, virgin! reader, cherry-popping, peer pressure, threatening, gaslighting, manipulating, whimpering, whining, begging, crying sort of, m! oral receiving, f! overstimulating, fingering, semi-cockwarming, forced swallowing, forced kissing, face-fucking, spitting, breeding, choking, degrading, belittling, slapping, and no aftercare!

Cillian sat in his trailer on the bustling movie set, the faint hum of activity outside seeping through the walls. He ran a hand through his tousled hair, a habit he often indulged in when lost in thought. Today's scenes were relatively straightforward, nothing too demanding, but he knew the importance of being fully prepared. The makeup artist would be arriving soon, and he wanted to tidy up his space before she arrived.

The trailer was a small, cozy haven amidst the chaos of the film set. It was sparsely decorated, with a few personal touches here and there—a framed photograph of his family, a well-worn book on the table, and the faint scent of his favorite cologne lingering in the air. Cillian moved about the space with a quiet efficiency, straightening up the few items that were out of place. As he worked, he hummed a tune under his breath, a habit that helped him relax and focus his mind. The melody was soft and soothing, a stark contrast to the bustling energy outside. He glanced at the clock, noting that he had a bit of time before the makeup artist was due to arrive.

As he sat there, lost in thought, memories of his early days as an actor flooded his mind. The struggles, the rejections, the moments of doubt—they had all shaped him into the actor he was today. He had fought hard for his place in the industry, and he was grateful for every role, every opportunity that had come his way.

Cillian patiently sits in the make-up chair waiting, twiddling his thumbs, and kicking his feet which are just a bit off the ground. His presence in the room commands attention, his posture relaxed yet poised, exuding an air of quiet confidence. The soft glow of the vanity lights highlights his chiseled features, casting subtle shadows that accentuate his sharp cheekbones and intense blue eyes. As the door opens, Cillian's smile widens, a genuine warmth lighting up his face as he sees her enter the room. He stands up slowly, a graceful movement that speaks of both strength and elegance, and walks over to her. Setting aside her belongings, he opens his arms wide, inviting her into a warm embrace. His embrace is comforting, his body language conveying a sense of familiarity and affection.

Their hug is long and meaningful, a silent exchange of emotions that transcends words. Cillian holds her close, his arms wrapped around her in a protective embrace. He can feel the tension melt away from her body, replaced by a sense of peace and comfort in his presence. As they finally pull apart, Cillian looks into her eyes, his gaze intense yet gentle.

His gaze lands on her, and he can't help but look her up and down, his eyes lingering on her figure clad in a provocative outfit that leaves little to the imagination. She stands before him, unaware of his scrutiny, adjusting her attire with a casual nonchalance that belies the effect she has on him. She exudes confidence, a sense of knowing that draws him in despite his best efforts to resist. Cillian's thoughts drift, his mind replaying their interactions, each moment etched vividly in his memory. He knows he shouldn't be looking at her like this, shouldn't be feeling this pull towards her, but he can't help himself. She's a temptation he can't resist, a forbidden fruit that beckons to him with every glance, every smile.

Cillian settled back into his makeup chair, the cushion sighing softly beneath his weight. He ran his fingers through his hair, the strands slipping effortlessly through his long, dexterous fingers. The action was habitual, a subconscious attempt to smooth out the day’s dishevelment. His hair, a striking shade of dark brown, shone under the soft, warm lights of the vanity mirror. He glanced at his reflection, his piercing blue eyes momentarily locking onto the mirror’s surface, analyzing the man looking back at him. His trailer was a sanctuary of sorts, now becoming where the magic of transformation happened daily. The air was tinged with the scent of various cosmetics, an olfactory mix of powders, creams, and the faint hint of hairspray, she always smelled like that but he never cared about it. The lighting, strategically placed around the mirror, cast a soft, flattering glow on his features, emphasizing the sharp lines of his cheekbones and the chiseled contours of his jaw. It was a far cry from the harsh, unyielding lighting on set, which often required these moments of touch-up and refinement.

The makeup artist, a petite woman with a keen eye for detail and a steady hand, stood behind him. Her presence was a familiar comfort, a silent partner in the daily ritual of transformation. She was unlocking her makeup case, the metallic clicks punctuating the quiet hum of the room. She paused, glancing at him through the mirror with a soft, inquisitive expression.

"So how did you sleep?" she asked, her voice gentle yet curious.

Cillian chuckled lightly, the sound rich and warm, echoing softly in the intimate space. He flashed a soft smile, one that crinkled the corners of his eyes and brought a touch of warmth to his otherwise cool demeanor. "Oh, I slept pretty well," he replied, his Irish accent infusing his words with a melodic cadence. His voice was calm, reassuring, a testament to the restful night he had enjoyed. As she began her work, her hands moving with practiced precision, Cillian closed his eyes momentarily, savoring the sensation. The soft brush of the makeup sponge against his skin was almost therapeutic, a soothing counterpoint to the often chaotic world of film production. He could feel the gentle pressure as she applied the foundation, blending it seamlessly to create the flawless canvas that the camera demanded.

His mind drifted, thoughts meandering through the events of the previous day. It had been a long shoot, the kind that left him both physically and mentally drained. Yet, the exhaustion was tempered by the satisfaction of a job well done. He thought about the scenes they had captured, the nuances of his performance, the subtle shifts in emotion that he had strived to convey. Acting, for him, was a dance of precision and passion, a delicate balance of technical skill and raw, unfiltered emotion. The makeup artist’s touch brought him back to the present. She was meticulously blending the makeup around his eyes, her fingers feather-light yet purposeful. He opened his eyes, meeting her gaze in the mirror. There was a silent communication between them, a mutual understanding forged through countless hours spent together in this very chair.

"Any dreams?" she asked, her tone light and conversational. It was a question she often posed, a way to fill the silence and perhaps, glean a bit more insight into the enigmatic man before her.

Cillian tilted his head slightly, considering her question. "Nothing too memorable," he said after a moment, his lips curving into a faint smile. "Just the usual mix of nonsense and fleeting moments." He rarely remembered his dreams, and when he did, they were often abstract and fragmented, a tapestry of images and emotions that made little sense in the waking world.

She nodded, her focus shifting back to her work. The next phase involved the subtle enhancement of his natural features, a process that required both skill and artistry. She applied a touch of concealer here, a dab of highlighter there, each stroke designed to enhance his already striking visage. Cillian watched her work, admiring her dedication and expertise. His thoughts wandered once more, this time to his family. The demands of his career often kept him away from home for extended periods, a sacrifice that was both necessary and bittersweet. He cherished the moments he could spend with his wife and children, the rare pockets of normalcy amidst the whirlwind of his professional life. They were his anchor, the steadying force that kept him grounded even as he navigated the turbulent waters of fame and success.

The makeup artist moved on to his hair, her fingers deftly arranging the strands into the desired style. Cillian felt the gentle tug and pull as she worked, her touch both firm and gentle. His hair had always been a defining feature, a canvas for transformation that allowed him to slip seamlessly into his various roles. Today, it was being styled for his latest character, a man as complex and layered as the roles he often gravitated towards.

"Looking good," she said softly, stepping back to admire her handiwork. There was a note of pride in her voice, a reflection of the care and attention she put into her craft.

Cillian opened his eyes fully, taking in the final result. His reflection was a blend of the familiar and the transformed, a testament to the collaborative effort that brought his characters to life. He smiled appreciatively, meeting her gaze through the mirror. "Thank you, my darlin'" he said simply, his voice carrying a note of genuine gratitude. She nodded, her own smile warm and satisfied. "Ready to go?" she asked, knowing full well that the transformation was only part of the journey. The real work, the true magic, happened in front of the camera, where Cillian would once again bring his character to life with a depth and authenticity that was uniquely his own. He nodded, rising from the chair with a fluid grace. "Let’s do it," he said, his tone imbued with quiet determination. The day ahead was sure to be demanding, but he was ready. He always was.

After a slow day on set, Cillian felt the fatigue of the day seeping into his bones as he made his way back to his trailer. The air was thick with the remnants of the scenes they had shot, the weight of his character's emotions still lingering. He shrugged off his jacket, feeling the fabric slide from his shoulders and crumple into a heap on the small couch by the door. The quiet of the trailer enveloped him, a stark contrast to the bustling energy of the set. Cillian took a moment to stand still, absorbing the silence. His eyes flitted around the small space, eventually landing on the book he'd borrowed from his co-star. It was an old, worn copy of J.P. Donleavy's 'The Ginger Man' and he had found himself lost in its pages during the few breaks they'd had. He picked it up from the bed, flipping to the page where he'd left off. The words flowed easily, and for a while, he was no longer himself but a mere observer in J.P. Donleavy's.

He found a stopping point, a natural pause in the narrative, and sighed as he set the book down on the bedside table. He pulled himself off the bed, stretching out the stiffness that had settled in his muscles. Moving to the makeshift kitchen, he leaned against the countertop, feeling the cool surface press into his palms. He reached for the knob of the small cabinet above, opening it to reveal a solitary whiskey glass. Cillian didn't usually drink after working on set. The lines between his roles and reality blurred enough without the haze of alcohol, but tonight felt different. He'd had a couple of tough days, the weight of his character's struggles bleeding into his own thoughts. He set the glass on the countertop with a soft clink, bending down to open the bottom cabinet. The familiar shape of the semi-filled Irish whiskey bottle greeted him, and he pulled it out, setting it beside the glass.

As he poured the amber liquid, he let his thoughts drift. The day had been long, the scenes emotionally taxing. He turned around, leaning his back against the edge of the countertop, the glass cradled in his hand. He took a slow sip, savoring the warmth as it spread through him, mulling over the complexities of his character and the nuances he tried to bring to life. His free hand ran through his hair, a habitual gesture of frustration and contemplation. The weariness was etched into his features, the fine lines of exhaustion around his eyes more pronounced under the harsh lighting of the trailer. Pushing himself off the counter, he made his way back to the bed, placing the whiskey glass on the small bedside table next to a framed family photo. His fingertip traced the edges of the frame, a brief touchstone to the world outside the roles he inhabited.

Just as he was beginning to relax, a sudden knock at the trailer door pulled him from his thoughts. He glanced at the alarm clock; it read 11:42. Rolling his eyes, he muttered to himself, 'Who needs me at basically twelve o'clock at night?' With a resigned sigh, he picked up his whiskey glass and made his way to the door. When he opened it, he was met with the sight of the makeup artist, her expression a mix of nervousness and determination. She smiled tentatively, "Hey, Cill... Sorry to bother you, but I think I forgot one of my brushes at your vanity. Can I take a look around?"

Cillian offered a tired smile in return, stepping aside to let her in. As she passed by, he couldn't help but notice the subtle grace in her movements, the way she carried herself with an air of quiet confidence. He shut the door behind her, the click of the latch echoing in the small space. She moved with purpose, her footsteps light but determined. Her voice was soft, almost apologetic, "I've gone to everyone else and they don't have it, so you're the only one that might have it..." Cillian watched her as she spoke, noting the slight flush in her cheeks, the way her eyes darted around the trailer, searching. "Sure, take a look. I know how important those brushes are to you lot," he said, his Irish accent softening the edges of his words. He took another sip of his whiskey, the warmth a comforting presence as he leaned against the edge of the kitchenette.

His eyes never left her as she moved around the room, searching for her brush. The late hour brought a stillness to the room, broken only by the occasional clink of glass and the soft rustle of her movements. He admired her dedication, the way she methodically lifted items, peering beneath them, her brow furrowed in concentration. Her body moved with a fluid grace, every motion purposeful and precise. She was barefoot, her toes curling slightly against the hardwood floor as she knelt, her dress riding up just enough to tease him with a glimpse of smooth skin. She was completely absorbed in her task, unaware—or perhaps all too aware—of the effect she was having on him. He took another sip of his whiskey, savoring the burn as it slid down his throat, a stark contrast to the warmth spreading through his chest at the sight of her.

The silence between them was a comfortable one, the kind that spoke of familiarity and a deep, unspoken understanding. He appreciated these moments, the rare times when words were unnecessary and their presence alone was enough. But tonight, there was an undercurrent of tension, a barely-there edge to his thoughts as he watched her. She was teasing him, he was sure of it, the way she moved, the way she lingered just a little too long on the floor, presenting herself to him in a manner that was both innocent and provocative. He could feel the stirrings of desire, a slow burn that started in his gut and spread outward, his gaze darkening as he watched her. She had to be doing this on purpose. He downed the rest of his whiskey in one gulp, the sharp taste a jarring counterpoint to the softness of her presence. Setting the glass down on the vanity counter with a decisive clink, he huffed slightly, the sound low and rough in the quiet trailer. His fingers moved almost unconsciously to his wedding ring, the metal cool against his skin. He slipped it off and let it drop into the whiskey glass with a muted clink, a symbolic gesture that seemed to echo in the silence.

His eyes never left her as he moved towards her, his footsteps soft but deliberate on the floor. There was something predatory in his movements, a barely restrained intensity that spoke of his desire. She was still on her knees, her back to him, her hands busy with her search. He stood behind her for a moment, taking in the sight of her, the curve of her spine, the way her hair fell around her face in a messy halo.

Slowly, he knelt down behind her, his breath warm against the back of her neck as he leaned in close. "You have no idea what yeh doin' to me do yeh'?" His voice was a low murmur, his Irish accent curling around the words in a way that sent a shiver down her spine. She paused in her search, her body going still as she registered his presence. He reached out, his hand brushing lightly against her back, fingers trailing down her spine. She turned her head slightly, just enough to glance at him over her shoulder. "Cillian.." She said softly, her voice almost a whisper in the quiet room. There was a flicker of something in her eyes, a mix of defiance and anticipation that sent a thrill through him. His hand moved to her waist, fingers curling around the fabric of her of her skin tight sleep shorts. "Yeah, say my name just like that.." he asked, his voice a low rumble. There was a challenge in his tone, a dark edge that hinted at the depths of his desire. She didn't answer, her eyes meeting his in a silent battle of wills.

The floorboards of the trailer cool against his knees, a stark contrast to the heat radiating between them. His breath came in shallow, measured puffs, mingling with the faint scent of her perfume—something floral and intoxicating that made his head swim. His hands, those deft, talented hands known for their meticulous craft on set, now played a different role. They rested on her waist, fingers tracing the waistband of her skin-tight shorts, feeling the soft material stretch over her curves. His touch was light, almost teasing, as if testing the boundaries of how much he could push her before she reacted. The proximity of their bodies was electrifying. He could feel the heat of her skin through the thin fabric, and each subtle shift she made sent a jolt of arousal through him. His crotch, already straining against the confines of his jeans, brushed against her ass, and he couldn't suppress a low, throaty groan. The friction was exquisite, a tantalizing preview of what he craved.

"I know yeh want me," he murmured, his voice a low, gravelly whisper tinged with his Irish lilt. The words were laced with a confidence that bordered on arrogance, yet there was an undeniable truth in them. He had seen the way she looked at him, the hunger in her eyes that mirrored his own. "I see it in your eyes..."

As he spoke, his fingers dipped beneath the waistband of her shorts, his touch deliberate and exploratory. The pads of his fingers brushed against the hem of her panties, the silky material a stark contrast to the roughness of his skin. He took his time, savoring the moment, feeling the tension coil tighter between them. The whiskey coursing through his veins only amplified his desire, blurring the edges of his self-control. His eyes, usually so clear and piercing, now glinted with a dark, simmering lust. He could feel the alcohol's warmth spreading through his body, making his movements bolder, more assertive. He was a man driven by instinct, his usual restraint slipping away with each passing second.

"Did you really lose a brush?" he teased, his voice dripping with mock disbelief. There was a playful edge to his tone, but underneath it lay a challenge. He pulled at the hem of her panties, the elastic stretching under his grip, and he could feel her body tense in response. "I bet you really didn't."

Her silence spoke volumes, a tacit admission of her game. He smirked, a wicked gleam in his eyes as he continued to toy with the fabric, enjoying the way it clung to her skin. His fingers traced slow, deliberate patterns along the edge, each touch a calculated move to draw out her anticipation. With a swift, practiced motion, he tugged the shorts down just enough to expose the curve of her ass. The sight was mesmerizing, and he couldn't resist the urge to run his hands over the smooth expanse of skin, feeling the way her muscles tightened beneath his touch. His thumbs hooked under the waistband of her panties, pulling them taut before letting them snap back into place, the sound a sharp punctuation in the quiet room. He leaned in closer, his breath hot against her ear. "You're a tease, yeh know that?" His voice was a low, rumbling growl, filled with a mix of admiration and frustration. "But two can play that game."

As his crotch pressed against her ass, the hard outline of his erection unmistakable through the thin material of his trousers. It throbbed with a palpable urgency, each pulse matching the erratic beat of her heart. The heat of his body seeped through the layers of clothing, a suffocating reminder of how close he was, how trapped she was. She was rigid, every muscle tense as if bracing for impact, her mind racing to make sense of the situation.

"I've got kids and a wife at home," Cillian's voice was low, almost a growl, filled with a rough edge that made her stomach twist. His Irish accent gave his words a lilt that contrasted sharply with their crude content, making the vulgarity of his statement even more jarring. "But it's so hard to fuckin' keep my hands to myself if yeh look like this~"

His breath was hot against the back of her neck, sending a fresh wave of chills down her spine. She could feel the weight of his desire, an oppressive force that seemed to seep into her skin and paralyze her. His hands moved from her panties back to her waist, sliding up her sides, the touch both possessive and exploratory. The tips of his fingers dug into her flesh, not hard enough to bruise but firm enough to convey his dominance. Her thoughts spun in chaotic circles, trying to pinpoint the moment when everything had gone wrong. She had come here for something as innocuous as finding her brush, a simple task that now seemed laughably distant. What had she done to give him the impression that she wanted this? That she wanted him? The internal questioning was a desperate attempt to find some semblance of control, but it felt like grasping at straws.

Cillian's voice broke through her spiraling thoughts, snapping her back to the grim reality she was in. "Yeh just want an older man to fuck yeh nice and good, eh?" His words were a taunt, laced with a dark amusement that made her skin crawl. He leaned closer, his lips brushing against her ear, his breath warm and invasive. "Is that it, love? Yeh lookin' for a man who knows how to take care of yeh?" She could feel his cock twitch against her, the pressure intensifying as he shifted his weight. His hands roamed lower, slipping under the waistband of her shorts again, his fingers tracing the line of her panties. The intimate touch made her flinch, a reflexive jerk that only seemed to amuse him further. He chuckled softly, the sound rumbling through his chest and vibrating against her back. Cillian's piercing blue eyes glinted with an intensity that sent shivers down her spine. His breath was hot against her neck, mingling with the faint scent of cologne that clung to his skin. Every inch of his body radiated a primal need, a hunger that was both terrifying and compelling.

"Cillian, please—sir, don't do this..." Her voice trembled, each word a desperate plea. The reality of her situation crashed over her, a suffocating wave of helplessness. She had seen him on the screen, admired his talent from a distance, worked with him personally but this man before her was a stranger, a predator cloaked in charm and sophistication. She couldn't understand how things had escalated to this point, how she had become ensnared in his twisted desires.

He leaned closer, his lips brushing against her earlobe as he spoke. "Yeah, but the fing is all'yeh bitchin'....isn't goin' help yeh, is it?" His voice was a silky whisper, each syllable dripping with dark amusement. "I love when yeh call me sir, luv." The words were like a physical caress, sending a shiver down her spine. His accent, rich and lilting, wrapped around her like a vice, making her feel even more trapped. Her heart pounded in her chest as he continued to explore her body, his touch both possessive and tender. She hated the way her body responded to him, the way her skin tingled where his fingers roamed. It was a betrayal, a sickening reminder of the power he held over her. She could feel the heat of his arousal pressing against her, a silent promise of what was to come.

Cillian's lips trailed down her neck, leaving a path of fire in their wake. His teeth grazed her collarbone, eliciting a gasp from her lips. He chuckled softly, the sound filled with satisfaction. "Such a pretty little thing," he murmured, his voice a low rumble. "Don't fight it, luv. You'll only make it harder for yerself." His words were both a threat and a promise, the dark undertones sending a thrill of fear through her. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to block out the sensations, the reality of what was happening. But he was relentless, his hands and mouth exploring every inch of her, breaking down her defenses one by one. She could feel his breath against her skin, his lips pressing kisses that were both tender and demanding. It was a dizzying contradiction, the way he could be both gentle and forceful, making her body betray her mind.

"Open yer eyes, luv," he commanded, his voice soft but firm. She obeyed, her eyes meeting his piercing blue gaze. There was a darkness there, a hunger that frightened her.

His breath was warm and whiskey-scented against her skin, the closeness of his body both a comfort and a torment. “Yeh’ve got no idea what yeh do to me,” he murmured, his Irish accent wrapping around the words like a caress. His lips brushed against her ear, sending another shiver down her spine. His hands moved lower, slipping beneath the waistband of her panties. His touch was firm and confident, his fingers gliding over her skin with a surety that made her breathe catch in her throat. Her body betrayed her, hips arching slightly to meet his touch, a soft moan escaping despite her best efforts to hold it back. Cillian’s grin widened, a predatory gleam in his blue eyes as he watched her reaction. “That’s it, lass,” he said, his voice a husky whisper. “Don’t fight it. Let me see how much yeh can take.”

His fingers found the slick heat of her arousal, and he groaned softly, the sound vibrating through her body. His thumb brushed against her throbbing clit, sending sparks of pleasure shooting through her veins. She bit her lip to stifle another moan, hating how easily he could unravel her with just a touch. But there was no denying the effect he had on her, the way her body responded to him even as her mind screamed for her to resist. Cillian’s movements were slow and deliberate, each touch calculated to drive her wild. He slid a finger into her dripping cunt, feeling it grip him tightly, the sensation drawing a guttural groan from his throat. “Fuckin’ hell,” he muttered, his voice rough with desire. “Just imagine my cock inside yeh…”

She whimpered at his words, the vivid image making her pulse quicken; she didn't want that to happen. His breath was hot against the back of her neck, the scent of whiskey haunting her senses. “Fuck,” he groaned again, his voice thick with conflicted emotion. “I love my wife, but… yer makin’ it so hard…” His confession was a knife to her heart, but his touch was even worse, the pleasure he gave her a cruel contradiction to the pain of his words. He grinned heavily, his lips brushing against her ear as he spoke. “Yeh like that, don’t yeh? The thought of me, wantin’ yeh like this…”

She was denying it, but her body’s response betraying her even as her mind screamed for her to pull away. His fingers moved inside her, curling and stroking in a way that made her toes curl inside her shoes. Her nails digging into the trailer floorboards as she fought to keep herself grounded, the sensations overwhelming her. His fingers were slick with her juices, moving with a calculated rhythm that drove her to the brink of madness. Each thrust, each curl of his digits inside her sloppy cunt, elicited a desperate whimper from her parted lips. He could feel her inner muscles tightening around his fingers, a clear sign that she was teetering on the edge of ecstasy. His other hand, strong and commanding, encircled her throat, applying just enough pressure to make her gasp for air, her pulse fluttering wildly beneath his grip. The power he held over her in this moment was exhilarating, a heady mix of dominance and desire that sent a shiver down his spine.

“Look at yeh,” he murmured, his accent thickening with the whiskey-fueled haze. His voice was a low, seductive growl, dripping with lust and control. “So fuckin’ wet for me… Yeh want this, don’t yeh? Want me inside yeh, fillin’ yeh up…” His words were a taunting promise, each syllable rolling off his tongue with a tantalizing slowness that made her body tremble with anticipation.

His thumb found her clit again, rubbing it with precise, circular motions that had her arching her back, pushing her hips towards him in a silent plea for more, why was her body doing this to her?! He added another finger, plunging deeper into her cunt, the slick sounds of his fingers moving inside her mixing with her breathy moans. Her walls contracted around him, a testament to her impending climax, and he relished the control he had over her pleasure. Her hands clutched at his arms, nails digging into his skin as she tried to find something to anchor herself to in the storm of a horrible sensation he was creating. Cillian’s lips curled into a smirk, his eyes never leaving her face as he watched the myriad of expressions play across it—pleasure and desperation; Cillian wrapped his hand around her pretty throat.

“Fuck, yeh look so beautiful like this,” he breathed, his voice rough with desire. His fingers continued their relentless assault, his thumb working her clit with a practiced ease that spoke of experience and an intimate knowledge. “Beg for it,” he demanded, his grip on her throat tightening just enough to make her gasp. “Beg for me to let yeh come.” He wanted her to bed like the dog she was to him.

Her voice was nowhere to be heard, being choked by the hand around her throat and the overwhelming yet disgusting pleasure coursing through her. He chuckled darkly, the sound reverberating through his chest. “Fuckin' whore..but don't worry I'll fix that mouth of yers’,” he purred, his fingers moving faster, pushing her closer and closer to the edge. He smiled darkly when he felt her walls squeeze his fingers tighter. “Good girl… come for me. Come all over my fingers.” Her orgasm hit her like a tidal wave, her entire body convulsing as she screamed his name, her cunt clenching tightly around his fingers. He didn’t stop, didn’t slow down, riding out her orgasm with a relentless pace that left her gasping for breath, her body trembling from the intensity of it all.

As she came down from the high, her body still trembling with aftershocks, he finally withdrew his fingers, his touch gentle and reverent. He brought his hand up to his mouth, his eyes never leaving hers as he licked her arousal from his fingers, a look of pure sick and twisted satisfaction on his face. “Yeh taste even better than I imagined,” he said, his voice a low purr. He pulled the back of her hair roughly, making her look at him; leaving no room for argument, before capturing her lips in a rough-searing kiss, the taste of whiskey and her own fluids mingling on his and her tongue. She was forced to kiss him back, her hands pushing and clawing at his upper chest.

He broke the kiss and pushed off of he and quickly stood up, ee looked down at her, his eyes a mixture of lust and fury, clouded by the alcohol coursing through his veins. The flickering light bulb above cast eerie shadows on his face, accentuating his chiseled features and the intensity in his icy blue eyes. He pushed off her body, his breath ragged, and quickly stood up, his hands shaking as they fumbled with the buckle of his belt. His movements were frantic, driven by a primal need that bordered on the edge of violence. His belt clattered to the floor, followed swiftly by his pants, pooling around his ankles. He stood there for a moment, towering over her, his chest heaving with each breath. She lay on the trailer floor, the cold seeping into her bones, her body trembling not just from the chill but from the fear that had taken root deep within her. She could barely see through the blur of tears, her sobs muffled as she tried to stifle them, afraid of provoking him further.

"Get on yer knees for me..." His voice was low and guttural, carrying a hint of his Irish lilt, the words slurring together slightly from the whiskey. When she didn't move, he let out a frustrated huff, his patience wearing thin. Bending down, he grabbed a fistful of her hair, yanking her up with a roughness that made her gasp. The sudden pain was sharp, cutting through the fog of her fear and disorientation.

He dragged her to her knees, his grip on her hair unrelenting. His other hand moved to his boxers, pulling them down to reveal his throbbing erection, the tip glistening with pre-cum. His need was palpable, a tangible force that seemed to fill the cramped space of the trailer. He looked down at her, a twisted grin spreading across his face as he took in her disheveled appearance.

"Suck...my fuckin' cock..." The command was harsh, almost a growl, but she didn't respond, her lips pressed tightly together in a desperate attempt to maintain some semblance of control. His grin widened, a cruel glint in his eyes as he moved his hand from her hair to her nose, pinching it shut. She tried to pull back, to escape his grasp, but he was too strong, his grip like iron.

As her air supply dwindled, panic set in, and she was forced to open her mouth to breathe. In that moment of vulnerability, he seized the opportunity, thrusting his cock deep into her mouth, the sudden invasion causing her to choke violently. Her gag reflex kicked in, her throat constricting around him, but he didn't relent, his hips driving forward with brutal force. Cillian's breath hitched, a guttural sound escaping his throat as he felt her struggle around him. He relished the power he held over her, the way she was utterly at his mercy. He tightened his grip on her hair, forcing her to look up at him, his eyes locking onto hers. The sight of her tear-streaked face, mascara running in dark rivulets down her cheeks, only seemed to fuel his desire.

"Look at yeh," he muttered, his voice dripping with disdain and lust. "Yer such a fuckin' mess... but yeh look so fuckin' pretty like this, don' yeh?" His words were punctuated by the relentless rhythm of his thrusts, each one causing her to gag and sputter, her tears falling more freely now. Her body shook with each brutal invasion, her hands instinctively coming up to push against his thighs, trying to create some space, some relief from the suffocating pressure. But he was immovable, his strength amplified by the alcohol and the dark urges driving him. He felt her nails dig into his skin, but it only spurred him on, the pain a twisted complement to the pleasure he was taking.

"Yeh, you fuckin' want it, don' yeh? Yeh fuckin' need it; don' yeh? Eh...?" His voice was a mocking whisper, each word laced with cruelty. He could feel himself getting closer, the pressure building as his grip on her hair tightened even further. She was trying to pull away, her body convulsing with the effort, but he held her firmly in place, his hips moving faster, more erratically. The sound of her choking filled the trailer, mingling with his ragged breathing and the wet, obscene noises of his cock driving into her throat. Her eyes were wide, filled with a mixture of pain and desperation, snot running down her nose and mixing with her tears. It was a sight that seemed to intoxicate him even more, his pace quickening as he neared his climax. "Yeh fuckin' like that, don' yeh? Yeh love it when I use yeh like this," he panted, his words barely coherent through the haze of alcohol and arousal. He could feel the edge approaching, the tension coiling in his abdomen, ready to snap. He didn't let up, his hips slamming forward with a brutal finality, holding her head in place as he spilled himself into her mouth.

She gagged violently, her body writhing as she tried to breathe around the thick, bitter fluid filling her throat. He kept her there, forcing her to take every drop, his fingers tangled in her hair, pulling it painfully tight. When he finally released her, she fell back, gasping and coughing, her chest heaving as she struggled to draw in air. She looked like. a fucking fish out of water. Cillian looked down at her, a satisfied smirk playing on his lips. He reached down, his fingers brushing against her tear-streaked cheek, smearing the makeup further. "Good girl," he murmured, his voice softening slightly, though the underlying menace remained. "Yeh did good..." She lay there, her body trembling, the cold of the trailer floor a stark contrast to the heat of his touch. Her mind was a whirl of conflicting emotions, the violation she had just endured clashing with the strange, unwanted sense of relief that it was over. But she knew, deep down, that it wasn't truly over, that this was just a momentary reprieve in a night that was far from finished.

His smirk was cold, a predator toying with its prey. "Yeh think I'm done with yeh… yer fuckin' wrong if yeh think that," he sneered, his voice dripping with contempt. He advanced towards her, the sound of his boots echoing ominously against the hardwood floor. She was cornered, her back pressed against the wall, eyes wide with fear. Tears streamed down her face like a waterfall, her cheeks glistening in the faint light. "Cill, plea-please… Don't… no, no, no… don't… I'm begging you don't…" Her voice was a broken symphony of desperation and fear. Cillian's response was immediate and brutal. He grabbed a fistful of her hair, yanking her head back and forcing her to meet his icy gaze. He leaned in close, his breath hot against her ear. "Keep whining, keeps my cock hard… slut," he hissed, his words laced with venom. He released her hair, his hands moving with lightning speed to pin her wrists above her head.

With one hand holding her wrists in a vise-like grip, his other hand snaked its way down to her shorts. He practically ripped them off, pulling them down with such force that the seams tore. Her panties followed, yanked down to her ankles, exposing her vulnerability. The sight of her wetness made him smirk, a dark chuckle escaping his lips. "Yer fuckin' soaked… didn't think yeh'd be this ready for me," he mocked, his voice a low growl. She sobbed, her pleas becoming more frantic. "Please, Cill… stop… don't do this… I'm begging you…" Her voice was shrill, filled with terror. Suddenly, his hand struck her across the face, the sound of the impact echoing in the room. She cried out in pain, her cheek stinging from the blow. He pointed a finger in her face, his eyes blazing with anger. "Yer making me go soft… either yeh shut up or beg like yeh did before," he snapped.

His hand found its way down to her dripping cunt, his fingers barely grazing her wet folds. Her body trembled, and her cries grew louder. "Please… don't… I'm a virgin…" she pleaded, her voice breaking. Cillian froze for a moment, processing her words. "Fuck… luv… looks like I'll be poppin' yer cherry," he said, a cruel smile spreading across his face. Without warning, he removed his hand and positioned himself. In one swift motion, he shoved his cock into her cunt, bottoming out completely. She let out a loud, pained cry, her body convulsing with the force of his intrusion. Tears streamed down her face, her expression one of agony. Cillian grunted, the tightness of her virgin cunt taking him by surprise. He paused, adjusting to her snug fit, the scent of iron filling the air. He looked down to see blood dripping from her cunt. "Looks like I popped it, real good," he muttered, almost to himself.

He began to thrust, deep and hard, his movements rough and unrelenting. Her cries of pain spurred him on, each thrust more forceful than the last. He watched her face contort with each plunge, her tears falling in a steady stream. His hand moved to grab her thigh, pulling her leg up to allow him to fill her even deeper. Her body jerked with each thrust, the pain evident in her every movement. "Fuckin' tight… yer squeezin' me so good," he groaned, his voice husky with arousal. He could feel her walls clenching around him, her cries music to his ears. She whimpered, her voice barely audible. "Please… Cill… stop…" But he was beyond reason, his desire consuming him. He leaned in, his lips brushing against her ear. "Shut up, slut… this is what yeh deserve," he whispered harshly.

Each thrust was a brutal reminder of his dominance, his control over her. Her sobs grew louder, her pleas more desperate, but he paid them no mind. He was lost in the sensation, the intoxicating mix of pain and pleasure. "Yer mine… yeh understand? Mine to fuck, mine to use," he growled, his voice a possessive snarl. He gripped her thigh tighter, his fingers digging into her flesh. Her leg trembled, her body barely able to withstand his relentless assault. The room was filled with the sound of skin slapping against skin, her cries mingling with his grunts of pleasure. "Look at yeh… such a pretty little whore," he taunted, his eyes gleaming with sadistic delight. She tried to turn her head away, but he grabbed her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. "Don't look away… I want yeh to see what I'm doin' to yeh," he demanded, his voice cold and commanding.

Her eyes were wide with fear, her body trembling under his touch. "Please… Cill… it hurts…" she whimpered, her voice barely a whisper. He chuckled darkly, his grip tightening. "Good… I want it to hurt," he said, his tone devoid of any compassion. He thrust harder, his pace increasing, each movement more brutal than the last. Her body jerked violently with each thrust, her cries of pain echoing in the room. "Fuck… yer so tight… so fuckin' tight," he groaned, his voice a mix of pleasure and frustration. He could feel himself getting closer, the tightness of her cunt driving him wild.

The pain she was in seemed to only fuel his dark desire, his need to dominate and break her completely. He leaned over her, his breath hot and reeking of alcohol against her tear-streaked face. His fingers dug into her wrists, holding her in place as he thrust into her with brutal force. "Shut up… yeh can take it… yeh will take it," he snarled, his voice a guttural growl that echoed in the small space. His accent was thicker than usual, slurred slightly by the whiskey, giving his words an even more menacing edge.

Her pleas for mercy fell on deaf ears. Each thrust was more desperate, more erratic, as he chased his own release. He watched her through hooded eyes, her pain and fear a twisted aphrodisiac that spurred him on. He felt the tight grip of her body around him, the way she clenched and shuddered with each violent movement, and it drove him wild. The edge of release was so close, a tantalizing promise just within reach. Finally, with a guttural moan, he bottomed out one last time, his hips slamming into hers as he found his release. His hot, sticky cum pumped into her, filling her completely. His eyes locked onto hers, a dark, predatory gleam in his gaze as he leaned in close, his lips brushing her ear. "Probably goin' get yeh pregnant...but yeh deserve it...because yer just a cocksleeve for me to use.." His voice was a low, dangerous whisper, each word dripping with venom.

He stayed inside her, his cock still twitching as he emptied every last drop into her womb. He reveled in the feeling, the way her body seemed to milk him dry, her tightness squeezing every bit of his release from him. Only when he was sure he had given her everything did he finally pull out, a satisfied smirk on his face. He let go of her wrists, and she fell to the floor in a crumpled heap, her body too weak to support her any longer. Cillian stood over her, watching as she lay there, broken and defeated. The sight brought a twisted sense of satisfaction, a dark pleasure that seemed to settle in the pit of his stomach. He took a moment to collect himself, to let the last waves of pleasure ebb away, before straightening up and pulling up his boxers and pants. His eyes never left her, a silent command in their depths.

"Clean yerself up...and go," he said, his voice cold and detached. He watched as she struggled to move, her body trembling with the effort. There was no sympathy in his gaze, no hint of remorse for what he had done. To him, she was nothing more than a means to an end, a vessel for his darkest desires. As she finally managed to stand, her legs wobbling beneath her, Cillian took a step back, giving her space to gather herself. His eyes followed her every movement, a predator watching its prey. The room was silent except for her labored breathing and the occasional hiccup of a sob. He felt a twisted sense of power, knowing he had broken her, had pushed her to her limits and beyond.

She stumbled towards the door, her movements slow and unsteady. Her clothes were in disarray, her body marked with the evidence of his brutality. She paused at the door, casting one last, broken look over her shoulder. Cillian met her gaze, his expression unyielding. There was no comfort to be found there, no hint of the man he could have been. Only the cold, ruthless persona he had become. She turned away quickly, her hand fumbling with the doorknob as she hurried to escape. The door closed behind her with a soft click, leaving Cillian alone in the silence. He stood there for a moment, letting the reality of what had just happened sink in. The adrenaline was still coursing through him, a heady mix of power and satisfaction. He could still feel the ghost of her touch, the way her body had responded to him, had yielded to his every command. It was a high like no other, a dark thrill that he craved more than anything.

Cillian walked over to the vanity and picked up the whiskey glass; picking his wedding ring out of the empty glass and putting it back on. He moved quickly so he could pour himself another glass of whiskey. He downed it in one gulp, the burn a welcome distraction from the chaotic thoughts swirling in his mind. He knew he should feel something—guilt, shame, regret—but all he felt was a hollow emptiness, a void that seemed to grow with each passing moment. He poured himself another drink, the amber liquid swirling in the glass as he lifted it to his lips. His hands were steady, his movements precise, a stark contrast to the turmoil inside him. He took a slow sip, savoring the taste, the way it burned down his throat and settled in his stomach. It was a familiar comfort, a numbing balm to his fractured soul.

Author's Notes:

Wow, this was very hard to write, not only because I'm afraid of the way you will react to it but also because I really suck at writing him in a dom light unless it's in this setup. It's really hard to write things like this because I always have to take breaks because it's such a dark topic.

[cerastes]

What's your take on MumuDoc in Lonetrail?

Muelsyse in Lone Trail felt, in many ways, like seeing someone diving in a pool, and at first, you're not alarmed. They know how to swim. You don't really think much of it. But then a minute passes, and they are still underwater. Concern sinks in, and you make your way to the pool, and as you're about to jump in, their head surfaces, they are back up. They cough, they tough it out, and are a bit nervous about diving again, but you're going in the pool with them now, and they feel more at ease.

Take this, intensify it a hundredfold, stretch it a hundredfold, and scrutinize it a hundredfold, and you end up with Muelsyse, in her barest form, like a diamond born from a chunk of charcoal that had too much pressure put on it.

I can see Muelsyse's dynamic with Doctor being romantic. I can see Muelsyse's dynamic with Doctor not being romantic. Both are fine interpretations, if you ask me, I mean, her theme song is very much a love song, and at the same time, she feels desperate to find anyone who can just... Empathize in even the slightest of ways to her. Either read is fine, outright discounting either feels a tad disingenuous.

Alienation. Complete and utter alienation, an edge sharper and more injurious than isolation. This is, if you ask me, the main theme surrounding the Rhine Lab arc and cast.

Saria is alienated. She cannot find common ground with anyone else around her for the longest time. She used to have a shared dream with Kristen, but that bridge has burned and frozen and turned to ash all over. Kristen is alienated. She simply cannot see a point to anything except that obsessive doggedly persistent dream of hers, and it has been weighted more important than her humanity. Joyce is alienated. Forever a partial prisoner in her own head, there are few and far between that will ever put up with the unique intricacies of having to deal with someone that talks like her, has sudden Oripathy attacks like her, and falls asleep on the spot seemingly at random like her, fully cognizant of how high maintenance she can be on others. Ho'olheyak is alienated. On borrowed time, without kin or friend to call her own, living for a transcending mission far bigger than her and so, so small in the overarching beats of a world that can't be bothered to stop for her. Silence. Ifrit. Dorothy. Tin Man. I could go on. Alienated, all of them. Not isolated, because isolation would imply the lack of physical company. This is far colder, far darker. It's alienation. It's seeing the other side of the cliff, and no possibility of a bridge to connect it to your end of the cliff. Isolation stings, it's a pain you know is there. Alienation drowns, because you can see the surface, but you are convinced you'll never make it there, and it's a hundredfold worse.

Muelsyse is no different. Muelsyse is alienated, and goodness she has tried and tried and tried, she swims so, so hard to reach the surface, but she can't reach it. Being in Rhine Labs necessarily means you need to resort to some cutthroat cloak and dagger, it becomes routine, all for an ultimate goal, but is that ultimate goal even possible? With every step taken by Muelsyse, it seems two new steps materialized at the end of the staircase. Everyone she's met, for years now, has either been someone looking to use her, or someone she can use for her own advantage. Usually simultaneously. And it's in this context, when the 9 to 5 becomes tricking, blackmailing, snuffing and silencing that by chance, she comes across someone, possibly the sole person, that can actually understand the sheer weight on her shoulders: Doctor, someone who doesn't own their own past, but is shackled by it, someone who has no one to relate to, someone surrounded by sufficiently similar but ultimately infinitely different people to themselves, someone who by all means should be drowning in the same pool as her, but somehow, this person reached the surface. It's very easy to see why she'd become so utterly fascinated by this person, who shares many similarities with her, and yet, who seemingly has it so good, has it so sweet. It could have easily been jealousy, but end of the day, Muelsyse IS a sweet person. Yeah, she plays it up, always so cheerful and whimsical, but end of the day, Muelsyse is playing up something that is already there in the first place. Instead of jealousy, it brought her happiness, because maybe, just maybe, she could enjoy a bit of that je ne sais quoi that Doctor seems to have in spades and she is completely bankrupt of.

The first interactions between Muelsyse and Doctor are telling of this overwhelming rush of emotion: Muelsyse less talks with Doctor and more talks at them. She vomits words, emotion, whimsy, as if trying to put these emotions into words and actions after so long, emotions that was ready to never need to put into words in the first place. It eventually becomes a dialogue between two parties, but Muelsyse's interactions with Doctor are initially extremely one-sided, and they remain one-sided to some degree even moving forward. It was heartwrenching to me, honestly, to see the sheer joy Muelsyse radiated while around Doctor, because that is an almost manic amount of joy simply from possibly finding someone that gets it. Muelsyse has not had a bridge in so, so long, and suddenly, the finds someone that not only resembles her a lot, but also seems to have bridges in spades. Muelsyse and Doctor's dynamic should never be considered in a vacuum just between the two of them: One of the first things Muelsyse saw with her own eyes was that Doctor had a pretty friendly relationship, mutual respect included, with Saria. That, is immediately very telling of Doctor, given that Muelsyse understands exactly how difficult that is. We also know Muelsyse sneaks around Rhodes Island and chats with Ifrit now and then, and Ifrit also expressly has a very high opinion of Doctor. It simply makes sense that Muelsyse would feel as enthusiastic about her Dorothy's Vision brush with Doc, and all that Lone Trail entailed: It's terribly sad, because they don't even know each other, and even then, it's the shiniest ray of hope for herself that Muelsyse has had the chance to bask in: Doctor's essence, Doctor's existence, in and of itself, is a massive beacon of hope for Muelsyse.

And it's so damn sad, that this perfect stranger is the most familiar comrade she'll ever find.

Is this romantic love? Hell, the molotov cocktail of emotions involved might as well be, either now or in potentially in the future. Is it something unhealthily dependent? Yeah... Yeah. It might just be the euphoria of knowing that she can reach the surface, after all, that bridges, too, are possible for her to have, with not underlying motive, with no ulterior motive, without needing to offer something or to extract something. To put in the most basic of terms, Doctor, to Muelsyse, might as well represent the very first person in who knows how long that she can relate to at all. It is an immensely sad emotional starvation, and she finally found something to sink her teeth onto.

This is personal, but the way Muelsyse struck me, it felt to me that when she had even the barest of handles on Doctor, she related to someone for the first time in forever, and it shook her to her very core. It may have been the first time she saw, in someone else, a potentially happy Muelsyse.

It's extremely bittersweet. If you've ever dealt with alienation, think back on the first time you found someone who truly "got you". Add to that the fact that her routine of interacting with people had become to see others as tools, and to always be on the lookout for those wishing to use and expend you as a tool. Then, add to that that there are definitely more Elves, but Muelsyse is so fundamentally different to them that the sheer differences in temperament and culture make it so it's impossible for her to relate to them anyway. What could be lonelier than that? It's called Lone Trail for a reason, because alienation is a main theme for all of these people.

In finding the sole person that could possibly relate to her in circumstance and temperament, it's easy to see where Muelsyse's interest in Doctor comes from. Whether you interpret it as romantic or otherwise, it can't be denied that this immensely strong interest exists. It comes from finally seeing a way to reach the surface after the world told her for decades that she simply could only drown. Because Doctor is the only other person that could understand her in being the last of their race and in having no past and maybe even no future, and yet, Doctor having so many bridges, while she has none. I think Muelsyse craves companionship, not necessarily romantic, from Doctor, and, this is important, also wants to have what they have, and be part of it, of so many bridges built without ulterior motives.

[willknightauthor]

What happens in the Dolorian church in Martinaise is a profound bit of worldbuilding. At first Elysium seems like a normal, secular world, and if anything it's surprising how absent religion is from it. Liberalism has become the religion. The only real reminder that Moralism was once a fully functioning world religion is the abandoned and broken church west of the lock.

But learning about the pale point, the history of the churches, it makes sense now. The pale is directly interacting with human thought and society because they are both manifestations of information in the universe, in an evolving dialectic. Dolores Dei pulled information from the future and literally expanded the world by inspiring others with her dream. She was, by the standards of our world, a prophet. The churches, built around nascent points of pale particles, are a social attempt to control the pale through the collective act of ritual dreaming. By dreaming the divine, humanity pushes back the death of the world, for a moment.

By the time the game takes place, that side of Moralism is long dead. The churches have been abandoned and their function forgotten. Moralism has degenerated into liberalism. The Revolution was a moment of mass dreaming, of the future manifesting itself. It was the best hope to push back the Pale, but the MoralIntern crushed it, and restored global stagnancy. Growing entropy is accelerating the consumption of the world by the Pale, and no-one knows what to do because there is no future, only past.

Harry though, depending on how you play him, has the potential to start the reversal of this process, if just in Martinaise. The man who has effectively dedicated himself to a kind of monastic worship of the Pale (unknowingly) is the first one to start the process. (Never give anyone too much credit, even Harry.) But if Harry helps the homeless ravers start a club in the Church, he is effectively helping to start a new ritual community with the same properties as the old Moralist Church, right under the pale point.

If you get Noid to warm up to you, you learn he's a kind of organic existential philosopher. He even discourses with Tiago. He and the others don't just party as a hedonistic act, they maintain partying as a kind of ritual act of life affirmation and contemplation, an attempt to transcend themselves and realize something new and powerful. In short, they are reaching into the future to create something new. It's ridiculous 90s Euro club music, but the way they do it it's as ritually powerful as any church service.

This ties into the more general theme of Disco Elysium, that the human power to dream of a new future and then collectively act to bring it about is a powerful act of creation that pushes back the boundaries of the universe, and is necessary for our species to even survive. To crush the revolution, to crush democracy, is to crush the future. Elysium has killed God, but they haven't gotten to the next stage of becoming gods.

Dolorian humanism ironically does not end up elevating human beings. Only the communards had a chance at elevating humanity to a level of creative consciousness that would allow them to tame the Pale the same way they used to with religion. And the revolutionaries, even though the Moralists never recognized them as such, were likely pulling from the future as much as Dolores Dei. Kras Mazov will never be recognized as an Innocent, but in terms of prophesying and inspiring people with a dream which could push back the Pale, he effectively was.

Now with the revolution at a low point, the world is in a kind of existentialist limbo, lacking the conviction of faith in either the divine or the future. The old is dead, but the new cannot be born. What happens in Martinaise is the beginning of the return of that faith.

[molinaskies]

This cover is so important.

This is one of the retail incentive covers of IDW Sonic issue 1, 5th Anniversary Edition, illustrated by Adam Bryce Thomas and coloured by Reggie Graham. When I look at it, something about it tells a story to me, and that story is beautiful.

Sonic and Amy are at the Riverside Romp with Cream and Vanilla, but the rabbits are clearly giving them some space while doing their own thing.

Riverside is the town where Sonic and Amy meet for the first time in the comic series. The archway that holds the sign is also one of the decaying legs from Eggman’s crab mech, the first mech they fight together. Riverside is incredibly symbolic to them both, like how Never Lake would be in the games.

Their journey started rocky at Riverside. They couldn’t see eye-to-eye and had different approaches to how they both could help restore the world after the war. And yet, they still fully respected each other, dishing out compliments and praise and a desire to work together (in different ways). Amy even professes her love for Sonic and vows to him that she never wants to change him, and he bashfully asks her to stay with him in return. They cared for each other, loved each other, immensely then, and now, they’ve chosen to return to Riverside stronger as a pair and as individuals.

Sonic and Amy spend their day together, but they’re both their own people. Amy fawns over the sweets and the loving decorations while Sonic ogles a chilidog. They both indulge in their interests, but close together. One doesn’t need to be exactly like the other, and neither of them want that for the other. As long as they know the other’s there and always will be, that’s all they need. Being their own people despite their connection is what strengthens their bond, because the admiration they have for each other and their differences is so high.

But then, they still want to be together. They dance and cheer with interlocked fingers while sparks fly between their hearts. Cherry blossom petals sway around them, delighting in new beginnings and young love. Sonic and Amy compliment each other, bringing out the brighter sides of theirs souls. Amy’s having the time of her life, living in the moment knowing that Sonic is there with her now and always. But, beautifully, Sonic’s living the moment with with her, taking in her excitement and beauty. He usually doesn’t allow himself the pleasure, but he can’t help it, now.

Sonic and Amy have such a deep understanding of each other that it transcends language. They are in love, and I am in love with them.

[alyrasturnz]

christopher sturniolo ᯓᡣ𐭩

✮ — writers choice

𖦹 — angst

౨ৎ — fluff

ఌ︎ — smut

| 𖦹 , ౨ৎ | pretty isn’t pretty

— y/n grapples with her insecurities, endeavoring to conceal them, yet her efforts seem futile. fortunately, chris is there to illuminate the truth that her perceived imperfections are, in fact, integral to her unique perfection.

| ✮ , 𖦹 | but daddy i love him

— chris reveals to y/n that she transcends the limited perceptions imposed by society and her family. yet, y/n finds herself ensnared in the dilemma of either perpetuating her family's legacy or forging a path uniquely her own.

| ౨ৎ | jump then fall

— y/n has shared a bond with chris for as long as she can remember. but what will unfold when the familiarities she once took for granted transform into something far more profound and stirring?

| 𖦹 , ౨ৎ | labyrinth

— what if the sole barrier preventing their union was the intricate labyrinth of her mind, a maze of thoughts and emotions that she alone must navigate?

| ౨ৎ | wish you were sober

— though y/n might have been inebriated and her thoughts clouded, little did chris realize that every word she uttered was laden with sincere intent.

| 𖦹 , ఌ︎ | casual

— they had agreed to a relationship devoid of emotional entanglements, yet the reader finds herself struggling to endure the mere guise of friendship with benefits, yearning instead for a deeper, more meaningful connection.

| ఌ︎ | dress

— in a society teeming with individuals who presume to know everything about them yet remain oblivious to the authentic essence concealed behind their façades, chris and y/n perceive only each other, sharing clandestine moments amidst the throngs.

| ఌ︎ | cologne

— the intoxicating aroma of his cologne weaves a spell around her senses, igniting a fervent desire deep within her. the subtle notes of his fragrance blend with the warmth of his presence, creating an irresistible allure that captivates her entirely.

| 𖦹 | its time to go

— chris and y/n have been battling the turbulent currents of their relationship, their desperate efforts marked by an unyielding grip that only seems to tighten with each passing day. despite their relentless struggle to preserve what they once cherished, y/n comes to the heart-wrenching realization that, no matter how much it breaks her heart, she must summon the strength to let him go.

| 𖦹 | ronan

— what will happen when the radiant light that once illuminated chris and y/n's lives dims into darkness, and they are absent, unable to bear witness to its fading glow or to hold him through the shadows that follow? how will they reconcile with the void left behind, knowing they weren't there to offer solace in the final moments?

| 𖦹 | chloe or sam or sophia or marcus

— you and chris became entangled in an intricate labyrinth of miscommunication, where each word and gesture were mere fragments of a language neither of you could fully decipher. it was only when chris had finally moved on, embarking on a journey to construct a life of his own, that the disparate pieces of the puzzle began to coalesce. the clarity afforded by hindsight illuminated the complex dance of misunderstandings that had woven the fabric of your shared past.

| 𖦹 | how did it end?

— you would be prevaricating if you said you knew how your relationship with chris ended, for it was not a single moment or event, but a gradual unraveling of threads that once bound you together. each day brought a new fissure, a subtle shift, until the tapestry of your connection was left frayed and incomplete, a poignant reminder of the impermanence of even the deepest bonds.

| 𖦹 | wildflower

— y/n was the love of his life, but their paths diverged, leading to a painful breakup. now, he's trying to move on with someone new, yet the shadows of his past love linger. his new partner senses his lingering feelings for y/n, and tensions rise. a heated argument erupts, revealing the raw and unresolved emotions that still bind him to y/n.

| ౨ৎ | a love unspoken

— in a world where opposites attract, chris is the bubbly, effervescent soul who brings light and laughter wherever he goes, while y/n is the soft-spoken, quiet presence who finds solace in the whispers of the wind and the pages of a book.

| 𖦹 | blowing smoke

— chris, overwhelmed by his burgeoning emotions, abruptly ceases all communication with his best friend y/n, oblivious to the profound hurt it would inflict upon her. grappling with his unrequited affection, he endeavors to distract himself by courting alia, in a futile attempt to erase y/n from his thoughts. however, the ramifications of his actions soon become glaringly apparent.

| 𖦹 , ఌ︎ | august

— in a fleeting lapse of weakness, y/n succumbed to temptation and embarked on a clandestine affair with chris, their secret rendezvous hidden beneath the sultry veil of summer. as the days grew shorter, y/n's guilt became unbearable, compelling her to sever ties with chris abruptly.

| 𖦹 , ౨ৎ | i'm so sorry

— chris utters deeply wounding words during a heated argument, words that linger in the air like a dark cloud, casting a shadow over their relationship. as the echoes of his harsh declarations resonate, both chris and y/n are left grappling with the profound emotional damage inflicted. the rawness of the moment envelops them, each struggling to process the pain and regret that now defines the space between them.

[badathumanemotions]

Turning Up the Heat

Emily Prentiss x Fem Reader MDNI Category: Smut CW: A/B/O, Alpha Emily, Omega Reader, Lesbian Sex, Oral, Squirting, Fingering, Knotting Dildo WC: 4,512 Emily and Y/N experiment with having their heat at the same time (Not Proof Read) Master List

The quiet hum of the refrigerator echoed through the dimly lit kitchen as Emily Prentiss carefully placed the last can of soda on the shelf. She checked the clock hanging above the sink—four more hours until her partner, Y/N, returned from her errands. The anticipation of their week-long retreat filled the air, thick with the promise of unbridled passion and uninterrupted intimacy. They had both been planning this meticulously for weeks, whispering sweet nothings into each other's ears during stolen moments at work, their eyes alight with desire.

Emily, an alpha in a world where roles were often predefined, felt a thrill of rebelliousness as she thought about the unorthodox path their relationship had taken. The BAU was no place for distractions, but when Y/N, a skilled and dedicated omega, had joined the team, all the rules had gone out the window. The chemistry between them had been undeniable, a silent current that had electrified the air until one fateful night, it had sparked into something more.

The house, their sanctuary, was now a bastion of comfort and indulgence. The bed was laden with fresh, plush linens, and the scent of vanilla filled the air—a subtle yet powerful aphrodisiac that seemed to cling to every surface. Emily had spent the day preparing, making sure that every detail was perfect for their synchronized heat. The fridge was stocked with Y/N's favourite snacks, the bedroom with an assortment of lubricants and toys that would cater to their every need.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the room in a warm, amber glow, Emily felt the first stirrings of her own heat. Her senses heightened, she could almost taste the sweetness of Y/N's scent, even though her partner was miles away. It was a challenge they had both agreed to, a chance to explore the depths of their connection in a way they never had before. The thrill of it all made Emily's heart race, her skin prickling with excitement.

The door finally creaked open, and Y/N stepped into the room, her eyes immediately finding Emily's. She had a knowing smile on her lips, her cheeks flushed from the cool evening air. They had agreed to wait until Y/N returned before letting the heat fully consume them, but the tension between them was palpable. Emily stepped closer, her eyes tracing the curve of Y/N's neck, the soft swell of her breasts beneath her sweater.

Without another word, they were in each other's arms, kissing with a fervour that stole their breath away. Emily's hands roamed over Y/N's body, feeling the familiar curves and valleys, while Y/N's nails dug into her back, pulling her closer. They stumbled towards the bedroom, clothes falling away like leaves in the wind.

Once they reached the bed, Emily took a moment to appreciate the sight of Y/N, naked and wanton before her. Her heat was potent, Emily couldn't resist. She kissed her way down Y/N's body, tracing the soft lines of her hips and the delicate skin of her inner thighs. When she reached the apex of Y/N's legs, she could feel the warmth radiating from her, the slickness that signaled she was more than ready.

Their eyes locked as Emily took a deep breath, her tongue flicking out to taste the sweetness she had been craving. Y/N's breath hitched, her body arching off the bed as the first wave of pleasure crashed over her. Emily felt her own heat spike in response, her own need growing more intense with every gasp and moan that filled the room.

The air was charged with something new, something primal and all-consuming. As they touched, kissed, and claimed each other, it was as if they were discovering each other all over again, their bodies speaking a language that transcended words.

Emily's tongue delved into Y/N's folds, lapping at her sweetness like a starving animal at a watering hole. Y/N's pussy was slick with need, her taste a heady intoxicant that sent Emily's senses spiraling out of control. Each stroke of her tongue was met with a whimper, a plea for more, and she eagerly complied, her own desire growing with every touch. She felt her own clit throb, begging for attention, but she pushed the need aside, focusing solely on the task of driving her omega wild.

Y/N's legs trembled as she approached her peak, her fingers tangling in Emily's hair, guiding her deeper. Emily felt the knot in her stomach tighten, the coil of pleasure that signaled her own heat was rising to meet Y/N's. They were in this together, a dance as old as time itself, and she revelled in the power she held over her partner's body.

With a growl of need, Emily slid two fingers into Y/N's wet heat, her thumb pressing firmly against the swollen bundle of nerves at the top of her sex. She curled them, angling them just right, and Y/N's eyes rolled back in her head, a keening cry escaping her lips. The sound was music to Emily's ears, a symphony of desire that urged her to go further, to push harder.

Y/N's hips bucked against her hand, her body desperately seeking the release that hovered just out of reach. Emily watched her omega's face, the way her cheeks flushed and her eyes glazed over with passion. She knew exactly what Y/N needed—what they both needed—and she was more than willing to give it to her.

With a predatory smirk, Emily leaned in closer, her tongue swiping a tantalizing path along Y/N's flesh before settling on her clit. The moment her mouth closed around the sensitive nub, Y/N's body jolted, a strangled gasp escaping her. Emily sucked with the perfect amount of pressure, her tongue flicking and teasing, savouring the salty-sweet flavour that was uniquely Y/N. She felt the muscles in Y/N's thighs tighten around her head, her partner's body trembling with the effort of holding back.

But Emily was an alpha with a plan. She slid her free hand down, her fingers dancing across Y/N's pelvis. With the palm of her hand, she applied pressure hoping to make Y/N squirt. The effect was immediate and electric—Y/N's walls clenched around her fingers, her body bowing off the bed as the first wave of orgasm washed over her.

Y/N's climax was a symphony of sensations for Emily. The sweet scent of her release filled the air, making her own need pulse harder, demanding attention. Y/N's juices spurted onto her face, warm and tangy, a testament to the power of their bond. Emily revelled in the moment, her tongue greedily lapping up the evidence of her partner's pleasure, her own desire growing with every drop.

But as Y/N's body began to relax, Emily's own need grew more insistent. Her hand didn't stop moving, instead, she picked up the pace, her fingers plunging in and out of Y/N's soaking wet cunt with a fervour that was almost animalistic.

"Alpha" Y/N gasped.

Emily's eyes gleamed with determination as she watched Y/N's body respond to her touch. She knew that she could push her omega further, wring out more pleasure, and she was eager to do so. Her own arousal grew with every tremble, every gasp from Y/N's lips.

From between Y/N's legs, Emily took a moment to appreciate the sight before her. Her omega's pussy was a wet, swollen masterpiece, glistening with arousal, and Emily felt a surge of possession that was as potent as it was primal. She didn't just want to give Y/N pleasure; she wanted to claim her, to mark her as irrevocably hers.

Her fingers moved with a rhythm that seemed almost predatory, a dance that spoke of need and dominance. She could feel the walls of Y/N's pussy tightening around her digits, each stroke bringing her closer to the edge of another climax. Y/N's hips bucked up to meet her, a silent plea for more, and Emily was more than happy to oblige.

As the second orgasm built within her, Y/N's nails dug into the sheets, her teeth gritted against the onslaught of sensation. Emily watched the play of emotions across her face, from desperation to euphoria and back again. The sight was intoxicating, a heady mix of power and love that made Emily's own pussy throb in response.

Her own heat was now a roaring fire in her belly, the need to claim her omega fully consuming her. With a final, hard thrust of her fingers, she sent Y/N spiraling over the edge once more, her body convulsing with the force of her release.

Emily didn't stop there. She knew that Y/N could take more, that she craved the relentless pursuit of pleasure. Her own arousal was a living, breathing entity between her legs, demanding to be satiated. She withdrew her fingers, glistening with Y/N's essence, and brought them to her own mouth, sucking them clean as she watched the aftershocks of pleasure ripple through her partner's body.

The taste of her omega was addictive, a flavor that only grew more potent as Y/N's heat grew stronger. Emily's nostrils flared as she took in her scent, her own body responding in kind. But she was an alpha, and she would not take until she had given everything she had to offer.

Her hand didn't still as Y/N's second orgasm subsided. Instead, she slammed her fingers back inside, hitting that perfect spot that made Y/N's toes curl and her back arch. The room was a cacophony of wet sounds and desperate cries, a symphony of passion that seemed to echo in the very walls.

Y/N's eyes snapped open, and she met Emily's gaze, a mix of shock and awe at the relentlessness of her alpha's touch. "Emily," she whimpered, her voice barely a whisper.

Emily's smile grew more feral, her eyes dark with need. "You're mine, omega," she murmured against Y/N's swollen clit, her tongue swirling around the sensitive nub with the finesse of a maestro conducting an orchestra of ecstasy.

Y/N's eyes rolled back, her body taut as a bowstring. "Alpha," she moaned, the word a benediction and a plea.

Emily felt the tremors of Y/N's impending climax, the tightening of her muscles around her fingers, the desperate bucking of her hips. With a final, brutal flick of her tongue, she sent Y/N hurtling into the abyss of pleasure once more. Her omega's orgasm was so intense, so all-consuming, that for a moment, she feared Y/N might actually pass out. Her cries grew hoarse, her breath coming in ragged gasps as her body was ravaged by wave after wave of pleasure.

But Y/N was not so easily defeated. Even as the aftershocks of her release began to fade, she reached for Emily, her hands shaking with need. "Take me," she whispered, her eyes glazed with desire. "Claim me, alpha."

Emily's eyes flashed with hunger at the words, and she knew it was time. She reached into the nightstand, her hand wrapping around the leather of the harness she had hidden there. She slid the contraption on, adjusting the knotting dildo so that the toy sat snugly against her own swollen clit.

The coolness of the leather against her fevered skin sent a shiver down her spine, but it was the feeling of the dildo's vibration against her clit that made her pussy clench in anticipation.

Emily slid the tip in, Y/N's slickness making it easy. She watched with hooded eyes as Y/N's gaze followed the movement, her pupils dilating with every inch that disappeared into her body.

"Look at me, omega," Emily ordered, her voice a velvet purr.

Y/N's eyes snapped to hers, the pupils wide with lust. Emily's strap was thick and unyielding, a symbol of her dominance and desire. She began to thrust into Y/N with a slow, deliberate rhythm, each movement sending a jolt of pleasure through her body.

Their eyes remained locked, the connection between them a live wire that arced with every touch. Y/N's legs wrapped around Emily's waist, her ankles crossing at the small of her back, urging her deeper. The friction of the strap against her own clit was driving Emily wild, the vibrations setting off explosions of pleasure that she had to bite back to keep from coming too soon.

They moved together, their bodies a tapestry of passion and need. Emily's strokes grew faster, harder, the slap of flesh on flesh a steady, driving beat that matched the pounding of their hearts. The scent of their desire filled the room, a heady perfume that seemed to thicken the air around them.

Y/N's nails raked down Emily's back, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. "More," she demanded, her voice hoarse with passion.

Emily was more than happy to oblige. She leaned in, her teeth grazing Y/N's neck as she picked up the pace. The scent of her omega's arousal was like a drug, clouding her mind and driving her to the brink of madness. She had to have more, needed to claim her completely.

Her hips snapped forward, the strap-on plunging deep within Y/N's welcoming heat. Each thrust was met with a wanton moan, a symphony of pleasure that spurred Emily on. She could feel her own orgasm building, a pressure that threatened to consume her, but she held it at bay. This was about Y/N, about making her scream her name until her voice was nothing but a hoarse whisper.

Emily reached down, her hand slipping between their bodies to find Y/N's clit. She pinched it lightly, rolling it between her thumb and forefinger as she continued to fuck her with a fervour that was almost violent. Y/N's legs tightened around her, her heels digging into the small of Emily's back as she bucked her hips up to meet each and every thrust.

Their moans grew louder, filling the room, bouncing off the walls in a crescendo of passion. Emily could feel the tension in Y/N's body, the tightness of her muscles, the way she clenched around the dildo with every plunge. She knew her omega was close, so close she could almost taste it on the air.

Y/N's eyes were squeezed shut, her breath coming in ragged gasps. "Knot me," she begged, her voice barely more than a whisper. "Please, alpha, knot me."

Emily's eyes widened with excitement at the words. She had been waiting for this moment, for the perfect time to claim her omega completely. She leaned down, her breath hot against Y/N's ear as she whispered, "You're mine, omega."

With a powerful thrust, she slammed the dildo into Y/N, the knot inflating with a satisfying pop that filled her up completely. Y/N's eyes flew open, a scream of pleasure ripping from her throat as she felt the thick bulb fill her, stretching her to the limits of her endurance. Her walls clamped down around the knot, holding it in place as Emily's hips continued to move, the vibrations from the toy sending shockwaves through her body.

The orgasm that followed was unlike anything either of them had ever experienced. It was as if their bodies had become one, a maelstrom of pleasure that consumed them both. Y/N's pussy spasmed around the knot, her juices coating Emily's thighs as she rode out the most intense climax of her life. Emily felt it too, her own orgasm building with every vibration from the strap-on driving her closer and closer to the edge.

They moved together, their bodies in perfect sync, each thrust of the knot sending Y/N spiralling higher. Emily felt her own walls tighten, her breath coming in pants as she approached her peak. And then, with a roar that seemed to shake the very foundations of the house, she came, her pussy clenching, her hips jerking uncontrollably.

The knot inside Y/N's body held them together, a tangible reminder of their bond, of the primal instinct that had led them to this moment. They lay there, panting and sweaty, their bodies entwined as they rode out the aftershocks of their shared climax.

Y/N's eyes fluttered open, a soft, sated smile playing on her lips as she looked up at Emily. She reached up to trace the lines of tension that had etched themselves onto her alpha's face, her touch gentle and soothing. "Thank you," she murmured, her voice still thick with pleasure.

Emily leaned down to kiss her, a soft brush of lips that spoke of a tenderness that belied the ferocity of their recent lovemaking. "You're welcome, omega," she whispered against Y/N's skin. "Now, let's see how much more you can take."

The purr that emanated from Y/N's chest was like a melody that resonated deep within Emily, filling her with warmth and affection. It was a sound she never grew tired of hearing, especially when it was one of pure contentment. Emily's eyes danced with mischief as she felt the knot within her partner's body begin to deflate.

They had agreed to push their boundaries during this week, to explore the depths of their desire and the nuances of their heat. The knowledge that they had much more to experience together was a thrilling prospect that had both of them on edge, eager for the next moment of ecstasy.

Emily pulled out slowly, the feeling of the knot retreating from Y/N's clutching heat leaving them both with a sense of loss and longing. But she knew it was only temporary.

Y/N looked up at her with a mischievous spark in her eyes. "Your turn," she said, her voice still laced with the aftermath of her orgasm. She reached for the harness, her nimble omega fingers deftly unbuckling the straps and sliding the setup off of Emily.

Emily's eyes widened in surprise but also excitement as she felt her own heat rush through her at the thought of reversing their roles. She had never allowed anyone to take control in such an intimate way, but with Y/N, she felt safe, desired, and ready to explore.

Y/N's hands were shaking slightly as she took the strap-on from Emily, her eyes never leaving her alpha's. The power dynamics had shifted, and she could feel the heady rush of it in her veins. She slid the harness on, adjusting it so that the dildo was in the perfect position, her own arousal spiking as she felt the weight of it against her clit.

Emily watched with a mix of trepidation and excitement. She knew that even though Y/N wielded the strap-on, she was still the one in charge. The air in the room was thick with anticipation as they switched places, the unspoken understanding that this was just a new facet of their dynamic, a way to explore the depths of their desire.

Emily straddled Y/N's hips, her own slickness coating the dildo. She took a deep breath, her eyes locked onto Y/N's, and slowly sank down onto it. The sensation of being filled so completely was almost overwhelming, and she had to bite her lip to keep from crying out. Y/N's eyes were dark with desire, her hands gripping Emily's hips, guiding her down with a gentle but firm touch.

Once she was fully seated, Emily began to ride, her hips moving in a fast, punishing rhythm that had Y/N's eyes rolling back in her head. The dildo slid in and out of her, each thrust sending waves of pleasure through her body. She had never felt so alive, so in tune with her own desires. Y/N's thighs tensed beneath her, the muscles of her stomach rippling as she watched Emily take control.

With a flick of her thumb, Y/N turned up the vibration on the strap-on, sending a jolt of pleasure through Emily's body. The alpha's eyes snapped open, and she let out a guttural groan, her teeth gritted against the intensity of the sensation. Y/N's own clit was throbbing in time with the vibrations, the friction against the base of the toy bringing her closer and closer to the edge.

Emily's breasts bounced freely with each movement, the sight of them making Y/N's mouth water. She reached down, her hand cupping one of the firm mounds, her thumb flicking over the sensitive nipple. Emily's back arched, her pussy clenching around the dildo as she felt the pleasure spike.

"Fuck me harder," Y/N panted, her own arousal building with every second. "I want to feel you come apart on me."

Emily's eyes narrowed with determination, her hands gripping the headboard as she began to move faster, the strap-on hitting that perfect spot within her with each downward thrust. Y/N's fingers tightened on her hips, urging her on, her own pussy leaking with arousal.

The sound of their bodies slapping together filled the room, the scent of their desire growing stronger with every passing moment. Emily's pussy clenched around the dildo, the vibrations sending waves of pleasure through her body that seemed to have no end. She could feel the pressure building, the coil in her stomach tightening with every stroke.

But she was an alpha, and her instincts demanded that she not find release until her omega had reached the peak of her pleasure. She leaned down, her teeth scraping along Y/N's neck, her breath hot and ragged against her skin.

Emily's movements grew more frantic, her hips snapping down with an urgency that spoke of her own need. She could feel her orgasm building, the pressure in her stomach tightening like a coil ready to spring. But she held back, her eyes never leaving Y/N's, watching for the signs that she was close.

Y/N's eyes were squeezed shut, her face a mask of ecstasy as Emily's mouth closed around one of her pert nipples. She bit down gently, the slight pain mixing with the pleasure, sending a jolt straight to her clit. Y/N's moan was music to Emily's ears, a sweet symphony that grew louder as she switched to the other breast, her teeth grazing the sensitive flesh.

Her hips began to move, a slow, deliberate grind that had the dildo sliding over Y/N's swollen clit with every downward press. Y/N's hands clutched at her shoulders, her nails digging into Emily's skin as she tried to hold on, to keep herself from shattering under the onslaught of pleasure.

Emily's mouth found Y/N's nipple, the tight peak begging for attention. She sucked hard, her teeth grazing the sensitive flesh, and was rewarded with a sharp gasp. Y/N's hips jerked up, seeking more friction, more contact, more of everything. Emily's mouth moved to the other side, giving it the same treatment, her tongue swirling around the hardened nub before biting down gently.

The vibrations from the strap-on, the relentless grinding against her clit, and the exquisite torment of Emily's mouth on her breasts created a maelstrom of sensation that Y/N couldn't fight. Her body tensed, her toes curling, her nails digging into Emily's back. She could feel her orgasm building, a storm cloud on the horizon, ready to break.

"Emily," she gasped, her voice a desperate plea. "I'm gonna—"

Her words were cut off by a scream as Y/N's orgasm crashed over her, her body convulsing under the relentless onslaught of pleasure. Emily watched, transfixed, as her omega's eyes rolled back in her head, her mouth open in a silent cry. And as she watched, she felt the knot on the dildo inflate, filling her completely, stretching her tight and triggering her own climax.

The feeling was indescribable, a mix of pain and pleasure that sent her spiraling over the edge. Her own pussy clamped down on the knot, holding it deep within her as she came, her body shaking with the force of her climax.

As the waves of pleasure receded, Emily collapsed onto Y/N, their bodies sticky with sweat and juices. They lay there, boneless and spent, the harness still attached to Y/N's hips. The vibrations of the dildo had stopped, but the feeling of being filled remained, a lingering echo of the intensity they had just shared.

Emily could feel the knot inside her slowly deflating, the thickness of it a gentle reminder of the power Y/N had wielded over her body. She looked down into her omega's sated eyes, feeling a surge of affection and respect. This was a new side of their relationship, a place where power and submission danced together in a delicate ballet of desire.

Y/N reached up, her fingers tracing the line of Emily's jaw as she whispered, "Thank you, alpha." She leaned down, capturing Y/N's mouth in a gentle kiss that spoke of promises yet to be fulfilled.

The room was still, the only sound their heavy breathing and the slowing of their racing hearts. They had five more days of this, five more days of love and lust that promised to be more intense than any they had ever experienced. The anticipation was almost unbearable, a delicious ache that thrummed through their veins, setting their nerves alight with every touch.

Emily pulled away, a smug smile playing on her lips as she looked down at the spent omega beneath her. She knew they had only just begun to explore the depths of their synchronized heats, and the thought of what was to come had her own arousal stirring once more. "We have five more days of this, omega," she murmured, her eyes gleaming with desire. "Five days of me claiming you, of us losing ourselves in each other."

Y/N's eyes sparkled with excitement at the prospect, her body already responding to Emily's words. "And what do you have planned for me, alpha?" she asked, her voice a soft purr.

Emily's smile grew wicked. "Everything and anything that will make you scream my name, omega."

They looked forward to the week ahead of them, a week of unbridled passion and primal need. Each day promised a new horizon of pleasure, a chance to explore the uncharted territories of their shared heat. Their eyes held a fierce excitement, a hunger that was only just beginning to be sated.

"Promise?" Y/N whispered, her voice a soft echo in the quiet room.

Emily's eyes held a fierce determination. "With every fibre of my being, I promise." She leaned down to claim another kiss, her tongue delving into the warm cavern of Y/N's mouth, tasting the sweetness of her omega. Their kiss grew deeper, more urgent, a silent vow to the week of passion they were about to embark on.

[itsskyvoltage]

Cosmic Love

Pairing: Ben Tennyson x female! reader

Warning: None

Masterlist

💚💚💚💚💚💚💚💚💚💚💚💚💚💚💚

In the bustling metropolis of Bellwood, where the ordinary often meets the extraordinary, Y/N L/N led a life that was anything but predictable. As a budding journalist with a knack for uncovering mysteries, she found herself drawn to the unusual occurrences that seemed to follow one particular young man—Ben Tennyson.

Ben, with his charming grin and the enigmatic Omnitrix on his wrist, was not just any teenager. He was a hero, a defender of Earth against extraterrestrial threats. Y/N first met Ben during one of his many adventures, where she was reporting on an alien invasion that threatened the city. Amid the chaos, she saw Ben transform into various powerful aliens, fighting with a courage that impressed and intrigued her.

Their paths continued to cross as Y/N covered more of Ben's heroic exploits. She admired his bravery, his determination, and the compassion he showed towards both friends and foes alike. Ben, in turn, found himself drawn to Y/N's sharp mind, her unwavering spirit, and her ability to see beyond the surface of things.

Their friendship blossomed over time, deepening into a bond that neither could fully articulate. Late-night conversations turned into shared meals and moments stolen between battles against villains from across the galaxy. Y/N became someone Ben trusted implicitly, and he found himself confiding in her about his doubts, fears, and hopes for the future.

One evening, under the starlit sky of Bellwood Park, they found themselves sitting on a bench, enjoying a rare moment of peace. The air was filled with a gentle breeze, and the city's lights twinkled in the distance. Y/N turned to Ben, her heart racing with a confession she had been holding back for so long.

"Ben," she began, her voice steady yet filled with emotion, "there's something I've been wanting to tell you."

Ben turned to her, his green eyes reflecting the moonlight. "What is it, Y/N?"

Taking a deep breath, she met his gaze directly. "I… I love you, Ben."

For a moment, the world seemed to stand still. Ben's expression softened, a mixture of surprise and joy spreading across his face. He reached out, gently taking her hand in his.

"I… I love you too, Y/N," he replied, his voice barely above a whisper.

Y/N felt a rush of relief and happiness wash over her. She leaned in closer to him, unable to resist the urge to be nearer to the person who had captured her heart in ways she never imagined possible.

Ben smiled warmly at her, his heart overflowing with love and gratitude. "Say it again," he murmured softly.

Y/N blinked, surprised by his request but unable to deny him anything. "I love you, Ben," she repeated, her voice filled with tenderness.

Ben's smile widened, his heart swelling with each repetition of those three simple words. "Again," he whispered, his eyes locked with hers.

A playful grin tugged at Y/N's lips. "I love you, Ben," she said again, this time with a teasing lilt to her voice.

They both chuckled softly, their laughter mingling with the gentle night breeze. In that moment, surrounded by the stars and the quiet hum of the city, Y/N and Ben knew that their love was something extraordinary—a cosmic bond that transcended time, space, and even the boundaries of their respective worlds.

From that night onward, Y/N and Ben's relationship deepened into a love story that would be whispered about for generations. Together, they faced new adventures, shared moments of laughter and tears, and discovered that love truly was the most powerful force in the universe.

As they stood side by side, facing whatever challenges lay ahead, Y/N knew one thing for certain—she would never tire of saying those three words to the man who had stolen her heart: "I love you, Ben."

In the weeks following their heartfelt confession under the starlit sky of Bellwood Park, Y/N L/N and Ben Tennyson found themselves more inseparable than ever. Their love, like the cosmic forces they often battled, seemed to grow stronger with each passing day.

One quirky habit of Y/N's that Ben couldn't help but notice was her constant application of lip balm. Whether they were in the midst of a battle or simply enjoying a quiet moment together, she would unfailingly reach into her pocket for her trusty tube of balm and slick it over her lips with practiced ease.

Ben found it endearing, how she would pucker her lips just so and then press them together in a manner that was almost absent-minded yet oddly captivating. It became a ritual of sorts, a comforting gesture that signaled moments of peace amid the chaos of their adventurous lives.

One lazy afternoon, as they lounged in Ben's cozy room after a particularly intense battle with a formidable alien foe, Y/N reached into her pocket and pulled out her lip balm. Ben, who was sprawled on the bed beside her, couldn't help but smile at the familiar sight.

"You and that lip balm," he teased gently, his eyes twinkling with affection.

Y/N chuckled softly, uncapping the tube and applying the balm with a thoughtful expression. "Can't help it," she replied with a shrug. "Gotta keep these lips moisturized, you know?"

Ben grinned mischievously, a playful glint in his eye. "You know what happens every time you put that stuff on, right?"

Y/N arched an eyebrow, intrigued. "What happens?"

Ben leaned closer to her, his voice dropping to a husky whisper. "I give you a kiss."

Y/N's cheeks flushed pink as she looked at him, a mix of surprise and delight dancing in her eyes. "Every time?"

Ben nodded, his grin widening. "Every single time."

Y/N couldn't suppress a giggle, charmed by Ben's spontaneous declaration. "Well then," she said teasingly, capping her lip balm and sliding it back into her pocket, "I guess I'll have to keep applying it."

True to her word, Y/N found herself reaching for her lip balm more often than usual in the days that followed. It became a delightful game between them—a subtle exchange of affection that spoke volumes without the need for words.

In the midst of a tense negotiation with a peace-seeking alien ambassador, Y/N discreetly applied her lip balm, casting a quick glance at Ben who stood nearby. True to his promise, Ben crossed the room in a few swift strides, cupped her face gently in his hands, and pressed a tender kiss to her lips, leaving her momentarily breathless and the ambassador momentarily perplexed.

During a quiet evening spent stargazing on the rooftop of Ben's grandfather's house, Y/N caught Ben stealing glances at her as she applied her lip balm under the starlit sky. Without a word, he leaned in and captured her lips in a kiss that tasted of moonlight and promises.

Even in the heat of battle, when adrenaline surged through their veins and danger lurked around every corner, Ben never failed to steal a moment for a quick kiss whenever Y/N reached for her lip balm. It became their secret language of love—a sweet, stolen moment amidst the chaos and uncertainty of their extraordinary lives.

As they faced new challenges together, their bond strengthened with each kiss, each gesture of affection a testament to the depth of their love. Y/N knew, without a doubt, that Ben was her cosmic match—a hero not just of Earth, but of her heart.

And as the stars continued to shine brightly overhead, Y/N found herself falling deeper in love with the boy who had stolen her heart with his bravery, his compassion, and his penchant for giving kisses at the most unexpected moments.

Their love story, like the cosmos itself, was vast and infinite—a journey of adventure, passion, and sweet kisses that would continue to unfold for eternity.

*Not confident in my writing but hopefully you enjoyed it.*

[drbased]

ok I have to talk about 'the dialectic of sex' by shulamith firestone because it was one of the first proper feminist books I read and I didn't have the confidence back then to address this book:

so this is still the only book I've read so far that actually uses the words 'radical feminist' - except her definition of this politics is essentially transhumanist luxury space communism. because her understanding is that the 'root' of women's oppression is our reproductive capacity and therefore no matter what happens society will never fully be able to share the burden of childbirth and child-rearing across both sexes.

this book feels so evocative of its time - like there was a small window of pure hope shortly after the invention of the pill and the hippy movement where everything entirely changed for women. like, think about it: up until that point unless you use some sort of condom (which men don't like using - and also not 100% effective anyway) you're basically always vulnerable to being impregnated by a man during piv, which is considered the basic form of sexual intimacy wth men, which women are expected to engage in to be considered full members of society. so women would have all been in some sort of constant state of low-key fear; one sex - or rape - away from having a child that would change their entire existence. that's got to really fuck you up, especially your relationship with your own body. and you could get an abortion but only if you're incredibly lucky, and still getting an abortion is probably more like surviving a car crash than anything - like you're glad you made it through but also you're still damaged psychologically and probably physically as well. and it's such a silent fear as well - because women are supposed to want babies and babies just happen so you're not allowed to complain that this is because your husband always wants sex and he's the one who impregnates you but if he does people say 'she got herself pregnant again'. like there's layer upon layer of psychological terrorism surrounding men's impregnation of women and that's gotta mess you the hell up.

so the invention of the pill - holy shit, just imagine it. the hope. you can take the pill in secret, you can take the power back, you're not uniquely vulnerable to your own bodily forces anymore, that gives you time to fucking think, to be alive, to feel, to feel vulnerable, to feel free. it's like literal magic. if the most basic of happenings - pregnancy - can be actually prevented, then what else can we do to the body? what else can science do for us?? how more free can we get?? It's women's first time to (ironically) feel like a god, able to transcend the body. I'm actually surprised that I've not found more writings like shulamith's - that there weren't more women spurred on by this amazing discovery into further transhumanism. I guess the problem was that women were starting to notice that whilst women were able to change their own individual lives with the pill, that wasn't making men behave any differently.

but I still find it fascinating how this definition of radical feminism hasn't survived at all. as it stands on radblr, the 'root' of women's oppression is men, and therefore the only real solution is separatism. but like, what happened to the brand of feminism that says, uhhhh isn't it actually kinda fucked up that half the human race are burdened entirely with pregnancy, birth and child-rearing? and could we maybe be freed from that if we used science to bring about children another way? I'm not even agreeing with her that that would solve everything (because regardless even if we *could* make babies in a tube, that doesn't mean all women are going to magically become infertile, and it certainly doesn't mean than men are going to be less violent against us), but I'm very interested in questioning what the 'root' of women's oppression is - because modern 'radical feminism' has a lot of gaps to allow for a simplistic narrative that I'm sure many in the community, definitely myself included, are rapidly tiring of. and I think it shows in the separatism debate, which rages on because no one can think of any other solution, because the unspoken tenet is that what the 'root' is is solved and agreed-upon, and therefore the answer is just so damn obvious that the women who don't agree must be scared and stupid. I've been wanting to address this in some form or another for years now, and I guess I'm dipping my toes in it now.

at the very least, I'd like to know if someone has a good source on where the term 'radical feminism' came from and how its meaning has evolved over the years. in ariel levy's 'female chauvinist pigs' she touches on this debate that started in the late seventies that led to the fracturing of feminism and the creation of liberal feminism - and it seems to be along these same lines of separatism vs fucking men. I've always found it odd that there's essentially no middle ground here - like you don't need to embrace 'sluttiness' in order to want to have a healthy sexual relationship with a man, but it seems the liberal feminist side chose that, meanwhile the only other 'mainstream' option seems to be separatism. obviously a lot of the women in radblr don't actually fully agree with that - but all us hetties are suspiciously silent on that subject.

to me the issues with separatism go further than simply sex with men - sure it's psychologically good for you to only purchase from women owned businesses and only read books by women etc etc, and it financially uplifts other women. but also we live under capitalism, which obscures our reliance on each other. when you buy from that woman-owned business, the person delivering your package is likely to be male, the person who assembled the vehicle he drives is likely to be male, the person who constructed the roads he drives on is likely to be male. this is not to say that men are vital - but rather, your 'separatist choice' is a fundamentally capitalistic one that exists more for your peace of mind than being anything actually radical - as in, nothing about the 'root' of women's oppression is addressed in doing so. there's no ethical consumption under capitalism yadda yadda. and only speaking to women irl is also less of a capitalist action but still ultimately an individual one. there's so much emphasis on personal actions as the height of feminism and it screams liberal individualist to me. like you took 'the personal is political' and ran with it.

but if the root of the problem is men, then that's simple, isn't it? just don't interact with men. don't have sex with men. don't pay men, apart from the men who happen to be an inescapable part of the supply chain, they will inevitably get paid by your actions anyway, but you don't have to think about that because that's what capitalism does: it makes you think you have this magical power as an indvidual to make real radical choice in the world, to 'vote with your dollar'.

I'm not exactly calling for firebombing a walmart but I'm bored with the capitalism-loving individualistic liberalism of what this community calls 'radical feminism' - but that same thought-terminating cliche keeps getting thrown at us: 'we're radical, which means we grasp at the root, and the root is male violence, so you can't call yourself a radical feminist if you don't want to do the basic things of not wearing make-up and not fucking men'. and nobody ever seems to stop and question, does any of that actually address the root of our oppression? capitalism isn't the only economic system that has ever oppressed women, but it's the one we live under, and it's very good at sneaking into the backdrop of our lives and naturalising hierarchies - capitalism becomes its own justification, e.g. women choose low-paying jobs just because that's what we gravitate to, yanno?

being genuinely anti-capitalist recomplicates politics all over again, because suddenly it's not an easy men vs women but also men vs women vs rich people, some of whom are women??? and like, what's the solution to that? do we stand with men agains the capitalist system and risk our voices getting silenced, or do we go full single-issue and just go fuck it, capitalism was created by men for themselves like solanas said, so if we stand against men then idk capitalism will just sort of fall by itself? or in reality it's just not addressed at all. separatism itself always sits there as a thought-terminating cliche in and of itself - an accusation ready to be levelled at anyone who wants to question any of these unspoken tenets of radblr. and the goal-post is ever-shifting - separatism is women's land, but if you say that's not a real solution in our capitalist interconnected world then you get accused of not wanting women's spaces because that's obviously what separatism has been about this whole time. also separatism is not fucking men, actually it's not about that it's about prioritising women (vague), and on and on and on - the argument always shifts so the word stays pure. but like, is separatism an end-goal? a political tactic? something you do to enrich your own life and psyche? something to give space for consciousness-raising? I saw someone ages ago claim that the suffragettes wanting the right to vote was somehow separatist because idk, the women were making spaces for themselves? but wanting to involve yourself in male politics is literally assimilationist, no??

I'lm going to stop rambling for now but this was good to get my thoughts out there - I enjoy my theorising in this space but I'm also deeply interested in questioning. I've noticed time and time again that discourse is always stopped by 'you're not a real radical feminist if you do/don't do x' and I've found it really odd and telling that no one's questioned that? like sure I know we've built our whole political framework on 'words mean things' but also it's always worth questioning the definition of 'radical' and what the 'root' of our oppression is, and what we can actually do to address it, and if our narratives and assumptions are too simplistic. the community would be all the better for it imho. I already think the influx of 'tirfs' in the community and the khelif debate has been opening up these unspoken simplistic narratives on the nature of gender vs sex, of socialisation vs low-key biological essentialism, and I think we can push that kind of questioning even further. ramble over.

[thepastisalreadywritten]

The most powerful moment of the coronation of King Charles III was not the gold glittering off carriages or epaulettes — not the pomp and show and signifiers of power.

It was precisely their opposite: when Charles shed his gold robes and stood in a thin white shirt, his frail humanity implied.

Then a screen was erected around him and, shielded, he had a private consultation with the Archbishop of Canterbury, who dabbed anointing oil with his hands on Charles’s bare breast.

"This was the most solemn and personal of moments,” Buckingham Palace said.

Charles was bare before God, in privacy, God being one of the last beings with no need to sign a non-disclosure agreement.

The Princess of Wales looked on as the screen shielded her father-in-law.

By contrast, she was at that point the most magnificent she had ever been, swathed in layer upon layer of regality, the dress, the robes, the hanging chains, headpiece and ribbons all serving to move the viewing gaze — subjects in every sense — from our awareness of Catherine Middleton with her everyday human DNA and towards the shared fiction of her transcendent queenliness.

Less than a year later, this moment is remembered with new and terrible power.

It is spring again, but it’s a time of hard Lenten moral reflection for us as a nation, in relationship to our royals, as well as an ever more voraciously unprivate modern celebrity culture.

Both the King and the princess have cancer, the latter’s disclosed by Catherine in an unprecedented video address on Friday, March 22.

Catherine’s speech was something of a plea bargain in which she traded not only her customary silence but her most personal of health ordeals in order to put an end to toxic rumours swirling online that had become in tone like an unruly mob rattling at the palace gates.

Or rattling at the figurative locks on her medical notes, with three workers at the London Clinic, where she and the King were treated, suspended and under investigation for allegedly trying to access her records (hers, it is important to note, the King’s were unmolested).

📷: Getty Images

What was so powerful about the anointing of the King was the sacredness of that space in which he could be fully human away from observation and judgment.

There should be another one-on-one consultation that is sacred, where anyone, from King to princess to pauper, can expect to be shriven in total privacy, and that is the sanctity of the medical room.

It used to be that priests were our only bound confidants, we could trust them to be privy to all our spiritual ills.

Now doctors are our secular priests: bound by law and ethics to enshrine confidentiality at the heart of the patient relationship.

As a result, our medical privacy in an age of oversharing and online surveillance feels both stranger and more necessary.

If we knew our every GP-inspected rash was to be posted on TikTok for the nation, many of us would quite literally die of embarrassment.

The King’s appointment behind the three-sided screen can now be viewed through the lens of royal illness.

The lavishly embroidered panels and expensive white shirt now replaced by the flimsy three-sided ward screen on wheels and thin hospital gown that can humble us all.

But it also enacts a principle at the very heart of becoming the monarch.

The medical-like screen is erected in the coronation to tell us there are some places the public cannot go; to tell us that there are sacredly personal moments in which a person, any person, however swathed in our projections of power, needs to be nakedly human.

Otherwise, they will go mad. We need to make sure the screens are erected around Catherine now.

Much is said, quite a lot of it by Prince Harry himself, of the dangers of the wives of the princes repeating the tragic history of their mother, Princess Diana, hunted by photographers.

He remains phobic to any hint of tabloid persecution or paparazzi chase. But this is a sideshow, even an anachronism in 2024.

He and others have not recognised how the “chase” has changed. Who needs paparazzi when there are a billion citizen hacks ready to take pictures with their phones, in case a convalescing woman nips to a Windsor farm shop with her husband?

Instead, the appetite now is not to see but to know.

The royals used to have a contract with the public: we pay for them, and in return, they give us their presence.

Nearly all of their official job is to do with surface: to show up, to put in appearances at a set number of functions, whether at the opening of parliament or the opening of a leisure centre.

But now parts of the online mob seem to be staging a coup. We want more than the surface, we want to puncture the skin barrier of the royal family and occupy from the inside.

The “fans” have become an invasive virus. The royal analogy is often that they are trapped in a gilded zoo. This new model, instead, casts the royals more as lab rats.

When Catherine disappeared from view in January after announcing a “planned abdominal operation,” the response from internet truthers was one of irate entitlement.

They are now the 1980s tabloids: ravening for intimacies and making stuff up when thwarted.

This wasn’t the boomer generation, who are both more respectful of the royals and more private about their own health.

It was the fortysomething mothers frustrated when they can’t track the phone location of everyone in their life; or the twentysomethings on Snap Map.

Both desperate for their personalised new Netflix season of “The Royals” to drop.

Catherine presents with such stoicism and dignity, it is easy to forget where this new invasiveness started: when she was pregnant with Prince George in December 2012 and hospitalised for extreme morning sickness.

While she was sleeping on the ward, a radio station in Australia rang the hospital switchboard pretending to be the Queen.

They broadcast the nurse’s comments about Catherine’s “retching.”

One could only find this prank funny if Catherine had already — a young, wretchedly ill, pregnant woman — been dehumanised.

George is now ten and his mother hospitalised again, and in that decade, the physical security of ill royals may have tightened but their claim to bodily autonomy seems to have weakened.

Some say Kensington Palace “brought it on themselves” by their wish for discretion; this claim is duplicitous.

The late Queen Elizabeth II became increasingly debilitated in her final years with not much detail ever given; just as her father, King George VI, died without disclosing his lung cancer.

I’m glad that the British do not subject their heads of state to the same publicised medical reports as the president of the United States; one shouldn’t have to present a stool swab to sit on the throne.

No, instead the apparent justification of all those clicking and posting conspiracy theories “worried for Catherine’s welfare” was this sinful truth.

As a beautiful, 42-year-old mother of three, her drama was more box office than the ailments of those older, a pound of her flesh was worth more.

Pity, Susan Sontag said in her 1978 book Illness as Metaphor, is close to contempt.

Back then cancer was still taboo. Those around the patient, Sontag says, “express pity but also convey contempt.”

Ask any cancer patient and they will say they don’t want pity: it is too isolating, it sets them apart, an unwanted privilege.

This is why the video plea of Catherine was one of affinity, rather than pity or privilege.

Last year, she sat in robes in Westminster Abbey at the coronation of her father-in-law, next to her future king son and future king husband.

In her video address last week, she sat on a classically English garden bench, pale, alone and in jeans, as bare of pomp as any royal can be.

No mention of kings or titles, just Diana’s ring on her hand.

Rather she gave an appeal, parent to parent, human to human, about her “huge shock” and her care for her “young family.”

And, finally, her kinship with anyone who lives in a vulnerable human body susceptible to a democratic illness like cancer, “you are not alone.”

Or, to paraphrase Richard Curtis:

“I’m just a girl, standing in front of a public, asking for some time to endure gruelling chemotherapy."

NOTE: Additional photos have been included in this article.

[ssivinee]

✧Desirable Care✧

BEBE! Lee Seoyoung, aka Lusher x F Reader: You and Lusher are both popular regarding school status, but her crush on you was kept lowkey because you had no clue who she was despite being known to everyone. That changes once you realize how connected your worlds are.

Word Count: 4.1k

Note: Using blonde Lusher bc... look at her, like why wouldn't I😭. Anyway, ik this took a while. I was too lazy to write this one for some reason, so my bad, guys😔. This feels kind of rushed tbh (even if i wrote this for a while💀).

Character Vision Board

In university, there was a worshipped and admired group called "Team BEBE." This crew, renowned for its mesmerizing dance performances, held an uncommon status as the most recognized friend group on campus. Senior Bada Lee, Juniors Lusher, Kyma, Tatter, Sophomore Minah, and Freshmen Cheche and Soweon were the epitome of the popularity. They were the students everyone wanted to emulate, befriend, or perhaps even date. Yet, behind their iconic reputation, Team BEBE led lives of busyness, often hidden from the general public.

Despite their widespread recognition among the student body, Team BEBE maintained an intimate circle of friends and a few classmates. To them, popularity was secondary to their passion for dance and academic pursuits. Among the diverse crowd of their university, they navigated their busy schedules, balancing their commitments with dignity and determination.

To clarify, you existed in a different sphere of popularity. While you were not counted among the elite on campus, your name was frequently whispered in conversations revolving around popularity and the school's complex social hierarchy. Y/n Cruz, a Guatemalan-American international student who had graced the university since your freshman year. Your striking beauty and exceptional intelligence set you apart, but your warm, charismatic personality endeared you to anyone who interacted with you. Your name basically symbolized admiration, and your popularity transcended the boundaries of close friendships.

Popularity never swayed your humbleness, though. You remained consistently modest, friendly, and an inspiration to your peers. Every time you crossed the school's hallways, you were surrounded by your loyal friends who respected you with unwavering devotion. Your smile was a constant, a beacon of warmth that never failed to brighten your surroundings.

As the university semester progressed, the calendar page turned to a new month, and with it came an increased frenzy of activity. Team BEBE found themselves in the depths of preparation for a dance competition hosted at another school, a mere two weeks away. Simultaneously, they had committed to performing at their school's upcoming festival. It was a demanding juggling act, yet they diligently approached it. Dance held a special place in their hearts, and the ability to harmonize it with their academic pursuits made the long days and sleepless nights worth the effort.

Bada, their committed team leader, bore the burden of hectic schedules. As a senior, her academic responsibilities were more complex and time-consuming, demanding her attention early in the academic year. So, many of their practices were led by Lusher, her capable junior. On this particular day, Bada conducted a practice session before tackling her assignments, reaffirming her tenacious commitment to her beloved craft.

The studio atmosphere was charged with a noticeable sense of exhaustion. Beads of sweat glistened on Lusher's brow as she led the practice, her breathing mirroring her teammates. She glanced over at Bada, who was orchestrating the formation and couldn't help but feel sympathy. "Unnie," Lusher implored, her voice slightly strained, "can we take a five-minute breather?"

Bada, fully aware of their fatigue, hesitated momentarily before responding, "Seoyoung-ah, you know I would, but—" Her words were cut short by a discreet knock on the studio door. Bada and Lusher turned to the unexpected visitor, gesturing to be let in.

Bada, recognizing the newcomers, nodded in confirmation, and the door swung open to reveal three senior students. Lusher recognized some of them from seeing them around campus but couldn't understand why they were there. "Is it time already?" Bada inquired, and one of the seniors nodded affirmatively. "You have some time, though. N/n should be here in ten minutes."

The "N/n" caught Lusher's attention, a name unfamiliar to her until now. Curiosity piqued, she wondered why this person's arrival was significant enough to interrupt their practice. "All right, let me just finish this practice," Bada announced, determined to make the most of their limited time.

With her phone in hand, Bada approached Lusher and entrusted her with a task. "Do me a favor, Seoyoung-ah. Review the last minutes of the video, then send it to your own phone so you all can work on the dance while I'm gone." Lusher nodded, focusing on the video analysis as Bada conversed with her senior friends.

As Lusher focused on her task, Tatter, one of her team members, nudged her gently. Startled from her concentration, Lusher turned to Tatter with a questioning look. "What?" she asked.

Tatter pointed subtly toward the studio's entrance, and Lusher followed her gaze. What she saw left her momentarily breathless. Standing in the doorway was the sight of your tempting beauty.

Your caramel skin seemed to shimmer in the studio's lighting, while your wavy brunette hair cascaded in a high ponytail that flowed down to your hips. Your presence was nothing short of exquisite, and as you flashed your radiant smile, your pearly white teeth seemed to dazzle anyone who witnessed them. Lusher had surely seen you around campus before, and she'd often marveled at your beauty from afar. However, her busy schedule and the fact that you were a year ahead prevented her from ever encountering you.

Now, as she stood there, watching you with a mixture of awe and surprise, Lusher felt a newfound desire to bridge the gap that had separated her from you all this time. Your charm had always intrigued her, but this unexpected encounter had ignited a curiosity that was impossible to ignore.

Bada, wrapping up her conversation with her senior friends, rejoined the group and acknowledged your arrival. "Y/n-ah, nice of you to finally join us," Bada remarked, her tone playful. You responded with a light-hearted chuckle, your breath still slightly labored from your sprint to the studio. "Sorry," you began, "Ms. Hong held me back at the last minute."

Lusher watched the interaction between you and Bada, noticing the warmth in your friendship. It was a side of Bada she had never seen before, adding another layer of intrigue to the situation. As the conversation continued, Lusher couldn't help but wonder how deep this connection between you and Bada ran.

She was almost tempted to kneel before Bada, grateful she'd been allowed into your presence. The two blonde girls, Lusher and Bada, sat there, observing interactions between some of the school's most popular students. The conversation revolved around a forthcoming project that you needed to start this week due to your busy schedule next week. One of the other girls, not part of Team Bebe, pointed out, "So we should get going now?" Y/n nodded in agreement.

Team Bebe was taken aback by your remarkable accent when speaking fluent Korean. It was just one of the many aspects of you that people adored. Lusher, in particular, was determined to uncover all there was to know about you. As the seniors were about to leave, Bada gave the younger girls a mini salute, and you offered them a small wave.

Once the group had left, a deafening silence enveloped the dance studio, and the underclassmen stared at the door they had just exited. Minah scanned her spaced-out teammates and broke the silence, asking, "So are we supposed to act like that didn't just happen?"

"Did anyone know Bada-unnie was friends with Y/n-sunbaenim?" Everyone shook their heads in unison, and Lusher, still in shock, reclined on the floor, mentally replaying the scene. "Was she keeping their friendship a secret?" Soweon inquired, her arms crossed over her chest in frustration. "I doubt she would. Maybe they just met this year?" Tatter attempted to defend her leader, although none of the girls were entirely convinced. They all reached for their phones and opened the group chat.

Kyma🩵 Bada unnie?

Minah🩵 Bada unniiiiiiiieeeeeeee🤗

Tatter🩵 @Bada🩵, please pick up the phone so they can focus soon😮‍💨

Lusher🩵 How long have you and Y/n sunbaenim been friends?

While Lusher's unexpected question took aback the rest of Team Bebe, Bada stared at her phone in confusion. She had just left the room, so why hadn't they asked her then? "I didn't recognize any seniors in there," you pointed out, and Bada sighed, saying, "Yup, I'm the only one teaching them and leading it." You nodded and headed to Bada's car, but she hesitated momentarily. "Hey, we've been friends since our first year, right?" You nodded instantly, and Bada quickly typed away on her phone.

Bada🩵 Since our first year.

Upon receiving this new information, all the girls' jaws dropped inside the studio. "She was keeping it a secret?" "Maybe it just never came up?" Tatter, once again, attempted to cover for her best friend.

Lusher🩵 Why didn't we know this?😱

Bada🩵 Cause I know you guys are obsessed with her. Duh.

Lusher could practically hear Bada's sarcastic tone and rolled her eyes. "I swear she hates us," she mumbled, pouting while Tatter giggled. As the girls returned to their practice, the seniors went to the park to work on their assignment. The tall dancer, Bada, knew how people reacted to your presence. In fact, Team Bebe practically functioned as a fan club for you at this point. Bada had even noticed the subtle crushes some of the girls had on you, but Lusher was the one who appeared most infatuated. She often ranted about how good you looked and discussed your latest Instagram posts.

Bada had never brought up her friendship with you, even though the two of you were close. You had been each other's first friends in college, bonding over having the same major. You initially weren't sure if you could be friends with the towering girl, but as time passed, you discovered that you both shared the same major, making classes together inevitable. You often hung out during class, and other students loved the dynamic you both had. You were shorter, optimistic, smiley, and emotionally driven, while Bada was tall, appeared cold, and leaned towards being a pessimist, intellectually driven. You were the perfect definition of opposites attracting.

So, when Bada thought about her team, she figured the dancers wouldn't be able to handle the information. They might even use it to their advantage at some point. "So, you're going to be busy again with the festival?" Bada asked, and you nodded before sighing, "Yeah, but I'm also babysitting on those days."

"I don't know how you guys do it," one of your group mates said, her face reflecting her skepticism. "Bada has like 20 assignments, a dance competition, and you have two part-time jobs, your assignments, and the festival booth." You shrugged, and Bada chuckled. "When you love what you do, it doesn't make you feel busy," you explained, and Bada agreed. "She's not wrong."

"Speaking of the booths, can you come early next Friday?" Bada looked at your pleading eyes, tempted to tease you slightly. "Nah, I'm a little busy," she initially replied, causing your lips to pout as you grabbed her arm and shook it vigorously. "Dude, we need your height for the signs. You can even come later if you want." Bada laughed at your desperation. "Of course, I'll help you, N/n."

On the festival day, you and the baking club worked diligently to set up the booth. Boxes upon boxes of delectable desserts filled the display area. Some students passed by, watching as you organized the treats. Your eyes gleamed as you revealed a new dessert from each box, exclaiming, "These look amazing." A voice behind you expressed admiration, and you turned to see your tall friend with hungry eyes staring at the food. You gave her a pleading look, asking her to help first, causing Bada to roll her eyes and reply, "That's why I'm here, N/n." She began tying up signs while you ensured the coolers were functioning correctly.

"You made coffee cake?" Bada's gaze softened at seeing her favorite treat, and you smiled. "I know they're your favorite, so I made a bunch." She gave you a tight hug, her excitement evident. You swept the area as Bada moved around you, working efficiently to help with the setup.

"By the way, you should bring your team over later."

"Why?" Bada looked at you, her expression showing reluctance. "Girl, it's for the school fundraiser. Besides, I made so much, it'll just go to waste." Bada groaned at the thought. Her team was about to go crazy being in such close proximity to you. In a teasing tone, you told her, "I'll give you the ones you want for free." She agreed immediately, making you laugh at her swift response. After a few minutes, Bada finished putting up the signs and helped with the decoration. She then prepared to leave for a last-minute practice before their performance later that night. "I'll stop by before the dance?"

The school festival kicked off an hour after Bada left you in charge of the booth alongside other students who were helping out. The demand was soaring, and the delicious treats were flying off the shelves. Berry macaroons, red velvet cupcakes, chocolate chip cookies, and other goodies disappeared suddenly. You made sure to set aside some items that you knew Bada would love, keeping them hidden away discreetly.

Meanwhile, Team Bebe had just wrapped up their grueling practice and were gearing up for their performance. They all sported matching outfits featuring sturdy black cargo pants, baby tees with their logo, and cropped light blue bomber jackets. Bada led the girls through the crowd, the sea of students parting to make way for the renowned dance crew.

"The stage is that way, Bada," Lusher said, pointing to the left, but Bada didn't pause for a moment. "I promised to stop by somewhere and make sure I have some food left."

The younger members exchanged puzzled glances but continued to trail behind their tall, determined leader. They soon came across a sign displaying a cupcake, and the delightful aroma of sweet desserts filled their senses. "Are we getting food, unnie?" Lusher asked with a joyful clap and a jump. Bada nodded and made her way to the front of the booth, calling out, "Hey, N/n!"

Lusher's eyes widened with surprise as she spotted you holding a tray of beautifully frosted cupcakes. You wore a cute baby pink apron that exuded adorableness, and your beaming smile was a magnet for eager customers. Observing Bada trying to cut in line, you rolled your eyes, a gesture that didn't go unnoticed by Lusher.

"Is it okay for us to do this?" Lusher whispered to Bada, who responded with a sly grin. You signaled for Bada to move to the back of the booth, and the girls followed their leader. Reaching the rear, they found you holding an adorable light blue box. You opened it for Bada, revealing the delectable treats inside.

Grateful for your kindness, Bada expressed her thanks with a warm hug, and your eyes met with the crew standing behind her, creating a connection that would spark something new and exciting in the coming days.

As Bada and the rest of Team Bebe enjoyed the cupcakes you had prepared, Lusher couldn't help but be mesmerized by your beauty. Your smile was as warm as the sun, and your eyes sparkled with a charm that was hard to resist. Lusher found herself stealing glances at you whenever she thought you weren't looking, trying to hide the fluttering feeling in her chest.

She wanted to make a good impression, so she smiled and said, "Hi there! I'm Lusher. These cupcakes are amazing!" Bada took notice of her friend's boldness, leaving a cheeky smile on her face as she watched the younger blond pursue you.

Your gracious response only deepened her crush on you. "Nice to meet you, Lusher," you replied with your captivating smile. "I'm (Y/N). Thanks, I'm glad you like them."

As the festival continued, Team Bebe's performance drew nearer. Lusher and her crew enjoyed their treats, but Lusher's thoughts drifted back to you. She couldn't help but wonder about the person behind those enchanting cupcakes and that radiant smile.

Lusher felt a rush of excitement as she stood there next to you, even if it was just for a brief moment. She desperately wanted to keep the conversation going but knew that time was short with their performance approaching. As she glanced toward the stage where her crew was getting ready to head, she couldn't resist asking, "Are you going to watch our performance later?"

Your eyes lit up, and you nodded enthusiastically. "Of course! I wouldn't miss it for the world. I've heard amazing things about you guys." 

“Would you still be here by the end of the festival?” Lusher asks, hoping for anything but a no. That didn’t go her way, though, feeling down once you say, “I actually won’t be. I have work in 2 hours.” Lusher’s face grows sad as her posture droops, and you take notice, feeling bad. “Don’t worry though, I’ll make sure to leave something for you before you leave.”

With that assurance, Lusher reluctantly tore themselves away from your booth, eager to make her way to the stage. However, as they danced their hearts out in front of the school, Lusher couldn't help but steal glances in your direction, hoping to catch your eye in the crowd.

Hours passed, and as the festival drew close, Lusher returned to your booth to collect the baked goods you had promised. However, upon her arrival, she was met with dismay—a vacant space where your booth had once stood. You did say you had work, but Lusher truly hoped you could’ve possibly waited for her.

Lusher felt a pang of disappointment, but she didn't linger on it for long. She assumed her chance to see you again had slipped through her fingers. Little did she know that destiny had a different plan for her.

That night, Lusher's daily routine took an unexpected turn. She had to leave her group of friends earlier than usual due to her little brother being home with his babysitter. Her parents were working late, leaving her responsible for caring for her younger brother, Minjae, for the night. So when she enters her home, she expects her brother to run up to her with a cheesy grin like he always does. Yet, she was met with an eerie sound of nothingness. 

Her worry grew rapidly. Minjae was still supposed to be awake with his sitter, so why was there no noise? Lusher found herself cautiously stepping up the stairs, making sure she wouldn’t awaken anyone. She finds his door slightly ajar and a petite figure sitting beside her brother as they chatted away. Her eyes go to the babysitter, and she observes the clothing but pauses hard when she recognizes the cream-colored ribbon that held their hair up.

You were her brother’s babysitter? How in the world did she never realize? She wants to ask you many things but hesitates, especially after seeing your bond with her brother.

She watched in awe as you tenderly tucked Minjae into bed, his eyes shimmering with appreciation as he affectionately called you his "girlfriend" or "noona," expressing his deep admiration for you. Lusher couldn't help but beam at the touching sight as you giggled at his fantasies.

You read his favorite book as he fell asleep, ending the story to find him asleep. With a kiss on the forehead and a whisper of goodnight, you were about to exit his room but flinched when you saw Lusher standing at the door, leaning her head on the frame as her face held a sense of gratitude. Confusion brews on your face as you look back at Minjae, who looked peaceful as he slept. “Your Minjae’s noona?” You ask, and Lusher smiles, nodding. “So you’re Seoyoung?” You announce, stating it as if you were just asking yourself. “I’m just as surprised seeing you here. My parents never told me Jae’s sitter went to my school. There was literally no clue given to me,” She jokes, causing you to giggle at a hushed volume. 

“I’ll head out since you’re here now?” Lusher nods and walks you downstairs as you get your items situated. Before leaving, you perk up, remembering something as you rummaged through your bag. You pulled out a small box and opened it to show Lusher, and she stood there, bewildered. “I did promise you some treats, right? I didn’t really know what you liked, so it’s pretty basic stuff from the sale today.” You tell her, feeling a bit shy at the interaction, putting a smile on Lusher’s face. “I really do appreciate it, Y/n, thank you.”

“Of course. I’ll see you around?” Lusher’s heart flutters at the question. You? Were you hoping to see her? It was like a dream come true.

Over the following weeks, Lusher began to reorganize her entire schedule. Whenever Bada had to miss dance practice due to her projects, Lusher seized the opportunity to spend more time with her beloved brother and, naturally, to be in your company. One evening, while you were cooking a mouthwatering meal for Minjae, Lusher couldn't contain her curiosity any longer. She remarked, "You're so wonderful with Minjae," attempting to initiate a conversation.

You looked up from the stove with a hint of surprise. "Oh, thanks. He’s a good kid, so it’s a rewarding job for me."

Lusher's inquisitiveness grew, and she couldn't resist inquiring further, "Is babysitting the only thing you do? Like nothing in regards to working in a kitchen or bakery?"

You chuckled softly and explained, "I have another part-time. I also work in my mom's bakery on weekends."

Over the following six months, you and Lusher would share countless bonding moments. Whether baking cookies together, providing Minjae with homework assistance, or simply enjoying each other's company as a makeshift family, your connection deepened with each passing day. Unbeknownst to both of you, your lives were about to become more intertwined than ever imagined.

Lusher decided to visit your bakery since she had never been there after knowing you for a few months already. She was accompanied by Tatter and Kyma, her fellow dancers from Team Bebe. The three friends entered the cozy bakery, and the delightful scent of freshly baked goods enveloped them like a warm hug.

You were behind the counter, a welcoming smile gracing your face as you noticed them. "Well, hello there, Miss Seoyoung. What can I get for you today?" you asked teasingly.

Lusher couldn't help but feel excited as she exchanged playful remarks with you. She gestured to the delicious array of treats on display. "We'll take a little bit of everything, please."

You chuckled warmly. "Coming right up!" As you began to assemble a selection of delectable treats, you couldn't help but admire Lusher's lively spirit and her friends' enthusiasm. As you handed them a box filled with an assortment of your finest baked goods, Lusher couldn't contain her gratitude. "Thank you so much, (Y/N). These look amazing!"

With a playful wink, you replied, "My pleasure! Enjoy, and best of luck with your dance competition. I'll be rooting for Team Bebe!" The girls exchanged excited glances, knowing your support meant the world, especially to the sub-leader. "Actually," Lusher began, "we were wondering if you'd like to attend our competition next week. We'd love to have you there!"

You paused for a moment, genuinely touched by the invitation. "Of course. Count me in." The week passed quickly, and the day of the dance competition arrived. Team Bebe was in high spirits, fueled by your encouraging presence in the audience. As they took the stage, your face in the crowd gave Lusher an incredible boost of confidence.

After taking the stage with a breathtaking performance, the crowd applauded, and the girls took their final bow. Lusher's heart raced as she watched your eyes light up with pride. As the group gathered backstage, basking in the success of their performance, you made your way to congratulate them. Lusher could feel her heart pounding with anticipation. With an adrenaline rush, she decided it was the perfect moment to seize the opportunity.

With a trembling yet determined voice, she said, "I have something to ask you, (Y/N). I've enjoyed getting to know you so much, and I can't help but feel a strong connection between us. Would you consider being my girlfriend?"

Your eyes widened in surprise, and a radiant smile spread across your face. "I'd be absolutely thrilled, Lusher." You replied, sealing the moment with a sweet and tender kiss on her check.

The applause from the performance continued to echo in the background as you and Lusher embarked on a new chapter together, one filled with sweet surprises and the promise of a love that had blossomed amidst cupcakes and dance routines.

Tag List: @tikitsune @luvjanexx @blurmelonmilk @froufrousnowman @amararosesblog

[keehomania]

therapeutic (테라퓨틱) — lee taeyong (이태용)

✧.* 18+

the mind, a vast labyrinth, held within its delicate folds the secrets of every human experience. it was a realm both familiar and foreign, a place where memories danced like shadows on ancient walls, where emotions ebbed and flowed like the tides, and where thoughts wove themselves into the fabric of reality. in that particular domain, the boundaries between the conscious and the unconscious blurred, creating a landscape that was as treacherous as it was beautiful.

for centuries, humanity had sought to understand the mind's inner workings, to decipher the language of neurons and synapses that whispered the truths of existence. yet, despite all the knowledge amassed, the mind remained an enigma, a force capable of both creation and destruction. it could be a sanctuary, a place of solace where dreams flourished, or a prison, where fears and anxieties festered in the dark corners, unbidden and unwelcome.

why do i think the way i do? why do i behave the way i do? why do we find ourselves begging the question, that three-letter question—why? too long has it been a double-edged sword, that question. those who ventured too close to the edge found themselves lost in a labyrinth of their own making, searching for a way out that sometimes seemed impossible to find.

the mind was both a protector and a betrayer. it could shield one from the harshness of reality, crafting illusions and fantasies that soothed the soul. but it could also turn against its owner, unraveling the very threads of their being until they were left exposed, vulnerable to the relentless onslaught of their inner demons. the mind could be a gentle guide, leading one toward healing and self-discovery, or a merciless tormentor, dragging them deeper into the abyss.

the path to mental well-being was not a straight one; it twisted and turned, often doubling back on itself in a confounding maze. it required courage to traverse, or facing the darkest parts of oneself, the fears and doubts that lay hidden beneath the surface. it meant confronting the wounds of the past, allowing them to bleed so they might eventually heal. and it meant accepting that some scars would never fully fade, that they were as much a part of the self as the mind that bore them.

the office you called your own was a home of sorts, a place where the issues of the outside world were left at the door, and the echoes of troubled minds found solace. it was a space curated to ease the burdens carried by those who sought your counsel. the walls were painted in soft, muted tones—an earthy beige that mimicked the comforting embrace of nature. sunlight filtered through the gauzy curtains, casting a gentle glow that softened the edges of the room and made it feel safe, inviting.

your desk, though functional, was devoid of the sterility one might expect in a clinical setting. instead, it was adorned with books—volumes on psychology, philosophy, and the occasional novel that you found particularly stirring. there was a small plant, a gift from a patient who had once come to you in a state of complete disarray, now thriving under your care much as she had under your guidance. everything in the room was carefully chosen to exude warmth, from the plush armchairs that encouraged relaxation to the subtle scent of lavender that lingered in the air, a calming presence in and of itself.

patients came to you from all walks of life, each bringing with them a story woven from the threads of their experiences, traumas, and desires. there were those who arrived at your doorstep with their defences up, their walls built high. but you had a way with people, a way that transcended the clinical distance that often characterized the relationships between psychiatrist and patient. you didn’t just listen to them—you heard them, truly, deeply. you took in not only their words but also the silences between them, the unspoken fears that hid behind carefully chosen phrases, the way their eyes darted away when a subject became too painful to confront.

your reputation had spread quietly, almost organically. it wasn’t that you were a miracle worker or that you possessed some mystical ability to cure what ailed them. rather, it was your presence, the way you made people feel seen and understood without judgment, that drew them in. you never approached a session with preconceived notions or diagnoses waiting to be confirmed. each patient was a blank canvas, and it was your role to help them paint the picture that best represented their truth, no matter how fragmented or abstract it might be.

pills had always been a contentious issue for you. the pharmaceutical industry, with its glossy advertisements and promises of quick fixes, had never sat well with you. to you, the mind was not a machine that could be fine-tuned with a simple dose of chemicals. it was a complex, ever-evolving entity, influenced by experiences, environment, and relationships. you believed that true healing came not from numbing the symptoms but from addressing the root causes, from understanding and untangling the web of emotions and memories that led to a patient’s distress.

when the need for medication arose—and it did, at times, arise—you approached it with the utmost caution. you prescribed only the smallest doses necessary, believing firmly in the principle of ‘less is more.’ and even then, you coupled any prescription with a robust plan of therapy, ensuring that the medication was merely a tool to assist in the journey, not the journey itself. the low dosages you recommended rarely led to backlash, and your patients appreciated your restraint, knowing that you were not one to dole out pills like candy but rather used them as a last resort.

it was in your interactions with your patients that your true skill shone. each session was a dance, a delicate balance of guiding and listening, of leading without forcing. you never rushed them, never pushed them to confront more than they were ready to face. instead, you let them set the pace, allowing the conversation to flow naturally. and when the time came to delve deeper, you did so with a gentleness that put them at ease.

park minhyuk, a man in his early forties who had walked into your office carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. his face was lined with the stress of a life lived under constant pressure, his eyes betraying a deep-seated weariness. he had been referred to you by a friend who spoke highly of your methods. the first time he sat across from you, he looked hesitant, almost skeptical, as if he didn’t quite believe that talking could help him.

“i’m not sure this is going to work,” he had said, his voice heavy with doubt. “i’ve been to therapists before. they all just tell me to take some pills and come back in a few weeks.”

you leaned back in your chair, studying him with a calm, measured gaze. “i’m not here to force anything on you, mister park,” you replied softly. “i’m here to listen, and we’ll move at a pace that feels right for you. there’s no rush.” he had looked at you then, really looked at you, as if searching for something, some sign that you were different. you met his gaze steadily, offering nothing but the quiet assurance that you were there to help, not to judge.

over time, he began to open up, slowly at first, testing the waters. he spoke of his job, the immense pressure to succeed, the constant fear of failure that gnawed at him day and night. he talked about his family, the wife and children he loved dearly but felt disconnected from, the guilt that weighed on him for not being more present in their lives. as he spoke, you listened—not just to his words but to the pain behind them. you noticed the way his hands clenched and unclenched when he talked about his work, the slight tremor in his voice when he mentioned his children. and when he finally began to talk about the darker thoughts that sometimes crept into his mind, the moments when he wondered if it would be easier just to disappear, you didn’t react with shock or alarm. instead, you nodded, acknowledging his feelings without judgment.

“i understand that it feels overwhelming,” you said gently. “but it’s important to remember that these thoughts, as heavy as they are, don’t define you. they’re part of what you’re going through, but they don’t have to be the end of your story.” he looked at you then, a flicker of hope in his tired eyes. “you really think i can get through this?”

“i do,” you replied, your voice steady and sure. “and i’m here to help you find the way.” his journey wasn’t easy, and there were setbacks along the way. but he returned week after week, drawn not just by your words but by the genuine care you showed. and slowly, almost imperceptibly at first, he began to heal. he started taking more time for himself, reconnecting with his family, finding ways to manage the stress that had once consumed him. the transformation wasn’t immediate, but it was real, and it was lasting.

your practice grew, not because you advertised or sought out patients, but because word of mouth spread. people spoke of you with a kind of reverence, not because you were a miracle worker, but because you offered them something rare in the world of mental health—a safe space where they could be themselves, where they could speak without fear of judgment, where they knew they would be heard.

even those who had been through the harshest of environments—prisoners, veterans, people who had been hardened by life—found solace in your office. they recommended you to others, saying, “you should see her. she’s different. she cares.” and they weren’t wrong. you had found your calling, not in the pills or the textbooks, but in the people who sat across from you, day after day, baring their souls in the hope of finding some relief from the burdens they carried. and you met them with compassion, with understanding, with a quiet strength that reassured them they were not alone.

despite your skill in navigating the landscapes of other’s minds, there was a vast, uncharted territory within your own that you could not seem to traverse. you could guide others out of their darkness, yet when it came to your own, you were perpetually lost, stumbling through a fog that only seemed to thicken with time. it was a darkness that you couldn’t quite pinpoint, a gnawing emptiness that seemed to have no origin, no clear beginning. you often wondered when it had all started, but the truth was as elusive as the peace you sought.

perhaps it began when your father left. you could still remember the day he walked out, his shadow stretching long across the floor as the door closed behind him. the silence that followed was deafening, a silence that you had been trying to fill ever since. you were young then, too young to understand why he was leaving, too young to grasp the implications. but the abandonment had left a scar, a deep, festering wound that never quite healed. you wondered if that was where it all began, this relentless feeling of being untethered, of floating aimlessly in a vast, empty space.

maybe it was when your mother overdosed, her lifeless body found slumped over in the bathroom, surrounded by the remnants of a life that had spiraled out of control. you had been the one to find her, a memory that still haunted you, that still woke you in the middle of the night drenched in sweat. the sight of her pale, lifeless face was seared into your mind, a constant reminder of the fragility of life, of how easily it could slip through your fingers. you had been left to pick up the pieces, to make sense of the senseless, and in doing so, you had buried your own grief, your own pain, deep within you, where it festered in the dark.

there were your grandparents, the last anchors in your life, the last semblance of stability. their deaths had come like a storm, sudden and unforgiving, leaving you alone in a world that seemed to be crumbling around you. they had been your safe haven, the only ones who understood the weight you carried, and when they were gone, it felt as though the ground had been ripped out from beneath you. alone. that word echoed in your mind, reverberating off the walls of your empty apartment, a constant reminder of your isolation.

you hated being alone. it wasn’t just a dislike; it was a deep-seated fear, a terror that clawed at you from the inside. when you were alone, your mind became a labyrinth of dark thoughts and memories, each corner hiding another shadow, another demon waiting to pounce. the silence was unbearable, suffocating, so you filled it with noise, any noise that could drown out the voices in your head. you couldn’t stand the short sessions with your patients, craving more time with them, more connection, more distraction from the void inside you. the hour would pass, and you would find yourself wanting to reach out, to extend the session, to hold on to the connection a little longer, just a little longer. but you never did. you were their healer, not the other way around.

housework became a ritual of distraction, each chore accompanied by the blaring sound of music that reverberated through the walls, filling the empty spaces with melodies that drowned out the silence. without music, the house felt too big, too empty, too full of memories you didn’t want to confront. you couldn’t sleep without a movie playing in the background, the flickering light and the familiar voices lulling you into a false sense of security. the thought of lying in bed in complete silence, left alone with your thoughts, was unbearable. so, the movies played, one after another, their comforting narratives keeping the darkness at bay for just a little while longer.

but at the end of the day, when the music stopped, when the movies ended, you were left with nothing but the quiet hum of the empty apartment and the stark realization that you were alone. no parents to comfort you, no friends to lean on, no boyfriend to share your life with. just you. and it wasn’t enough. you had poured so much of yourself into your work, into helping others heal, that you had neglected your own wounds, your own needs. you had become a vessel, emptying yourself for the sake of others until there was nothing left for you.

your patients were the only ones who filled that void, the only ones who made you feel needed, wanted. they confided in you, trusted you, relied on you, and for a while, it was enough. but they were temporary, each one coming to you broken and leaving whole, while you remained the same, a healer who couldn’t heal themselves. when they got better, when they no longer needed you, it broke your heart a little more each time, even though you knew it was coming. it was the nature of your work, after all, to help them, to guide them, and then to let them go. but the letting go was the hardest part because it meant returning to the silence, to the emptiness, to the loneliness that gnawed at you, growing stronger with each departure.

you were sitting in your office, the soft glow of the desk lamp casting long shadows across the room as you sifted through patient files and prescription bottles. the clock on the wall ticked away the minutes, but you barely noticed. the weight of the empty office felt like a cocoon, enclosing you in a familiar, if not comforting, solitude. the sterile smell of paper and faint traces of disinfectant mingled in the air, a scent that had become as much a part of your life as the darkness that you couldn't seem to shake.

the faint sound of footsteps echoed down the hallway, growing louder as they approached your door. you knew who it was before she even knocked—a gentle, almost tentative rap on the door, followed by the soft creak as it swung open. “still here?” your manager’s voice was gentle, but there was an underlying note of concern that she couldn’t quite mask. hara stepped into the room, her eyes sweeping over the scattered files and the bottles of pills lined up in neat rows on your desk. the look she gave you was one you’d seen many times before—a mix of empathy, perhaps a touch of pity, and something else that you couldn’t quite place.

you didn’t look up immediately, your eyes fixed on the file in front of you as you made a show of scribbling a note in the margins. “just wanted to get as much work done as i could,” you said, finally glancing up with a smile that felt foreign on your lips, a practiced expression that you’d perfected over the years. she didn’t say anything at first, just watched you with those knowing eyes of hers. then she moved closer, placing a hand on your shoulder. the touch was warm, grounding in a way that made you want to lean into it, to close your eyes and let the world fall away. but you didn’t. instead, you stayed still, your smile frozen in place.

“you need to rest,” she said softly, her voice carrying a warmth that made something in your chest tighten. she squeezed your shoulder gently before letting her hand drop back to her side. “i will,” you assured her, the lie slipping out as easily as all the others. it was what you were supposed to say, after all, what she expected to hear. but you both knew the truth, didn’t you? you weren’t planning on resting, not anytime soon. rest meant being alone with your thoughts, and that was something you couldn’t bear.

she sighed, a soft sound of resignation, and you could see the conflict in her eyes. she knew she should insist, should tell you to go home and take care of yourself. but she also knew what you would say, how you would deflect with that same smile and those same empty promises. so she didn’t push. instead, she gave you a small nod and fished a set of keys out of her pocket. “lock up when you’re done, alright?” she said, holding the keys out to you.

you reached out to take them, your fingers brushing against hers for the briefest moment before she pulled her hand back. “i will,” you said again, and this time she didn’t bother to respond. she just nodded, casting one last glance around your barren office—the empty desk devoid of personal touches, the phone that never rang—before turning and walking out of the room. the door clicked shut behind her, leaving you alone once more. the silence was palpable, pressing in around you, but you welcomed it. it was better than the alternative. you turned back to the files, flipping through them with the pretense of work, but your mind was elsewhere, lost in the fog that seemed to constantly hover just at the edges of your consciousness.

you let the minutes tick by, the hours bleeding into one another as you went through the same files, the same bottles, over and over again. you knew there was nothing left to do, nothing left to distract yourself with, but you couldn’t bring yourself to leave. not yet. not when you knew what awaited you outside—the cold, unwelcoming night, the empty apartment, the silence that you couldn’t drown out. but eventually, the futility of your actions became impossible to ignore. the same patient files stared back at you, the same labels on the bottles mocking you with their uselessness. you sighed, a long, drawn-out exhalation of breath that carried with it all the weariness you felt but couldn’t show. there was nothing left to do, no more excuses to stay.

reluctantly, you gathered the files and put them back in their proper place, the routine motions bringing you no comfort. the click of the lock on the file cabinet echoed in the empty room, a finality that made your heart sink. you picked up the keys your manager had left you, your fingers curling around the cool metal, and stood up. the room was dark now, the only light coming from the faint glow of the streetlamps outside. you turned off the desk lamp, plunging the room into shadow, and made your way to the door. the hallway was just as empty as it had been when she left, the building silent save for the occasional creak of the floorboards. you locked the door behind you, the keys jingling in the quiet as you slipped them into your pocket.

the night air was cool when you stepped outside, unlike the stale, sterile atmosphere of the office. you tucked your hands into your pockets, your breath misting in the air as you stood there for a moment, letting the city’s sounds wash over you. it was late—nearly two in the morning—but the city was still alive, the distant hum of traffic and the occasional shout from a passerby reminding you that you weren’t completely alone.

but it didn’t bring you any comfort. if anything, it made the emptiness inside you more acute, unlike the vibrancy of the world around you. you weren’t tired, though you wished you were. exhaustion would have been a mercy, a way to escape the thoughts that clawed at you in the quiet. but sleep was as elusive as peace, and you knew that returning to your empty apartment would only make things worse.

so you let your feet carry you down the street, the familiar route to the small bar that stayed open late. it wasn’t much, just a hole-in-the-wall with dim lighting and a jukebox that played old songs, but it was something. a place where you could lose yourself for a little while, where the music and the people could drown out the noise in your head. the bar was nearly empty when you walked in, just a few regulars nursing their drinks and the bartender wiping down the counter. you slipped onto a stool at the far end, nodding in acknowledgment as the bartender approached.

“just a whiskey,” you said, your voice low, and he nodded, pouring you a glass without a word. you downed the first drink quickly, the burn of the alcohol a fleeting comfort, and ordered another. the jukebox played a song you didn’t recognize, the melody soft and haunting, and for a moment, you let yourself get lost in it. the chatter around you faded into the background, the clink of glasses and the murmur of voices becoming nothing more than white noise.

but the comfort was temporary, as it always was. the bar was closing, the bartender giving you a sympathetic look as he handed you your tab. you paid it without complaint, sliding off the stool and making your way to the door with a wave of thanks. the night was colder now, the wind biting at your skin as you walked back to your apartment. the streets were emptier, the city slowly falling asleep, and you found yourself wishing you could do the same. but as you reached your building, the familiar weight of dread settled in your chest. you unlocked the door and stepped inside, the silence immediately enveloping you, as it did every night.

you moved through the motions mechanically—kicking off your shoes, tossing your keys on the table, flicking on the lights. but the apartment felt as cold and lifeless as you did, the emptiness pressing in on you from all sides. you thought about turning on the television, letting the sound fill the void, but you couldn’t muster the energy. instead, you stood in the middle of the room, staring at nothing in particular, feeling the weight of the silence bear down on you.

it was suffocating, this loneliness, this isolation. it was a constant companion, one that you couldn’t escape no matter how hard you tried. and as you finally collapsed onto the couch, pulling a blanket around your shoulders, you couldn’t help but wonder if this was how it would always be. if you were destined to live your life in this void, surrounded by silence and shadows, with no one to share it with. the night stretched on, the city outside your window slowly quieting as it finally succumbed to sleep. but sleep didn’t come for you, not easily, not with the thoughts that swirled in your mind, the memories that haunted you. so you lay there, staring up at the ceiling, letting the darkness close in around you, wondering if there would ever be a way out.

the morning sunlight streamed through the narrow gap in your curtains, casting a gentle glow across the room. you stretched awake, the familiar feeling of weariness hanging heavy in your limbs, but there was something different about today. it was as though a thin veil had lifted, allowing a sliver of anticipation to seep in. you had always been a person of routine, and the thought of returning to your office, of delving back into the rhythm of your work, brought with it a semblance of comfort, a fleeting escape from the solitude that plagued you.

you moved through your morning routine with efficiency, the motions almost automatic. the scent of freshly brewed coffee filled the kitchen as you prepared a simple breakfast—toast and jam, with a cup of strong coffee to wake your senses. the radio hummed softly in the background, a familiar companion that provided a semblance of normalcy. you dressed with deliberate care, choosing a crisp, tailored suit that made you feel professional and polished, ready to face whatever the day might bring.

the trip to the office was a brief but pleasant ritual, the city streets bathed in the soft morning light, the air carrying the promise of a new day. you relished the routine, the predictable patterns that offered a sense of control. as you approached your building, you caught sight of the familiar facade, the reassuring solidity of it grounding you.

but as you walked through the entrance, you were greeted by an unexpected sight. hara stood waiting in the lobby. her presence was unusual at this hour, and her expression was more serious than usual. you offered her a friendly smile, but she didn’t immediately return it. instead, she gestured for you to follow her to a quiet corner of the building. “you’ve been working hard,” she began, her tone carrying a note of cautious warmth. “and i wanted to have a word with you.”

you paused, a twinge of apprehension flickering in your chest. “am i in trouble?” you asked, the question escaping before you could second-guess it. hara shook her head, her lips curling into a faint smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “no, not at all. well, not yet,” she said, inhaling deeply as if gathering her thoughts.

your heart skipped a beat. “what do you mean?” the uncertainty in her voice sent a ripple of unease through you. “what’s wrong?” she took a moment to collect her thoughts, her eyes meeting yours with a look of barely concealed concern. “you have a new patient,” she said finally, her tone shifting to one of subdued excitement as she watched your eyes light up at the news.

“really?” you asked, a spark of enthusiasm igniting within you. it had been a while since you had taken on a new case, and the prospect of diving into a fresh challenge was invigorating.

hara held up a hand, her expression turning more serious. “don’t get too excited,” she said, her tone taking on a warning edge. “he’ll be your project patient for your internship at the asylum.” the words hit you like a cold splash of water. “the asylum?” you repeated, the dismay clear in your voice. “but i love working here. this office, this environment—i don’t want to leave.”

hara’s face softened, and before you could fully process what was happening, she stepped forward and enveloped you in a hug. the gesture was unexpected, her arms wrapping around you with a warmth and sincerity that contrasted sharply with her usual professional demeanor. for a moment, you let yourself sink into the embrace, the human contact a rare and precious balm against the isolation that had become your constant companion.

“i know,” she said, her voice muffled against your shoulder. “i know how much you love it here. but this is something you have to do for your career. it’s a good opportunity, and it’s important for your development.”

you barely registered her words, too caught up in the comforting proximity of another person. the embrace lasted only a few moments, but it was enough to stir something deep within you—a longing for connection, for understanding, for more than just the superficial interactions of your daily life. when she finally pulled away, you nodded, a sense of reluctant acceptance settling over you. “okay,” you said softly, the word carrying more resignation than agreement.

she gave you a reassuring smile, her eyes reflecting a mix of sympathy and encouragement. “i’ll call a taxi for you,” she said, guiding you toward the building’s entrance. “it’s best if you head over there now. and remember to keep an open mind. this could be a valuable experience.” you followed her outside, the cool morning air brushing against your face. she hailed a taxi and handed you the keys to the office, reminding you to lock up when you finished. you took the keys with a grateful nod and watched as she walked back inside, her figure disappearing into the building.

the ride was a blur of anxious anticipation and reluctant acceptance. the city passed by in a series of shifting scenes, the familiar streets giving way to more industrial landscapes as you neared the asylum. it was a place you had heard about in passing but had never visited—a cold, imposing structure that seemed to loom on the horizon, its architecture stark and unwelcoming.

the asylum loomed before you like a cold, implacable sentinel against the sky, its grim, grey façade cutting through the morning mist. you stood before it for a moment, taking in the sheer scale of the structure—an imposing monolith that seemed to absorb the light, casting long shadows that stretched over the cracked pavement. the windows were narrow, barred, and the walls bore the harshness of age and neglect. there was something distinctly unwelcoming about it, so unlike the warm, inviting atmosphere of your office.

you pushed open the iron door, and a chill seemed to emanate from the very core of the building. the foyer was austere and utilitarian, the air thick with the smell of disinfectant and something else—a faint hint of despair that clung to the walls and floors. the reception area was starkly lit, the fluorescent lights casting a harsh glare over the sterile surroundings. it was a far cry from the soft lighting and cozy furnishings you were accustomed to.

the receptionist sat behind a high counter, her demeanor as frosty as the environment. she looked up as you approached, her gaze assessing you with a detached scrutiny. her uniform was crisp and immaculate, adding to the air of clinical precision that pervaded the space. “name and business?” she asked, her voice flat and devoid of warmth.

you took a deep breath, steeling yourself against the chill that seemed to penetrate your bones. “i’m (y/n) (l/n), here for an internship as the asylum’s psychiatrist,” you said, your voice steady despite the uneasy flutter in your stomach. the receptionist’s eyes narrowed slightly, and her lips twisted into a thin, humorless line. there was something almost predatory in her gaze, a faint glimmer of disdain or perhaps even pity. “follow me,” she said curtly, her tone leaving no room for discussion.

you trailed behind her as she led you through the labyrinthine corridors of the asylum. the hallways were long and narrow, lined with peeling paint and heavy metal doors. the air was heavy, laden with the echoes of distant voices and the occasional clank of metal on metal. you could hear the shuffling of feet, the murmurs and cries of the patients—a cacophony of sounds that was jarringly different from the calm and composed demeanor of your previous office.

as you walked, you noticed the guards stationed at regular intervals. they were stern-faced and vigilant, their uniforms dark and imposing. their presence was a constant reminder of the control and surveillance that permeated every corner of the asylum. you felt their eyes on you, a silent assessment that made you self-conscious. you passed by several cells, their occupants visible through the narrow windows set into the doors. the patients inside were much unlike the composed individuals you were used to. they paced restlessly, their eyes darting with a wildness that spoke of untamed thoughts and unspoken fears. some shouted incoherently, while others simply stared blankly at the walls. the sense of chaos was eerie, and it sent a shiver down your spine.

eventually, the receptionist stopped in front of a heavy door marked with a simple brass plate that read “psychiatrist.” she unlocked it with a practiced twist of the key and pushed it open, revealing a small, spartan office. the room was a stark departure from the warm, inviting space you were used to. the walls were a dull, institutional green, and the furniture was minimal and functional. there was a plain wooden desk with a single chair behind it and a couple of metal filing cabinets against one wall. a solitary window, heavily barred, provided a view of the bleak courtyard outside. the light that filtered through was cold and uninviting, casting long shadows across the room.

the receptionist stepped inside and placed a folder on the desk. “this is your workspace,” she said, her tone as unfeeling as ever. “you’ll be lucky to make it out alive.”

her words were delivered with a chilling finality, and before you could respond, she turned on her heel and walked out, leaving you alone in the sterile, unwelcoming space. the door clicked shut behind her, and you were left standing in the midst of the clinical bleakness that surrounded you. you stood there for a moment, absorbing the reality of your new environment. the emptiness of the room mirrored the uncertainty that was swirling within you. the asylum was a world apart from the comforting familiarity of your office, a place where every detail seemed designed to unsettle and disquiet. as you took in the surroundings, you couldn’t help but feel a pang of regret for the warmth you had left behind and a growing apprehension for what lay ahead.

you turned your attention to the stack of files on your desk, organizing them with methodical precision. the papers were a jumble of case histories, treatment plans, and patient backgrounds. as you sorted through them, the muted rustle of paper was the only sound breaking the silence of the room. you had just begun to lose yourself in the paperwork when a sharp knock on the door startled you. the sound echoed in the otherwise still space, cutting through the quiet like a sudden gust of wind. you looked up, but before you could respond, the door swung open with a slow creak, revealing two guards.

the guards were as imposing as their environment, their uniforms sharp and unyielding. they moved with an air of efficiency, each holding an arm of the man who followed them into the room. your gaze fell upon him, and despite your initial wariness, you were struck by an unsettling calmness that seemed to envelop him. he didn't resist; instead, he walked with an eerie composure, his movements measured and deliberate.

the man was restrained in a straitjacket, his arms bound tightly and secured with a belt around his torso. the sight of the straitjacket, with its bold white fabric and heavy buckles, seemed almost surreal against the backdrop of the dull office. the restraints were a harsh reminder of the severe nature of his condition, yet his demeanor was unexpectedly serene. as he was guided to the chair across from your desk, you took the opportunity to study him more closely. he was a tall man, his frame lean but solid. his features were striking—a sharp, prominent jawline and high cheekbones that gave him a distinctly aristocratic appearance. his brown eyes, though calm, carried an intensity that seemed to pierce through the confines of the straitjacket, a depth that hinted at complexities beneath the surface.

there was an unsettling grace to his presence, an almost magnetic quality that drew your attention despite the circumstances. his hair was dark and neatly styled, falling in soft waves that framed his face. the contrast between his physical appeal and the harsh restraints was jarring, creating a dissonance that was difficult to ignore. the guards remained by the door, their expressions guarded and unreadable. they exchanged a brief, knowing look before stepping out of the room, leaving you alone with the restrained man. their departure was marked by the soft click of the door as it closed behind them, and the silence that followed was thick and heavy.

you were left in the room with the man, the weight of the situation settling heavily on your shoulders. the office, with its cold, clinical ambiance, seemed suddenly smaller and more confining. you took a deep breath, trying to center yourself as you prepared to begin the session. the man’s calmness was a definite contrast to the environment of the asylum. he patient’s eyes remained fixed on you, a quiet challenge in their depths, as if he were assessing you as much as you were trying to understand him. you could sense a subtle tension in the air, an undercurrent of anticipation that was almost overwhelming.

you took a deep breath, the silence in the room amplifying the subtle rustle of papers as you mentally prepared yourself for the interaction. the restrained man sat calmly in front of you, his demeanor a striking contrast to the harsh confines of his situation. you cleared your throat, attempting to steady your voice as you introduced yourself.

“hello, i’m doctor (y/n) (l/n),” you said, your tone measured and professional. “i’ll be working with you during this internship.” as you spoke, the man’s lips curved into a faint, enigmatic smile. it was a smile that seemed to hold secrets, one that both intrigued and unsettled you. Hhs eyes glinted with an unsettling mixture of curiosity and amusement.

“lee taeyong,” he said, his voice smooth and articulate. the name struck you with the force of a thunderclap. you hadn’t recognized his face immediately, but his name was unmistakable. lee taeyong—an infamous figure known for his involvement in shootings and robberies. his notoriety had led to his confinement in a correctional facility after being deemed mentally unwell. your heart skipped a beat, and you felt your face go pale, the realization dawning with a cold, unwelcome clarity. taeyong’s keen eyes caught the shift in your expression, and a dry chuckle escaped his lips.

“have you heard of me?” he asked, his tone laced with a subtle taunt. you nodded slowly, trying to mask the tension that was creeping into your chest. “yes, i have.”

his laughter was dry and devoid of genuine mirth, a sound that seemed to echo with a dark undertone. “so, are you gonna cure me, doctor?” he asked, his eyes locked onto yours with an intensity that sent a shiver down your spine. you squared your shoulders, forcing yourself to meet his gaze with a confidence you didn’t entirely feel. “there isn’t anything i can’t cure.”

his response was immediate, and he leaned in abruptly, causing you to flinch involuntarily. the sudden movement was unsettling, and you found yourself instinctively retreating. taeyong smirked, clearly amused by your reaction. “are you afraid, doctor?” he asked, his voice low and teasing. you steadied your breathing, forcing a calmness into your voice as you responded, “i’m not.”

his eyes widened slightly in surprise. “you’re too pretty to be a doctor,” he remarked, the compliment carrying an edge of mockery. you raised an eyebrow, trying to keep the conversation on track. “why do you think you’re unstable?”

taeyong’s expression shifted slightly, his demeanor becoming more contemplative. “i don’t think i am,” he said, a hint of defensiveness in his voice. “but everybody else does. they think my urges are abnormal.” intrigued, you leaned forward slightly. “what kind of urges?”

his eyes darkened with a certain intensity as he spoke. “i like the fear and the thrill,” he said, his voice carrying a chilling calm. “the screams, the way everyone is powerless against me. it’s exhilarating.”

your mind raced as you processed his words, but you decided to take an unexpected step. you reached for the straps of his straitjacket and began to unfasten them, freeing his arms. taeyong’s eyes widened in surprise. “what are you doing?” he asked, his tone a mix of curiosity and apprehension.

you smiled, trying to project a sense of ease despite the underlying tension. “i thought you might be more comfortable without the restraints.” his gaze remained fixed on you, his expression a blend of astonishment and wariness. “aren’t you afraid i’ll kill you?”

you met his gaze steadily, feeling a strange sense of calmness despite the gravity of the situation. “i don’t think you will.” his brows knitted together in confusion. “how do you know?”

“because,” you said softly, “i don’t believe you’re a bad person.” the sincerity in your voice seemed to take him aback. his eyes widened slightly, and for a moment, he looked genuinely disoriented by your kindness. the atmosphere in the room seemed to shift, a tentative bridge forming between the two of you.

taeyong leaned back, his posture relaxing slightly as he began to open up in a way that was both fascinating and ominous. he spoke of his past, his thoughts, and his perceptions with a raw honesty that was unsettling yet compelling. his words were a tapestry of dark desires and twisted logic, but there was an underlying vulnerability that made it clear he was grappling with his own demons.

as the session drew to a close, he looked at you with an unsettling blend of anticipation and something akin to respect. “i look forward to seeing you again, doctor.” he said, his voice carrying an eerie calmness. to your surprise, you found yourself looking forward to it as well. there was something about the interaction, the unexpected connection, that left you both unsettled and intrigued. as you watched him being escorted out by the guards, the weight of the session settled on your shoulders.

the morning sunlight filtered through the blinds of your apartment, casting a warm, gentle glow over the room. yet, despite the comforting start to your day, your mind was occupied with a singular thought—your next session with taeyong. the anticipation was a new and curious sensation, one that both thrilled and unsettled you. there was something compelling about his presence, a magnetic pull that made you eager to continue your interactions with him.

as you prepared for work, you found yourself contemplating how to make the next session more engaging, more comforting for him. the idea of a small gesture—something that might break through the cold walls of the asylum and create a connection—seemed to be the right approach. you decided to get him a gift, a symbol of the positive interaction you hoped to foster.

you ventured out to a small, quaint shop that morning, one filled with charming trinkets and comforting knick-knacks. your eyes scanned the shelves until they fell upon a small, stuffed kitten, its plush fur a soft, inviting shade of cream. it was delicate and unassuming, a small source of innocence amidst the reality of the asylum. you picked it up with a sense of purpose, imagining how such a simple object might ease the harshness of taeyong’s environment.

when you arrived at the asylum, the day’s routine felt different. the walls seemed colder, the atmosphere more oppressive, but the small stuffed kitten in your bag provided a small spark of warmth. as you approached your office, you were taken aback to find taeyong already seated in the chair, an unexpected sight. his presence there, so much earlier than anticipated, stirred a peculiar flutter in your chest. “you’re early today,” you remarked, trying to keep your tone light and neutral.

taeyong looked up at you, a genuine smile spreading across his face. “i couldn’t wait to see you,” he said, his voice carrying a hint of excitement that made your heart skip a beat. the sincerity in his words resonated deeply with you, and a small, inexplicable connection seemed to click into place. you felt a warm flush creep up your neck, but you quickly pushed the feeling aside, focusing on your planned gesture.

“i have something for you,” you said, reaching into your bag and pulling out the stuffed kitten. taeyong’s eyes widened with surprise and curiosity. “what’s this?” he asked, his tone a mix of intrigue and amusement.

you extended the kitten towards him, a smile playing at your lips. “it’s a little gift. i thought it might help make things a bit more comfortable here.” he took the kitten from you, his fingers brushing against yours for a brief, electrifying moment. as he cradled the stuffed animal in his hands, a look of genuine appreciation crossed his face. “i’m honored,” he said softly, his gaze fixed on the kitten.

you watched as he examined the plush toy with a sense of fascination. “i want you to take good care of it,” you said, your voice gentle. “if you can fight the urge to hurt it, then maybe you can fight the urge to hurt anything.” his lips curved into a mischievous smile as he toyed with the kitten, his fingers brushing over its soft fur.

“is that your way of challenging me, doctor?” he asked, his tone light but edged with an underlying seriousness. you nodded, trying to maintain a composed demeanor. “something like that,” you replied.

the session began in earnest, the conversation flowing with a new ease as taeyong’s attention seemed drawn to the small stuffed animal. he spoke of his past, his feelings, and his thoughts with a candor that was both unsettling and revealing. his insights were intertwined with moments of dark humor and cryptic reflections, making it clear that he was a man of contradictions. at one point, as you listened intently, his hand, still holding the kitten, brushed against a stray strand of hair that had fallen across your face. the touch was fleeting but intimate, a gesture that caught you off guard. you looked up to meet his gaze, finding a depth in his eyes that was both intense and vulnerable.

“i meant what i said earlier,” taeyong said, his voice softening. “you’re too pretty to be a doctor.” you blinked in surprise, trying to process the compliment amidst the complexity of the situation. “what do you mean?” you asked, genuinely curious.

his expression remained earnest, his eyes locking onto yours with a sincerity that was rare in such an environment. “you just don’t seem like someone who should be confined to this place. there’s something different about you.”

the moment lingered between you, charged with an emotional undercurrent that was difficult to define. despite the oddity of the situation, you felt a surprising warmth in his words. it was an acknowledgment of your humanity amidst the dehumanizing environment of the asylum. as the session drew to a close, you gathered your things, the small stuffed kitten resting on the desk between you. taeyong’s gaze followed you with an almost reluctant admiration, and there was a sense of anticipation in the air as you prepared to leave.

“i look forward to seeing you again,” he said, his voice carrying a hint of genuine hope. you nodded, a small smile touching your lips. “i look forward to seeing you too.”

with that, you watched as taeyong was escorted out by the guards, the connection between you both lingering like a faint but persistent echo. the asylum, with all its harsh realities, seemed momentarily softened by the unexpected bond that had formed. as you left for the day, the small stuffed kitten seemed to symbolize a fragile bridge between your world and his. you just weren't aware of how sturdy, nor how fragile, the bridge really was.

the weeks that followed your initial session with taeyong felt like a delicate dance, a precarious balance between professional distance and the growing, unspoken connection that had begun to develop between you. each session became a complex interplay of emotions and revelations, and you found yourself increasingly invested in his progress.

you had begun to believe, with a cautious optimism, that taeyong was making strides. the sessions were marked by moments of genuine insight and self-reflection from him, which seemed to indicate that he was grappling with his inner turmoil in ways that were both constructive and revealing. there was an undeniable progress, and you couldn’t help but feel a surge of hope every time you saw him approach with that enigmatic smile.

during one particular session, you found yourself immersed in a conversation about his past, his regrets, and his aspirations. taeyong, with his characteristic curiosity and sharpness, suddenly shifted the focus of the conversation. “what about you, doctor?” he asked, his voice carrying a tone of genuine interest. “what do you struggle with?”

the question caught you off guard, and for a moment, you hesitated. it was unusual for a patient to turn the spotlight onto you, especially someone like taeyong, whose own issues seemed so consuming. you took a deep breath, searching for the right words to encapsulate the truth.

“i suppose,” you began, struggling to find a way to articulate your feelings. “i've been lonely my whole life.” taeyong’s eyes softened, and for a fleeting moment, the hardness in his gaze seemed to melt away. “no woman like you should ever feel lonely,” he said softly, his tone laced with an unexpected gentleness.

his words struck a chord deep within you, and you felt a sudden, almost overwhelming rush of emotion. you looked up, meeting his gaze with a mixture of vulnerability and curiosity. before you could fully process the weight of his statement, he leaned in closer, his breath warm against your ear. “do you feel lonely with me here?” he asked, his voice a low whisper that sent shivers down your spine.

your heart pounded in your chest, the sound echoing in your ears as if to drown out the rest of the world. the proximity of his body, the intensity of his gaze, and the warmth of his breath combined to create a heady cocktail of sensations. you fought to maintain composure, but the answer came out more as a breathless confession. “no,” you admitted, your voice barely more than a whisper.

taeyong’s fingers, moving with deliberate slowness, traced a path along your neck. the touch was light but electrifying, a sensation that left your skin tingling and your breath catching in your throat. “you shouldn’t,” he said, his voice carrying an almost imperceptible note of possessiveness.

the weight of his touch, the intimacy of the moment, and the raw honesty in his words created a potent mix of emotions that overwhelmed you. as the session drew to a close, you found yourself grappling with a tumult of conflicting feelings. the professional boundaries that had once seemed so clear were now blurred, and you were left with a gnawing sense of guilt for finding comfort in a connection that was fundamentally inappropriate.

the room seemed colder as you watched him leave, the reality of the asylum returning with its harsh, unyielding presence. you could still feel the ghost of his touch on your skin, the echo of his breath in your ear, and the weight of his words in your heart. the session had brought a confusing mixture of warmth and unease, and as you locked up your office and walked out into the night, the loneliness you had tried so hard to combat felt more intense than ever.

as the days turned into weeks, the asylum’s sterile corridors and echoing chambers seemed to shrink in comparison to the burgeoning world of emotions you experienced during your sessions with taeyong. each encounter with him became a delicate interplay of professional duty and personal connection, weaving a complex tapestry of emotions that you struggled to fully comprehend.

the sessions grew more intense and revealing, both for you and for taeyong. you could no longer ignore the way your heart would race in anticipation of each meeting. the way his eyes would light up when he saw you, the way his presence seemed to fill the room with a bright energy—it was impossible to deny the deepening bond between you.

in one particular session, taeyong sat across from you, the small stuffed kitten now a constant companion in his hands. the stuffed animal had become a symbol of the connection you shared, its presence a silent witness to your evolving relationship. “you know,” he began, his voice carrying a hint of introspection, “i’ve been thinking a lot about what we’ve talked about. you’ve managed to get me to see things differently. i never thought i’d say this, but i think i owe you more than just my progress.”

you looked at him, your heart skipping a beat at his unexpected confession. “what do you mean by that?” you asked, your voice steady but filled with curiosity. his gaze was intense, his eyes searching yours with an earnestness that was both disarming and endearing. “you’ve been patient with me, more patient than anyone else ever has. i think,” he paused, choosing his words with care. “i think you’ve made me feel things i didn’t know i could still feel.”

you could feel the weight of his words settling over you, a mix of excitement and apprehension. “and what is it that you feel?” you asked, your voice barely more than a whisper. he took a deep breath, his fingers absently stroking the kitten. “i feel understood. cared for, in a way I never thought i’d experience again. it’s strange, but i think i’m beginning to look forward to these sessions more than i should.”

the admission struck a chord within you, and you felt a mixture of joy and sadness. joy at the progress he was making and sadness at the realization that your growing affection for him might blur the lines of your professional role. during another session, you found yourself struggling to maintain your composure as taeyong’s attention shifted to you in a way that felt increasingly personal. he leaned forward, his gaze unwavering as he spoke.

“you know,” he said, his voice low and intimate, “i’ve noticed something about you. you seem different when we talk. there’s something in the way you look at me. something more than just concern.” you felt your cheeks flush, a mixture of embarrassment and excitement swirling within you. “what do you mean?” you asked, trying to keep your voice steady.

his eyes softened, and he reached out, his fingers gently brushing against yours. “i think you care about me more than you let on. and i can’t help but feel the same way.”

the admission hung in the air, charged with an electric tension that was impossible to ignore. you felt a surge of emotion, a tumult of conflicting feelings as you tried to process his words. it was both thrilling and terrifying to acknowledge that your feelings for taeyong had grown beyond the boundaries of professional detachment.

as the session continued, his demeanor shifted. he seemed more relaxed, more open, and the connection between you felt more tangible than ever. the way he would smile at you, the way his eyes would linger on yours—it was clear that the emotional bond between you was deepening. you struggled with the guilt and the moral conflict of your growing affection for him, knowing that it was inappropriate yet feeling a profound, undeniable connection.

the day you arrived for your next session with taeyong, you felt an unusual sense of anticipation. the asylum's cold corridors seemed to blur as you walked briskly toward your office, your mind already filled with thoughts of the conversation you hoped to have. but as you reached the familiar door, a pang of anxiety hit you when you noticed the room was empty.

your heart sank as you turned to the guards stationed outside the office. “where’s taeyong?” you asked, trying to keep your voice calm despite the growing concern. the guards exchanged uneasy glances before one of them responded. “they’ve decided to test their luck with another psychiatrist today. wanted to see how he’d react.”

a cold wave of dread washed over you, and you felt a sharp pang of heartache. before you could ask for more details, the silence of the corridor was shattered by a deafening crash. your heart raced as the sound of shattering furniture and frantic shouting reached your ears.

without a second thought, you sprinted down the hallway, your footsteps echoing in the sterile space. as you rounded the corner, you saw the scene unfolding in your office. taeyong, his face a mask of determination, was wielding a chair above his head, his muscles tensed in a show of raw strength. the psychiatrist lay sprawled on the floor, his face a picture of shock and pain. the guards were shouting, their voices a blur as they rushed toward taeyong. “what happened?” one of them demanded, their tone filled with both anger and concern.

his gaze, sharp and intense, found yours amidst the chaos. “i told you,” he said, his voice carrying a fierce determination, “i wanted to see doctor (l/n).”

the room seemed to freeze for a moment as his words sank in. he was swiftly restrained and escorted back to his cell, leaving you standing in the doorway of your office, your heart aching at the sight of the broken scene before you. the guards, now dealing with the aftermath of his outburst, left you waiting alone in the hallway. time seemed to stretch endlessly as you stood there, your mind racing with a tumult of conflicting emotions. when taeyong was finally brought out again, his demeanor was calmer, though his eyes held a deep, unfathomable intensity.

he looked at you with a mix of curiosity and something more personal. “what were you doing there?” he asked, his voice steady but laced with an edge of disbelief. you took a deep breath, feeling the weight of his gaze. “i was waiting for you,” you admitted, your voice soft but earnest.

his eyes widened slightly, surprise flickering across his features. “seriously?” you nodded, feeling a strange blend of relief and apprehension. “yes, seriously.”

once back in your office, the atmosphere felt charged with an electric tension. you sat across from him, your heart pounding as you tried to make sense of the events. “why did you crash out like that?” you asked, struggling to keep your voice steady. “you were making so much progress.”

taeyong’s expression softened slightly as he reached for the small stuffed kitten that had become a symbol of your sessions. he held it up, its soft fur unmarred by the recent issues. “because,” he said, his voice softening with an intensity that made your breath catch, “i’m in love with you.”

the confession hung heavy in the air, and you felt a surge of conflicting emotions—shock, confusion, and a deep, aching resonance. you stared at him, unable to fully process the gravity of his words. “i am too,” you said finally, your voice trembling with the weight of the admission.

without another word, he leaned forward, his gaze fixed on you with a fierce, unyielding intensity. his lips met yours in a kiss that was both tender and urgent. it felt wrong, a violation of every professional boundary you had sworn to uphold. yet, the raw, desperate need to connect, to feel something beyond the crushing loneliness that had plagued you, overpowered your sense of propriety.

the kiss was intense, filled with a mix of longing and desperation that made your heart race. his lips were warm against yours, his touch both gentle and insistent. every brush of his mouth, every caress of his fingers, seemed to echo the depth of the emotions you had both been struggling to contain. as the kiss deepened, you felt a wave of conflicting emotions—guilt and exhilaration, fear and desire. the world outside faded away, leaving only the overwhelming intensity of the moment. the walls of the asylum, the rules you had so carefully adhered to, and the boundaries you had maintained all seemed to crumble in the face of the unexpected connection.

taeyong’s hands slid up your body, cupping your tits over your blouse. his thumbs brushed against your nipples, which hardened immediately under his touch. you gasped into his mouth, your body responding with a fiery hunger that was impossible to ignore. his touch was rough, yet tender, as if he was afraid of breaking the fragile bond that had formed between you. his words from earlier played in your mind, and you felt a thrill of arousal that was as surprising as it was undeniable. you pushed back from the desk, the chair scraping against the floor as you stood to face him. your hands found the hem of your blouse, lifting it over your head to expose your bra. his eyes raked over your body, dark with desire. “you have no idea,” he murmured, his voice a low growl. “how long i’ve wanted this.”

you stepped closer to him, reaching behind to unclasp your bra. it fell away, revealing your full, round tits. taeyong’s gaze was glued to them, his pupils dilating as he took in the sight. he leaned in, his breath hot against your skin as he licked one nipple, then the other, his tongue flicking and teasing until you were moaning with need. your hands found his hair, pulling him closer as his mouth closed around one nipple, sucking hard.

his hands moved to the button of your pants, and with trembling fingers, he unzipped them. you stepped out of them, feeling a sense of vulnerability that was both terrifying and thrilling. he pushed you back onto the desk, his mouth moving down your body as he kissed and licked a trail to your center. his fingers found their way inside your panties, stroking your wet folds.

his tongue darted out, tasting you for the first time. you moaned, arching your back as he explored you with a fervor that left you breathless. he was rough, yet precise, his touch speaking of a hunger that matched your own. you could feel his erection pressing against you through his pants, and the thought of his big dick inside you made you wetter still. his fingers moved to your clit, rubbing it in tight circles that had you panting. your hips rocked against his face, desperate for more. “please, taeyong,” you begged, your voice needy and wanton. “fuck me. make me feel alive again.”

his only response was to stand up, his eyes never leaving yours as he unbuckled his belt and let his pants fall to the floor. his cock sprang free, thick and hard, and you felt your mouth water at the sight of it. he stepped closer, positioning himself between your legs, and without preamble, he pushed into you.

the sensation was overwhelming—he was so much bigger than any man you had ever been with. it was a stretch, a burn that bordered on pain, but the pleasure was so intense that you didn’t care. you gripped the edge of the desk, your nails digging into the wood as he began to thrust, hard and deep. his strokes were punctuated with dirty talk that made you feel like a whore, but it only served to make you wetter, to make you want him more.

you wrapped your legs around his waist, urging him deeper, feeling his cock fill you completely. his breath was hot and ragged against your neck, his teeth nipping at your skin. “you’re mine, doctor,” he growled. “no better cure than this pussy, fuck.” the words sent a shiver down your spine, and you knew that this was a line you could never uncross. but in that moment, as you felt him thrust inside you with a roar of pleasure, you didn’t care. he was close, his thrusts sloppy as his fingers pulled your hair, your whimpers making his dick twitch.

his hand slid down to cup your ass, his grip tightening as he pounded into you. your tits bounced with every impact, and you could feel his hot breath on your skin as he whispered obscenities in your ear. it was a symphony of degradation and lust, and you were the eager conductor, urging him on. your pussy was tight around his cock, gripping him with every stroke, and you knew you were close to the edge.

suddenly, he pulled out, leaving you feeling empty and needy. you looked up at him, your eyes glazed with passion, and he smirked. “turn over,” he ordered, his voice gruff. you complied, turning onto your stomach and spreading your legs, the cool desk against your burning skin. he stepped behind you, his cock nudging at your entrance again. without warning, he slammed back into you, making you cry out.

the new angle was exquisite, his cock hitting deeper, reaching parts of you that had never been touched before. you pushed back against him, your body begging for more. his hands gripped your hips, his nails digging in as he picked up the pace. “yeah, take it like that, like the slut you are,” he murmured, his voice a mix of praise and command. your cheeks flushed at the words, but you found yourself pushing back even harder, eager to prove his words true. with every thrust, he whispered filthy compliments about your body, his grip on your hips tightening as he fucked you like he owned you.

his hand reached around to play with your clit, his touch sending waves of pleasure through you. your moans grew louder, filling the room. the sound of skin slapping against skin was the only music in the air, a rhythmic crescendo that grew more intense with every second. you felt your orgasm building, your pussy clenching around his cock. “that’s it, doctor. cum for me,” he encouraged, his voice hoarse with lust. and with a final, brutal thrust, you did, your body shuddering with the force of your climax. he followed shortly after, his seed spilling into you, marking you as his.

once the tremors had subsided, he pulled out, leaving you gasping for air. you felt the stickiness between your legs, a reminder of what had just transpired. as you looked back at him, you saw the smug satisfaction on his face, and you couldn’t help but feel a twinge of anger. but it was quickly drowned out by the addictive thrill of the power exchange. you had never felt so alive, so desired. it was therapeutic. and as he stepped closer, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, you knew that this was far from over. there was an unspoken promise in his eyes, a challenge for you to come back for more. and you knew, without a doubt, that you would.

as taeyong straightened his clothes, his gaze never left you, the intensity in his eyes as present as ever. he was murmuring something under his breath, and you had to strain to hear his words amidst the whirlwind of emotions you were trying to process. “i feel as if you’ve cured me,” he said softly, his voice carrying a sense of genuine relief.

you blinked, taken aback by his declaration. “are you serious?” you asked, your voice a mixture of disbelief and hope. he nodded slowly, a small, almost serene smile playing on his lips. “yes, i am.”

the room seemed to hold its breath as he began to dress himself, each movement deliberate and composed. your own heart raced as you grappled with the weight of his words. the promise of cure and the possibility of something more twisted together in your mind. he turned to you, his expression serious yet tender.

“i need you to do something for me,” he said, his eyes locking with yours. “anything,” you replied without hesitation, your voice firm despite the storm of emotions brewing within you.

taeyong’s gaze softened slightly, and he leaned in close, his breath warm against your ear. “i need a machine gun.” the request hit you like a jolt. “a machine gun?” you repeated, trying to comprehend the gravity of what he was asking.

“yes,” he confirmed, his voice steady. “if you don’t want to help me, i understand, but i need one.” you were silent for a moment, the enormity of his request settling over you. the ethical and legal implications were enormous, yet the urgency in his tone and the trust he placed in you compelled you to respond. shaking your head, you met his gaze with determination. “i’ll do it.”

taeyong’s eyes lit up with a mixture of relief and gratitude. he leaned forward and placed a gentle kiss on your forehead. “thank you for curing me.”

the warmth of his touch lingered long after he had left. that night, the enormity of hia request weighed heavily on you, but you were resolute. if this was what he needed, then you would find a way. the loneliness that had plagued you seemed to intensify with the knowledge of his needs, but it also spurred you into action. you spent the evening making discreet, cautious inquiries, your mind racing with worry and determination. you knew the gravity of what you were doing, the potential consequences, but the promise of alleviating your own profound sense of loneliness and his plea drove you forward. finally, after hours of careful navigation through back channels and clandestine meetings, you acquired the machine gun. it was a heavy, ominous object, wrapped in layers of secrecy and dread.

you stored it securely in a hidden compartment of your bag, the weight of it pressing down with a disquieting sense of finality. the next morning, you arrived at the asylum with a mix of dread and anticipation, knowing that the day’s session would be unlike any before. entering your office, you saw taeyong already seated, a patient yet expectant look on his face. your heart skipped a beat as you approached him, the hidden weight of the machine gun in your bag seeming almost to pulse with your anxiety.

“good morning,” you said, forcing a smile. “good morning,” he replied, his eyes immediately catching the glint of anticipation in yours.

you sat down across from him and carefully extracted the machine gun from your bag. his eyes widened in surprise and then satisfaction as you laid the weapon on the desk before him. “i didn’t think you’d actually do it,” he said, his voice a mix of awe and approval. “you said you needed it,” you replied, trying to keep your voice steady. “i wouldn’t let you down.”

taeyong’s gaze softened as he reached out to touch the machine gun, his fingers brushing over the cold metal with a sense of reverence. “thank you,” he said quietly. “i knew you were the right fit for me.” the session continued with a shift in atmosphere. taeyong seemed more at ease, his demeanor less guarded and more open. the conversation flowed with a new ease, and you felt a strange sense of fulfillment. the machine gun, despite its ominous presence, seemed to be a catalyst for something deeper between you.

as the session drew to a close, you found yourself reluctant to leave, savoring the brief moments of connection and understanding. you had made significant strides with taeyong, and the realization that he trusted you so deeply was both exhilarating and unsettling. the rest of the day was spent in a haze of reflection. you sorted through files and paperwork, your mind frequently drifting back to him and the connection you shared. the solitude of your office seemed less oppressive, the quiet punctuated by thoughts of him. each task felt like a distraction from the growing realization that, in taeyong, you had found a source of profound connection.

in the quiet of your office, surrounded by the mundane tasks of your work, you couldn’t shake the feeling that something significant had shifted. the loneliness that had once felt so encompassing now seemed to have been touched by the fleeting moments of intimacy and connection you had shared with him. you were less alone than you had been before, and yet, the path you were on was fraught with moral and emotional complexity.

the night fell over the asylum with a chilling, almost suffocating stillness. you were at your desk, sorting through a mountain of paperwork, the dim light casting shadows over the piles of files. the routine of your task offered a semblance of normalcy, a brief respite from the whirlwind of emotions and decisions that had consumed you lately. you were lost in the monotony of sorting and filing when an unsettling noise shattered the silence.

the distant sounds of gunshots, crashing furniture, and frantic screams pierced through the walls. your heart leapt into your throat as the reality of what was unfolding outside became painfully clear. Instinctively, you ducked under your desk, your breaths coming in ragged gasps as you tried to stifle the rising panic. the noises outside were chaotic, a cacophony of violence and fear that seemed to grow louder by the second.

taeyong’s plan had taken shape, and the asylum was in disarray. he had enlisted the help of several other inmates, each fueled by the same chaotic energy that defined taeyong himself. the sound of gunfire rang out intermittently, each shot a reminder of the danger that now surrounded you. the air was thick with tension, and you could hear the muffled sounds of struggle and conflict as the inmates carried out their rebellion.

the commotion grew closer, and suddenly, two figures burst into your office. your heart pounded in your chest as they grabbed you roughly by the arms. you struggled against their grip, your cries of protest barely audible over the tumult outside. they dragged you to your desk and, despite your frantic attempts to break free, began restraining you with the belts from straitjackets. the leather straps cut into your skin as they bound your arms and legs to the desk, rendering you immobile.

you pleaded with them, your voice trembling with fear and desperation. “please, don’t do this. let me go. i’ll do anything.”

the inmates remained silent, their faces impassive as they completed their task. the office, once a place of calm and control, was now a prison, its familiar surroundings now oppressive and alien. as the last of the restraints were secured, the door creaked open, and taeyong stepped into the room. his appearance was striking against the backdrop of screams. he was calm, almost serene, despite the mayhem that had unfolded. the sight of him brought a mix of relief and dread. you gazed up at him, your eyes wide with terror as you tried to make sense of what was happening.

“taeyong,” you said, your voice quivering. “are you really gonna kill me?”

he walked towards you with an unsettling calm, his expression unreadable. as he neared, he paused, his gaze locking with yours. “i’m not going to kill you,” he assured, his voice soft but carrying a chilling edge. “i just need to hurt you enough to make sure you’ll be mine.”

the words hung heavy in the air, and your heart raced as you watched him produce a small metal device from his pocket. the sight of the electric shock equipment made your blood run cold. it was an instrument of pain, and its presence signaled a new level of cruelty.

to your surprise, taeyong’s expression softened, and he took a step closer. “i know you thought you were helping me,” he said, his tone almost apologetic. “but now it’s my turn to help you.”

the device was cold against your skin as he pressed it to your head. a jolt of electricity surged through you, and your body convulsed involuntarily. the sensation was overwhelming, a harsh intrusion into your consciousness. you felt your mind slipping away from the present, a series of fragmented images and memories flashing before your eyes.

your mother’s face appeared, her eyes filled with pain and sorrow. then, your father, followed by your grandparents, each visage a poignant reminder of loss. the images shifted and morphed, replaced by a vision of yourself with taeyong. you were working together, your roles reversed, with him now a cured man, living with you in a semblance of normalcy. the visions continued, showing a future that was both alluring and terrifying. you saw yourselves speeding down a highway, the police in hot pursuit. the trunk of your car was filled with money, a symbol of the danger and thrill that had become intertwined with your relationship. the exhilaration of the chase was intense, but it was overshadowed by an undercurrent of dread.

the final image was the most haunting. you saw yourself detached, your love for taeyong twisted into something unrecognizable. the thrill had turned into a grim reality, the danger of your actions reflected in the cold, hard truths of your choices. the vision was a cruel reminder of the consequences that awaited you, the stark reality of a future bound by the darkness you had embraced.

as the electric shock subsided, your body trembled uncontrollably. your mind was a whirlpool of conflicting emotions and revelations. you felt a profound sense of numbness, the shock leaving you disoriented and frightened. the room seemed to close in around you, what used to be a familiar space now a prison of your own making. in the end, you wished it had killed you. death seemed more reasonable, more promising, than what the future had in store for you.

✧.*

a/n: requested fic!!! the smut part at least i really dk where i was going with this plot lol