#ticking metronome

[yvofficialfm]

halves way's Daydreaming Tenor

Hisao Tooda {東田悠生}

"Keeping a steady beat can help you be on track."

Leader and tenor of halves way. Hisao goes at his own-pace, acting like an old friend to everyone he meets. He will often daydream, always seeming to have a smile when he does.

#yearnedvoices

[this-reminds-me-of-a-song]

This IS lost media, I actually only got this album through someone asking me if I wanted it

[asparklethatisblue]

Anyway. Here’s to another year of transing the narrative

[thetruekyle]

I think it all just finally clicked,

at 3am on a Tuesday..

☆ I was raised "brokenhearted."

By destitute dreamers and settled seamers..

Raised ever so lovingly, true enough-

-but I became broken-hearted by default,

The relativity of relative psyches,

Warping what was pure right from the off-

He looks like E.T. as I drew my first breath,

Seemingly, the slapped butt of a cosmic joke.

Though I had no real sorrow to dwell upon,

-and my light matched the happy I would poke,

I always tarnished, marked, knicked, scratched,

Sundered, shredded, demolished & destroyed-

All the things I actually sought to hold and love,

Cuz I was never taught how to care for much-

Without breaking and smashing it,

-to smithereens, but good in the end.

I have always been sensitive and soft, you see-

But my rearing to match was never .. me .

It was actually kinda sus, and mostly hood.

So my beast had been caged, and never free.

Incarcerated, violated,

-kept for his own protection,

And too long have his eyes paled,

-away from the sun,

Too long has his mane grizzled and grayed

-from sheer lack of fun,

Too long has this shadow been his home,

-where in a world of billions,

his reflection makes it seem there's only one.

But this one is a good boy deep down,

I know it because he's the same; a part of me,

And I Am every bit the unified Hol-Ogrum one

-but still just a bit shy,

despite being a ferocious guy...

For being otherwise just a bit too strong,

-ever-training apter control of claws & schlong,

Draining pens and loading bongs,

Dulling the edge,

Like landscaping a cliff face,

Now I am leveling up all my pawns,

He's broken free from the molds-

Once created to restrain and hold him.

He rises a monster, a beast, and a horror,

Ever yearning in his won freedom,

Just to be held again,

but in loving arms, for real

Not unlike all those loving hugs,

That conditioned his heart,

After so many years,

-to prefer not to feel........................................

…………………………………………………………………

[tickingispleasure]

You know what, I just realised your user name is Ticking is Pleasure. Not Tickling is Pleasure.

That makes way more sense.

haha how sweet. of course ticking is pleasure. listening to a warm tik tok tik tok tik tok like a metronom or a small watch gets me sooo deep into hypnosis. Everytime I hear some monoton ticking I get hypnotized so very easy and dive deep into a horny and empty mindless being. it's one of my biggest desires when thinking about being hypnotized and horny

[outlying-hyppocrate]

I DO NOT WANT TO MAKE UKULELE MUSIC BUT IT IS WHAT I HAVE.

[abbaswift]

need to see how taylor performs icdiwabh live…. every time the 1,2,3,4 happens she’d go into enthusiastic performance mode

[cartridgeconverter]

I AM GOING TO STRANGLE MY STAND PARTNER

[nimblermortal]

Spent a significant portion of a road trip trying to explain time signatures to Hyacinth, with ultimately this breakthrough:

Hyacinth: Oh! The lower number is how many ticks of the metronome you skip!

Nimbler, a bowed string player: wut

Hyacinth, a beginning plucked string player: It's how many ticks of the metronome you don't play on!

I had been wondering how plucked strings handle the distinction between whole notes and quarter-followed-by-three-rests...

[kibbits]

[ID: Meme of a car veering sharply right to catch an exit. The left lane reads "GO TO SLEEP". The right exit, that the car takes, is labeled "STAY UP FOR NO FUCKING REASON". The car is labeled "MY ALREADY TIRED BODY". /End ID]

[reidrum]

if you keep asking | s.r

pairing: spencer reid x fem!bau!reader

a/n: this was requested with “if you keep asking me i’m not gonna be okay” or smth along the lines 😭 i am a glutton for hurt/comfort fics so if yall have any more requests send em in :)

summary: in which you’re trying to keep it together when you hear some detectives talking ill of you, and spencer isn’t gonna have it

cw: hurt/comfort, self deprecation, insecure!reader, bitch ass detectives, protective bau my heart, use of she/her pronouns

wc: 2.2k

_______

the bau team was filing into the bullpen after landing from their last case in seattle, everyone making a beeline for their desks to get a head start on their reports so they could go home faster. everyone, except you. it felt like you were on autopilot, remembering your last known movements and just repeating them for as long as you could.

the case in seattle was rough to say the least. the unsub’s mo seemed to change every minute, making any progress the team made obsolete. the only thing that seemed to be somewhat consistent was where the unsub was taking his victims, which meant the geographical profile was the most important part to solving the case, a task you and reid were assigned to.

it started off fine, you both had found the comfort zone of where the unsub would strike next to figure out how to catch him in the act. except the next time he struck it was completely out of the predicted range, and this time a kid had died. no one could have anticipated that happening. it didn’t make the loss hurt any less.

the team knew it wasn’t anyone’s fault, humans are unpredictable, and that includes serial killers. spencer made sure to tell you specifically that it wasn’t your fault, he knew how you’d get if someone didn’t tell you.

his efforts went to utter waste when you walked by a room at the precinct with detectives whispering about how “you fucked up the whole profile, that’s why that kid died” and “it’s clear you make the team stupider, how did you even get into the fbi in the first place?”

it wasn’t the first time your abilities were in question. you were the newest member of the team, having only transferred six months ago from cold cases. you may be new to the field, but there was a reason hotch chose you personally for the bau.

you tried hard to prove yourself, despite pretty much everyone saying your skillset was enough proof. you’d stay late to finish reports, do extra research on cases to help garcia narrow her searches faster, and you spent countless hours at the training range.

you were a worthy agent, anyone who knew you or read your resume knew that. but right now, you felt like the smallest person on earth, an imposter. what the hell were you even doing here if you couldn’t save him.

you shouldn’t be allowed to feel relief that the team caught the unsub, not when there’s blood on your hands.

the bad thoughts swirling in your head causes you to stall your motions when you’re putting files away, gaining the attention of morgan, “you alright, sweet cheeks?”

“i’m good morgan, don’t worry.” you lie effortlessly. if he can tell you’re lying, he doesn’t mention it and turns back to his work.

taking a deep breath, you stand up to go to the kitchen to get a cup of coffee, when you run into jj finishing up making her own, “i was just thinking about you, i got this new creamer i think you’d rea-, hey, are you okay?” jj starts but ends concerned.

you try to focus on metronomic tick of the clock so you dont escalate, “i’m fine j,” you laugh unconvincingly, “what creamer did you get?”

she ignores your question, “because i know that was a tough case, and if you need to talk about it with someo-“

“jj, drop it, please.”

the blonde’s face drops a little at your sternness, but respects your space and offers you to try the creamer before returning to her desk. you feel bad for snapping at her, but the growing guilt within you is giving you apathy, and you can’t bring yourself to care at this moment.

you linger in the kitchen so as to avoid any more concerned faces, and you’re left to your own devices that are slowly overtaking you.

unbeknownst to you, spencer had been watching you since you all landed back in quantico. he kept his distance, mostly because he knew how overwhelmed you get at confrontation, especially about your emotions. he was the same way, a man of logic getting befuddled by emotion was enough cognitive dissonance to last a long time.

he knew it was different with you. you had a way of internalizing everything in your surrounding, a downfall to your endless empathy for others even if they never deserve it. he could explain the logic behind your beliefs, and hopefully use facts to help you relax, but that was the other thing he knew about you; you were stubborn. asking for help is something you hated doing, and if it wasn’t on your accord to be asking, it was even more detrimental to your mood.

so when he watched you duck out from the kitchen and push past the glass doors of the bullpen, he knew you were reaching the head of your doom spiral quickly.

spencer got up from his desk, “i’m gonna go check on her.”

jj nodded, “just be mindful spence, something feels different.”

they’d all been on cases that hit a little too close to home, how could they not when all they do is rid the world of the evilest of evildoers. but after a good cry, a rant to a teammate, or even an emergency therapy session, even the worst of the scum could be washed away.

something about the way you’ve been acting since they landed seemed like those fixits aren’t going to work this time.

he let out a sigh in response and walked out of the bullpen, realizing he didn’t actually know which direction you went in. assuming you’d want to be alone, he thinks the bathroom might’ve been a viable option for you and heads towards it.

the nice thing about the seventh floor is that it’s only for the bau, the bullpen was where the team spent most of their time but outside the doors there were so many empty rooms being used for storage.

so as spencer walked towards the bathroom in the hopes of finding you, his ears pick up on a tiny sniffle a little ways before it. he stops in his tracks, hoping he was just hearing things. but another pained sob rang through the door on his left, and he knew he’d found you.

he rapps the door a few times, softly calling your name, “hey, it’s spencer…can i come in please?”

you were on the other side sitting at one of the abandoned desks with your head down, but shot up at hearing spencer’s voice, “i- i’m fine i just needed a minute. i’ll be back in like two minutes, i promise.” you angrily wipe at the tears pooling on your face, grateful that you took your makeup off in the plane.

“honey, that’s not what i asked,” he starts, “is it okay if i come in?

your heart clenches at the term of endearment as you stare at the door knowing he was waiting for your okay to come in, and you start to internally weigh your options. you could let him in, and let him in to do whatever comforting you know logically would help. or you could lie, and feign ignorance to the end.

don’t they say ignorance is bliss?

you make sure to wipe the last of your tears and your runny nose before practicing a few fake smiles so it didn’t look like your face was frozen in sadness for the last thirty minutes. turning the knob you swing the door open, borderline creepy smile on your face as you greet the man, “hi dr. reid! was there something you were looking for?”

he furrows his brows at your complete (fake) shift in mood, but he comes in and shuts the door behind him, and moves to stand a few feet from you, “what’s going on?”

“nothing spence, i’m fine.” you insist.

spencer thinks if you could be more see through you’d be a windexed window. you’re avoiding eye contact with him, picking at the skin of your thumb, he can see your nose is red most likely from all the tissue blowing, and your eyes are still puffy and lined with some unshed tears still. you are so clearly breaking at the seams, like an old childhood teddy bear with stuffing falling out the sides yet hoping you can offer some semblance of stability despite your state.

“you don’t look fine, honey. why won’t you tell me what’s bothering you?”

his words almost make you falter, and you think the walls you built so high are starting to chip down. “it’s not a big deal spence, i-,” a hiccuped breath gives you away, “i can deal with it on my own.”

spencer instinctively shortens the gap between you two, “you shouldn’t have to. i just wanna help you.”

“but i’m oka-“

“no you’re not.”

there is only one tiny thin thread left holding you together. “well,” you take a deep inhale and your voice gets impossibly small, “if you keep saying things like to me i’m not gonna be okay.”

“that’s why i’m here.” he says softly.

you look up at him with the biggest glassy doe eyed look he’s ever seen, and it’s like spencer can hear the snap of the thread in real time when he watches your face absolutely crumble. he doesn’t hesitate to pull you into his embrace, allowing him to hold your head down in the middle of his chest while his other hand smooths up and down your back in comfort.

“i know, shh, hey it’s okay, i got you.” he comforts.

your hands wrap around his waist beneath his suit jacket and you keep your face buried in his chest, inhaling the musky vanilla scent of his cologne mixed with the fresh laundry detergent smell letting it ground you back to him.

“i’m sorry.” you cry.

“don’t say that,” he hushes, “is it about the case?” you nod in his embrace, “we talked about it remember? there was nothing we could have done. we did everything right, sometimes it just doesn’t work out, you know that.” he moves his hand to tangle in your hair and rub your head.

“i- i know,” you say through labored breaths. you take a big breath before admitting the true reason for your anguish, “when we were about to leave, i walked by a room with some detectives talking about how i ruined the case and that…i’m the reason the kid died.”

“what?” he pulls back to look you in the eyes hoping to find any indication that you didn’t believe those poisoned words, “we both worked on that geographical profile together, the whole team agreed it was accurate and acted accordingly. what happened was not your fault. at all.” he emphasizes the last two words.

“yeah but…i don’t know maybe i could ha-“

“stop. you can’t do that to yourself. we did what we could with what we had, the burden of that child’s passing does not fall on you. we were only able to find the unsub’s hiding spot when you figured out he’d been going to the same gas station since the murders started.” he reinforced to you.

“they said that they didn’t know how i even got into the academy in the first place, and that i make the team stupider.” you quietly added.

spencer felt the rage consume his body, already planning the ways he was going to obliterate seattle pd. he cradled your head to look at him in the eyes, “listen to me. you are an important asset to this team. you make this team better at what they do, you make me better at what i do. you mean so much to me and the team okay? please don’t forget that.”

he swipes at a fallen tear on your cheek as you tell him between sniffles, “thanks spence…” you hope he understands the sentiment and love you’re trying to exude to him, even thought you’re unable to vocalize it.

“you gotta tell me if something like that happens,” he softly scolds you, “i’ll make sure they lose their fucking jobs.”

you’re about to speak when he cuts you off, “and don’t tell me that we should be the bigger people, because once the rest of the team hears about this, they’re all gonna be fighting over who’s gonna kick the shit out of them.”

you let out a tearful giggle, “you sound really funny when you curse.”

he scoffs, “what the hell, i do not!”

“you sound like a baby duckling that just learned how to say fuck.”

he starts to guide you out of the room and towards hotch’s office so you can recount what happened, “ouch, i’m hurt. i’d like to think the pistol and fbi badge i carry makes me intimidating.”

you giggle again, and spencer puts aside his rage to revel in the fact that you’re feeling better.

when hotch learned of what happened he immediately called seattle pd to file a motion to get those detectives fired, and the rest of the team were secretly praying for a case in seattle again so they could, as spencer predicted, kick the shit out of them.

[vampirecorleone]

"Close your eyes, Josh. Take a deep breath and relax. With each breath, let the life around you fade into the background. Just listen to the ticking of the metronome. Focus on the spot in the center of your forehead. The universe is deathless. It is deathless because having no finite self, it stays infinite. A sound man, by not advancing himself, stays the further ahead of himself." Horror Character Appreciation - Patrick Wilson as Josh Lambert in Insidious (2010) dir. James Wan

[this-reminds-me-of-a-song]

Woah my ISAT video got a lot of notes! Well, have a sad star for all you lovely people

[froginmygarden]

Got a little brain worm on the way home and have a need to write it down. Just a drabble because I'm not good at writing.

DC x DP Just a (clone) couple

Joung Adult!Team Phantom for some reason end up in the DC universe. For reasons, there aren't any equivalents of them here. Danny and Sam are together and Danny and Dani have a familiar relationship. Whatever the reasons they stay in this universe.

So Sam, Danny and Dani start making a life together as a family, Tucker goes on to make a "small business" involving VPN's and tech in general (finds an anthropomorphic girlfriend on the way or something), Jazz goes to uni (JL members city of choice, although I advise against Gotham or Metropolis, because that would make this too short).

For some MORE reasons unknown, although they might be by the making of our favourite clock-man, the DP people's DNA has by default markings of being clones in DC (I don't know if this is canon or fanon but Connor had something like that ╮⁠(⁠＾⁠▽⁠＾⁠)⁠╭). The thing is here Jack = Bruce, Maddy = Alexander and Jeremy = Clark, Pamela = Lois! Do you see my vision here??

So *JL member from the perspective city* meets the Fenton/Manson/Nightingale?? family accidentally when they are visiting Jazz, and has a sweet deja vu moment. Some time passes and the off handedly mention it to someone in the JL.

Batman being the paranoid bastard that he is goes on to check this thing out, because he can smell the fish from a mile away. Thinks the couple are clones, gets very paranoid again and starts making plans, plans get found by his kids, kids tell the JL and friends. So starts the collective discussions of what should they do, some say that they should get rid of the clones, some others that they don't have proof for anything nefarious and shouldn't do anything at all, someone points out that they have literally showed up out of nowhere and that it is reasonable to be suspicious. And Connor is also there.

Meanwhile Team Phantom is going about their lives like normal, but with a "I know that you know" mindset, and don't really bother with hiding themselves.

In my opinion the part that has to be the most glaringly noticeable about them should be that Danny (Batman's clone apparently) should wear a lot of flannel and have a "Midwestern Nice" personality" (the stuff of legends I have only heard about in passing) and over all should resemble Clark in fashion sense. For Sam (Superman's clone apparently) the exact opposite - she can put the GOTH in Gotham.

And all JL angst/drama/confusion happens in the background as we follow Connor Kent's/Superboy's POV and him dealing with having two half siblings and the half siblings being together and them having a child and this is too much for him oooooooooo noooooooo nononoonononoonononononno what in the sweeet home Alabama whhhhhyyyyyyyy!??!

So it's like a metronome tick's between the POVs of fluffy new life/potential threat to the JL I mean the child of Bruce/Lex and child Clark/Luis having potential super-smart, super-powered (potentially evil??) children. But overall it's crack.

Maybe I'll plan it out and actually try to write it, but meanwhile you can enjoy my half-ill/fever induced brain worms and play in the brown dirt puddle I call my creative thinking.

To who ever finished reading this

Good night! ;P

[leona-hawthorne]

KINKTOBER #7– JUST PHYSIOLOGICAL RESPONSE / lorenzo berkshire

october 22nd no smut in this part

part one part two

lorenzo berkshire x fem reader

summary: it wasn’t until now, sitting across from lorenzo berkshire behind the cold walls of azkaban, that you realized the seriousness of your line of work.

warnings: criminal psychologist!reader, dark!lorenzo, he is lowkey an actual psychopath in this so tread carefully when reading :D, the smut will be in part two

words: 3.9k

a/n: like i’ve said before, these are not typical kinktober fics—they include plot so yeah they’re quite long, don’t hate me lol. this one is a favorite of mine! part 2 will be out soon!

navigation kinktober masterlist

You had never imagined you would sit in a place like this, surrounded by stone walls that absorbed sound and light alike, a reminder of the darkness beneath the surface. The air was thick with secrets and despair, each breath heavy with the history of those who came before you. Here, in the heart of Azkaban, the ghosts of the past whispered their regrets, their voices mingling with the clinking of metal bars.

As you prepared for the interview, the gravity of your role pressed against your chest like a leaden shroud. Each tick of the clock echoed like a metronome, marking time until you confronted one of the wizarding world’s most notorious figures. Your choice to seek understanding among chaos felt both a privilege and a burden. You had devoted years to studying the complexities of the human mind, yet sitting alone in that sterile room, you couldn’t help but wonder if you were truly equipped for what lay ahead.

The darkness of his deeds stretched far and wide, and the weight of his legacy hung over you like a storm cloud, threatening to unleash emotions you had spent years learning to contain. You had read the reports, the testimonies, the chilling accounts that left a mark on the page, but nothing could prepare you for the reality of sitting across from a man whose choices had altered countless lives. Doubts crept in, whispering questions you had pushed aside: Was this the right path? Could you unearth the truths hidden beneath layers of calculated cruelty?

As the door creaked open, the air shifted, and you steeled yourself for the confrontation. In that moment, you realized the fragility of your conviction, the thin line you walked between empathy and revulsion, a dance with shadows that could consume you whole if you let them.

With a slow, painful exhale, you watched as two guards brought your subject in, harshly holding him by the arms like they were disgusted to touch him. Your breath, measured and controlled, still felt heavy, weighted by the reputation of the man across from you. A minute later, the guards were gone, leaving you alone with him.

Lorenzo Berkshire—infamous, calculating, and entirely too comfortable in the chains binding his wrists.

He watched you with amused detachment, as if this interrogation were nothing more than a mild inconvenience. His eyes, dark and unrelenting, never left your face, reading you like a book you hadn’t realized you’d written.

You cleared your throat, though the sound seemed small in the silence. “Mr. Berkshire,” you began, your voice more controlled than you felt, “It’s nice to finally meet. I’m here to understand and help you.”

A flicker of amusement passed over his features, and then he leaned back in his chair, deceptively relaxed despite the magical restraints. The smirk at the corners of his mouth made your skin prickle, like a warning signal your body recognized before your mind caught up. “Help me?” he echoed, his voice low, rich, almost playful. “How very… noble of you.”

You pressed forward, refusing to let his arrogance throw you off balance. But it was impossible not to feel the tension, thick and charged. Each word from his lips felt like a dare, like he was waiting for you to crack under his presence. But you were determined not to let him win, not to give him the satisfaction.

His gaze locked with yours, and for a split second, it felt like the entire room disappeared—the walls, the chains, everything. Just his eyes on you, unflinching, curious. Something flickered inside you, uncomfortable and unwanted. You pushed it down, forcing focus.

“This is an opportunity for reflection,” you continued, a little more forceful, needing to regain control. “A chance for rehabilitation.”

He laughed, melodic in a way that didn’t belong in a place as desolate as this. The sound curled around you, drawing you in before you even realized it. “Rehabilitation,” he repeated, tasting the word as if it were foreign. “You think I need fixing, Doctor?”

His smile widened, and you could feel the heat rising in your chest, spreading to your neck. The intensity of his gaze crawled over your skin, peeling back layers, searching for the pieces of you he could exploit. The files on him hadn’t prepared you for this. They were clinical, cold, facts and figures that tried to capture his cruelty. But there was no preparing for the feeling of being in the same room as him, for the way he twisted words into something far more dangerous than you anticipated.

You tightened your grip on the folder, trying to ground yourself. “Your actions brought you here,” you said, though your voice wavered. “You’re here because of the choices you’ve made, Mr. Berkshire. This is an opportunity to explore why.”

His smile deepened, dark amusement dancing in his eyes. “Choices,” he drawled, leaning forward, chains clinking softly. “I’ve made a great many choices, love, but none I regret.”

You bristled at the way he threw the word ‘love’ at you, casual and intimate all at once, like he was playing a game you weren’t even sure you knew the rules to. You could feel the shift in the air, the way the space between you suddenly felt too small, too intimate for a setting like this. His legs stretched out beneath the table, and though the room was vast and hollow, it felt as though he was far too close.

“It’s Dr. Y/L/N,” you corrected, needing distance. But he only smiled wider, his eyes never breaking from yours, as if he could see through your barriers.

“Dr. Y/L/N,” he repeated, and the way your name rolled off his tongue sent a strange thrill through you, something you despised yourself for feeling. You straightened, willing your body to remain rigid, professional, in control. But you could feel his eyes, pulling at the threads of your restraint. “Now that’s a name I could get used to. Pretty. Suits you.”

What the fuck?

A strange heat pooled in your stomach, twisting unease and the thrill of his presence. It wasn’t fear—not quite. It was something more insidious, far more dangerous because it felt like an invitation. You could sense it in his gaze, the way he tilted his head, considering you. He wasn’t just interested in the interrogation; he was interested in you. And that thought, more than anything, sent your pulse racing.

“We’re not here to discuss my name,” you stated, though your voice came out breathless. You forced yourself to look back at the file, the black-and-white details of his crimes staring up at you, but they like a flimsy shield against his intensity.

“Shame,” he murmured, voice dragging over your senses. “I’d much rather talk about you.”

You snapped your gaze back to him, feeling the frustration flare beneath your skin, mingling with the strange pull of his words. “That’s not why I’m here,” you said, firmer this time, trying to anchor yourself in the facts, in the reason for your presence in this cursed room. But even as you spoke, you could feel him pulling you into his rhythm, like a song you couldn’t quite resist dancing to.

His gaze slid over you, slow and deliberate, as though he were cataloging every reaction, every slight movement of your body. You wondered if he could hear the way your heart hammered against your ribs, could sense the way your breath quickened despite your attempts to remain unaffected. “Are you sure?” he asked, voice like silk. “Because I’m finding this little game of ours rather entertaining.”

Your throat tightened as his words settled over you, heavy and intoxicating. There was a flicker in his eyes—something raw, something that spoke to the danger lurking beneath the surface. It twisted inside you, something dark and unnameable, something that frightened you because of how close it came to desire.

You took a steadying breath, trying to clear your mind. “This isn’t a game,” you said, though the words felt hollow, meant more for you than for him.

“Isn’t it?” he asked, leaning forward, his presence pressing against you. His lips curved into a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “I think you’re enjoying this more than you’d like to admit.”

A shiver raced down your spine, but you refused to let it show. Instead, you leaned back, forcing the space between you to widen even though it felt like the room was closing in. “I’m here to discuss your actions, Lorenzo. This conversation is about you, not me.”

For a moment, his smile faltered, something cold flashing across his expression. But it vanished, replaced by that same unsettling charm. “Oh, but Doctor,” he purred, voice dripping with dangerous allure. “That’s no fun.”

Lorenzo’s grin sharpened, something almost wicked in the way his eyes darkened, glinting with an edge that made the room feel smaller, more suffocating. He leaned forward, the chains clinking softly against his wrists, though the sound carried a weight heavier than the steel. His gaze flicked over your face—intent, invasive, peeling back the thin layers of control you’d carefully crafted.

“I’ll tell you a little secret.” His voice, low and deliberate, slid across the space between you like a blade, smooth but with a promise of violence beneath it. His eyes bore into yours, and despite the coldness of Azkaban’s walls, a heat twisted in your chest. You swallowed against it, but it stayed lodged in your throat like a forbidden truth.

You kept your expression neutral, fighting the urge to shift in your seat, to break the tension. But Lorenzo could sense it—your discomfort, your curiosity, the tiny betrayals of your body. He leaned back slightly, as if to give you space, but it only made his presence more commanding. There was nowhere to hide.

“Want to know what makes me feel alive?” His voice dropped, curling around the words like he was letting you in on a dark, personal joke. He tilted his head, his eyes tracing a slow path over you, from the top of your head to where your hands rested, clenched slightly, on the table. “It’s taking control,” he purred, letting the word linger, heavy with implication.

“Control?” you repeated, voice steady, though it felt like you were speaking through cotton. “You’re bound in chains, Lorenzo. Not exactly in a position of power.”

That smile of his deepened, his amusement dark and tangible. He wasn’t the type to be provoked, not by something as obvious as his physical limitations. No, his control didn’t come from strength, from force—it came from something far more insidious. And he was using it now, in the way his gaze roamed over you, pulling at your defenses, testing just how far he could push.

“You think these chains mean anything?” His eyes sparkled with dark glee. “I take what I want. Always have, always will.” His voice softened, a dangerous purr. “And you know what’s better than control? Watching the happiness drain out of people like you. Girls like you…”

Your pulse spiked, a flash of heat prickling over your skin. He’d said it so casually, like it was nothing, but it hit you hard. The calm mask you wore cracked, just for a moment, before you could steady yourself again. You clenched your jaw, refusing to let him see the effect his words had on you. But Lorenzo noticed. He always noticed.

He shrugged, his gaze never leaving yours. “It’s the way it lights me up, you know? Makes me feel alive,” he said, his voice laced with an almost boyish nonchalance, as though the things he did, the lives he ruined, were merely a hobby. “And you, Dr. Y/L/N… you’re fascinating.” His gaze flickered down to the rapid flutter at your throat, as if he could hear your heartbeat from across the table.

You forced your spine to straighten, though the effort felt trivial. “It doesn’t matter what makes me feel alive,” you said, careful to keep your tone neutral, measured. “This isn’t about me.”

Lorenzo smiled—a slow, predatory grin that spread across his face with a kind of lazy satisfaction. “Oh, love,” he murmured, his voice dripping with dark amusement. “Right now, everything is about you.”

Your breath hitched before you could stop it, and his smile widened, like he’d caught you in a lie. His eyes followed the subtle movement of your throat, watching the pulse point there with unnerving focus. You could almost feel the weight of his gaze on your skin, like it pressed against the very place where your heartbeat betrayed you.

“Well, look at that,” he mumbled amusedly.

You forced yourself to sit back, feigning a calm you didn’t feel. “It’s just a physiological response,” you said, the words tight. You could feel your cheeks flush slightly, but you refused to look away from him, refused to let him have that power over you.

Lorenzo chuckled softly, leaning back as well, though his eyes never left yours. “Ah, yes, always so clinical, Doctor.” He tilted his head, considering you with a dark glimmer in his eyes, like he was enjoying this far more than he should. “But your body doesn’t lie, does it?”

Your breath caught again, a flash of frustration mingling with the heat spreading through you. No. You had to maintain control. “We need to talk about your notebook,” you said, voice firm.

For a moment, the playful glint in his eyes dimmed, replaced by something colder, something far more dangerous. His smile didn’t fade, but it sharpened, hardening into something unfeeling. “Always back to business, aren’t you?” he said, the warmth in his voice gone, replaced by a cold edge. He leaned back further, the chains on his wrists rattling softly as he shifted in his chair. “Very well, ask your questions.”

You swallowed, feeling the shift in the air between you. It was colder now, heavier, as if the playful façade had fallen away, revealing something darker beneath. You took a breath, willing yourself to remain steady. “Why did you keep a list of the women you targeted?”

His eyes darkened, his grin fading into something colder, almost predatory. “To remember them,” he said, his voice soft but chilling. “To remember every detail, every reaction.” His gaze flicked over you again, and this time it wasn’t playful or curious. It was calculating. “Because I like to keep my memories alive, just like I plan to keep this one.”

The room seemed to close in around you, the weight of his words pressing against your skin. You struggled to keep your voice even, to push through the unease settling over you. “But why target women?” you asked, your voice lower now, but steady.

Lorenzo’s lips curled into a smile again, but it was a different kind of smile—empty, devoid of any warmth. “Because women are fascinating,” he murmured, almost as if he were talking to himself. “They feel so deeply, so much warmer than men. The way they break… the way they fight before they shatter. It’s captivating.”

A chill slid down your spine, but you held his gaze, refusing to look away, even as your pulse raced beneath your skin.

For a moment, the silence between you was unbearable, stretching thick and heavy, the only sound the faint scrape of his chair as he shifted, eyes still locked on you with a dark, unblinking intensity. His gaze had become sharper, less playful, like he was peeling away layers you didn’t even realize you were wearing.

You forced yourself to remain steady, to focus on the role you were meant to play here. He was an inmate—a subject for analysis. He wasn’t someone who could get under your skin. He wasn’t allowed. But still, something about the deliberate cadence of his voice, the way he watched you so carefully, so… possessively—it twisted in your gut, a discomfort you couldn’t easily shake off.

“Captivating?” you finally said, your voice quiet, but not weak. You leaned in slightly. “Is that what you think this is? Some kind of… study?”

Lorenzo’s eyes gleamed, as if your attempt to turn the tables amused him more than it should have. He tilted his head, the chains clinking softly against the table as his fingers flexed. His smile softened, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “It’s exactly that,” he murmured. “People like you, you always think you’re the ones in control, don’t you? Coming into places like this, thinking you can untangle what’s inside the mind of a man like me.”

You didn’t flinch, but the way his voice curled around the word “control” made your pulse jump again. It was subtle, but he noticed. Of course he noticed. His gaze flickered briefly to the side of your neck, where the rhythm of your heartbeat betrayed you once more. His smile widened just a fraction, eyes gleaming with an unsettling delight.

“Physiological response,” he repeated, almost like a taunt. He leaned back in his chair, but the space between you felt even smaller than before, like his presence had grown larger, more oppressive. “You know, I don’t really care about the list,” he said, almost conversationally, as if the shift in subject meant nothing to him. “The names, the details… that’s for your records, not mine.”

You frowned slightly, taken aback by the ease with which he dismissed the topic. “So, it wasn’t important?”

Lorenzo’s gaze darkened, his smile fading once more into something colder. “I didn’t say that. It just wasn’t important in the way you think it is.” His eyes flicked to yours again, pinning you under their weight. “They were just names. Just faces. The real satisfaction comes after the fact.”

Your stomach tightened, the meaning of his words clear. You couldn’t help the way your breath caught slightly, though you hoped the flicker of fear didn’t show in your expression. He fed on reactions like that—thrived on them. “After the fact?” you repeated, trying to keep your voice even, though you could feel the edges fraying.

Lorenzo’s grin returned, sharper now, more predatory. “It’s not the act that matters,” he said, his voice soft, almost intimate. “It’s the memory of it. The way it lingers. That’s what I like to keep. The memory of how they looked when they finally understood…”

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to stay present, forcing the cold, detached mask back over your face. “And what do you think you’re going to remember from this conversation?” you asked, pushing the words out before you could second-guess them. “Do you think you’ll walk away from here feeling satisfied? Like you’ve gained control?”

For the first time, Lorenzo’s smile faltered, just barely, a flicker of something unreadable flashing across his features. He seemed to be studying you again, his eyes scanning your face, your posture, the way your fingers had tightened slightly against the edge of the table.

When he finally spoke, his voice was lower, quieter. “That depends,” he murmured, “on how much you give me to remember.”

You leaned back slightly, breaking the eye contact for just a moment, just enough to gather yourself. The air between you felt thick, oppressive, as if the walls of the room had closed in even further, leaving you with nowhere to go.

“You’ll remember nothing,” you said firmly, meeting his gaze again, your voice steady despite the tension pulling at the edges of your composure. “Because I won’t give you anything.”

Lorenzo’s smile returned, slower this time. “We’ll see about that,” he said softly. His eyes gleamed, dark and predatory, as if he were already imagining the moment you would break.

But you wouldn’t. You couldn’t. You were here to analyze him, to understand him—not the other way around.

You shifted in your seat, the slight movement betraying the tension coiling tight in your muscles. He noticed, of course—his eyes never missed a thing. The faintest flicker of amusement passed over his features as you finally met his gaze again. There was no doubt in his mind that you were unraveling, that you were right on the edge of giving him what he wanted, even if you couldn’t quite name what that was.

But he was wrong.

You stood abruptly, the legs of the chair scraping harshly against the stone floor, the sound cutting through the thick tension like a knife. The movement felt final, decisive, and for the first time, you saw something shift in Lorenzo’s expression. His smirk faltered, just for a second, as if he hadn’t expected you to pull away so quickly, so completely.

He watched you rise, his gaze following your every move, but you refused to let it pin you down anymore. You were done with this—done with the game he was trying to play. Your heart still pounded in your chest, your nerves still thrummed with the aftershocks of his words, but you buried it all beneath a mask of cold professionalism. He wouldn’t see how much this had affected you. Not now. Not ever.

Without a word, you stepped toward the door, your movements steady. You could feel Lorenzo’s eyes boring into your back, that dark, predatory gaze following you even as you placed one hand on the cold metal handle. You hesitated, just for a moment, and in that brief pause, you heard him shift in his seat again, the soft clink of chains reminding you that, despite everything, he was still bound—still trapped.

“Leaving so soon?” His voice was low, almost mocking. He wasn’t in control anymore, not completely. You’d taken that from him the moment you stood up.

You didn’t turn around. “This session is over,” you said, your voice cold, professional, a stark contrast to the tangled mess of thoughts and emotions swirling beneath the surface.

Lorenzo chuckled softly, but it was a hollow sound. “Come now, love,” he murmured, the warmth from before gone, replaced by something sharper. “You’re not going to walk away without a proper goodbye, are you?”

“I’m not here for your games, Berkshire. You’ll get nothing from me.”

For a split second, there was silence. Then, the sound of chains clinking again as he shifted forward, the weight of his presence pressing closer despite the distance between you. “We both know that’s not true,” he said, his voice darker, quieter now. “You’ll be thinking about me long after you leave this room.”

You swallowed hard, your fingers tightening around the handle until your knuckles whitened. He wasn’t wrong—not completely. He was already under your skin. But you wouldn’t let him know that.

Without another word, you pushed open the door. The cold draft from the hallway rushed in, hitting you like a breath of fresh air, a reminder that there was a world beyond this room—a world where that man’s hold on you didn’t exist.

You stepped through the threshold, the echo of your footsteps filling the narrow corridor as you moved further and further.

As the heavy door swung shut behind you with a loud, metallic clang, sealing him away in that cold, dark room, you felt a strange sense of relief. You’d left him there—alone, chained, and powerless, despite everything he’d tried to make you feel.

He was the one locked up. Not you.

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[sicutpuella]

Sweet Like Honey | Simon Riley x Reader

A honey trap—such a sterile phrase his superiors used, as if it could sanitize the rot festering in his conscience. Unethical? Yes; but that single syllable barely scratched the surface of his transgression. They needed information, they said, and Simon—God help him—had orchestrated every tender moment, every breathless laugh, every trembling touch with surgical precision. His superiors, those faceless men in their stark offices, had pushed the proposal forward; they wanted him closer to her father, that suspected architect of labyrinthine offshore accounts.

He remembers that exact moment. Her eyes had sparkled with tears of joy when he dropped to one knee—tears that now haunted his dreams, crystalline drops of his betrayal. In quiet moments, when she lay sleeping beside him, her trust radiating like warmth against his skin, the question would claw at his throat: When she discovers the truth—not if, but when—will those same tears fall in rivers of rage? Will her love calcify into hatred, sharp enough to pierce the armor he'd built around his guilt?

"Three years of marriage." Her words floated like seafoam in the Mykonos twilight; wine-hazed eyes drinking in the pastel sky as if it were a gift he'd arranged specially for their anniversary.

Simon's jaw tightened—a muscle working beneath the skin—as waves lapped at their bare feet with metronome precision. The word 'marriage' sat like bile in his throat; every anniversary a fresh reminder of his calculated lies. He fixed his gaze on the bleeding horizon—anywhere but at her—letting the salt wind strip away the taste of guilt that had become his constant companion.

"Yeah... three bloody years." The words scraped past his lips, his British accent thick and coarse as Mediterranean sand. A bitter laugh threatened to escape—three years of this charade, three years of her soft touches that felt like brands against his skin. "Can't believe it's been that long."

She reached for his hand; he let her take it.

"I'm so happy you married me..." Her words hung in the salt air—fragile as soap bubbles, painful in their innocence. Those eyes, sparkling with a love he could never return, cut deeper than any interrogation he'd endured in the field.

Simon's muscles coiled beneath his skin; her declaration struck like a precisely aimed blade. His jaw worked silently—grinding truth to dust—as guilt wrapped its familiar fingers around his throat. The sensation lasted only moments before training kicked in; sentiment was a luxury he couldn't afford. He had a job to do—always the job.

"Yeah..." The word emerged like gravel. His expression hardened into the mask he'd worn for three years. "Me too."

A heartbeat of hesitation—then, striving for conviction: "It was the right thing to do..."

She wound herself around his arm like morning glory seeking sunlight. "Do you love me?" The question dripped with need for reassurance; every syllable another weight added to the anchor of his deception.

A muscle betrayed him—twitching in his jaw like Morse code airing out his lies.

"Course I do..." The words tasted of ashes as he forced himself to meet her gaze. Her eyes—God, those trusting eyes—gleamed up at him like searchlights through his carefully constructed shadows, sending fresh waves of guilt crashing against his ribs.

Mission parameters flashed through his mind like a lifeline: just a mission, a means to an end—nothing more. Clinical words that did nothing to dull the edge of her next question.

"Have I made you happy?"

The question hung between them like a loaded gun; he wondered which of them it would wound more deeply.

Simon's jaw ticked—a mechanical tell he couldn't control—as her voice spilled sweetness and light into the darkening air. His fists clenched; knuckles white with the effort of containing truths that would shatter her world.

"Yeah... you have." The words scraped past gritted teeth; his tone harsh enough to wound—though whether himself or her, he wasn't certain.

He forced himself to look at her—God help him—and found trust swimming in those eyes; love so pure it sent guilt cascading through his veins like ice water. Training kicked in like muscle memory: compartmentalize, distance, remember the mission parameters. This was all theater—a carefully orchestrated performance where he played the doting husband.

"If I make you uncomfortable or unhappy—" her voice trembled with an eagerness that flayed him alive—"tell me what to do and I'll change whatever it is you don't like about me."

Simon's shoulders sagged beneath the weight of her devotion; each word of self-doubt another stone added to the cairn of his shame. Her willingness to reshape herself for a man who didn't exist—it was obscene in its innocence.

"You don't need to change anything." His voice emerged gruff, carefully modulated to hide the storm beneath. "You're perfect the way you are." Perfect—and that made it infinitely worse.

As they walked further along the shore, his boss's voice slithered through his memory like an oil slick: "Give her a baby, Riley. Solidify that you're a family man to her and her family... that'll make them trust you more..."

The waves crashed against the shore; Simon wondered if they could wash away the taste of bile rising in his throat. A baby—the ultimate collateral damage in this game of shadows and lies. His handler's words echoed like bullets in an empty chamber; each one designed to kill whatever conscience he had left.

Simon's gut twisted into knots as his handler's words burrowed deeper—parasitic thoughts breeding shame. Using her love, her body, their marriage had been one thing; but this—creating life as a prop in their charade—made bile rise bitter in his throat.

He swallowed against the acid guilt. "Baby..." The endearment scraped past his lips like broken glass; his voice rough with self-loathing. "I need to talk to you about something."

"Yeah, baby?" Her response came wrapped in a smile—always that damned smile on her gorgeous face; each curve of her lips another twist of the knife he'd planted in his own conscience.

Simon guided her toward a secluded stretch of beach—away from witnesses to his latest betrayal. His muscles coiled tight as she called him 'baby'; the war in his mind reached fever pitch—duty and disgust grappling in the shadows of his skull. Professional distance crumbled beneath the weight of what he was about to propose.

He drew in a breath that tasted of salt and lies; tried to fortify himself against the magnitude of this new deception. Speaking had never been his strong suit—now words felt like weapons turned inward.

"...I've been thinking about something." His voice dropped low; serious—as if gravity itself could lend legitimacy to this fresh hell.

"I've been thinking..." Another breath—sharp enough to cut—"that maybe we should start trying for a baby..."

The words fell like stones into the space between them; he couldn't bear to meet her eyes. Instead, his gaze fixed on the sand—watching darkness creep across it like the stain he felt spreading through his soul. This was more than a mission parameter now; this was crossing a line he hadn't known existed until he stood at its edge—about to take a step that could never be untaken.

Her eyes widened—galaxies of hope expanding in those innocent depths.

The squeal that erupted from her lips pierced the evening air: "Yes! Yes!"

Simon's face contracted like a wound being stitched; her unbridled joy a fresh kind of torture. The guilt gnawed at his bones—a familiar parasite he'd learned to live with—but he buried it beneath layers of practiced indifference. Just the job, just the bloody job.

"Yeah... yeah..." The words tasted of ash in his mouth as he attempted enthusiasm—a poor actor playing at happiness. "I thought it was time." Time for what? Another layer of betrayal; another innocent drawn into his lies?

Her face glowed with such pure delight—Christ, if she only knew the truth behind his proposal, would that radiance transform into something that could burn him alive?

"I'm so happy... I'm so happy..." She bounced on her toes like an excited child; her eyes swimming with naked affection as she gazed up at him. "Can we try tonight?"

The question hit him like a body blow—air evacuating his lungs in a silent gasp. His jaw clenched; muscle memory of contained revulsion. "Tonight?" His voice emerged rough as sandpaper. "Uhh... tonight?"

The speed of her agreement caught him off-guard; reality crashed over him like a cold wave. The physical act loomed before him—another performance in his repertoire of deception. But sex is sex—a mantra he'd repeated through three years of marriage; a thin comfort that grew thinner with each repetition.

"Sure baby... sure." The agreement slipped past his defenses before he could stop it.

Sex is still sex—the lie tasted bitter this time.

"Yeah... alright... tonight." Each word dragged like shrapnel from a wound.

Simon forced the syllables past the knot of self-loathing in his gut. Conflict churned inside him—desire warring with disgust, duty grappling with decency. But there was no extraction plan for this mission; no way to abort without destroying everything.

He drew in a breath that felt sharp as glass. "We'll head back to the room then, yeah?"

His extended hand seemed to belong to someone else—a stranger playing at being a loving husband. His mind raced through a labyrinth of regrets; each thought a new dead end. The fraud of it all pressed against his chest—this performance of love, this pantomime of family planning.

"Come on." The words scraped past his lips, gruff with barely contained turmoil. "Let's go."

Each step toward their room felt like moving through quicksand—every movement drawing him deeper into a lie he might never escape.

That evening, as she lay beneath him—trusting, eager, loving—his guilt manifested in the most primal betrayal of all. The little blue pill dissolved on his tongue earlier was his shameful secret; another lie to add to his collection. His body rebelled against his deception—even chemistry couldn't fully overcome the weight of his conscience.

It should have been paradise, shouldn't it? Being buried in the warm sanctuary of her body—her beauty undeniable, her desire genuine. But paradise, he'd learned, couldn't be built on foundations of sand and shadows. Each tender touch felt like judgment; each passionate kiss a sentence passed. His pleasure came tainted with self-loathing—mechanical responses to artificial stimulation.

The truth burned in his throat like acid: he couldn't maintain arousal—not with guilt wrapped around his throat like a garrote; not with his handler's voice echoing in his mind. This secret he'd take to his grave—another shard of shame embedded too deep to ever extract. The warmth of her body only emphasized the cold calculation of it all; heaven transformed into a special kind of hell, designed just for him.

She lay beneath him—all warmth and trust and love—while his heart turned to ice in his chest. The dim light caught the gold of her wedding ring; it flickered like an accusation with every movement. His own ring felt like a brand against his skin, burning with each tender touch she offered.

The chemistry coursed through his veins—artificial desire fighting against the tide of his guilt. Her fingers traced patterns of affection across his shoulders; each caress felt like judgment carved into his flesh. Paradise turned to purgatory; pleasure transformed into punishment.

"I love you," she whispered against his neck—words that should have been salvation became damnation instead.

His body responded while his mind recoiled; training and tablets working in tandem to maintain this cruelest deception. She arched beneath him—so trusting, so eager to create life with a man who was more shadow than substance. Her skin flushed with genuine desire; his grew cold with calculated performance.

The sounds she made—soft sighs of pleasure, whispered endearments—echoed in his skull like accusations. Each thrust felt mechanical; each kiss a fresh betrayal. His handler's voice mingled with her moans: "family man... make them trust you more..." Until he couldn't tell where the mission ended and the madness began.

Her hands cupped his face—so gentle, so loving—and he wanted to weep at the cruel irony. Here she was, trying to create life with a man who died a little more with each tender touch. The heat of her body only emphasized the cold calculation of it all; intimacy perverted into intelligence gathering.

He buried his face in her neck—not from passion, but to hide the war raging behind his eyes. She mistook his shuddering for pleasure; it was revulsion at himself. Even as his body chased its chemical conclusion, his mind splintered into fragments of guilt and duty and shame—pieces too sharp to ever fit back together.

Mediterranean sunlight crept through the curtains like liquid gold.

"Did you have fun?" Her question floated up from the tangled sheets; innocent as morning dew.

Guilt lanced through him—sharp and familiar now. Her eagerness to please him felt like needles under his skin; every effort she made to earn love he couldn't give was another weight added to his conscience.

He forced out a grunt—another performance in his endless repertoire. "Yeah... yeah I did. You've gotten better." The words tasted of copper and shame.

"Why do you ask?" He aimed for casual; missed by miles—tension threading through his voice like steel wire.

"I just want to make sure I'm making you happy," she murmured against his chest, fingers tracing abstract patterns on his skin. "I read some articles about... you know... trying for a baby. Making it more likely to happen." A soft laugh escaped her—pure, unguarded. "I want to do everything right."

Her head rested on his shoulder—soft hair brushing his skin like whispered accusations. Any other man would thank whatever god they believed in for a woman like her; Simon could only hate himself more with each gentle breath she took.

He wrapped an arm around her—another act in this elaborate charade—pulling her closer even as his soul recoiled. The weight of her trust pressed against him harder than her body ever could. She felt like silk against his skin; he felt like sandpaper against hers—rough with deception, coarse with lies.

The urge to push her away clawed at his chest—to end this facade, to confess every sin he'd committed in the name of duty. But the mission bound him like chains forged from his own choices. His mind waged its endless war: duty versus decency, mission versus morality. An innocent woman lay in the crossfire, and he'd loaded every bullet himself.

Her warmth seeped into his side; he wondered if it would ever wash away the cold calculation that had become his core.

Simon slouched in the corner, half-hidden by a wall of pastel balloons and garlands, the sound of laughter and soft coos grating against him like nails on glass. She was radiant, glowing in that way all the books and articles had promised, a woman basking in the warmth of her impending motherhood. Friends and family surrounded her, hands touching her belly as though it held some sacred truth he could never understand. She laughed—a sweet, unguarded sound that should have brought him joy. Instead, it left a bitter taste in his mouth.

He couldn’t bring himself to join the celebration; every time he looked at her, every time she glanced over and smiled at him, something twisted deep in his gut—a sharp, relentless reminder that he was a fraud. She deserved a man who’d be a father in more than name alone, someone who’d be wrapped up in this new life with her, but all he could feel was the weight of his shame and pathetic self pressing down on him.

That evening, Simon spun a quick excuse for her—something about a problem at the office, a sudden emergency requiring his immediate attention. She barely questioned him, simply nodded with that gentle trust he’d come to dread. But his destination wasn’t the office; it was a dimly lit bar, a familiar back corner where his superior waited, nursing a drink and an expression Simon could only describe as smug satisfaction.

“So… successfully knocked an heiress up, eh?” The words rolled off his boss’s tongue as if they were discussing the weather.

Simon ground his teeth, feeling a spike of anger flare in his chest. “Yeah.” The response was clipped, his jaw clenched so tight he could barely force the words out. “I did what you asked.”

“Head over heels for you, is she?” His boss laughed, a low, contemptuous sound. “God, the poor thing.”

Each word felt like a blade twisting deeper. Yes, she loved him; she loved him with a sincerity he’d never known he could inspire. But the way his boss spoke of it—as if her affection was some cheap victory, as if her trust was a trophy to be tossed aside—made his blood run cold.

He balled his fists beneath the table, his knuckles turning white. “I know,” he said through gritted teeth, barely able to keep his voice steady.

“We didn’t think you’d pull it off this well.” The amusement in his boss’s voice was unmistakable. “We knew you could manipulate—use people; that’s what you do best, after all. But to get her so… blindly devoted? Impressive, even for you.”

Simon bit down hard, jaw aching as he fought to keep the bile from rising. He didn’t want to hear it; he didn’t want to hear about how flawlessly he’d betrayed her, how thoroughly he’d convinced her of a love that was nothing but smoke and mirrors.

“She trusts me,” he muttered, voice rough as gravel, hoping to deflect, to shut down this sickening praise.

His boss let out a chuckle, cold and mocking. “Just trust, is it? Sure, if that’s what you want to call it. But come on—no credit for yourself? I think you deserve a bonus for this one, Riley. You’ve put in the work, pulled all the strings. Hell, even I didn’t think you had it in you.”

Simon felt himself go still, every muscle in his body wound tight, like a coiled spring about to snap. The monster his boss saw in him—was that all he’d ever be? He forced himself to nod, his voice barely a murmur. “Yeah… sure. Send some extra cash my way if it makes you feel better.”

“Good,” his boss replied, that smug satisfaction radiating from him like poison. “I’m proud of you, Riley. You’ve secured an influential family, locked down the daughter. And soon enough, there’ll be a little Riley running around, further cementing our foothold.”

A wave of nausea rolled through him at that. His boss spoke as though this were just another operation, another mission ticked off the list. Not a woman’s life, not a child’s future—just another step in their endless game of leverage and control.

Simon gave a curt nod, jaw so tight it felt like it might shatter. He kept his silence, swallowing the urge to spit some scathing retort, to lash out and tear down every vile word his boss had spoken.

“Good,” his boss said again, with a finality that felt like chains tightening around Simon’s throat. “Keep it up… and, of course, gather all the intel you can on her father.”

Simon didn’t respond. He simply sat there, silent and still, the weight of his choices pressing down like iron shackles. The mission bound him—bound him tighter than any oath he’d ever sworn—and he couldn’t escape the feeling that, somewhere along the line, he’d traded his soul for it.

All photos sourced through Pinterest

Headers made by @rookthornesartistry