#uncharted territories of the mind

[frank-olivier]

Geller’s Psychic Odyssey: From Israel to the International Stage

Uri Geller’s life is a fascinating amalgamation of the paranormal, science, and clandestine espionage, challenging the boundaries of human understanding. His narrative, replete with unexplained events and alleged psychic phenomena, has garnered both awe and skepticism. From a near-death experience at the age of one, which Geller posits may have triggered his mental abilities, to an enigmatic encounter with a sphere of light at five, the foundations of his extraordinary claims are laid.

As Geller’s self-proclaimed telekinetic and telepathic abilities surfaced, he leveraged them in various contexts, transitioning from personal exploits in card games to more altruistic applications, such as navigating through caves. However, it was his involvement with the Mossad, Israel’s secret service, at the remarkably young age of 12, that marked a pivotal turn in his life. The precision of the information he provided, beyond the Mossad’s comprehension, prompted a collaborative effort with the CIA, culminating in a series of experiments at the Stanford Research Institute (SRI).

These experiments, overseen by scientists with direct CIA links, aimed to quantify and understand Geller’s alleged paranormal abilities, yielding some astounding results. The accurate duplication of sealed drawings, the levitation of a weight under stringent conditions, and the influencing of computer systems all contributed to a compelling, albeit controversial, body of evidence. Notably, the CIA’s interest in Geller’s abilities underscores the agency’s exploration of unconventional methods for military and espionage applications, raising profound questions about the ethics of harnessing such powers.

A particularly disturbing experiment, in which Geller was tasked with stopping a pig’s heart using his mind, highlights the darker aspects of these investigations. His refusal to engage with such “dark missions” serves as a moral counterpoint, emphasizing the need for ethical scrutiny in the pursuit of paranormal research. The scientific community’s response to Geller’s claims has been predictably divided, with explanations ranging from genuine paranormal activity to trickery and experimental flaws.

Despite the skepticism, Geller’s story persists as a thought-provoking case study, encouraging a nuanced exploration of the human experience. It challenges the rigid boundaries between the paranormal and the scientific, inviting a reconsideration of what is deemed possible. Ultimately, Geller’s narrative serves as a poignant reminder of the complexities of human perception, underscoring the enduring fascination with the uncharted potential of the human mind. By examining the intersections of Geller’s life and the worlds of science and espionage, we are compelled to confront the unknown, our understanding of reality subtly yet irreversibly altered.

Uri Geller’s Legacy of Paranormal Experiences: Bend a Spoon, Bend Your Mind (UAMN TV, February 2025)

Tuesday, February 11, 2025

[jesuis-assez]

Tim unconsciously sending/showing signals of his feelings for Lucy

[hidey-writes]

"He’s awake! Gu-laoshi, how are you feeling? Isn’t it great for the first thing you see when you open your eyes to be the flower of the police bureau?” “My god,” says a familiar voice, “Clearly the first thing he saw when he opened his eyes was the ceiling, Yaoyao. He’s been unconscious in a hospital bed for two days. Do you really think he cares about the bureau flower when he’s in that state?” Gu Yiran’s mouth goes dry. He turns his head to look to his left.

Or: After his rescue from Qin Yi, Gu Yiran wakes in the hospital with Zheng Bei at his bedside, and neither of them have their respective epiphanies.

read chapter 1 of the distance that i run to you | 我朝你奔跑的距离 on ao3

[philiponmycracker]

Baby Tom Hulce as "Student" - The Adams Chronicles - Chapter X: John Quincy Adams, Congressman (1976, credited as Thomas Hulce)

Tom in his early 20s crushing it at one of his very first screen actor jobs. Watching this felt like a spiritual experience. First I was left gasping for air for how insanely ridiculously outrageous he looks, but then I heard him speak and WTF is going on holy jesus christ mother of

[thecodeveronica]

OH HEY I reached 200 hits now on my first Burnfield fic!!! (which was also the first fic I wrote at all in a long time and tbh I functionally consider it my "first" fic)

That may not sound like much to more prolific writers but it's A LOT to me when I truly didn't expect anyone to read it when I posted it, so I'm kinda over the moon :') It was kind of the impetus for several more positive things in my life so I'm quite fond of it for that reason too

Sooooo anyway I drew a quick, crappy little celebratory drawing which I'm NOT tagging lmao

[definitelynotshouting]

had a thought. in social species, avoiding getting isolated from the group for an extended period of time is a survival instinct. hunger au grian's implied to have been basically not socializing during his time kicked from hermitcraft, just running and occasionally ducking into some random server to eat and hating himself for it. that's probably not helping his eating disorder situation, if on some level he's associated eating with being kicked out.

Oh yeah for sure :(( i think abt this a LOT, about the isolation he went through during that period before the search party found him. That was almost a full year of not really talking to anybody, never seeking close contact, deliberately keeping his distance except for the few times he snuck somewhere to feed and do the bare minimum to keep his code from falling apart. And eventually, he gave up even doing that, and took to the in-between to just. Move. Keep moving. No real focus, no actual destination in mind. For a very long time, it was move forward or die, and when he finally detected that the search party had tracked him down, he realized he'd only been delaying the inevitable and made a decision about it.

It kinda breaks my heart, ngl. To be so lonely and scared and knowing in your heart that you're living on borrowed time. To run as far and as fast as you can against the inevitable, out of pure desperation and stubbornness. In the fic, i mention that Grian considers getting kicked out of Hermitcraft as a death sentence, and that wasnt an exaggeration. He knew. He knew, deep down, from the moment he got kicked, that this was only going to end one way. Grian's a master of denial, yeah, but you can only look death in the face for so long before you realize it's been here the whole time.

His return to Hermitcraft in particular is gonna delve into this. It's gonna delve into a lot of things, tbh, but his isolation very much changed him. It's gonna be a long road, recovery-wise, with lots of set backs and non-linear healing. And, quite frankly, he may never truly be the same!! It'll be up to all of them to successfully reach a new normal together, once they actually get to that point in the narrative❤️ ;;;

[takadanobaba]

Definitely shouldn't be romanceable prior to Ingo being Hisui'd, don't think it would be fair on anyone if you were dating/married while the events go down.

Ingo would be leaving his spouse and if you plan on him still having amnesia, he would have forgotten about them too.

If Emmet does leave in search of his brother, he'd be leaving his spouse forever how long he's gone.

The player would have to deal either a husband who disappeared for a year and now doesn't remember them or a husband who left them for a year and now has abandonment issues.

If they're just friends it doesn't seem as bitter (and you can play with them having feelings prior the events but never admit to them until now).

Yes.... exactly. I wanted the Hisui stuff to be a separate download from the first mod for people who don't want to play through the Hisui storyline and want a more lighthearted/relatively angst free tone but going forward I think it will just be a separate mod entirely since it would be too difficult to account for marriage prior (I didn't think too much about Hisui stuff since I was focusing on just working on the first mod ^^;;).

And that's a good idea for their heart progressions! I like the idea of them having feelings prior but unable to admit them until you help them with their problems.

[ploffskinpluffskin]

Muta, to Natori: How do you tell someone politely you want to hit them with a brick?

Muta: *slams books down in front of Natori* Muta: Boil up some Mountain Dew. It’s gonna be a long night. Natori: You could have said literally anything else. Muta: Cauldron boil and cauldron bubble, Baja Blast to fuel my trouble. Natori: Natori: I’m going to just stop challenging you when you say random nonsense. I won’t win. I realize this now.

Muta: That’s the longest worm I’ve ever seen. Natori, looking up from his book and then back to it again: That’s a snake.

Muta: You know you've made it when you see your picture everywhere you go. Natori: Those are wanted posters!

[autobotmedic]

is it annoy Ratchet day? why are people still asking you those things lol

"It is always 'annoy Ratchet day' on many individuals' calendars, not that it requires great effort to accomplish."

[eldritch-nightmare]

Hi hi V! I know about you from quotev and recently read your a/n. I just wanted to ask if you are doing alright? 😭

Probably not but I just wanted to know if things are getting better or worse. I truly hope it gets better :((

I also rlly like your book, good job with it! <33

Please take care of yourself!!

HFLKSFD yes hi!! i'm doing okay, all things considered, thank you for asking!!

but thank you!! i'm glad you enjoy the scenarios <33 i'll try getting a real update out soon. hopefully. thumbs up. fingers crossed.

but yeah!! you make sure to take care of yourself too!!

[trlblzd]

lawl ........... ecks dee

[misaerabl]

Uncharted Territory

Older Sevika (you meet her at a club) CONTENT: wc...2k ✦ older sevika (she's twice your age), you meet at a club, drinking/slightly intoxicated, strap riding, degrading nicknames, one night stand (?), modern setting, smut with plot SUMMARY: After a night out at a club, you find yourself alone, drinking, when a confident, older woman approaches. She’s intriguing, magnetic, and before you know it, you’re at her penthouse. What started as a simple encounter soon leaves you questioning how you ended up here—and why you’re not ready to leave.

The music thumps through the floor, bass vibrating up through your legs as you sit alone at the bar, a drink in hand. You’ve lost track of your friends—though, to be fair, it didn’t take long in a place this packed. A part of you thought about leaving, but the idea of going home to the same quiet routine felt unbearable. So here you are, sipping something bitter and fizzy, just trying to let go of the stress that's been clinging to you for weeks.

"Mind if I join you?"

The voice cuts through the haze of the music, low and smooth, laced with confidence. You glance over your shoulder and do a double take. She’s stunning—tall and broad-shouldered, with a sharp jawline that could probably cut glass. Her dark hair is cropped close, her suit tailored to perfection, and when she shifts, you catch a glimpse of a sleek prosthetic arm, gleaming under the club's neon lights.

You smirk despite yourself. “Depends. Are you buying?”

She lets out a soft laugh, the sound deep and warm. "Of course. What’s your poison?”

You glance at your nearly-empty glass, then shrug. “Surprise me.”

She signals the bartender, who nods like they know her, and you realize immediately that she’s a regular. Not just that, but someone important. It’s not just her appearance that screams money; it’s the way she carries herself, the ease with which she owns the space around her. The bartender sets down two crystal tumblers, something amber and expensive-looking swirling inside.

“Here,” she says, sliding one toward you. “Cheers to... being alone in a crowd.”

You clink glasses and take a sip. It’s smooth, smoky, and undeniably the best thing you’ve tasted all night. “Not bad,” you say, licking your lips. “I could get used to this.”

Her gaze lingers on you, an amused smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “I like your style. You’ve got guts.”

“You don’t even know me,” you tease, leaning in slightly.

“Not yet.” Her eyes glint, and you can’t tell if it’s the alcohol or her sheer presence that’s making your head spin. “How old are you, anyway?”

The question catches you off guard, but you answer honestly. Her eyebrows lift slightly, and she lets out a low chuckle. “Well, this just got interesting. I’m old enough to be your... well, let’s just say twice your age.”

You shrug, smirking. “So? I won’t tell if you won’t.”

Her laughter rumbles over the music, and she shakes her head. “You’re trouble, aren’t you?”

You lean closer, your confidence bolstered by the drink and her attention. “Maybe. You like trouble?”

She raises her glass, tilting her head to study you. “You have no idea.”

Her words hang in the air, a challenge you’re more than willing to meet. The drink is warming you from the inside, but it’s her gaze, steady and unflinching, that’s really setting you on fire. You swirl the amber liquid in your glass, leaning in closer so she can hear you over the music.

“Maybe I’d like to find out,” you say, letting the words linger, daring her to respond.

She arches an eyebrow, her lips curving into a slow, dangerous smile. “Careful,” she murmurs, her voice low and intimate. “You might bite off more than you can chew.”

You laugh softly, leaning your elbow on the bar, angling yourself toward her. “Maybe I’m hungry.”

Her gaze drops to your mouth for a split second, but you catch it, and the heat in your cheeks spreads through the rest of your body. She leans closer, the space between you shrinking, her scent—something smoky and clean—pulling you in.

“You don’t scare easily, do you?” she asks, her tone teasing but her eyes searching yours.

“Should I be scared?” you counter, matching her energy, holding her gaze like it’s a game you’re determined to win.

She chuckles, and it’s the kind of laugh that makes you shiver—deep, rich, and full of something dangerous. “Depends. I don’t exactly come with a warning label, but maybe I should.”

You tilt your head, narrowing your eyes at her playfully. “Sounds like you’ve got a story or two.”

“More than a few,” she admits, leaning back slightly, her prosthetic arm resting on the bar. The metal catches the light, sharp and sleek, like her. “But I’d rather hear yours.”

You take another sip of your drink, letting it bolster your courage. “You first. You look like someone who could write a novel just from the way you walked in here.”

She smirks, her tongue darting out to wet her bottom lip. “Flattery won’t get you far,” she teases, but the sparkle in her eye tells you it already has. “But for you, I might make an exception.”

You grin, emboldened by her reaction. “Is that so? Guess I’d better make it worth your while, then.”

Her expression shifts slightly, her smile deepening, her eyes darker now. She leans in, her voice dropping to just above a whisper. “You’ve got a lot of confidence for someone so young. What makes you think you can keep up?”

Your breath catches, but you don’t falter. You meet her gaze head-on, the challenge sparking something reckless inside you. “Why don’t we find out?”

For a moment, she just watches you, her expression unreadable. Then, slowly, she sets her glass down, her hand brushing yours as she does. The touch is deliberate, lingering, and it sends a jolt through you.

“You’re bold,” she says softly, her voice a mix of amusement and something heavier, something that makes your pulse race. “I like that.”

“Good,” you reply, barely above a whisper, leaning closer still. “Because I’m not done yet.”

Her smile widens, and the look she gives you is nothing short of predatory. “Neither am I.”

The apartment is immaculate, all sleek lines and modern finishes, with a view that stretches for miles, the city glowing beneath you like a bed of stars. The air here is different—cool, but heavy with something you can’t quite place. You take a deep breath, feeling a bit out of place. This isn’t you. You don’t usually go to clubs, let alone lose your friends in the crowd. And you definitely don’t end up in some stranger’s penthouse, especially not someone who’s twice your age.

But here you are, sitting on a plush couch. She’s standing near the bar now, looking at you with that same confident, almost teasing smile, as if this is exactly how the night was supposed to go.

“Water,” she says casually, her voice smooth and almost too calm, like she’s read you perfectly. "You need it more than I do."

You chuckle, your fingers gripping the glass tighter than necessary as you take a sip, the cool liquid easing the dryness in your throat. You’re still processing—still trying to make sense of the fact that you’re here, with her. The older woman who seems to have effortlessly drawn you into her orbit. You’ve never been this spontaneous, never allowed yourself to follow a stranger back to their place.

"Not sure why I'm here, actually," you admit, meeting her gaze. "This isn't exactly my usual scene." The words come out sounding more uncertain than you intend, but the sharp, quiet energy she exudes makes it hard to feel anything other than... intrigued.

She steps closer, her eyes never leaving yours. “Then why’d you come?” Her voice drops just a fraction, like she’s trying to peel back whatever resistance you’re holding on to.

You hesitate, leaning back into the couch, your thoughts tangled. "I guess I just... wanted to see where this would go." You can’t exactly explain why you decided to leave your friends behind and come here with her, but there’s something magnetic about her, something that pulls you in even as you’re questioning your own decisions.

Her lips curl up into a knowing smile, the kind that suggests she already has all the answers. “Bold,” she murmurs, taking a seat beside you. Her proximity is warm, comfortable—too comfortable, and yet, you don’t move away. “I like that. You usually make decisions like this?”

You meet her gaze, the weight of her presence pressing down on you, and your chest tightens. “Not really. Guess I’m a little out of my element.”

She tilts her head, her eyes tracing over your face. “Maybe that’s a good thing.” There’s a hint of amusement in her voice, but it’s more than that—there’s something in the way she looks at you, like she’s waiting for you to make the next move.

And suddenly, you’re not sure what comes next, but you’re not backing down either. Something about this feels too... captivating.

She gripped your hips firmly, guiding your movements as you rocked together. Your head tilted back, eyes closed in pleasure, letting out loud breathless moans.

"So fucking gorgeous" She whispered, her eyes drinking in the sight of you, savoring every inch of you in it's full glory.

The coldness of her metal arm pressing you down felt oddly intoxicating. You couldn’t explain why, but it was like the perfect balance — the chill against the heat, like liquor to the drug that was Sevika.

Her other hand reached up, cupping your face with a firm yet tender grip, guiding your gaze to meet hers as you moved. "That's it," she murmured, her voice thick with desire. "Keep showing me that pretty face."

Her grip on your waist tightened, urging you to move faster. Your mind was a haze, emptied of everything except the overwhelming sensation and the way she consumed you entirely.

"You're my pretty whore aren't you, baby?" She purred, her voice dripping with dominance. The sound made a shiver run through you, all you could do was cry out a breathless, trembling "YES!"

You’d lost count of how many times you’d unraveled beneath her touch. Now, your face was buried in the pillow, breaths coming in shallow gasps as you surrendered completely.

She spread your folds with her fingers, licking them before they made contact on hour cunt. That shit sent waves through your body.

How could she make you feel this good? How could one night of indulgence shatter everything you thought you knew about yourself? You were supposed to be disciplined, grounded — yet here you were, in the bed of a woman whose age was closer to your mother’s than your own, surrendering to desires you didn’t even know you had.

She inserts two digits inside you, pumping her fingers fast inside your walls. As you gripped hard on the sheets, and screamed into the pillow, sevika took it as a chance to kiss your still dripping cunt.

The older woman pumped inside you as her tongue pampered your throbbing cunt. You were an absolute fucking mess for her — moaning, trembling, and falling apart completely. Whimpers spilled from your lips as your back arched, your ass higher on the air, every inch of you succumbing to her control.

If it were anyone else, the names she called you would’ve made your skin crawl. The degrading words—slut, whore, plaything—would have sent you running out the door without a second thought. But with Sevika? Somehow, they only made you melt further, igniting a fire within that left you craving more.

Everytime she spoke it's like your pussy got wetter, if that was even physically possible.

"God... harder, please." you pleaded, with desperation. The sound drew a low satisfied chuckle from her. You were so needy for her snd she absolutely loved every second of it.

Of course she obliged — how could she resist? She loved seeing you like this, completely undone beneath her touch, reveling in a way she made you feel so utterly and undeniably good.

A few more slow, deliberate thrusts and flicks of her tongue and fingers, you came again for what felt like the hundredth time that night, your body trembling with each wave of pleasure.

Safe to say, you had the best night of your life.

[shycoconutt]

It isn’t until you’re laid out underneath him, face burrowed in Nanami’s neck, hands gripping onto his biceps for dear life as he ruts into you, that you notice it.

Right there, where the peak of his shoulder meets his trap muscle, the pale skin decorated with hundreds of small freckles, appears an unnatural, angry indentation.

As you feel his cockhead ram into your cervix over and over, you fixate on this point, eyes going a tad cross eyed as you process what’s in front of you.

“The sword I carry on my back and my duty as a sorcerer is the cross I choose to bear.”

You don’t notice the small bead of drool that escapes the corner of your mouth, or the way your hand instinctively wraps around from behind his back to press the pad of your middle finger into the small divot.

Your eyes widen and your pussy pulses at the small whimper he gives you in response.

Your touches are light at first, but you need to know more. Holding fully onto his shoulder now, you press two of your fingers firmly into his meaty flesh.

The noise that escapes his mouth in reaction to your touch is uncharted territory. Somewhere between a moan and a cry, Nanami folds you fully into a mating press, snapping his hips into you unrestrained.

You understand completely—the mental, emotional and physical toll his line of work has on his being. He is the strongest man you know, but even he needs support. That is your duty, and you give it your all.

“That’s it, that’s it, Ken,” you coo while wrapping both hands around him, pressing with all your strength into his shoulders as he cries out, “Release all your tension. Give everything to me, I can take it.”

It isn’t long until he’s dumping all of his thick seed into you, coating your slick walls. He collapses on top of you, more small spurts escaping in the aftershocks.

Wanting to keep him close, you wrap your arms around his neck and your legs around his torso, giving his whole body a playful squeeze. His half-hard length remains in you, keeping you plugged with his essence. You can feel the pressure of a small bulge inside your lower tummy. You’re full of him, just how you like.

Nanami softy clears his throat, willing himself to speak.

“Do you, uh, do you mind massaging my shoulders while we lay here? Your touch is heavenly, darling.”

You smile and hum in response, softy beginning to work at him while he shifts lower to take one of your nipples gently in his mouth.

For hours you two lay there while he softly suckles your tits and you relieve any remaining tension in his body. Every once in a while, he slowly grinds his cock into you, bringing you both to multiple climaxes over the course of your lazy afternoon together.

[rmview]

they say something hurtful, ENHYPEN.

featuring — enhypen members x gn!reader ( masterlist )

summary — when the enhypen boys say something hurtful to you in an argument!

contents — angst, hurtful words.

hee 𖦹 seung

arguments weren’t common between you and heeseung, but when they happened, they were intense. he was usually calm and collected, but tonight was different. stress from his packed schedule and the unresolved tension between you had created the perfect storm.

“i don’t get why you always make everything about you,” heeseung snapped, his voice rising in frustration. his words stung, and you flinched.

“i’m not making it about me! i just want you to hear me for once!” you shot back, tears threatening to spill as you tried to keep your voice steady.

he sighed heavily, running a hand through his hair. “you know what? if i’d known you were like this — so needy and dramatic — i wouldn’t have dated you in the first place.”

the silence that followed was deafening. heeseung’s own words echoed in his mind as he saw the hurt in your eyes. your lips parted slightly, as if you were about to say something, but no words came out.

you stepped back, shaking your head. “you didn’t mean that… right?”

heeseung’s heart dropped. he knew he had crossed a line, but his pride kept him silent. you waited for him to say something — anything — but the room stayed painfully quiet.

“i can’t believe you,” you whispered, voice trembling. without another word, you turned and grabbed your coat. “you know what, heeseung? if this is how you really feel, then maybe you’re right. maybe you shouldn’t have dated me.”

as you walked out the door, the sound of it closing behind you felt like a finality heeseung wasn’t ready for. the guilt hit him immediately, but by the time he moved to chase after you, it was too late. you were already gone.

jay 𖦹

jay prided himself on being patient, but tonight his limits were tested. the argument had started small — a misunderstanding that spiraled out of control.

“i’m tired of this, jay! you never listen to me!” you exclaimed, your voice laced with frustration.

“and i’m tired of you always nagging me about everything!” he shot back, his tone sharper than he intended.

you recoiled slightly, hurt flashing in your eyes. “nagging? i’m trying to communicate with you, but all you ever do is shut me out!”

jay clenched his fists, his frustration bubbling over. “maybe if you weren’t so clingy all the time, i wouldn’t feel the need to shut you out!”

his words hit you like a slap. “clingy?” you repeated, your voice breaking.

jay’s anger faltered as he saw the tears welling up in your eyes, but his pride kept him from softening immediately. “yeah,” he muttered, avoiding your gaze.

you took a shaky breath, your hands trembling at your sides. “if that’s how you feel about me, then maybe we shouldn’t be together.”

jay’s eyes snapped up to meet yours, panic briefly flashing across his face. “wait, that’s not —”

“no, jay,” you interrupted, your voice firm despite the pain. “you’ve made it clear how you see me. i won’t stay where i’m not wanted.”

before he could stop you, you grabbed your bag and walked out. jay stood frozen, the weight of his words crashing down on him as the door shut behind you.

jake 𖦹

jake was usually the one to keep things lighthearted, but tonight, the argument had dragged him into uncharted territory.

“why do you always assume the worst about me?” jake asked, his voice tinged with exasperation.

“because you never give me a reason not to!” you retorted, your frustration bubbling over.

jake threw his hands in the air. “you’re being ridiculous! do you even hear yourself right now?”

“ridiculous?” you echoed, your voice rising. “you’re the one who never takes anything seriously, jake!”

the comment struck a nerve, and jake snapped. “you know what? maybe this is why i don’t take things seriously — because being serious with you is exhausting!”

the room fell silent, his words hanging heavily in the air. jake’s eyes widened slightly as he realized what he’d just said, but the damage was done.

you stared at him, your heart breaking. “exhausting?” you repeated, your voice barely above a whisper.

jake opened his mouth to take it back, but the guilt and panic froze him. “i didn’t mean —”

“no,” you interrupted, shaking your head as tears streamed down your face. “i got it, jake. i get it now.”

you grabbed your bag and headed for the door. “if i’m so exhausting, then maybe you’ll feel better once i’m gone.”

“wait, don’t —” jake called out, stepping forward, but you didn’t stop. the door closed behind you, leaving him standing alone, regret consuming him as the silence in the room grew unbearable.

sung 𖦹 hoon

sunghoon wasn’t one to raise his voice during arguments, but tonight was different. the frustration in his tone was sharp, and it only seemed to escalate the tension between you.

“i don’t get why you always have to make things so difficult,” sunghoon muttered, pacing the room.

“make things difficult? i’m just asking you to talk to me, sunghoon! you keep shutting me out!” you shot back, your voice trembling.

“maybe i shut you out because you always blow things out of proportion!” he snapped, the words spilling out before he could stop them.

your breath hitched, and sunghoon immediately regretted it. the hurt in your eyes made his heart drop, but his pride kept him standing stiffly.

“blow things out of proportion?” you echoed, your voice soft but laced with pain. “if you really think that, then maybe you don’t know me at all.”

sunghoon ran a hand through his hair, trying to find the right words, but his silence spoke volumes. you let out a shaky laugh, more out of disbelief than humor.

“i get it now,” you whispered, grabbing your coat. you couldn’t stand to be around him any longer. “if that’s how you feel, then maybe i should stop trying.”

“wait,” sunghoon said, his voice breaking slightly as he reached out toward you, but you had already opened the door.

you turned back, your expression heartbreakingly calm. “don’t worry, sunghoon. i won’t bother you anymore.”

the door clicked shut, leaving him standing in the middle of the room, the weight of his words crashing down on him. he sank onto the couch, his head in his hands, consumed by regret.

su 𖦹 noo

sunoo hated confrontation, but tonight, the argument had spiraled out of control. his usual patience was worn thin, and the words tumbled out before he could think.

“you’re so sensitive about everything! why can’t you just let it go for once?” he snapped, crossing his arms.

your eyes widened, the sting of his words hitting you like a physical blow. “sensitive? i’m trying to talk to you, sunoo! i’m trying to fix this!”

“well, maybe i don’t want to fix it right now!” he shot back, his voice trembling with frustration. “maybe i need space from all of this — space from you.”

the room went deathly quiet. sunoo’s eyes widened as he realized what he’d just said, but the damage was done.

“space from me?” you repeated, your voice cracking. “is that what you really want?”

“yes... wait, no — i didn’t mean it like that,” he said quickly, his tone softening, frustration still clear in his eyes, but you had already stepped back, hurt etched across your face.

“fine,” you whispered, grabbing your bag. “if you need space, you can have it. don’t worry — i won’t take up any more of your time.”

“wait, don’t go,” sunoo pleaded, stepping forward, but you shook your head, tears slipping down your cheeks.

“i just… i can’t do this right now,” you said, your voice breaking as you walked out the door.

sunoo stood frozen, the weight of his words suffocating him. he sank to the floor, tears streaming down his face as he realized he might have just pushed away the one person who meant the most to him.

jung 𖦹 won

jungwon was usually the calm one, the one who diffused tension with logic and patience. but tonight, his composure cracked under the weight of the argument.

“why do you always assume the worst about me?” jungwon asked, his voice louder than usual.

“because you never let me in!” you fired back, your frustration bubbling over. “you keep everything bottled up, and i’m always left guessing how you feel!”

“maybe i keep things bottled up because you’re impossible to talk to!” he snapped, his words cutting through the air like a knife.

you froze, the hurt in your expression instantly replacing the anger. “impossible to talk to?” you repeated, your voice barely above a whisper.

jungwon’s anger dissipated as quickly as it had come, and he immediately regretted his words. “wait, i didn’t mean it like that —”

“no,” you interrupted, shaking your head as tears welled up in your eyes. “you did mean it. and now i get it. i’m impossible to talk to, so why should i even try?”

“please don’t say that,” jungwon pleaded, his voice soft and filled with guilt.

but you had already grabbed your bag, your movements stiff and robotic as you headed for the door. “i won’t bother you anymore, jungwon,” you said, your voice trembling.

as the door closed behind you, jungwon sank into the nearest chair, his head in his hands. the silence of the room was deafening, and he replayed the argument in his mind, each word cutting deeper as he realized how much he had hurt you.

ni 𖦹 ki

ni-ki had always struggled with expressing his feelings during arguments. he often relied on humor or avoidance to diffuse tension, but tonight was different. the argument had escalated quickly, and before he knew it, his frustration boiled over.

“why do you always have to push me like this?” ni-ki snapped, his voice louder than he intended.

“push you?” you retorted, your eyes narrowing. “i’m trying to talk to you because you never let me in, ni-ki! you act like nothing bothers you, but it does, and i know it!”

he rolled his eyes, a frustrated groan escaping his lips. “maybe i don’t let you in because you always make everything a big deal!”

the words hung in the air like a slap. ni-ki froze, realizing too late what he’d just said. your expression shifted, the hurt in your eyes piercing through his defenses.

“a big deal?” you repeated, your voice shaking. “i just wanted to understand you, ni-ki. but if you think i’m such a burden, then maybe i shouldn’t be here at all.”

“no, that’s not —” ni-ki began, but you held up a hand, cutting him off.

“i get it,” you said, your tone quieter now, yet filled with finality. “i’m always the problem, right?”

he panicked, stepping closer to you. “wait, no. i didn’t mean it like that —”

but you were already grabbing your bag, your movements stiff and deliberate. “it’s fine, ni-ki. if that’s how you feel, i won’t push you anymore.”

as you walked out the door, ni-ki stood frozen in place, his heart pounding as he replayed the argument in his mind. the click of the door shutting behind you was deafening, and regret settled heavily in his chest.

he sank onto the couch, his hands gripping his knees tightly. “what have i done?” he muttered to himself, his voice barely audible. he stared at the door, willing you to come back, but the silence of the room only confirmed his worst fear.

notes: happy new year lovelies hehe

[nikovraskol]

crack baby ; one

wc ; 3063 masterlist after dying, you expected to be greeted with the open arms of the void swallowing your body, mind and soul. what you didn't anticipate is waking up sixteen once more with a chance to change your fate -- but something strange is happening, why are the locks changing and why are all eyes suddenly on you ? tw ; brief mentions of death, neglect, abuse, curse words

prologue, one, two, three, tbc..

The walls feel different, you’re unsure why or how but they seem almost suffocating, each crevice and crack threatening to suck you up, to consume you and hold you between its atoms until you can’t breathe, until you’re stuck in eternal darkness between the Manor’s walls, ordained to watch your family thrive without you. 

Though, that may very well be because of Bruce flipping Wayne walking besides you, an awkward silence stretching between the two of you, his stature large and intimidating, covered in scars from adventures you wouldn’t dare to even dream about.

As the vigilante Batman, you held an undetermined amount of respect for the man. He is Batman, after all. He protects Gotham, and by proxy, he protects you. But as Bruce Wayne, you feel little to nothing for the man.

Sure, the actual sixteen-year-old (Name) would’ve jumped for joy at a chance to even see her father, let alone walk the halls with him, at eighteen there was a period of time where you loathed the man, where you would curse yourself for sharing DNA with him. But you’re technically twenty-one, and twenty-one year old you was grateful to him for housing and feeding her, but resentful for the neglect she faced.

These conflicting emotions inside you mixed together to create a cocktail of complete and utter apathy towards the man.

“Alfred mentioned you didn’t come down for breakfast, you’re growing, you should eat a sufficient amount of food everyday.” His voice broke through the deafening silence, the Manor feeling bigger for some reason as you send him a confused expression, your brows furrowing as you take in your father in earnest.

 There wasn’t a time where you had a chance to take him in fully. Aside from when you first came to the manor, but that time was behind you and you made an effort to push anything about that to the back of your mind.

He looked cold, as untouchable as he did on TV, he felt far away despite the fact that he was right beside you. For a moment, you were transported back in time, back to when you’d sit on the floor, knees to your chest as you stared at the old, laggy TV before you.

“You look like him.” Your mother hummed from behind you, she was sat on the old beat-up couch where she slept each night, brushing your hair with the utmost of care as she avoided the man on TV, Bruce Wayne, your alleged father. A smile dawned your face as the flickering of the TV casted an almost eerie glow into your living room, a premonition for what’s to come, evident by the way your mother’s movements grow more rough, by the way her hand curls in your hair, forcing you to look away from the man. You didn’t protest, you knew better.

You look like him? You wouldn’t say so, when you picture yourself you picture your mother – though that may be your bias talking, you’ll always prefer your mother, despite the ache in your heart whenever you think of her.

“Right..” You mumble, not sure how to reply to him. This was uncharted territory! How do you converse with a father who you’ve never spoken to before despite living under the same roof for ten years, despite sharing blood, despite sharing a last name. 

You’ve always felt like a black sheep, uninterested in the nitty-gritty of being a vigilante. You had nothing to contribute, in a family where transactions formed bonds, you had nothing to give. You were nothing, not Batman, not Robin, not anyone. Just (Name), like a piece of cheap plastic glued into a small crack on a pristine, porcelain vase. You didn’t belong, you cheapened them all, it’d be better to peel you off.

It’s why they never looked back at you, no matter how much you cried, begged, It’s why Dick would send you a half-hearted grin and a promise of ‘’I’ll take you somewhere later’ to placate your begging, to make you shut up. It’s why Jason would push past you in the hallways, why Tim would blatantly ignore you, and why Damian would sneer whenever he’d see you.

You weren’t able to migrate to Cass or Steph, and by the time Duke had joined, you had already given up on the prospect of forming any meaningful relationship in this Manor and it’s looming walls.

Then suddenly, a thought hits you, a rush of something – this was your perfect chance, you likely wouldn’t see your father again so it’s okay for you to ask now, right? There will be no other chances.

“Can you.. lend me some money?” You ask suddenly, cringing on how that sounds. That isn’t really the best thing to ask the father who you haven’t interacted with for fuck knows how long – he was probably picturing you as some money-hungry leech. Which is fine, his opinion of you meant nothing to you anymore, he can imagine you as whatever he likes.

But you need money if you’re going to live in a half-decent area of Gotham, getting a job and saving money for a house would take too long on a minimum wage salary, and your piggy bank was completely empty, and you couldn’t move cities. Not at sixteen.

“What do you need it for?” Bruce asks, his eyes sliding over to you cooly. A pang of something hitting his gut like a physical blow, his hands clenching as he struggled to look at you for too long. You looked like him.

When Alfred came into his office, sighing about how he was worried for his second-youngest child, Bruce was confused. Tim was fine, he hadn’t gotten hurt on patrol, and he wasn’t sick – at least, to Bruce’s knowledge.

“I’m not talking about Master Tim, I’m speaking of Master (Name), they’re acting in an unusual manner.” Alfred sighs, his gaze narrowing at Bruce – the judgement clouding his gaze heavy as he stares down his master.

“(Name)?” Bruce mumbled, his brow raising – he remembers you. Maybe. He remembers the concept of you, the product of a one-night-stand he had, a child he was forced to take in because of the death of your mother. He remembers the look in your eyes as you stared up at him, and he distinctly remembers the way you had clutched onto his hand, tears pooling your eyes as you sniffled, scared of the world, seeking comfort from the man everyone called your father.

But after that, nothing. His mind drew a blank when it came to picturing you – his first born blood related child, the thought made his stomach churn with guilt. His hand clenching as he avoids Alfred’s disdainful stare.

He tried to read the documents before him once more, his loyal butler’s scornful gaze burning into his back as the guilt in his stomach dug it’s claws into his lungs, squeezing until it became unbearable.

He’ll check on you, he decides. He’ll make an image of your face, that’ll settle the all-too familiar guilt inside him. Or at least, that’s what he told himself as Alfred led him down the familiar halls of his Manor, until he hit the other side – a side untouched ever since Bruce was a child, an area of the Manor he didn’t bother with.

Why were you here? The guilt in his stomach intensified, clawing it’s way up his throat as he reached your door. His hand hovering over the handle. This wouldn’t do. His guilt was increasing, weighing heavy on his back. The silence was unnerving, on the other side of the Manor, where everyone else resided – there was always some sort of background noise.

The silence surrounding your room was sickening, threatening to encase his form. This really wouldn’t do, he’d create an image of your face and move your room, somewhere close to his. Somewhere where he can occasionally drop by, he’ll sedate his guilt surrounding you, cutting off the bud of the problem before it can grow into something deeper, he didn’t have time for any of that as Batman.

And with that, he opened your door.

“I need it to buy a house.” You shrug, feeling a little awkward talking about this with your father. Did he even care? You didn’t think so. Oh goodness, the silence was so stifling you wish you could be shot all over again and–

You stop when you notice he isn’t walking beside you anymore, turning your gaze behind you to take in his expression and– why the fuck does he look shocked?! Your expression scrunches up as you take in thee Bruce Wayne, thee Batman looking at you, completely caught off guard.

It’s an expression you’ll never forget until the day you die.

“Buy a house? Why?” He asks, his lips tugging into a tight line as he stares at you with that same calculating expression, the one that made your nerves stand on end – the one that made each cell in your body burn with the urge to curl into yourself, to appear as small as possible and and plead for mercy. You hate it (It reminds you of her).

“I’m– moving out..” You say, your voice smaller than you had intended. The walls are slowly crushing you, you’re sure. This all feels like a cruel dream, a twist of fate you don’t want to accept. Oh, please, you don’t want that look, you want him to look at you with another expression (with the expression he gives others, the expression of a father),

Bruce paused, his body going rigid as he exhales through his nose – the guilt simmering in his body, each muscle threatening to snap, he hates this feeling. He wants to know you, he wants to know his child, the child tucked into the corner of the Manor. How cruel is fate, to threaten to rip you away, to pluck you from his garden the moment he took notice of your pretty petals.

“Do you have any in mind?” Bruce asks, his head tilting as he scans you from head to toe, his voice growing lower, colder. A familiar rush runs through you, the rush you felt when you were in that piss-soaked alley. The undertone of danger clear  – what was his problem?

“I’m not sure yet, but– I saw a nice apartment by Gotham Harbour..” You mutter, your hands wringing behind your back nervously. This was strange, scary, unnerving, anxiety-inducing – pick your damn description! “I’ll.. see about sending you some.” He says gruffly, before nodding and walking away without another word. Instantly, you let out a deep sigh, your hand clutching your heart as you mumble curses, stumbling back to your room. That was–..

If you were actually the sixteen-year-old (Name), you’d probably be on your way to get a tattoo saying ‘my father spoke to me!’, but as you walk down the long, foreboding hallways all you can muster is fear. You don’t know why, but that exchange felt like a catalyst for something big, the future has changed. You’re swallowed by the realization that whatever power you had is slipping away, the future has changed almost comically fast and you’re left standing alone in an abyss of uncertainty.

Something’s going to happen, you just hope you’re not a part of it.

Meanwhile, on the other, brighter side of the sullen Manor, Bruce is brooding in his office, the tick-tocking of the grandfather clock matching the pace of his heartbeat. His dear (Name), his child, moving out? At sixteen? Blasphemous. He ran a hand through his hair, sighing deeply once more, ignoring the pointed look from his youngest son standing before him.

“Father, I believe it’s time to start training. I surmise you haven’t forgotten your promise?” Damian asks, taking in his father’s disgruntled appearance. Strange. It’s certainly not unheard of for Bruce to be in a disheveled state, what with him protecting Gotham every night. But last night was quiet, there wasn’t anything big going on so they were able to take it easy. He should be relaxed, or at least put together.

“Damian, I haven’t the time, Dick is staying in the Manor today, ask him.” Bruce says, standing up from his chair as he walks towards the door – ignoring Damian’s rattled expression, his young son following his footsteps with a huff.

“If I had wanted to train with Richard, I would’ve asked him.” Damian retorts, following his father around with his arms crossed around his chest – miffed by the turn of events. What on earth was keeping his father from training with him? He had been looking forward to this! He continued to protest as they ascended down the stairs, past the living room where Dick was lounging all the way to the kitchen where Alfred was already preparing a feast, the butler diligently working with practised ease.

“Master Bruce, Master Damian.” Alfred greeted, the smell of his cooking wafting through the air as he took in the sight of Bruce’s frown and Damian’s pout, they looked alike, it was almost comical, not that the butler would voice that out loud.

While the old man may seem relaxed, his hands were clenched a little too tightly to pass off as natural. He was waiting with baited breath to see if his plan had borne fruit, if Bruce had managed to find out the reason for your odd behaviour. Of course, Alfred could’ve asked you himself, but you had never been one to open up. 

No matter how much the old butler tried, he wasn’t able to break through the walls of defence you had built around yourself during your stay in the Manor, hopefully the man you craved affection from would be enough to crack that impenetrable shield.

“Did you know that (Name) is planning to move out?” Bruce asks suddenly, his blunt words cutting through the mouth-watering aroma of the carefully seasoned chicken in the oven. Bruce’s eyes remain trained on Alfred, watching as his mouth drops slightly. So he didn’t know. He ignores Damian’s aghast expression and Dick who had sauntered in moments ago.

“No.. I wasn’t aware.” That was unexpected, of all the things Bruce could’ve said, Alfred wasn’t prepared for that. You? Move out? You were merely sixteen, a child! You weren’t even the age to earn a livable wage and you wanted to move out? Unbelievable! “What– What did you just say?” Dick stammers, his eyes flickering from Bruce to Alfred as the tension in the room silently grows, weighing on the room like a guillotine, an unspoken threat looming above each of their heads. Dick couldn’t believe what he was hearing. You wanted to move out? His precious baby sibling? The sweet child who would follow him around shyly, who would light up at the smallest hint of affection, the child who couldn’t ride a bike or do their times tables or–.. No, that was years ago, right? Or, at least he thinks so.

To be honest, when Bruce had said your name, he was initially confused. (Name) was unfamiliar to him – but that feeling went away when he pictured the small child hiding behind the corners of the Manor. His precious sibling! So, it doesn’t matter, right? He forgot about you but he remembered you just as quickly. He’s your older brother, he couldn’t have forgotten you. No, not when he’s everyone’s reliable older brother, that’s impossible! Disgraceful! Deplorable!

How old are you now? He wonders bitterly, a heavy, unsettling feeling forcing it’s claws in his throat as he feels a dull ache stretch through his body, his heart pounding through his ears. You? Move out? That’s insane, you can’t move out. He still needs to take you out to that restaurant he promised you (all those years ago), he needs to help with your math homework, he–..

He feels like he might throw up, he takes a tentative step back, ignoring the expression on Damian’s face. He needs to see you, to grab you and demand answers, he can’t believe such a thing to be true. Sure, maybe he hasn’t interacted with you at all, and maybe he can’t picture your face, or your personality in his mind aside from the small, lingering child who would follow him around – but you can’t leave! Not before he takes you out to that restaurant, like he promised. What kind of big brother doesn’t follow up on his promises?

“This is a ploy for attention.” Damian huffs, glowering at the mention of you. So, you’re what’s driven his father away from training with him. Figures. You’re jealous and weak, it’s natural you’d make empty threats to scavenge for attention like the filthy leech you are. Pathetic.

So why? Why was father making such an expression? Why was Dick so pale, as though he’s about to hurl? Even Alfred looks caught off-guard. What’s going on with these buffoons? Can they not see the foolishness in the idea of you moving out? 

But, there’s a feeling in the air, masking Alfred’s cooking that tells him you’re serious. You’re planning on moving out. What a stupid notion – he should go to your room and smack you for even suggesting it, that you would survive outside of the Manor, in Gotham no less.

“What will you do, Master Bruce?” Alfred asks after a beat of thoughtful silence, the air in the room crackling with the weight of everyone’s ideals, his eyes narrowed at Bruce’s tightened expression.

“They’re.. too young to live alone.” Bruce’s tone is even, the same voice he uses when going over a mission plan and such, but the message in it is clear. You can’t go, and they all understand it, they understand it well.

Alfred watches the three part ways, each of them with a newfound goal in mind, and he can’t help the relief that washes over him. This is great, he had been worried that they would let you go – that they wouldn’t care to keep you, Alfred would have to do all the work himself then, and he’s much too old for that.

Yes, this is much easier. The cogs of fate are turning, the strings on your limbs tightening with each passing second. You’ve inadvertently set your role in an inescapable performance – maybe next time, go downstairs for dinner – no matter how shaken up you are.

yall i was gonna post this later.. but everyone is so nice omg. i feel so scared to post PLEASEUHH constructive critisicm is appreciated <3 :3 also thank u for being so kind on the prologue :p

[tojisun]

cw: simon riley x f!reader; smut; d/s - collaring

the day that you realized that you liked it was sort of unintentional, that you know at least — simon’s hand climbing up the expanse of your body, brushing past your sternum, copping a feel of your tits, before hooking it around your throat.

that was new; unchartered territory of some sorts. simon’s never been that type of a lover, so used to bearing all his weight onto yours when he is taking you, and making you feel every pudge and every muscle; always skin on skin, meat on flesh, but a hand on your neck as you mount him, riding him with such finesse that he’d been reduced to breathless and trembling moans? yeah, that was new.

not unwanted, though. no.

not with the way your cunt convulsed, walls spasming around his girth, before your squirt was punched out of you. god, it felt so euphoric — stuffing yourself with his cock, gobbling it all up down to his pelvis, while the weight of his touch grounded you, constricting on the press of your throat because like that, just like that, simon was overwhelming.

like sure, you were the one on top, conquering him with a single-minded focus, but the ease in which simon had taken back his power — not that it was about that to him; hell, you know that simon would rather kneel by your feet if it really came down to it, but- but it was for you — so seeing simon work it; seeing simon take it from you with just a heavy hold– it unmade you. it ruined you.

it made your hunger more vicious; armed it with teeth.

it made you want to be—

collared.

.

simon’s thorough, of course he is.

he’s walked you through codes and signs — “green for go, yellow for pause, and red is full stop. if words are too much, three taps means out, okay, baby? no, i need to hear you say it– thank you, sweetheart.” — then told you the collar is a surprise when you asked him if you could pick one out right now.

your nose curls when he said that.

“i want it now, though,” you say, totally not whining. you’re wearing his shirt, legs and pussy still bare and sensitive after he’s fucked you on the couch. the ache is a pleasant thrum, and you feel like jelly with how sated you are down to your bones, but still, you refused even the softest of pyjama pants that simon’s pulled out for you.

he sighs, all patient, and scoops you to his lap.

“a collar’s a gift,” he says. “or, at least, let me gift it to you.”

he softly bites your cheek when your only reply is a pout. “don’t worry, i’ll choose a pretty one. you know that i will.”

you hum, nodding because of course simon will. he always has. the ring on your finger, the necklace you’ve got on, the lines of lingeries stuffed in your drawers, the jewelled plugs — simon knows that you want the pretty things. he knows that you love pretty things.

but the collar is—

you want it to mean something else. you want it to feel vitriolic. to feel dirty. like simon’s fully possessed you and that collar is proof of his claim. like he’s fully got you in the palm of his hand, sitting pretty for him.

that what was lovely was not the collar, but you.

“okay,” you say, still deep in thought.

(you don’t notice simon’s knowing stare or the way his eyes darkened, desire crashing into him with such ferocity. he knows you so well that it still surprises him when you think that he doesn’t. he knows what it is you want.

he knows what this means to you, or what you want it to mean.

what you want him to make it mean.

and simon’s so soft for you; would spoil you rotten if he could, and he will because you’ve promised yourself to him, so let him prove himself to you. let him show you how he will take care of you.)

.

the box is made of this green velvety material and it makes you pause midway through as you remove your coat. it’s on the dining table, stark above the rest of mundane things that belong in the room and on that oak, and it’s placed directly on your spot so it’s for you, you know, but simon’s been quiet since he followed you into the room, wordless as he watched you.

you turn to him, eyes wide and lips twitching with the thousands of things you want to say, but all you could croak out is, “is that—”

simon gives you a curt nod, the ends of his lips twitching slightly.

“go on,” he finally prods when you still remain frozen on your spot, arms still tensed, your jacket still half-slung on. “or would you want me to put it on for you?”

it’s like a switch was flicked on in your mind, like now that simon’s offered it, there’s nothing else that would suffice. so you give him a nod, quiet as you finally shuck off your coat before playing with the hems of its sleeves. he hums, just a soft curl of his deep voice, and ushers you forward, closer to the box. to the—

simon picks it up for you while you move to drape your jacket on the chair but even without baggage, you refuse to take it from him, lying in a limbo, waiting for him to decide for you. because that’s the crux of it, isn’t it? this whole thing — the collar, simon’s hand around your throat, something you always fall back to obsessively, stuffing yourself full with your fingers — is because of control.

his control over you. his possession of you.

simon hums, like he knows where your mind has gone, and moves to open it for you. there’s no bloating of tension, simon opens it the way one would rip a bandaid off — quick, unthinkingly, and half-hungry for the sting.

you breathe in sharply at seeing it.

you expected softness, maybe even something pink or purple or anything that was light hues, with lacing and silk that would not chafe. not this — dark leather with thick and heavy buckles, and lined with three metal rings that you know is for nothing else  but a leash.

“fuck—”

simon’s hand falls on the small of your back, his thumb digging into the dimples and rubbing softly. “d’y’like it?”

“yes,” you reply, breathless, not knowing how else to verbalize your desire or that swooping feeling in the pit of your stomach, feeling your heart thudding within your ribs, so deafening amidst the noise of your blood rushing to your ears. “simon, i– yes.”

simon huffs this pleased laugh, and you feel so shaken at feeling him tug you closer, urging you to look up at him.

“want t’wear it now, baby?”

you don’t even realize that you’re already lurching, gasping out your reply, so needy as you whimper out, “yes, please.”

simon doesn’t really murmur a comforting shh but he does act with that cadence — a gentle sort of coaxing as he pulls his free hand away from your back to pluck the collar off the box’s velvety lining. it looks even more beautiful in his hand like that, with the width of the collar almost more than half the size of simon’s palm and you remember the way he’s held your neck, the weight of it pressing on your throat, and god, you need.

you need.

he curls it around your neck, the leather sliding on your skin, and you try your best not to twitch in his hold as he fastens the end to the buckle, sliding until it’s a tight ring. but—

“tighter,” you rasp out, breathing from your mouth.

simon groans, and it’s a pained little thing, and you wonder how you look right now, begging him to tighten it more; asking him to dig it even deeper into your skin, until the collar etches trenches for you to trace in front of the mirror; until the sting forms new bruises for you to obsess over.

the collar is now a heavy press on your neck, consistent as it pinches the skin. you try to swallow only to feel a resistance that was never there before and this—

you have never felt so much freer. so much more desired.

“thank you,” you choke out, almost in tears, and simon looks just as overwhelmed.

he cups your jaw, thumb tracing the edges of your lips, before sliding his hand down to brush his fingers along the collar.

your collar.

“so beautiful,” he whispers, so soft like it was meant for himself.

.

the first time that simon fucked you with your collar was almost too much. it was too good. almost unbelievable with the way it scratches that itch burrowed in the pit of your stomach, unyielding and aching. and now, indulged fully by simon. 

your collar is tight around your throat, a consistent weight that has you panting, mind slipping underneath the fog. your saliva pools in your jowls, and the pleasure burns, leaving you to splinter at the drag of it until you are suspended into that cataclysmic point.

you have never felt so small until that moment; tucked away into the softest of corners, shielded from anything and everything that isn’t simon and his greatness. you are reminded of the ease in which you've surrendered your control and the way he was hungry for it, wielding it as he tugs at the rings, forcing the collar to dig even further into the welts it’s created. 

you are made, then unmade; forced to lick at the backs of your teeths to ground yourself — but why are you trying to?

the pleasure is filling. you do not remember how you used to be taken; how you were fucked without the weight — of simon as he drills his cock into you, the girth splitting your walls apart until they pulse around him as mini-orgasms burst in your core; of the collar, making every ragged gasp of air deliciously painful.

“where did you go?” simon grunts in your ears, his breath huffing out hotly. “come back t’me, love. t’me.”

you whine, split between sobbing out and moaning, and simon tugs and tugs, coaxing you above the fog, telling you when it is right to breach for a gasp. 

“s’right, baby. jus’ like that.” simon is so patient, his words grounded, like his hips are not crazily pistoning, fucking his leaking cockhead further in, in, in, until it is kissing the pucker of your cervix. 

it’s so—

it’s—

“go on,” simon rumbles. “cum f’r me.”

your orgasm is akin to a breaking, to a ripping of reality, like the fabrics that make you are split and turned, leaving you to find ecstasy bursting across your synapses. it feels too good. too much. too unreal. it feels like a fluke, a one-off—

but simon’s hand falls to your belly, pinning you close to him, and you are reminded that you are not done. 

he hasn’t cum yet.

it’s not over yet. 

this pleasure that you can’t really fathom, the one that you can’t even fully name, it hasn’t found its summit. you’re just there, at the throes. 

good. too good—