NRKJYWGLAZER @nrkjywglazer - Tumblr Blog

Jul 24

LUST KILLS ──── s. jake 심재윤

⌞ SYNOPSIS ⌝ ── Dr Sim is your soft-spoken, charming and eerily intelligent therapist. He’s everything your husband isn’t. Married at a young age, you seek help from a professional to heal past traumas but end up blurring the lines between professional and personal instead. Turns out, people aren’t always who they seem to be, even as comforting as they sound. playlist

❪ 24,OOO w ❫ ｡ 심재윤 𝗑 𝖿!𝗋 𝑖𝑛 lust kills

warnings ! yandere!jake, psychological horror, obsession, manipulation, suicide talks/selfharm (graphic), blurring of professional boundaries, adultery, religious themes, mature, disturbing graphics (bent nails, skin scratching) gore/murder, mental ilness and overall very dark themes, dependence, physical/emotional violence, vomiting NSFW TAGS : oral sex, body worship, switch!jake, blood play / eating and kissing with blood, it gets weird, hung!jake, filming during sex, riding, blowjob while on a phone call, cockwarming, creampie, not a love story at all.

a/n : a special thank you to @mrloverboy3000 for this beautiful request. I loved writing it and i hope i did your idea justice. please note that this isn’t inspired by Jake at all and he acts as just a face claim in this, i do not see him like this.

To be loved is to be kept.

Birds are kept in gilded cages so they never learn the sky; relics are kept alive long after they should have been laid to rest. And people? People are kept, frangible and insubstantial until the weight of another’s devotion hardens into something they can’t escape.

They’re studied, preserved, handled with veneration so consuming it erodes the edges of who they once were, leaving behind only what someone else deemed worth devouring.

LOVE has always masqueraded as sanctuary, though sanctuaries have a peculiar way of locking from the outside. And see, there’s something almost holy about being known so completely that nothing escapes another’s gaze— until knowing becomes anticipating, and God knows anticipation leaves no room for choice.

To be loved, is also to be perverted.

Deviance, friend and foe, can tarnish or render bare- until there’s nothing more than flesh, bones and an existential need to satisfy without even knowing why. Bodies reduced to instinct become too thin from being wanted too much and understood too little; like a lamb is cherished because it’s gentle, because it’s somewhat helpless, because it never learned how to bite the hand of the shepherd that keeps it.

And the curious thing is that even the smartest of people, can become prey to the devil.

Your husband’s a quiet man, he keeps to himself most of the time— too self absorbed to look at the world around him; he spends most of his days painting in the attic, and it would be a tremendous lie to say you’ve never caught him answering imaginary interview questions about his works.

By the standards of the typical megalomaniac artist— his name is as incongruous as the canvas he paints. Samael, which in Hebrew often interprets as ’the poison of God’— has an unfortunate relationship with his mother, which begs the question : why would someone deliberately name their child something so grim?

The story behind all of this, is that when Samael was only a foetus in his progenitors’ womb— the latter recounts feeling him kick her in the ribs every time she got down on her knees to pray the good Lord. One day— as she retells— the holy Spirit descended straight into her humble bedroom and whispered that her descendent was a spawn of Satan.

You’d think as a good pious woman, she’d choose to exorcise the newborn or slip holy water in his nighttime milk— instead she gave him a name so sordid even her own parents chastised her.

The ironic thing though, is that as much as you’d like to believe she was experiencing religious psychosis— the name Samael clung to him like prophecy. If the shoe fits, after all.

You and your husband got married extremely young on a passing fancy— a whim if you will— it was nothing short of a messy 2 hour long celebration that you had no intention of explaining to your future kids.

You’re not proud of it, but love’s never been something grand to you; you and Samael found each other at 16— call a spade a spade— decided it fit your narrative to get hitched at 18 and delive together as total opposites— him as a good devout artist, you as an untouched bride who sought nothing more but good-willing hands.

You don’t care much for connection, to you it’s a vain thing— you don’t need to be understood by others as long as you understand yourself. Samael on the other end, is too precious about his paintings and longs to be perceived as a wiseman, to be fully acknowledged— something you couldn’t possibly give him.

And believe it, it’s not fruits of a lack of affection— God no— you like him lots.

Surely your husband is a reliable man, strong in his stance— he often brings peaches home after work, carefully washing one and cutting it in small bits before feeding them to you. He likes to place his hands on your shoulders and tug at the straps of your nightgown in the evenings, until what’s left of you is bare skin under pale moonlight.

But when it comes to good conversation, he isn’t all that great anymore. See, Samael hates talking— he’d rather use his hands, trace paths from your soft neck to your perky breasts like his fingertips can tell the story instead.

He’d never sit down and exceed the usual 3 sentences rule — no, he hates being confronted to his thoughts, hates carrying out basic human interactions, and on top of it all— he’s not really good with words. Horrible at it, even. The man doesn’t even know the difference between then and than.

So to say, your husband is as shallow as kiddy pool is highly accurate— he paints himself as a wounded creator, showing up with acrylic under his nails like it gives him authenticity— but the only thing it says is that he’s seen way too many movies. He uses religion as a core trait, hides behind principles and morals until he is nothing but a saint; thinks the world’s a given and that he’s earned his stay just because he attends sermons on Sundays.

You’re always lonely, hoarding books because it’s easier than talking to yourself, watching life go by while flies buzz by the window-still of your small shared house. Compounding this, it’s not like you have many friends outside of the 60 year old neighbors Mr. Paulson, and church people— the church he drags you to every sunday, claiming it’s “the things you do to be a better person”. The women there are sweet there- you wouldn’t be surprised that they talk behind your back, surely, but they’re nice to be around nonetheless.

Your social life is non-existent. The closest you’ve been to an entertaining conversation was about two weeks ago when the cashier asked if you whether you were going to pay by card or cash.

So deep down— being a creature of many words— being deprived of dialogue is something that pains you. You’d rather talk about the significance of dreams and nightmares or how the human brain tricks people into thinking they’re content with what they have; rather than scraping your knees on a confessional floor because your husband dragged you.

See, it all started when he caught you reading a book on the couch one random morning— you were quick to cover the title with your hand, feigning casualness as you leaned back onto the leather. But unfortunately for you, and much to Samael’s deceit— the cover art spoke for itself, some kind of drawn representation of a naked woman in a man’s lap, cunt bare and open to temptation.

He argued it wasn’t healthy, snatched the book from your hands and lit up the chimney all in one breath. Then he threw the paperback in the fire and watched the corruption burn before him, indifferent to your stiffness.

Sin isn’t welcome in the house— save for when he’s the one committing it.

Being still in a student doesn’t make this any better— during spring break, it leaves you nothing to do but to watch all seasons of The Big Bang Theory, then all seasons again and again until you know much more about the characters than you know about yourself. You bring The Big Bang Theory in the bathroom with you, so you don’t have to be alone in there too. You fall asleep watching it— such terrible American pre-chewed slop. It’s a homeopathic dose of comedy that helps silence that companionship-starved part of you.

Which brings you to do the most logical thing a sane person could think of. You book a therapy session with a renowned therapist in town.

Part because the priest doesn’t know how to listen when you sit down in the confessional and tell him about how lonely you feel— part because you want to talk to someone without feeling like you’re being an inconvenience. At least Dr Sim’s paid to do this, paid to sit in a fancy armchair and listen to people elaborate on their latest meals and two seconds later their experience with rape.

He’s paid to nod, offer reassurance, keep secrets like they’re his own. What he’s not paid for though, is to be a friend, but that’s enough.

SESSION OO1. 🎤︎︎

The moment you step out of the car, your head snaps from side to side. This isn’t a secluded part of town, which means you’re likely to encounter people you know here. Whether it’s women from church, driving their perfect little sons to school, or your husband’s colleagues going to work— there’s always going to be someone you know around.

You’d love to say you’ve read enough books to pretend like therapy isn’t scary and socially acceptable, but the truth is— if people were to see you right now, you’d probably crawl into the ground in seconds.

There’s this unbidden fear that they’re all gonna laugh at you.

That they’ll laugh at your instability, they’ll refuse to let you babysit their brilliant heirs, they’ll call you names and ban you from the town’s book club.

So you pull your head down low, look at the dust your feet drag from the ground as you make your way to the little private practice. It’s situated between a pharmacy and a pub, significantly thinner than the two other buildings, like it’s trying to make itself shrink. You tap the code provided to you text, quickly looking around like a delinquent before stepping inside.

It’s a rich-man’s practice, sleek black walls that seem to be closing in, potted plants and a stack of psychology books on a mahogany table. You make your way to the door where a golden plate sits, the name Dr. Sim engraved on it. It’s with shaking hands that you ring the bell, quickly folding it inside your pocket before he comes.

You look around one last time, like maybe someone familiar is hiding behind the curtains of the reception room, waiting to make fun of you; when the door opens.

You don’t know what you imagined, but it certainly wasn’t the man you envisioned before coming here. You abstractly thought about him with greyish hair, salt and pepper beard, a crisp suit— for whatever reason that is— maybe a prominent belly. But the man standing in front of you isn’t the person you envisioned, so much so that you’re tempted to ask if he’s the receptionist.

“Y/l/n ? Welcome, come on in.” he gestures inside.

The first thing that catches your attention is his Aussie accent— then his eyes, the color of cooled tea, hooded and thin like he’s perpetually high. It’s an endearing thing really, paired with his carefully styled hair, he does look put together, painfully so even. There’s no denying he’s a fairly handsome man, someone you’d look at twice in the street— someone you’d tell a friend about.

Someone who’s currently inviting you inside and you can’t do a damn thing about it because your feet are stuck to the carpet.

Thinking about it he probably gets a lot of patients who are reluctant to come in— it can’t be unusual, maybe some of them even cry at the door, you think. But you look silly nonetheless.

Dr. Sim’s eyebrows lift with a silent confusion “Are you okay? Can I call you by name or would you rather I call you ma’am?”

Your teeth catches on the last of skin you’d been tearing off your lower lip sometime before, and you nod, “Y/n’s fine.”

You step inside, looking around like an animal being introduced to a new cage— your eyes catch the 3 paintings hung on the wall, ones you recognize to be Gustav Klimt’s.

‘The Kiss’, more precisely— an undeniably timeless piece, serene and so intimate it’ll make you think twice when seeing it. To you, it doesn’t look like a romantic embrace though— as iconic as the painting is— the female figure’s eyes are closed and she has a strangely blank expression. Her hands drape around the man’s neck and clutch at his hand at her throat.

There’s something domineering and violent about the male figure’s embrace, and something powerless, desperate, almost pathetic about the woman. Is she unconscious or are her eyes closed in bliss? Is she returning the man’s embrace or trying to claw his hands away?

It’s all left to silence, an open space for interpretation to fill. But what it leaves inside of you, is a strangely unsettling feeling, or maybe you’re just nitpicking.

Dr.Sim leads you to his office, where the walls are high, and a leather armchair sits in the middle of the room in a sort of platform, elevated from the rest of the room. The therapist points to a small sofa pushed against the wall and takes a seat in his own. When you’re finally settled, bare thighs clammy against the leather, you look up at him.

Dr. Sim sits higher up, not drastically so, just enough that you have to raise your eyes to be able to meet his. “What made you decide to come here today?” he asks with a polite smile.

Your palms clap awkwardly on your thighs, a nervous chuckle coming out of your throat. “My um… my friend recommended i go to therapy.”

That’s a lie. You don’t have any caring friends, certainly not any who believe psychology isn’t a satanic practice.

You found your answer in a sub reddit instead, people asked questions and some others answered. You felt safer sharing it with strangers from the internet than with your own husband, which said a lot about the nature of your relationship.

“That’s a good friend.” Dr. Sim nods, “Have you ever been to therapy, or is this your first time?”

“Um, no I haven’t.” you admit, almost as if it’s a shame, a thing in a bucket list you haven’t crossed yet.

“First sessions are often the hardest. There’s no pressure to tell me everything today, okay?” Dr. Sim says rather gently. “That’s one less thing for you to worry about, you won’t have any expectations of how this is supposed to go.”

You huff, you’ve seen a couple episodes of Sex Education, you’re pretty damn sure you know how this is supposed to go.

“Is there something you’d like to start with y/n?”

You genuinely don’t know where to start. There’s too much, you suspect that if you start talking, your thoughts will evolve in arborescence, until nothing makes sense anymore. “Well, i hoped you could… maybe give me prompts, I don’t really know where to start.”

Dr. Sim chuckles warmly, leaning back in his seat, “How about you tell me about yourself? I’ve gathered only so much from your email. How old are you, who are you?”

Your fingers grab the fabric of your summer dress, pulling it taunt. “I’m 23– well i’ll be 24 in a few weeks. I’m a… well I study sociology. I don’t really know what to say… I’m married.”

And there you go. As much as you seem to despise your husband, you can’t forget to mention him like he’s a part of yourself. How pathetic.

Dr. Sim smiles, amused maybe, “You’re married, okay, that’s a good start… Is it okay if i make a parentheses for the practical things?” You nod, and he explains the countless things you already looked up before coming here.

You listen, although distracted by the big clock ticking on the wall, it’s old fashioned perfectly centered with big numbers and an awfully ominous sound.

The therapist goes over confidentiality, the session length: typically 45 minutes, and ends it by telling you to feel free to avoid questions that make you uncomfortable. That he’s not here to open doors but rather to guide you towards opening them yourself and blah blah blah.

“With that out of the way, i’d like to ask, what are you hoping therapy might help with?” the man asks.

You take a moment to ponder it, mostly because it’s an answer you don’t have yourself, “I miss… I think i miss talking to someone. Maybe that’s not really the point of therapy but I just came in here to talk.”

Dr Sim lets out a soft amused sound, “Debatable, i’d say talking is the whole point of therapy. But if that’s how you feel then be it. Do you have an idea what you’d like to talk about?”

You shake your head, “Not really.. if you could maybe talk me through it like earlier, that’d be great.”

He straightens in his seat, spine impeccably straight, “Sure, you set the pace. How about you tell me what an average week looks like for you?”

It doesn’t take much pondering to get an answer out of you, plain and simple, “School, eating, sleeping.”

“That’s it? Not even… I don’t know, any hobbies? Reading, knitting…?” he says.

“Well I do read sometimes,” you nod, thinking back to the whole smutty book episode, “but my… husband doesn’t really like it when I do.”

Dr. Sim’s brows raise a fraction, “Oh? Why’s that? Is he against literature or…”

You shake your head, “No, it’s just, when the book has some kind of sinful thing in it, he gets mad. And you know how the books are these days, one can’t really escape sin.”

The therapist nods, he doesn’t grab a notebook or take notes, nothing of that sort, he just listens— and you can almost see the pen scribbling words in his mind. At some point he picks up a pair of black glasses from a small table next to his armchair and perches them on his long nose.

“Does he know you’re here today?” he asks.

“Yes,” you lie through your teeth, “well no.”

Dr Sim smiles at the immediate deceit, perpetually amused, “He doesn’t? Why’s that?”

You lean back against the couch, your clammy palms box each of your thighs, “He wouldn’t like it. He’d probably tell me to go to church or whatever bullshit he always—” you clap a palm to your mouth, eyes wide. “Sorry” you say through your fingers.

Something flickers in the therapist’s eyes, “That’s okay, you can curse, there’s no big deal.”

You carry on immediately after his approval, “He’d tell me to go to church and confess, but the priest at my church’s a child molester. I don’t want to confess my sins to someone who’s done such things.”

He nods, “Does your husband know that?”

“Yeah, but he says the kids are probably making it up for attention. Ive told him multiple times but he just won’t listen. Actually… i’ve considered leaving him for this.” you confess.

“Oh? Does that bother you a lot? The way he thinks?”

You nod vehemently, “I hate it. He makes it seem like that priest is a saint, like those kids are liars and attention seekers.”

Dr Sim hums, “Are you very religious y/n?”

You shake your head, looking up like the good Lord might see you, “Not really. I just go because my husband drags me there— I don’t mean it like the church is bad or anything…”

“No that’s fine, you can say whatever’s on your mind, no judgment.” he reassures.

“Well actually, i really think it’s bad. It’s made my husband really… angry and mean all the time.” you confess, twisting the fabric of your dress. “It’s like whenever he comes home from the sermon he’s ten times worse.”

Dr. Sim takes a breath almost like he’s treating a very important and delicate subject— which on second thought, he is. “How’s your husband. How is he around you.”

Your mind crowds with memories of the past few years, bad and good tangled together until you don’t know what to believe anymore, “He’s okay. He’s nice. We got married very young, we were freshly 18, no jobs. But I guess… time changes things. Or maybe i was just very very naive to think we’d always be the same.”

“Mmh, i see. How exactly did things change?” he asks.

“Well I feel like, he’s gotten so silent. All he ever does is hold me. And sometimes i just want to talk, sit down and discuss things. But then he’ll end up talking about his art — he’s a painter, for context— and i’ll get bored because let’s be honest, his stuff is not that deep.”

You catch yourself talking way more than intended, mainly because Dr. Sim seems like a neat person, calm and a good listener. You thought speaking so candidly in front of a man as conventionally attractive as him would leave you painfully aware of yourself. Instead, his gaze strips away the awkwardness before it can take root.

“What do you mean by ‘his stuff’s not that deep?’” he tilts his head, hair fanning on his forehead.

“Well he’s just so pretentious so it ruins the whole thing. He paints tigers and other felines, says he’s painting ‘masculinity’”

The therapist lets out an amused chuckle, “I see, and what’s your take on that?”

“I think it’s goofy and stupid. Felines are protective, and they don’t shy away from a fight… but he’s a coward. He hides behind his beliefs to excuse disgusting behaviors.”

“How do you feel about your husband ? How does he make you feel?”

You clasp your hands together, the back of the couch welcoming you, “Lonely. Bored. And a coward too, for not leaving him. I guess i should, with all the stuff he says… about these kids, about everything really. But i’d be the town pariah if I did that.” You let out a small self deprecating laugh, eyes tracing the lines of Dr. Sim’s black shirt.

Now that you think about it, he looks lean, not someone you would’ve pictured in this line of work. He has smooth dark brown hair, a little messy— a long straight nose and pinkish lips; he looks unfairly nice for a shrink, intimidatingly so at times.

“Lonely people have a habit of confusing survival with weakness.” His gaze never leaves yours. “I’m not convinced those are the same thing.”

“Well I do think it’s weakness. Debatably. Nobody stays with someone who destroys all their morals.” you shrug, eyes lowering to the small platform his armchair stands on.

“You’re holding yourself to a standard you don’t seem to extend to anyone else.” A brief pause. “If someone you cared about told you this story, would you call them weak?”

You nod immediately without thinking, “I would.”

“Oh? And what does a strong person do instead?”

“They leave. Argue. Everytime i tried to tell him that a child won’t just lie about such thing for attention, he dismissed me. So i let it go eventually.”

He makes a small inside note before looking up again. “You said, ‘I let it go.’ People rarely let convictions go. More often, they decide they aren’t worth the cost of defending.” A pause. “What did it cost you to keep disagreeing with him?”

“Nothing changed.” You toy with the hem of your dress. “I’d leave those conversations feeling like I’d spoken to a wall. So eventually… I stopped trying.”

“Being ignored has a way of convincing us our voice isn’t worth using.” Dr. Sim eyed the clock in the wall. “I’d like us to prove that wrong, yeah?”

SESSIONS OO2. to OO8.

A smart man is its own kind of danger because of how rare they usually are. This is the conclusion you came to after a couple session.

Dr. Sim’s a professional man, with a disarming charm. You gather he’s under 30– from the description on his website— he’s got a PhD in clinical psychology and he looks like he’s lived a total of 34 lives. The ratings on his website are generally the same— along the lines of ‘excellent with young adults, gentle and faith integrated therapy’ or in some more intense ones, ‘he’s helped me through countless depressive episodes, he’s incredibly insightful and remembers everything.’

It’s not news to you, you’ve noticed these things in the short period of time you’ve been seeing him. He sounds extremely smart and literate, which is something you recognize instantly in a man— someone who’s not trying to perform intelligence but rather make sense of it.

Dr. Sim’s an overall calm and soothing man, his voice never goes beyond a threshold, he knows how to coax the words out of you— often leading the cadence with a sentence only you can complete. He’s very validating— which is something you’ve lacked for years, being constantly told you were too much, that you had too many thoughts in such a pretty head. He makes you feel like a person instead of a woman, makes you feel like your voice is interesting.

You expect him to ask you to repeat everything from the previous week but instead, he remembers everything eerily well.

“You mentioned something last time,” he said on the third session, glancing down briefly. “That you often feel like you have to make yourself smaller to avoid overwhelming people. Do you still feel that way?”

It caught you off guard— not because he remembered. but because he remembered the exact thing you didn’t think mattered. Because it was such an insignificant detail to you, but it caught the attention of a man who had a degree in psych. “I still do, I’m very loud when I’m allowed to be. I talk a lot, I love debating. But these days I feel like if I so much as open my mouth everyone’s gonna sigh.” you confessed.

Dr. Sim nodded then, thinking to himself, “Do you feel like your husband’s dimming your light? You can tell me if i’m totally wrong.”

You didn’t even take a moment to ponder it, of course he did, “Yeah, he is. Not intentionally— well kind of intentionally, I guess.”

That had been enough for him to get the gist of it.

Dr. Sim gives language to what you feel, which is a beautiful thing really, for such a misunderstood girl. You totally underrated how important it was to be heard, to have a part of you bare in front of someone.

“I don’t think you’re confused,” he said during the 4th session. “I think you’ve just spent a long long time being told your feelings require justification before they’re allowed to exist.”

It was something so tender coming from a stranger. Something you’d expect to come out of a lover’s mouth— but then again, it was his job. He collected the money you’d worked your ass off for— in exchange for some brilliant words. But the money was worth it, so was the hassle of sneaking out, lying to your husband that you were meeting up with friends to study, when he most probably knew you preferred studying alone.

Being acknowledged was worth all the currencies in the world.

At some point, the sessions started exceeding the time limit a little bit. Little by little, you’d raise your eyes to watch the grand clock on his wall, and you’d notice you were running 10 minutes late.

“Dont worry about that.” he’d say, eyes softening. “We’re doing important work. I’m not going to rush you out because the clock says we’re finished.”

And it felt kind, impossibly kind. Like you were hogging 10 minutes of his carefully planned day, just to be talking about the most nonsensical things your brain held.

Sometimes you’d talk about your childhood, he’d ask specific questions, “Tell me about the people you grew up with.”

And you’d answer openly, “My dad worked with computers. He was… kind, but difficult sometimes. He was diagnosed with bipolar disorder, so my childhood was pretty messy. But i don’t blame him. And then, when I turned 14, he… well he ended his life. My mom found him already dead.”

Dr. Sim would listen, occasionally making comments about how growing up with a mentally unstable parent impacted a child. But you couldn’t relate because you genuinely couldn’t find it in you to hold your father accountable for your wounds.

“My mom went through many depressive episodes. She had a pretty tough life, so it was probably bound to happen like that, but she never let it get to us— me and my sister. She carried a lot, especially when my father got admitted to a psychiatric ward.” you told him, “I think… sometimes, him being dead is a good thing in a sense— well no, it’s a bad thing to say, but i think she can take care of herself now, and not constantly worry about someone else.”

Dr.Sim did a distracting movement with his hand, three taps on his thigh— stopping you from spiralling. “You know y/n, sometimes grief is complicated. Sometimes relief and sadness can exist in the same place.” the therapist tilted his head slightly. “Feeling one doesn’t erase the other.”

He let it sit for a minute, before continuing. “You seem very practiced at making room for other people’s pain, I think.” he paused, with a soft voice. “I’m wondering how often someone made room for yours.”

That was the first time you cried, uncontrolled, totally out of the blue like someone had coaxed tears out of your eyes with force. You shook your head, the heels of your palms trying to tame the outburst by pressing against your eyes.

“It’s okay. You can cry.” Dr. Sim said, with a gentle voice. You did, because you hadn’t been able to anywhere else.

One time, you mentioned the panic attacks you were experiencing outside of sessions, how you’d curl into a ball in the middle of the bed, wait for your husband to notice, to care. But he’d never.

Dr. Sim said, “Therapy can sometimes open things before it teaches you how to close them again.” He hesitated for a bit before continuing, “If something urgent comes up, you can always contact the practice’s number.”

He looked at you, examining your face before speaking again, “I’ll give you my personal number as well— I usually dont do this with patients but I hope you know I’m available if anything happens between sessions, for psychological support.”

Another time, you sat together for an hour because the words wouldn’t come and your throat felt too tight. Dr. Sim didn’t say anything, he just sat there, offering his presence where people often offer an aspirin. He made you feel listened too— even when you weren’t saying any words. He simply sat across from you, legs crossed, hands resting calmly on his knee, watching with quiet patience. Every few minutes he would offer the smallest nod or a faint, reassuring smile, as if to say I’m still here.

When the session ended, he walked you to the door, and said, “You don’t have to speak every time. Sometimes just showing up is enough. I’m glad you did.”

During another session, you told him about the way Samael sometimes looked through you, like you were furniture. How lonely marriage could feel even when you shared a bed.

Jake’s expression grew pained, almost personal.

“That sounds incredibly isolating,” he murmured. “Like you’re screaming underwater and no one hears you.” He paused, then added softly, “I hear you.”

He remembered you once mentioned liking the smell of rain; and the diffuser in the corner of his office smelled faintly of petrichor that day. You hadn’t mentioned it, but he noticed when you relaxed deeper into the sofa.

Before you left, Dr. Sim said, “Next week, if you want, we can sit in silence again. Or talk. Or anything in between. The door is always open for you, Yn. Always.”

The next session, you mentioned how Samael hadn’t touched you in months, the only times he ever did were to make himself feel good.

Jake’s pen stilled and for a moment, something unnameable flickered behind his gentle expression before he masked it. “That must be incredibly lonely,” he said, voice careful. “To be touched-starved in your own marriage.”

His eyes drifted to your hands, then slowly back up to your face, you remember feeling the weight of his gaze like a physical touch — as if he was tracing your lips, your throat, the rise of your chest with each breath. He caught himself and looked away, rubbing the back of his neck.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “That was unprofessional of me to say it that way. I just… I hate the idea of you feeling unseen. Everyone deserves more than that.”

When the session ended, he walked you to the door, standing closer than usual. His hand hovered near your lower back without touching as he said goodbye.

Its all too sweet, so much so that sometimes you sit across from your husband at night, watching him scroll through his phone like a machine, and feel something you don’t want to admit.

How can you spend an hour with a stranger and feel more like yourself than you do beside the person who sleeps next to you. How is a stranger more valuable than a man who knows your body by heart, knows how you take your coffee, how warm you like the water in the bath, how many pillows you like to sleep on.

And that thought disgusts you, because Dr. Sim isn’t even your friend, he’s not your confident, he earns a monthly salary for what he does, probably buys his groceries with the money you spend on him, and has a life of his own— which you know strictly nothing about.

You’re supposed to leave his office feeling lighter—not counting down the days until you can return.

Because Dr. Sim asks what you’re reading, he asks what you think and what you feel, he asks why and how.

Your husband only asks if dinner is ready.

Dr. Sim challenges you to put words on intangible things, his eyes tame the guilt, his attention softens your edges.

Your husband only touches your skin like it’s an extension of himself, never thinking to reach the person beneath it— like he already knows you belong to him.

Dr. Sim makes you feel like you belong to none other than yourself.

SESSION OO9.

Outside the building, there’s a dead bird. It lays on the ground, unmoving. It’s become its burial site now, the whole town is his because that’s where he spilled the last of his blood. You place a thick leaf on its frail body before standing back up, one goal in mind. The second you step into the therapist’s practice, you’re greeted by the same four walls, the ones you’ve learned to find more comforting than your bedroom.

Dr. Sim’s wearing a white shirt today, it makes his muscles stand out— a man carved like an unpretentious greek god, no excess only soft roughness.

You could spend hours talking about what makes his appearance different from all the other men you’ve encountered— what makes him so saccharine. Likeable to the point you want to pull your hair out. The coarse slope of his nose and the infuriatingly clean glasses sitting atop it; the crisp shirts and slacks he always smooths over with a hand made of steel, veins poking out of his skin. All of it is grounding yet distracting.

He sits on his armchair right after making sure you’re settling correctly, and begins the session with a small smile. “How have you been doing yn?”

“I’ve been okay,” you get comfortable in the sofa, after so many sessions it’s become a bubble, “Today was a little complicated, my husband insisted on driving me here. So i had him park a few streets down and I had to walk here.”

Dr. Sim furrows his brows, “Mhh… I have a question, only if you feel comfortable answering.” he waits for some sort of approval, a sign you’re comfortable enough, “What do you think his reaction will be if he finds out you’re in therapy?”

Your fingers twist on your lap, “He’ll probably yell, something stupid like ‘you don’t need therapy, you’re not crazy’ uneducated stuff, then he’ll probably say i’m doing too much. That im stupid.”

“Your husband seems to dismiss your feelings a lot,” Dr. Sim says, his hand resting motionless on his thigh. “I worry it’s affecting your sense of self-worth.”

You look down. “Maybe. I don’t know. Sometimes I wonder if I’m just too sensitive.”

His expression shifts— not pity exactly, but something much more human. “I want you to notice something y/n.” You look back at him. “Every time you describe being hurt, you immediately look for a reason you deserve it.”

You try to laugh it off, because that’s what you do when you feel uncomfortable, “That sounds dramatic.”

The therapsit shakes his head slightly. “Not at all. I’d say it sounds learned.”

“Well maybe, but deep down, i made this choice. I chose to marry him, i’m actively choosing not to ask for a divorce. So i can’t really complain now can’t I?” you let out a small self deprecating laugh before it fades away instantly, “well no, that’s actually not really a good thing to say. I’m just speaking for myself, to be clear, not including other women who might be in a situation where they—”

Dr. Sim always catches the guilt in your tone, the countless ways you correct yourself in fear of upsetting someone who isn’t even here, “You’re okay, I got that part, don’t worry. But see, I think you’re being hard on yourself, you find clemency for other women but somehow never for yourself. How’s your situation any different from theirs?”

Your eyes skim across the room, with the curiosity of a child you look at the wall like it might give you a suitable answer, and you notice how bare it is.

The clock that usually sits there, doesn’t anymore. It’s a curious detail certainly, but it doesn’t bother you any more than the lack of convenience. You’re tempted to ask why he took it down, but you shake the thought aside.

“It’s different because I have the choice to leave. And i should because he’s not really a good person.” he nods at that, almost like he agrees, “he doesn’t hit me, he’s not violent. So im not under any restraint.”

The man sits straighter, “That can be discussed, don’t you think? It’s all a matter of how we see violence.”

“Well I don’t see him that way. He can be a little harsh sometimes, a little ignorant. But he’s had a tough life, his mom was very… —well that’s not the subject, i’m sorry i’m completely digressing.”

Dr. Sim shakes his head with a fond smile, “It’s okay. I just want you to realise that what you’re doing is finding excuses for other people’s behaviour, it’s a way of forgiving them. But not one time did I hear you find an excuse for yourself.”

That hits you like reading a very important sentence in a book— one you’ll highlight, write down on a notepad and memorise. He says it like it’s something people say over a cup of coffee— not something that calls for introspection.

Dr. Sim is a big man in a body far too little for all he gives.

You start to understand the comments left under his website by then, even the most intense ones. He is helping you more than expected, he’s insightful and incredibly reliable. When you text him outside sessions— which has happened only 2 times, because you were genuinely lonely and didn’t know how to make the panic stop— he answers diligently, like he owes you something, he takes the time to explain breathing methods and to soothe you.

It makes you want to slip more cash than usual when the sessions are over— because of how benevolent he’s being with someone he shouldn’t bother with outside of work. Words are too small to explain how helpful he’s being. How essential he’s starting to become in your life.

See sometimes people fit into adjectives, they don’t spill out at the edges, they make no more sound than what they’re attributed.

And Dr. Sim’s too big of a concept to be contained in a few letters.

“I just think… I’ve spent enough time talking about myself today. You probably hear stories like this every day.” you let out a small awkard laugh.

The corner of his mouth lifts, it feels like a challenge, like he’s finding this amusing— and for some reason, it’s incredibly attractive. “See? There it is. You just dismissed your own feelings before anyone else had the chance.”

The therapist leans forward, eyes boring into you like bullets. “You don’t have to apologize for taking up space in this room.” he speaks when he sees he’ll get no answer out of you this time.

Your eyes drop to your lap where you tug at a loose string of fabric from your dress.

“Can I tell you something?” the man asks. When you nod, he continues, “I used to think being useful was the same thing as being valued.” His gaze drops briefly to his hands. “I spent a long time believing that if I wasn’t helping someone, I didn’t have much to offer.”

You look up, recognising the vulnerablity in his voice. He’s not looking back at you, because for the very first time, opening up costs the weight of a gaze. This shouldn’t be coming from him though— you wonder if he feels safe enough to tell you this, or if it’s just a psychological tactic.

“So when I hear you apologizing for talking too much, I recognize it.” He makes a small pause. “Not because our experiences are the same— but because we both learned to measure our worth by what we could make other people feel.”

At the end of the session, Dr. Sim walks you back to the door, you hand him a bill, neatly folded in an envelope, and you bow politely at the entrance.

“Thank you Dr.” you start to reach for the exit.

“No worries y/n.” He smiles warmly, looking down at you with the white envelope in hand. “These sessions are very efficient. Let me know if i’m wrong, but i think you’re a very self-aware woman. And I really believe you can help yourself.”

Your hand, which was reaching for the handle stops dead. “You think?” you turn around, looking up.

“I do,” Dr. Sim gives the gentlest smile. “You’re someone i really want to help, because I see how much you’re evolving even if you don’t think you are. You’re extremely smart y/n, very intelligent with your words. Sometimes you notice things about yourself without me even needing to intervene. I believe we can go a long way.”

Intelligence only seems to matter when someone else points it out— and right now, it feels like the most beautiful thing you’ve ever been told.

That’s why, before you know, water starts gathering in your eyes. You quickly turn back to the door, feeling ten times less smart now that sensibility’s crossed the line. Tears flow freely, a creature way too neglected finally hearing endearing words directly directed to her.

Dr. Sim watches your shoulders tremble slightly, notices how hard you’re trying to fight it. “You don’t have to leave this room pretending you’re alright.” he says in a low voice.

You close your eyes, praying the tears will die, but it only makes the tremor in your shoulders worse. “I’m sorry,” you hiccup. “I’m sorry.”

No words are spoken for a long moment— moment in which you try to compose yourself, to dry the tears with the back of your hands. But then you feel Dr. Sim shift behind you.

“Can I ?” he speaks.

You nod, not even knowing what he’s asking permission for. You assume with all the wonderful things he’s done for your brain— anything he does next will be your salvation.

You feel some kind of movement behind you, and before you know it— a warm hand presses between your shoulder blades. Fingertips make contact with the bare skin of your back, the part your top doesn’t reach; and they press, light enough that you could pull away at any moment, hard enough that the shaking slowly subsides into softer cries. Dr. Sim doesn’t speak, he grounds.

“You’re okay.” you feel him whisper behind you.

IN BETWEEN

“Are you coming or no?”

Your husband Samael’s voice sounds from the living room. As per usual, he’d rather yell than come closer so you can hear him.

“I’m looking for my shoes Sam. Give me a second.” you sigh from your spot in the bedroom. You’re on all fours, searching for your mary-janes under the bed, ass up in the air.

“They’re in the hallway y/n, are you blind?” Samael responds with annoyance.

To be young and in love, is to invent. Make up things that aren’t necessarily there. Just how you’d pretended Samael was a kind man, for a long time. You know he isn’t, we know he isn’t, even Mr. Paulson the neighbor knows he isn’t.

Ah, the things you do for a neat life in the golden American suburbia.

You make your way to the hallway, smoothing over your dress to hide the curve of your ass, and when you finally spot the shoes, you pick them up with a happy squeal that makes your husband sigh. “Okay, ready now.” you slip them on. “Did you close the back door?”

Samael nods, distracted by something on his phone, “Yeah, let’s go.”

You check one last time, because you know for a fact that he hasn’t checked it, but the door seems closed enough from where you stand.

20 minutes or so later, you step out of the car into the quiet suburban neighbourhood filled with trimmed lawns and white-picket fences that seem pulled from a catalogue. The monthly gathering is at the Thompsons’ house this time— one of those sprawling two-story homes with the wraparound porch and the perfectly manicured rose bushes that the church ladies always cooed over. Everyone called it “neighbourly gathering,” but it was really just another chance for the community to parade their blessings.

PLAY NOW

You close the car door, smoothing the skirt of your modest knee-length dress; Samael comes around the car and places a hand at the small of your back, paitig the picture of a devoted husband in front of his friends. His smile’s easy, charming in that obnoxious way he cultivates. “You look beautiful tonight, sweetheart,” he murmurs loud enough for the couple walking up the driveway to hear.

You manage a small smile in return.

Inside, the house smells of pot roast and the floral perfume the women favor. Laughter floats from the living room where children dart between adults’ legs, their voices high and bright.

Perfect children. Perfect homes. Perfect lives. Cardboard American-dream bullshit.

“Y/n! Samael! You made it!” Mrs. Thompson beams, pulling you into a hug that smells like the Farrah Fawcett hairspray. Her husband claps Samael on the shoulder, already launching into talk about the latest church fundraiser.

You’re quickly swept into the circle of wives in the sunroom. They seat with perfect posture, legs crossed at the ankles, sipping tea from crystal glasses. Their dresses are pressed, their hair styled just so. You perch on the edge of a floral-patterned armchair, trying to ignore the way your mary-janes pinch.

“Oh, my little Emma started piano lessons this week,” Mrs. Hargrove says, her voice light and airy, like she’s discussing the weather. “She’s already better than half the kids in the youth group. Talent like that just runs in the family, I suppose.”

The others nod enthusiastically. “Our Joshua is reading at a fifth-grade level already,” Mrs. Kline ads, fanning herself with a paper napkin. “And the house renovation is finally done— the kitchen island is marble now. You should see it, Y/n. So much space for baking those cookies you’re always talking about.”

Their words wash over you, shallow and sparkling on the surface. You smile politely, nodding along, but your mind drifts ten different places elsewhere— to a quieter room, warmer lamplight, and a soft-spoken voice that actually listens.

The conversation turns inevitably, as it always does because these people have so much to talk about.

“So, Y/n” Mrs. Hargrove leans in, eyes bright with curiosity, “when are you and Samael going to start filling up that lovely home of yours? The two of you have been married… what, 4 years now? The little ones would love having more playmates at Sunday school.”

A knot tighten in your stomach; you open your mouth, but Samael appears at your side as if summoned, sliding an arm around your waist with excessive affection. His fingers press gently into your side— possessive, but gentle for the audience.

“We’re praying about it,” he say smoothly, flashing that boyish smile that make the women sigh. “God’s timing is perfect, isn’t it? We want to be sure we’re ready to raise them in faith the right way.” He didn’t say yes, didn’t say no. He left it dangling beautifully, the way he always did in public.

The women coo in agreement. “So wise,” one murmurs. “Not like these young couples rushing into things these days.”

You restrain yourself from rolling your eyes and the laughter swells around you, children’s shrieks piercing the air like obnoxious bells. You murmur something about needing fresh air and slip away, weaving through the crowd toward the wide glass doors that open onto the backyard patio.

The evening breeze cools your flushed cheeks, you breathe in deeply, eyes scanning the clusters of people scattered across the lawn.

You don’t want kids, Samael knows that. You’ve never even considered it— it’s a no. A hard one at that. Kids are something fragile a woman like you couldn’t possibly handle. What if you break? What if you turn out to be ill like your father, then who will make sure the kids are loved and listened to?

Definitely not their father.

But before you can even stretch your legs and relax in the patio, you freeze.

There, near the edge of the garden where string lights twinkled softly overhead, stands a familiar silhouette. Tall, lean, dressed in a simple button-down that somehow looks elegant on his frame.

Dr. Sim.

His dark hair catches the light as he tilts his head, listening to the woman beside him. She’s pretty, with soft waves and a gentle smile, her hand resting lightly on his arm as they speak to another couple.

Your heart stutters. His wife? The thought hits somewhere unbelievably selfish and delusional. Yet your mind flashes traitorously to the other day in his office— his warm palm resting between shoulder blades.

He looks so out of place there, entirely too handsome, too deep to be surround with such people. But he oddly seems to enjoy himself, as much as you’d like to imagine this isn’t his crowd.

You tear your gaze away, forcing yourself to look back toward Samael. He’s laughing with the men, gesturing animatedly as he speaks about his latest commission. You smile and nod when he glancesyour way, playing the part of the supportive wife.

But you feel eyes bore into your back the whole time. He’s seen you, he’s recognised you, your stupid heart does a small stupid somersault in your stupid chest.

When you look again, the therapist’ gaze isn’t on you. It’s fixed on Samael instead.

There’s something indecipherable in those dark eyes— a quiet intensity, the barest tension in his jaw that no sane person would notice. His expression remains pleasant, soft even, as he nods at whatever the woman beside him is saying. But that look lingers a second too long, like he’s assessing your husband. After all, he’s heard so much about him through you, he must be curious to see what kind of man makes his wife cry in therapy.

Samael walks toward you then, following the direction of your stare. “Who’s that guy?” he asks, adjusting his collar, the one he insisted made him look like a visionary. “Doesn’t seem like he belongs here.”

You swallow, keeping your tone light. “I don’t know. Have you seen him around?”

Samael snorts softly, dismissive. “No. Must be the new postman or something. Can’t imagine what kind of work he does— probably nothing creative. Some people just punch clocks, I suppose.” He says with the shake of his hand, “Anyway, come back inside, sweetheart. Mrs. Thompson wants to show off her new china.”

His hand finds yours, tugging you firmly. You let him, forcing another smile as you walk back toward the lights and laughter. But even as you do, you can feel that gaze following you— like a shadow slipping between the edulcorated families.

There’s a certainty, someone in this house knows more about you than your own husband.

The chatter in the sunroom resumes, you stand beside Samael near the glass doors, the women and their husband laughing loudly. Your partner tilts his head toward the pair outside with mild curiosity.

“Who’s that guy?” he asks one of the wives— Mrs Ellis, keeping his tone sociable, the way he always does in front of church friends. “Doesn’t look familiar.”

Mrs. Ellis glances over with a warm smile. “Oh, that’s Dr. Sim. He’s been coming to these gatherings for a few months now. Sweet young man, isn’t he?” She waves a hand dismissively when you glance at the woman beside him. “And that’s his cousin, actually— Lila. She’s visiting from out of town for the week. I’ve known Jake since he moved here last year, he’s new in town, you know, set up his practice on Maple Street. Quiet type, but so good apparently, my sister sees him for her anxiety or something. Said he helps her a lot.”

You feel a strange flutter in your chest, something you can’t describe as anything else than ugly. It’s weird, how by being vulnerable you can form a connection in nothing more than 9 therapy session— though that connection is one sided— knowing he’s as helpful as he is with you to other people, hurts.

You must be so… everything-deprived to feel possessive of your therapist.

You wonder, briefly, how you’ve never noticed him around before, someone like him should stand out in a community this tight-knit. But then again, you rarely leave the house these days except for church, groceries, and the occasional appointment. Your world has grown small, narrowed to the walls of your home and the quiet sanctuary of his office.

Mrs. Ellis leans in conspiratorially, lowering her voice. “We’ve invited everyone over to see the new garden out back. It’s still a bit of a secret, so don’t spread it around just yet, but you two should go take a look. It’s beautiful—some sort of… oh, what do you call it, dear?” She turns to her husband, who supplies the answer with a proud nod.

“Japanese garden,” he says. “Zen-inspired. Very peaceful.”

Samael chuckles, slipping an arm around your waist again. “Sounds lovely, but I’ll pass. Too many mosquitoes out there this time of evening. I’ll stay inside and chat with the guys. You go ahead, sweetheart. Get some fresh air.”

You hesitate for a second, but the pull of quiet solitude wins. “Alright,” you murmur, offering a small smile to the group before slipping out through the glass doors.

The backyard is warm as you follow the stone path past the patio. Lanterns hang low from curved branches adn the Japanese garden unfolds behind the main house. A small koi pond reflects the fading sky, its surface dotted with floating lily pads. Bamboo rustles softly in the breeze, and a wooden bridge arches delicately over a narrow stream that trickles with the soothing sound of running water. You breathe deeper, shoulders loosening for the first time all evening as you pause beside the pond, watching a bright orange koi glide beneath the surface.

Dammit these people are rich, you think.

The quiet’s nice that time of evening, for a few long minutes, there’s only the gentle trickle of water and the distant hum of crickets.

Then you hear footsteps on the gravel behind you and you turn, heart skipping when you see him.

Dr. Sim stops a respectful distance away, surprise flickering across his handsome face. The string lights catch in his dark hair and soften the sharp line of his jaw. “Oh— sorry,” he says, voice low and warm, that faint accent threading through like always. “I didn’t know you were out here y/n.”

“Oh no, it’s okay,” you reply quickly, already stepping back. “I was gonna head inside anyway.”

“No, no, please. Stay.” He lifts a hand gently, as if to stop you without touching. “You were here before me.”

You pause, fingers twisting in the fabric of your dress. “Are you sure, Dr.?”

A small, dimpled smile touches his lips. “Please. And stop calling me Dr. here. Call me Jake.”

Jake. So that’s the name of the man helping you get through life— a fairly common name for a man so special.

You nod, warmth creeping into your cheeks. The garden feels smaller now, more intimate with just the two of you; the bamboo whispers overhead as nother breeze passes through. It’s weird, because in his office, you’re so comfortable speaking to him, it’s like you’ve known him for years— the way he understands you without hesitation. But outside of that space, you’re awkward strangers all over again.

Jake steps a little closer, hands slipping into his pockets. His gaze searches your face with that same quiet intensity you know so well. “Do you feel better? Since last time?”

You offer a light laugh, trying to brush off the fact that you were crying in his office a couple days ago. “Oh, don’t worry. You don’t have to work right now. We’re outside of the sessions— you can stop being a therapist for one evening.” You smile, hoping it reaches your eyes.

But Jake shakes his head, expression softening further. “No, I want to make sure. You really weren’t okay last time.”

“I was just being dramatic,” you say, waving a hand. “I don’t know what happened.”

His mouth curls upward in a smile, “See?” You’re doing it again. The minimizing, i’ve seen you do it hundreds of times y/n, don’t think i’ll let it slip.”

You let out a small, self-conscious laugh, glancing down at the raked gravel. “I guess, yeah… I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” he murmurs, stepping just close enough that you catch the faint scent of his cologne, something expensive only a man like him could wear without making it nauseating. “You’re all good, Y/n, it’s my job to help you understand how bad that behavior is for you.”

“Yeah, I s’pose.” The silence stretches for a beat. “Well, it’s weird seeing you here. I guess I should go back. I’ll see you at the next appointment?”

Jake nods, but his eyes linger. “Sure. Be careful, yeah?”

Be careful? Does he think you’re gonna trip and fall into the koi pond? Nice.

But before you can go, something small lands on the back of your hand— a tiny ladybug, its red shell dotted with black spots. You start to brush it away, but Jake’s gaze catches on it first. His eyes flick down, and for a moment you’re acutely aware of him; his hand bare and unadorned as he reaches out, while your own bears a simple gold wedding band.

“You have something on your hand,” he says softly.

Before you can respond, he lifts your hand carefully, his fingers warm and steady against your skin. The touch is brief, respectful in intent yet anything but in feeling. He studies the ladybug for a second, a smile curving his lips.

“Pretty,” he whispers, almost to himself. Then, with infinite gentleness, he coaxes the insect onto his own large palm and bends to release it onto the soft moss at the edge of the path. The ladybug crawls away unharmed, disappearing into the garden’s shadows.

Jake straightens, his fingers lingering a heartbeat longer than necessary before he lets go of your hand. His eyes meet yours again, dark and unreadable, filled with that quiet attentiveness that makes the rest of this mac-n-cheese sitcom world disappear.

Before either of you can speak again, soft footsteps crunch on the gravel path behind you.

“Jake? There you are.” A warm, feminine voice cuts through the stillness. Jake’s cousin, Lila, emerges from the shadows of the bamboo grove, her light cardigan draped over her shoulders. She’s even prettier up close—soft waves of hair, kind eyes, and an easy smile. She slows when she sees you standing close to him, but her expression remains curious.

“Oh.. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt,” Lila says, glancing between the two of you. She offers you a friendly nod. “I was looking for my cousin. He has a habit of wandering off at these things.”

Jake turns toward her with that same soft, disarming smile, but you notice the brief flicker in his eyes before it smooths away. “Lila,” he says warmly, voice low and calm. “This is Y/n. She’s… a friend from the community.”

You manage a polite smile, though your pulse is still fluttering. “Nice to meet you.”

Lila steps closer, her gaze sweeping over the serene garden with appreciation. “It really is beautiful back here, isn’t it? Like stepping into another world. Mrs. Ellis was right to keep it a surprise.” She tilts her head toward you, genuinely warm. “Jake mentioned he’s met some lovely people since moving here. I’m glad he’s settling in. He works so hard— sometimes I worry he forgets to breathe outside that… office of his.”

There’s nothing wrong with her tone, but still, the way she hesitated before saying ‘office’ makes you still for a millisecond.

Jake chuckles softly, rubbing the back of his neck in a boyish way. “Lila’s exaggerating. I’m just doing what I love.” His eyes flick back to you, “Y/n was here first, enjoying the peace. I didn’t mean to intrude.”

Lila waves a hand. “No need to explain on my account. These gatherings can get a little overwhelming, can’t they? All the perfect families showing off their perfect lives.” She laughs lightly, like she understands more than she lets on. “I was telling Jake earlier how nice it is to see familiar faces. You’re married, right? Your husband seems very… artistic. The way he talks about his work is passionate.”

You nod, the mention of Samael pulling you back to reality; of course that’s the first impression that idiot would make on people. The wedding ring on your finger suddenly feels heavier, especially after Jake had just held that same hand so tenderly. “Yes, he is. We’ve been together a few years now.”

Lila’s smile stays kind, but she glances at Jake for a split second, “Well, I won’t keep you two. I just wanted to make sure Jake wasn’t hiding away all night. He does that when he gets thoughtful, y’know..” She gives his shoulder a light, squeeze. “Come find me before the desserts come out, okay?”

As she turns to leave, she adds over her shoulder with a cheerful wave, “It was lovely meeting you, Y/n. I hope we run into each other again soon.”

The garden falls quiet once more after her footsteps fade and Jake exhales a slow breath, his shoulders relaxing as he turns fully back to you.

“Sorry about that,” he murmurs, stepping just a fraction closer. “Lila…. she worries about me being the ‘new guy’ in town, although it’s been like, a year.” he gives a self-deprecating smile.

He glances down at your hand once more, where the ladybug had once been, then at the ring on your finger. “You still look a little tense,” he says almost apologetically. “If you ever need to talk outside our sessions… you know you can. I’m here, Y/n. Always.”

Jake stands there, patient and soft-spoken as ever, and you would lie if you said you didn’t love the attention. The feeling of being cared for, as ridiculous as it sounds— because you should be reminded that this is his job.

Sometimes you even wonder if he’s the same when there’s no money involved. If he would’ve put a hand to your shoulder like he did, had there been no guarantee he’d be paid. How it would feel to have his attention from day to night—

You swallow, heart beating a little too fast. “I… should probably get back before Samael wonders where I am.”

Jake nods, but doesn’t move immediately. “Of course. And remember y/n” His voice is barely above a whisper now. “You don’t have to carry everything alone.”

He finally steps aside, but his gaze follows you as you turn toward the house, the weight of it pressing against your back like an invisible hand guiding you back to him.

It’s sweet, it’s unfamiliar. It’s everything you’ve never known.

IN BETWEEN

It’s strange how you can go from never seeing someone, to seeing them more than once in 3 days. Even stranger how you can go a whole year without noticing someone in the town you live in.

It should be criminal really, to be so isolated.

Today, you’re walking back to your car from your lecture on juvenile delinquency, earphones in, clutching your books in your arms, because this morning Samael had the brilliant idea of putting your handbag in the washing machine— which you suspect he’s done on purpose, for whatever reason, maybe he’s just mean like that.

The lecture’s been rough, your mind was blurry the whole time, elaborating a plan to skip dinner tonight to not have to sit with your husband at the table and pretend to care about his brand new acrylics.

It would be a tremendous lie to say you haven’t been secretly looking through reddit forums— once again— because the first time had been a gem.

You’ve been looking for people talking about their experience with divorce in close knit communities—especially very religious ones, hoping it might bring some kind of answer or at least comfort.

One redditor said— ‘How do you react, how do you stay strong...when every shop you enter, every group of people you interact with, it seems like everyone is looking at you with pity, sadness, avoidance. I feel like i have this giant sticker on my forehead, a huge L that everyone can see. Picking up kids from school, interacting with other parents became such a burden. Mums stopped being friendly, just yes or no answers, few moms however shifted their tone into being super friendly when before we barely spoke. Every thing feels so wrong, i feel horrible, i just want to change my life.’

That’s nothing something to be reassured with. Not when your husband lives for people’s gaze, and will never get over the societal fallout. So no matter how much you want it— divorce is not an option right now.

In the street, you try to focus on the path back to your car, but your arms are sore and beginning to go numb, plus the music in your ears is super loud and you can’t turn it down because of the lack of hands available.

Next thing you know, you loose a little bit of balance and there— the top book in your stack face plants on the ground.

You bend over, earphones tangling with your hair, but before you can even reach the paperback, a hand beats you to it.

“Careful.” says a familiar voice.

It’s a voice you know all too well, the same one that’s been keeping you afloat these past few months.

“Mr. Sim?” you laugh in embarrassment, taking the book from his hand.

Your therapist’s wearing a blue shirt with a sweater on, only the collar peaking out, and those nerdy little glasses he always carries during sessions; he has a leather satchel slung over one shoulder and holds a cup of coffee in one hand. “Small world.” he smiles, holding your gaze, “gotta be careful with all these books in your arms. Had a long day?”

You sigh, smiling widely, “Yeah, wednesday afternoons are awful.”

“Ah yeah, i imagine. Juvenile delinquency right?” he offers an understand look.

You nod. Surely you must’ve slipped that in during the last session, God knows you have an incessant habit of talking about different things in the same sentence, your mind is constantly a mess, speech alike. You don’t remember telling him about juvenile delinquency though, but you guess you’ve just forgot about it.

“Oh yeah, today was boring…” you smile, “I didnt know you lived around, i always assumed you lived in the practice. Well not that it’s my business or anything—“

Jake’s lips curve upward, amused, “I do, i live nearby, i was just passing by and I happened to see a girl drop her books, so I decided why not help her.”

“That would be me. Well I’m sorry, I usually have a bag but this time I don’t.”

He shakes his head, “You’re okay. Do you… want any help carrying these? Is your car nearby?”

You look at him with a confused smile, eyebrows furrowed, “Car? How’d you know i take the car?”

“Because you told me y/n. During our sessions.” he gives a calm answer, with a hint of amusement, as if dealing with a very silly kid. “You said something about taking the car to go to school, so i figured.”

“Oh yeah, i’m sorry, totally forgot about that.” you shrug, pulling the books closer to your chest so they don’t fall, “Well my car’s a couple streets ahead, it was impossible to park it any closer this morning. But i can totally carry them myself, you don’t have to—“

Jake cuts you off by taking all the books from your hands, “It’s okay, today’s my off-day anyway. It’ll only take a few minutes, should be fine.”

That’s how you find yourself walking to your car with a very handsome man by your side— also how you find yourself looking around every two seconds to see if anyone’s watching you, you know how the old ladies like to report back to your gossiper of a husband.

When Jake reaches your vehicle, you open the door and let him put the stack down— when he comes back up, he offers you a polite nod, “Will you be fine?”

You smile, waving your hand, “I’ll be just fine, don’t worry. Thank you for the help, i’ll see you next session.”

The man tips his head in a small acknowledgment, “For sure, yes.” his eyes drop from yours to your shoulder in a millisecond, he lifts a finger and points there, “Your strap is—”

You look down but before you can even register what’s wrong, Jake readjusts the strap of your top. Warm fingertips brush the skin there for just a fleeting moment, setting the fabric back onto your bone.

But there’s something you hadn’t noticed earlier when he handed you the books— his nails, or rather the space under them, is red, like he’s scratched at his skin and drawn out blood.

One of them is slightly bent, like it’s been cut through, and his knuckles are slightly red. You wonder for a second, what kind of internal battles he must be going through— what that enigma of a man is made of. What does he cry about, what’s his biggest fear.

You wonder if he’s scratched at his skin until it bled, like you did so many times.

Jake quickly retrieves his hand, leaving a trail of goosebumps on your skin, he bites down on his lower lip, distracted, and steps back. “I’ll see you for our next session y/n.” he quickly nods, hand going in his pocket.

The first thing you want to do is make a pbj sandwich. It’s become a ritual after days like these— when your brain feels wrung dry from hours of reading, highlighting, and trying to convince yourself you’ll remember any of it come exam day. Peanut butter and jelly never disappoints. It’s soft, sweet, almost embarrassingly simple, and requires so little thought that you can make it with your eyes half-shut.

As you kick off your shoes in the entry, you wonder if Samael’s restocked on peanut butter or if you’re going to have to head back to town to fetch some. You drop the heavy books on the small living room table and you pad your way to the kitchen, humming the melody of an old country song.

You’re pondering the next therapy session and the house is terribly quiet— which gives you peace of mind to think about your oddly charming therapist without feeling guilty.

You wonder if he’s stressed, if he goes to bed shaking at night, if his job’s taking a toll on him. You imagine yourself helping him just like he helps you, bandaging his hands, massaging the palms until they relax.

But you step in a wet puddle, and it cuts right through your thoughts.

You cringe, fists clenching— the feeling of socks being drenched with water making your skin crawl. But when you look down, your white socks aren’t transparent, they’re wet with something else entirely.

They’re tainted red, in uneven shapes of crimson.

And under your feet lies a small puddle of smeared blood, the size of a hand, dragged out like it’s been messed up at the edges.

You instantly freeze, the metallic smell catching up to your nose— the liquid spreads through the fibers almost immediately, climbing over your toes in uneven streaks before sinking into the fabric.

You look around, trying to figure out where it came from, but all you can see is, on the kitchen counter, a bouquet of white peonies, no card. Just plain flowers in a glass vase.

“Samael?” you try to say, but it comes out as a whisper.

You walk on your heels, the part that’s not entirely soaked, but it still leaves traces on the floor. You make it to the other side of the counter, eyes locking on the small phone fixed on the wall, but the moment your reach it, something wraps around your ankle.

You jolt, a horrified shriek cutting through your throat. You wrench your leg back on instinct, nearly slipping in the blood before your gaze drops.

It’s a hand.

A pale, trembling hand. Slick with crimson.

“D-Don’t…” the voice is so hoarse you almost don’t recognize it.

Your husband is sprawled on his side, half-hidden by the kitchen island as though he’d dragged himself there and simply run out of strength. His face is drained of color, lips tinged an unhealthy gray, dark hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. Every breath catches halfway in his chest before escaping in a shaky exhale.

One hand is wrapped around his opposite forearm.

But it isn’t enough.

Blood seeps relentlessly between his fingers, dripping onto the tile in slow, heavy patters. A deep gash splits across his forearm, the torn edges stained dark, his grip the only thing slowing the bleeding.

His fingers tighten weakly around your ankle— not enough to hold you there, only enough to make sure you don’t leave before seeing him.

“Don’t…” he rasps again, swallowing hard. “Don’t look.”

But it’s too late. Your eyes have already found the widening pool beneath him, the smeared trail leading across the floor, the shaky handprints marking every place he’d tried to pull himself forward.

“Samael? What—” you gasp, a shaky hand coming to your mouth, “what happened?”

His fingers loosen around your ankle. “I’m…” his voice catches in his throat. “I’m sorry.”

“…For what?” You stare at him, your pulse roaring in your ears. “Samael for what??”

He doesn’t answer, instead, his eyes drift downward until yours follow. Wedged between his blood-slick fingers is a jagged shard of glass, one edge glistening red. Tiny splinters cling to his palm and the kitchen light catches the fractured surface, scattering pale reflections across the floor.

Something in your chest caves.

It’s a strange feeling, something you can’t pin-point but recognise all too well. Your stomach twists with the nauseating certainty of déjà vu.

For the briefest second, the kitchen isn’t your kitchen anymore, it’s your parents’.

The metallic smell, the blood on the floor, the impossible stillness— it all folds over itself until you’re somewhere else entirely, somewhere your mind has spent years trying to bury.

You know this scene. You know it all too well.

“…You…” Your voice barely exists. “Samael….”

“Lord forgive me.” your husband’s eyelids flutter shut. “I’m so weak.” he laughs once— a hollow, breathless sound that dies as soon as it leaves him. “Fuck.. thought I could endure it.”

Your eyes flick between the wound and the shard still trapped in his grip. You’ve never seen your husband like this, weakened, stepping off of his pedestal to be in such a vulnerable position.

You’ve never thought him capable of doing such thing, it’s not like he’s been sad or troubled these days, there’s no explanation.

But then again, an empath part of you says, you never know what someone is capable of doing, given the right amount of suffering.

“How… how long?” you ask, voice shaken.

Samael squints at the ceiling, as though the answer might be written there. “I don’t know.”his breathing stutters. “An hour… maybe more.”

He had been lying here, bleeding into the kitchen tiles, alone. And a part of you wants to laugh at him.

You do hate him for everything he’s made of your life. But hatred’s never been strong enough to erase recognition.

Once an empath always an empath, always finding ways to feel sorry for even the worst of people.

You know the look in his eyes, the. shame and the desperate apology to a God who feels impossibly far away. You know what it’s like to believe you’ve crossed a line you can never uncross.

Your hand trembles as you reach for the wall-mounted phone and the receiver nearly slips from your fingers. You force yourself to breathe, punch in the emergency number, and press it to your ear.

SESSION O10.

“My husband’s suicidal.”

Your voice echoes in the therapist’s office. It feels wrong in thousands of ways, like you’re admitting your little suburban fairytale is crumble to pieces.

Dr. Sim sits across, neat as always, hands folded on his lap. He pushes his glasses back on his nose, legs spreading the slightest bit. “What makes you say that?”

You try to push the image of his gushing wound out of your mind, the way the paramedics had to wrap gauze around it but the blood still seeped through. “Well, he clearly wanted to end his life.”

“… y/n, people injure themselves for many reasons. Some want to end their lives, and some just want to punish themselves and relieve emotional distress. So without knowing his intent, Id be careful saying he’s suicidal.”

“He apologized. He said he’d been weak. He asked God to forgive him.” you whisper.

Dr. Sim clasps his hands together, “That sounds like shame. It doesn’t necessarily tell me he wanted to die though. Sometimes it can be a call for help.”

“All of a sudden like that?” you question, leaning forward in your seat. There had been no warning signs, no telltale hints of a problem.

Dr. Sim takes a deep breath, like what he’s about to say will be important, “It’s rarely all of a sudden,” he answers at last. “It’s usually the first time other people notice, i’d say.”

Out of all the things you could be feeling right now— the only thing that comes is guilt. Guilt so strong you want to bite your nails off. You should’ve seen it, should’ve noticed, something, anything in his behavior that could’ve prevented this.

“How do you think he’s been lately?” Jake continues, “Withdrawn? More dependent on you than usual? Has he been sleeping? Has he seemed… frightened?”

You shake your head, “I don’t know… he’s never been… this transparent in front of me. I’ve never seen him suffer.”

“And since then?” the therapist probes.

“I’ve barely left him alone.” you say in a breath. “I’m always around, i’m scared he’ll do it again.”

Dr. Sim nods once, almost thoughtfully. “That makes sense.”

“Does it?” you tilt your head, hands shaking.

“People don’t usually abandon someone after they’ve almost lost them.”

You almost hear the sound of a clock, but as your eyes face the wall, you notice it still isn’t there. The wall’s bare and the curtains are closed halfway down the window, making the room dimmer than usual. It should be appeasing, relaxing even— you’ve always hated bright lights— but now it makes your knee bounce.

“I thought he was going to die.” your voice cracks as you admit. “Not that it’d be bad… in a way— fuck. I don’t know what i’m saying sorry.”

You hear Jake shift in his seat, and the next thing you know, he’s crouching in front of the sofa you’re sat on.

He looks up at you like an astronaut dreams of the moon, and his hand reaches across the space between you to drop right over yours.

“But you saved him.” he murmurs. “And don’t apologize for your thoughts, we always want things we can’t have, don’t we?”

You don’t know what the means by that, you don’t want Samael to die, it’s just a form of speech, something you say without thinking.

You’re way too aware of the point of contact to dwell on that though. You look down immediately with slightly wide eyes, the tears in your eyes drying like he’s wrung them out himself.

“Is this okay?” he whispers in the softest voice.

You nod, too fast for someone so conflicted— and he squeezes your hand tighter. “I know i shouldn’t be touching you right now. But I just want to offer you a presence y/n. Tell me if it’s too much.”

You shake your head, unable to form any words and he takes it as a silent agreement. His hand squeezes tighter, not tight enough to scare you away, a symbolic of everything he is, that you’re not. He’s helpful, he’s a man who cares for people, while you’re a poor woman too blind to even notice your own husband’s suffering.

Jake’s eyes fall to your wrist, fingertips climbing to wrap around the thin bone, he squeezes a few times, thumb drawing circles on it. Your breath hitches almost instantly, having never known a touch so tender— and you watch his fingers move gently, like he’s scared he’ll crush your bones if he presses too hard.

“You know, I was concerned something happened, when you came in late today. You never come in late.” the therapist fingers tighten almost imperceptibly, “You’re someone I really look forward to helping.”

Today, you were late because you considered staying home to tend to Samael, but you decided to go anyway, too addicted to skip an appointment. It’s like everything falls behind therapy these days, like the only thing that matters is seeing Dr. Sim.

Right now, you can’t be fooled into thinking there’s not an ounce of truth in what he says though. The way he says it, not in a money-hungry way, not in a professional way even.

There’s not intention behind it, only true concern.

You wonder if he’s grown unhealthily attached like you have, if he knows how dependent you’ve become to these sessions. If maybe somewhere deep down he feels the same way.

It’s wrong, and it’s ugly, and God forbid someone ever hears about this.

But it’s your secret. And his to some extent.

Your hear him chuckle before you even seen him, your eyes snap up, confused. Jake is looking at your hand with amusement.

“You attract these things, don’t you?” he smiles.

Because there, on your hand, lies a little ladybug, once again. Small, delicate, almost impossibly harmless— its scarlet shell a strange contrast against the warmth of your skin.

It looks like something that should have been crushed by the world already, yet here it is, still moving, still searching for somewhere gentle to land. You look around, the window is closed and so is the door.

You must’ve brought it inside when you came in.

“It’s the second one this week,” he observes, picking up with careful fingers, “Look at it.”

He brings the small insect closer to your eyes, careful not to let it drop, and you find yourself squinting to look at it, “They must really like you,”

You gather your palms together in front of you, and Jake manages the little creature in your hands; it crawls across the folds of skin, until it sits at the edge of your fingertip.

But you can’t find it in you to focus on it.

Your eyes, so volatile, are on his face, concentred with something other than wonder. Jake looks even more disarming up close where you can see the faint stubble on his jaw, the way he seems to be constantly biting down on his lower lip like a bad-habit.

He looks at you like you hold the world in your palms instead of a small weak creature, and you look at him like your husband’s been long forgotten.

It should make you feel bad, but you can’t think about anything else other than those destabilising eyes digging up a path straight to your chest cavity. It’s so personal, it’s like he’s not looking at a patient but at a woman he needs.

And God, you need him.

PLAY now

There’s a man at home, loved and respected in the community, a man who hurts you but who’s suffering himself— and the only thing you can think about is how you wish Dr. Sim would press his lips to yours.

It’s vile, it’s ugly and everything in between and beyond. But you’d let go of all ethics if he were to wrap a hand around your throat.

The lines between feeling cared for and wanting to give your all have eroded so easily, you almost didn’t even notice it. And now you’re stuck with a heart that wants his touch and his words at the same time.

The ladybug’s wings unfurl in your hand, delicate and translucent, catching the faint light of the room. A tiny flutter breaks the silence and it lifts itself into the air, drifting upward in a slow, uncertain spiral, its red shell a fleeting spark against the walls. In the closed room, where nothing else moves, the little creature tries to find a way out.

The second it’s gone behind the curtains, your eyes fall back down to Dr. Sim’s face. His are already bored in yours, the ladybug insignificant.

It’s eery, the moment stretches and stretches until you’re sure you should break it with a word, but can’t.

That’s when his breath comes out, shakier than intended. You couldn’t possibly tear your eyes from his, but the warmth of his breath makes you want to look away desperately before need consumes you.

“I know this is wrong,” Jake begins, not even knowing what he’s referring to, “but it’s hard to stop. I’ve never— been around someone like you y/n.”

Your own breath catches in your throat, a prisoner of your own twisted desires.

But he continues, “I look forward to our sessions all the time, you know? You’re a very smart woman, you‘ve taught me a lot of things school doesn’t teach. You know you’re my favorite patient, right?” he’s very serious when he says that, “And I get that you think so low of yourself, but you deserve to be cherished. Not tolerated or managed. Cherished.”

You’re struggling to understand what he means by that, when his fingers find your knee, tentative, “Is this okay?”

Your eyes subconsciously look for the clock. You’re aware you’ve been in here for longer than usual— after all time passes fast when you’re at the hands of such a skilled player— and when you look back at him, you nod., because in here, hours don’t matter.

Jake’s hand travels upward, to your lower thigh, which he squeezes gently, tracing shapes with the pads of his fingers. He reads you like an open book, when he sees the guilt in your eyes, he goes, “I know it all feels confusing. But you’re not alone in this room with me, okay? You’ll never be alone.”

You almost gasp, throat becoming a penitentiary for air— you feel your knee shaking, and so does he. “Is it too much?” when you shake your head, his head drops, forehead almost touching your thigh. “I shouldn’t. I’m sorry.”

You’re too stunned to even speak, but your hand—for reason you couldn’t possibly supply— moves to the top of his head with a mind of its own. Your fingers curl in his hair, gently, and you push his head down, until it rests on your skin.

Jake exhales a shaky breath, lips meeting the apex of your leg.

You should to stop, but what’s wrong has always tasted so good— so one hand crawls where his hair meets his nape, and you beckon him closer.

He doesn’t rush. Even now, with your hand urging him closer, Jake moves like he’s afraid the moment might shatter. His lips brush the fabric of your dress first, then find the bare skin just above your knee. His kiss is feather-light, warm breath fanning across your thigh as he trails higher. Each press of his mouth feels like confessing a sin— soft, open-mouthed.

He breathes you in, nose grazing the sensitive inner skin, and a low sound rumbles in his chest, something between a sigh and a groan.

“Still okay?” he whispers against your thigh, voice muffled. His fingers trace the hem of your dress, pushing it up nicely inch by inch with agonizing patience. You nod again, words failing you, and he takes it as permission.

The fabric pools higher, exposing more of you to the cool air of the office. Jake’s hands slide up the backs of your thighs, spreading them apart just enough for him to settle between them on his knees.

He looks up at you then, eyes dark and glassy, pupils blown wide with deviant need. There’s hunger there, yes, but also that same worshipful devotion that makes your stomach twist with guilt. “You’re so soft here,” he murmurs, lips brushing the crease where thigh meets hip. “Fuck… I’ve thought about this so many times.”

It’s the first time you’ve heard him swear, and it tastes delicious from his mouth. It continues its path, kissing a slow trail along your inner thigh. Every touch is meaningful, each a part of something grander — teeth grazing lightly, tongue soothing the faint sting. He savors you like scripture, murmuring half-formed praises between kisses.

The scent of your arousal is already thickening the air, and Jake’s breath hitches when he reaches the edge of your panties.

He presses his face there, inhaling deeply, nose nudging against the damp fabric, his tongue darts out, tasting the arousal seeping through.

“Fuck… you smell so good,” he breathes, voice rougher now. His hands tremble slightly as they hook into the waistband, waiting for your eyes.

When you lift your hips just enough, he slides them down your legs with excruciating slowness, letting the lace drag along your skin. The cool air hits your exposed core, and you shiver; Jake groans softly at the sight, forehead dropping to rest against your lower stomach for a moment as if gathering himself.

You run your hand through his hair, tugging just a little bit, until he looks up with wild eyes, he’s gone, in a totally different headspace that you’ve ever seen him in. Then he spreads your legs wider, hands firm on your thighs, holding you open like an offering. His gaze flicks up again, asking without words.

The permission you give with a shaky nod breaks something in him, he leans in and drags his tongue through your folds in one long, slow stroke from entrance to clit. The wet heat of his mouth makes your back arch, a broken sound escaping your lips.

Jake moans against you, the vibration shooting straight through your nerves. He doesn’t devour immediately, he adulates— his tongue moves in lazy, deliberate circles around your clit, then dips lower to taste you properly, lapping at the slick gathering at your entrance like he’s been starving for it for years.

It’s like he’s tasting the best meal he’s ever had.

“Sweet,” he whispers devoutly between long licks. “So sweet for me.” His lips seal around your clit, sucking gently while his tongue flicks in rhythm. One hand stays on your thigh, holding you steady whil the other strokes soothing patterns on your skin, grounding you even as pleasure builds in heavy waves.

At some point, when he sees you arch off the sofa, he urges you closer, pulling your hips until his face is buried between your thighs— he looses himself, licking like a starved man, until all he can taste is you and only you.

He takes his time, dragging it out— every time your hips twitch or your breath catches, he slows, pulling back just enough to kiss your inner thighs again, leaving faint wet marks that glisten under the light. Then he returns, deeper, tongue pushing inside you, fucking you with slow, curling strokes while his nose presses against your clit.

The obscene sounds— wet, filthy, mingled with his soft groans— fill the quiet office where only sad stories usually exist. Jake’s completely lost in it, eyes closed, cheeks flushed, dark hair tousled from your fingers. Pussy-drunk and devoted, like this is the only thing that matters in his carefully ordered world.

You come the first time with a choked cry, thighs trembling around his head but Jake doesn’t stop. He moans louder, drinking down every drop, tongue working you through the aftershocks with relentless gentleness. “That’s it,” he murmurs against your slick flesh. “Let me have this. Let me take care of you.”

He drags it out, building you up again with two fingers sliding inside, curling against that perfect spot while his mouth focuses on your clit. The stretch is perfect, his fingers thick and skilled, pumping slowly in time with his tongue. Your second orgasm crashes harder, vision blurring, fingers tightening painfully in his hair. Still, he doesn’t pull away. He keeps licking, softer now, coaxing every last tremor until you’re whimpering, oversensitive and shaking.

Only then does he rise, lips shiny and swollen, eyes wild with need. He kisses a path up your body— over your stomach, between your breasts, along your collarbone— murmuring the whole time. “You’re so beautiful it hurts,” he breathes against your skin, voice wrecked. “I don’t deserve this… but I need you. God, I need you.”

IN BETWEEN

A husband is a man. He is not any different from the one sitting in an armchair, in an office in town. Men are still only men beneath the titles you give them. Doctor. Stranger. Protector. The words are just costumes we put over people to make them easier to understand.

But one of them is your husband.

The man whose blood you saw on the kitchen floor. The man whose fingers trembled around your ankle. The man who looked at you like he was already apologizing for leaving you behind.

And the other is the man who’s paid to listen, but who has made you feel heard in ways your husband has never been able to.

With his tongue buried in your most secret part, he’s learned the way to undo you and never ask for anything in return.

You wonder if this is how it starts— how people become strangers to the promises they made.

At the end of the day, a vow is a vow— even as vile as your husband is, he’s someone you grew with. You’d like to feel avenged, to feel like you’ve done something petty and satisfying. But it just adds to the mountain of things you feel awful about.

So you sleep— when you come home from the practice, you sleep all evening, face buried in the sheets trying to forget the ache between your thighs. Samael stays in the attic, trying to paint with his left hand, because the right one hurts.

It pains him, you can see how drained he looks, and you wonder why he chose to harm the member he paints with rather than the other one.

You bring him dinner by night, a plate of beans and meat, and he doesn’t say a word, not even an acknowledgment.

You try to make amends for something he doesn’t even know about— you wash his clothes in the river, you buy his favorite flavor ice cream from the store and make the bed neatly in the morning.

By the next week, you’re a mess, the miserable shell of a disgusting woman.

You decide to meet up with Mr Paulson— one if your only friends in town, a 60 year old celibate from church, who also happens to be your husband.

You’ve found yourself liking his quiet presence, he’s wiser and older, plays chess with you sometimes when your husband leaves town for his art gallery affairs. He’s reeks of jasmine perfume and carries an obnoxious beige hat— but he’s as kind as cotton candy. The more you talk to him, the more you realize just how desolate you truly are.

Where he has a rare bred cat and a perfectly mowed lawn— you have a therapist you’re entirely emotionally dependent on, and an unavailable husband who struggles more than you can make sense of.

Where he has 5 blond headed younger siblings who sing at the choir, you have 5 different ways this could go wrong etched in your brain.

In half of them, the guilt eats at you, and you end up quitting therapy and moving to a cabin in the woods.

Mr. Paulson notices the dark bags under your eyes, he doesn’t ask questions but he can tell you’re heavily conflicted. By the time you sit down at the table in the garden, you put your phone face up between you, and offer him a cup of tea.

You try to focus on his voice as he chatters about the upcoming church bake sale, but your mind keeps slipping. Every shift in your seat brings it back— the memory of Jake’s tongue, the way his fingers had trembled against your skin like you were something sacred and fragile.

Your phone buzzes suddenly against the metal table, the vibration waking you up from dreamspace. The screen lights up with a name that makes your stomach drop. Dr. Sim

Mr. Paulson’s eyes flick down to it before you can turn the phone over. His bushy brows lift in mild surprise, recognition flashing across his face.

“Oh, Dr. Sim from town,” he says, voice light but curious, the way people speak when they’ve just connected invisible threads. “Such a kind young man.” He tilts her head, studying you with gentle concern. “Are you… seeing him dear?”

Panic blooms in your chest, a wild thing clawing up your throat. Your fingers twitch toward the phone, but it’s too late. The heat rises to your cheeks, and you know he can see it— the dark circles under your eyes, the way your hand shakes slightly as you reach for your teacup.

You swallow hard, forcing your voice steady. “Yes… I’ve started therapy recently. Just a few sessions. It’s been… helpful.” The words feel like a damning confession. You lower your voice, glancing toward the house even though Samael is miles away, locked in his attic studio. “But Mr Paulson, please… I’d rather Samael not know. Things have been difficult at home, and I don’t want him worrying. Or… misunderstanding.”

He watches you for a long moment, his sweetness softening into something more paternal. Then he reaches across the table and pats your hand once, warm and reassuring. “Of course, dear. Your secrets are safe with me. We all carry our crosses, don’t we? The Lord knows we need help sometimes.” His smile is kind, but there’s a flicker of something else in his eyes—pity, maybe, or understanding. “But your husband… he’s a good man, isn’t he?”

You nod too quickly, the lie tasting bitter on your tongue. “Yes. He is.” The words feel hollow, echoing the vows you made years ago in that same church these women attend every Sunday.

A good man. A pious man with hands too rough.

Mr Paulson squeezes your hand once more before excusing himself. “I’ll be right back, dear. Let me fetch some teaspoons.” He disappears toward the house, beige hate swinging gently at his side.

The screen is still lit as you snatch it up, heart hammering as you open the messages.

Dr. Sim: I don’t want this to change things. I still believe I can help you. You won’t cancel the next sessions, right?

Your thumbs move before you can stop them, the guilt and need twisting together into something unstoppable.

You: I know you can help me. I won’t cancel.

The reply comes almost immediately, as if he’s been waiting with the phone in his hand.

Dr. Sim: How do you feel?

You: I’m okay

Dr. Sim: how do you feel about what happened ?

You: I don’t know how to feel.

Dr. Sim: There’s no need to feel guilty Y/n. You’ve done nothing wrong. You learned very young that love meant staying when someone was broken, you learned that leaving was the same thing as abandoning someone. But you’re not a child anymore.

When he leaves, Mr.Paulson slips a little, “Take care of yourself dear.” before reminding you that the priest is always ready to receive you. To which you nod politely, because frankly, it’s not a debate you’re ready to start, much less with him.

He stands, pulling you into a gentle hug that smells of jasmine and laundry softener— his arms are warm, fatherly. You nod against his shoulder, throat tight, and watch him walk back toward his perfect house.

Sometime after, your husband texts you— even if he’s in the house and could come talk to you— he informs you that he’s going to go eat at his friends’ house tonight and won’t be home until late— which, to say the least, doesn’t upset you.

If anything, it makes you exhale a breath yoube been holding.

You stand in front of the bedroom mirror for a long hour afterward, watching yourself, curling and uncurling your hands in weird motions like you’re studying your own anatomy. You settle on the bed, in need of a nap, but the thoughts are too many.

You stand up, fingers trembling as you change out of the modest day dress into something you’ve always desired to wear. It’s a skirt and a simple black top, but nothing provocative. Nothing that admits what you’re thinking.

But the woman in the mirror looks wrong.

She stares back with hollow eyes and flushed cheeks, lips slightly parted like she’s holding a secret between her teeth. The longer you look, the more it feels like the mirror is watching you—like the glass has grown eyes, like it knows what you did on that therapy sofa, what you’re about to do again. You touch your reflection’s cheek. The glass is cold but your skin is burning. A shiver crawls down your spine but you turn away before the feeling swallows you whole.

You tell yourself a hundred reasons not to go.

He’s your therapist. This is wrong. Samael is hurting. You’re married. This could destroy everything.

And then the counter-arguments make the rest completely irrelevant.

𓁹 𓁹

Your hands are still shaking when you punch in the code to the entrance of the practice on Maple Street. The hallway is dark, the building quiet except for the sound of the expesive fluorescent lights overhead. You knock softly on his office door.

Once. Then twice. Every single time you’re welcome with nothing but silence.

He must’ve gotten home already, it’s been a long day for him and he must’ve taken a break.

You’re already turning to leave, heart hammering with shame, when the door cracks open.

A hand— warm, strong, slightly sticky— closes around your wrist and pulls you inside.

The door shuts behind you with a soft click and you stumble forward, breath catching. It’s Jake, pulling you inside like you’re a dirty little secret, like there’s something to be scared of outside.

You want to scream, but something in your nervous system says you’re safe and sound, that nothing could ever happen in here, because he’ll always protect you. But when you look down, the scream threatens to come out.

A smear of blood streaks across your wrist where his fingers gripped you.

“Shh, it’s okay,” Jake murmurs when he sees your eyes widen, voice soothing even now. “I cut myself.”

When your eyes explore, you see the office is dim, only the desk lamp on. The same blood that lies on your skin is everywhere— from a small puddle on the floor near the sink, to crimson streaks across the white porcelain. You spot Jake’s shirt discarded in a bloody heap on the chair. And only then do you notice he’s shirtless, the strong lines of his chest and shoulders illuminated by the light.

When your eyes veer lower, you make out a couple of faint scars— old, silvery— across it. His hand is a mess, blood wells slowly from a deep gash across his palm and forearm, making your lips turn white. It looks like he’s been scratched by a wild animal, or something of the sort.

PLAY NOW.

You stare, heart pounding. “Jake—”

“It’s nothing,” he says calmly, like he’s reassuring a frightened patient, he pushes his glasses back on his nose, leaving a wide crimson stain. “Cut myself with glass. I made a mess.”

You step closer despite the odd feeling clawing at your throat. “How did you do this?”

“Bought whiskey glasses off a cheap website. It exploded in my hands. Don’t worry. It’ll heal on its own.”

“No, it’s deep, Jake.” Your voice cracks, you spot a first aid kit discarded on the sink, which suggests he was already patching himself up upon your arrival. You grab it wit shaky hands.

Jake lets you lead him to the sofa; you sit beside him, knees brushing. Blood continues to seep steadily between you as you clean the wound— and it’s obviously deeper than he let on. It’s so deep that your hands quickly become slick with it, warm and metallic, and the coppery smell fills your nostrils nauseatingly.

The cut is angry and raw, a violent interruption against the familiarity of his skin. The sight of it twists something in you chest; the strange horror of realizing someone so essential to your life can be damaged.

Jake’s breathing is slow and even, but his eyes are fixed on your hands— on his blood coating your fingers. He doesn’t flinch when you press gauze against the cut, if anything, his pupils dilate. You hate how human it makes him look. You hate that the same hands that held you so carefully can also be covered in something so violent.

“How did you really do this?” you whisper.

Dr. Sim tilts his head, a faint, almost amused smile touching his lips. “I spend all day listening to people tell me what hurts, and I forget I’m allowed to have things that hurt too, you know?”

“That’s not a good thing.”

“No?” his amusement deepens.

“No. You tell everyone else to take care of themselves, but you don’t do it for yourself.”

His uninjured hand comes up, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “And who are you taking care of right now?”

You feel heat flood your cheeks. “My therapist.”

His smile widens. “Am I?”

“What?” your eyebrow raises.

“Nothing.” He tuts softly, shaking his head, eyes never leaving yours. You notice the bleeding hasn’t slowed, your hands are practically painted red now, his blood warm and slick between your fingers.

Jake’s chest rises and falls a little faster and he watches the way the crimson stains your skin like it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

“The bleeding won’t stop,” you whisper, voice unsteady.

“It’s okay,” Jake murmurs.

The next second, you watch in confusion as he lifts your wrist gently and brings it to his mouth.

His tongue— hot and slow— licks a droplet of his own blood from your skin like it’s just spilled wine.

Your eyes widen and at that he does it again, slower, savoring, lips closing around the pulse point. The wet heat of his mouth makes your breath hitch.

Then he takes your finger between his lips, sucking gently, eyes locked on yours the entire time. The sight is deeply eerie— his dark lashes, the blood on the corners of his mouth, the calm devotion in his expression as he cleans you with his tongue.

“There’s more running water,” he says softly, voice muffled around your finger. “Tap’s broken. I wasn’t going to leave you with your hands dripping like that.”

You’re breathing hard, shocked, horrified, and unbearably aroused all at once. Your free hand moves without thinking, thumb brushing the blood at the corner of his mouth.

Jake turns his head and sucks it into his mouth too, tongue swirling slowly, eyes half-lidded.

There’s something eerie in the way he treats something so violent as if it were delicate— like the only thing that matters is the trace of him left behind, a red reminder that some part of him has crossed the boundaries.

You don’t see it coming, one second there’s space between you, and the next, there isn’t.

You surge forward and kiss him. With absolutely no reason, no hesitation left, your mouth crashes into his, tongue slipping past his lips, tasting the sharp metallic tang of his blood.

It’s disgusting— tangy, warm, iron-heavy—but the thrill that shoots through you is out of this world. You moan into his mouth, fingers threading through his hair, gripping tight and the kiss turns messy, desperate, bloody. Teeth clash. Tongues slide against each other, spreading crimson between you.

Like wine left aging in a forgotten cellar, it’s the best thing you’ve ever tasted- as vile as it sounds.

Jake hisses when his injured hand grips your ass, but he only pulls you closer, grinding his hips up against you. He’s impossibly hard, straining against his pants, throbbing with need; you wonder if he likes this, if he likes sharing his blood with you until your mouth is covered in red like his. He breaks the kiss just enough to breathe against your lips,

“You’re gonna swallow it okay? Let it stay inside you where no one else can reach.”

You do, awfully blinded by the tenderness with which he holds you among the violence.

The taste lingers even after, and he watches, awed, cupping your face with blood-smeared hands. A second after, his thumb crawls in his own mouth to collect the rest of blood, and he pushes it inside yours.

“Again. Let me rot inside you.” he kisses your jaw as you obey, “You gonna be a good girl and let me become part of your body, okay?”

You swallow again, cringing at the taste but unable to stop the moan that follows— Jake’s eyes darken further, his breath catching in his throat until his hips are grinding against you.

“I know, it’s disgusting isn’t it?” he whispers tenderly, thumb stroking your cheek and leaving a faint red streak. “But this blood’s cleaner than anything he ever gave you. It’s honest. It’s only for you, am I right?”

Like a moth to a flame, you nod, knowing all too well who he’s referring to, “Yes.” without even thinking straight.

You watch as he takes off his dirty glasses, drops them in the sink and the next second you’re on his mouth again.

Your hand sliding down to cup his hardness through his pants until he groans into your mouth, grinding against your palm like an animal, hips jerking. You’re both frantic now, messy and needy, hands groping, mouths devouring.

Without breaking the kiss, you stumble backward together toward the therapy couch— the same couch where you sit every week and bare your soul. The irony is, perverse. This is where you confess your darkest thoughts, now you’re spreading your legs on it while your savior’s blood dries on your hands and tongue.

Jake lays you down, settling between your thighs until his weight presses you into the cushions. He keeps his eyes on yours the entire time, as he pushes your skirt up.

When you try to look away, overwhelmed, his uninjured hand grabs your jaw. “Shh. Look at me.”

You do. Because he’s making you dependent with every touch, every drop of blood, every whispered command. He grinds against you slowly, letting you feel how hard he is, how much he needs you, his forehead rests against yours, breath mingling with the metallic taste still on both your tongues.

The liquid which continues to seep slowly from the bandage you tried to apply, staining both of you; but he still he watches you— devoted, obsessed, terrifyingly gentle even as he claims you in the place meant for healing.

He lifts the fabric of your top inch by inch, exposing your stomach first. Jake leans down and presses soft, open-mouthed kisses across your skin, tongue tracing the faint marks and every curve like their holy scripture.

“You’re so pretty here,” he whispers against your belly. “So soft. So warm. Every part of you.” He pulls the top higher, over your breasts, and groans quietly at the sight. “Fuck… Look at you. So beautiful it hurts to breathe.” His lips close around one nipple, sucking gently while his thumb circles the other.

Jake tugs the top off completely and tosses it aside. Next come your skirt and panties, dragged down your legs with the same agonizing patience. He kisses every new inch of skin revealed— your hips, the tops of your thighs, the sensitive skin behind your knees.

When you’re finally bare beneath him, he sits back on his heels and just stares, blood slowly seeping from the bandage on his hand, smearing across your skin wherever he touches.

“Everywhere,” he breathes, almost dazed. “You’re pretty everywhere. Your thighs… your stomach… these breasts… this sweet little pussy.” He runs two fingers through your folds, spreading the slick arousal. “I’ll cherish you the way you need, mkay? the way you’ve always deserved.”

Jake stands just long enough to push his pants and boxers down. His cock springs free— thick, long, heavy, and flushed dark. Easily one of the biggest you’ve ever seen, veined and leaking at the tip— you doubt you could take it fully, but then again, you’d love the pain if it meant you were close to him.

Jake strokes himself once, slowly, eyes hooded as he watches your reaction, then he crawls back between your spread legs, kissing you deeply again, letting you taste the blood still on his tongue. His cock rests heavy against your stomach first, then slides down to tease your soaked folds. He rubs the thick head up and down, coating himself in your arousal, bumping against your clit with every pass.

“You want this?” he asks softly, voice trembling with restraint. “Tell me you want me inside, Y/n.”

When you nod desperately, he kisses you again, deeper; then he lines himself up and pushes just the tip inside. It’s so overwhelming, his fat tip is stretching you out with only that much, you clench hard around him instantly, a broken moan escaping your lips at the feeling.

“Fuck…” Jake hisses, forehead dropping to yours. “Already squeezing me like you don’t want me to leave.” he presses the tip right against your clit and rubs a couple times, hips stuttering, until you’re a moaning mess under him.

Then he works the thick head in and out shallowly, letting you adjust, his thumb circling your clit in steady motions to ease the stretch. When he finally pushes deeper and you wince, tears slipping from the corners of your eyes, you clutch desperately at his biceps.

“I know, I know,” he coos softly, voice gentle even as his hips twitch with the need to thrust. “You’re such a brave girl… It hurts, doesn’t it?” He stays still for a moment, buried halfway, kissing your tears away. “Breathe for me. That’s it… good girl.”

He starts fucking you with shallow strokes, letting you get used to his size. Your heels dig into his lower back, pulling him closer and he leans down, lips brushing your ear. “You feel so perfect around me. Squeezing me so tight, you’re so good to me.”

It feels so intense you might die, you still taste his blood on your lips, proof of how deep he’s etched in your skin. It’s as though your body, numb for years without your noticing, has been shocked back into feeling, at the hands of a man who should’ve terrified you instead of awakening you.

Jake’s pace gradually deepens, he can tell how much this means to you, the way your eyes squeeze shut, and he looks down between your bodies, watching the way your stomach bulges slightly with every thrust.

“That’s me right there,” he groans, pressing a hand over the bulge. “You feel me? So deep inside you. No one else will ever fit here again.”

Before you can come up with an answer, your phone slips out of your discarded skirt pocket and clatters onto the floor. The sound catches Jake’s attention and for a second his eyes flicker with something different from desire.

He reaches down, picks it up, and holds it in front of your face. “Unlock it,” he says softly.

Confused but floating on pleasure, you do, you press the face ID and let his thumb work on the screen while you clench rhythmically at the loss of movement.

Then Jake sets the phone on the far arm of the couch, propped up, and you notice your reflection on the screen, the camera facing you both.

“What-“ you say, cut short when he pulls out suddenly, making you whimper at the loss, then sits on the couch and pulls you onto his lap. He spreads your legs wide, hooking them over his thighs, your back to his chest, pussy on full display to the camera.

“You gonna show your husband how you want to be taken care of?” he whispers in your ear.

You moan, a confused, ashamed, and unbearably aroused sound— you should ask him to stop, but the thrill is too strong, the unbearable way he handles your body is something you don’t want to loose.

He takes it as a green light and his cock slides back inside you from below, filling you in one smooth thrust as he groans deeply like he’s never felt this good.

“It’s okay, relax,” he murmurs, kissing your neck, blood from his hand smearing across your breasts as he holds you. “Just feel me. I’m so deep, aren’t I?”

You nod frantically, unable to form words and he starts fucking up into you, hands on your hips guiding you to bounce on his cock. The wet sounds are obscene, your arousal dripping down his shaft and balls— and the camera catches it all.

“That’s it, baby. Show him how good it feels.” He reaches down and spreads your pussy lips with his fingers, showing the camera exactly how his thick cock stretches you open, sliding in and out. “She’s so wet… she’s practically dripping everywhere. And it’s all for me.”

Jake bites down on your shoulder, his blood smearing across your skin as he thrusts harder. “She’s so tight. The tightest thing I’ve ever felt.” he speaks to you now, “If you were my wife, I’d never make you cry. You’d never feel alone, baby.”

His voice is low and reverent when he adds, “Tell him. Tell him how full I’m making you.” You struggle, moaning brokenly, words failing you and Jake slows, almost stopping.

“It’s okay, poor thing,” he coos, pinching both your nipples until you cry out. “You’re so pretty like this. Look at yourself.” He angles your face toward the camera until you see the mess he’s made of you. “The prettiest thing I’ve ever seen. I’d do anything for you.”

The heights of his devotion are so intense, it’s not something you develop in secret, you wonder how you’ve never noticed just how profound it all is. From the way he holds you to the way he worships at your altar— there’s not doubt Sim Jake is as devastated as you are.

Then he lifts you off him, turns you around, and bends you over the arm of the couch on your hands and knees. He pushes back inside in one deep thrust, throwing his head back with a guttural groan.

“Fuck— so good,” he gasps. He fucks you hard now, one hand fisted in your hair, the other gripping your hip, blood leaving streaks across your ass until there’s not a doubt you’re covered in it.

He reaches around to rub your clit, pushing you closer and closer and when you start clenching hard around him, orgasm crashing through you, Jake loses control. “Fuck— fuck, give me breathing room baby, I’m gonna lose it—”

But you beg him, voice hoarse, “Please stay inside… please, Jake—” because you believe you could die if he leaves you empty again.

He curses, hips stuttering, and buries himself as deep as possible, until your thighs quiver and your body falls limp on the edge of the couch, trembling with pleasure. His orgasm hits like a wave. You feel every pulse, every thick spurt of his cum flooding deep inside you. His cock throbs violently, hips jerking with each rope as he fills you completely, groaning your name like a prayer.

“Please— let me stay. Don’t push me out.” he says against your neck, hips still going. His body shakes against yours, arms wrapped tight around your waist, face buried in your skin as he rides it out. There’s so much of it, it leaks from where you’re linked, you’ve never seen so much cum, and it’s all for you, and because of you.

“You’re mine now,” Jake breathes, pulsing inside. “No matter what.”

He then grabs the phone that’s still recording, with a sensitive gasp, presses ‘delete’ and looks down at you, “I’m not a bad guy, I’m not gonna send it to him. You know that right ? I’d never hurt you like that.”

𓁺

Jake’s still buried deep inside you minutes later, softening slowly, his arms wrapped tightly around your body as if letting go would cost him his life. His heartbeat thuds steadily against your chest.

“I feel so bad,” you whisper against his neck, guilt crawling back. “He’s not doing well… and I’m here with you.”

Jake exhales softly, his fingers tracing slow circles on your back. His voice is gentle, almost pained. “I know… That guilt is heavy, isn’t it? You carry so much for him. More than anyone should have to.” He shifts slightly, pressing deeper for a second, making you gasp. “I’m just trying to help you carry it. But sometimes… it feels like I’m the only one who sees how much it’s costing you.”

You hesitate. “I shouldn’t be here while he’s suffering.”

He tenses beneath you, a barely noticeable flinch, but his voice stays soft. “You wouldn’t want me to be alone tonight, would you?”

You raise an eyebrow, struggling to understand him, “Why would you say that.”

“Well i don’t know y/n, it sounds like you’re gonna leave right now.” Jake’s hand squeezes your hip. “I’ve gotten used to people leaving once they realize how… intense I can be.”

He makes it seem like he wasn’t perfect for you, like the guilt isn’t what’s making you want to leave, “Jake, that’s not what this is.” you whisper.

“You won’t leave too, will you?” his eyes are tender when he looks at you, glassy and wide. Like a child barring his soul.

But there’s a strange feeling that comes with sympathy- something that tugs at your heart, leaves goosebumps in its path.

“I’m just… i won’t leave, i’m just saying I feel bad.”

Jake pulls you closer, kissing the top of your head, then gently wipes a mess of his own dried blood from the corner of your mouth with his thumb. “You don’t have to feel guilty. Your mother managed it for years. You were practically raised for this.”

The sentence lands weirdly, you think you’re overanalysing but his tone is strange, and you can’t possibly figure out what he means. An eerie, unsettling feeling blooms in your chest as you pull back slightly to look at him with an awkard chuckle, “I don’t even know what that’s supposed to mean. Another one of your therapist bullshit?”

Jake’s eyes are steady. “It’s not bullshit, Y/n.”

You laugh awkwardly, trying to shake off the strange chill. “Mmh, okay then. Whatever you say.” You lean in and kiss him again to drown of the bad feelings, it deepens quickly, hungry and heated until your feel his cock twitch inside you, hardening again as you rock your hips slowly against him.

Then his phone rings on the floor.

Jake scrambles up slightly, still buried inside you, and reaches for it; you whimper at the sudden shift, the emptiness already aching when he eventually slips out. He glances at the unknown number, presses a finger to his lips in a silent “shh,” and answers.

“Hello?… Yes, this is Dr. Sim… Of course, I can make time for you.” His voice is perfectly professional. “Next Tuesday at 4 PM works well… Yes, I understand it’s urgent. We’ll talk through what brought you in… Absolutely, confidentiality is guaranteed.”

While he speaks, you slide off the couch and kneel between his legs, overtaken by the need to feel him again.

His eyes widen for a split second as you take his cock into your mouth. You suck slowly at first, tongue swirling around the head, tasting yourself and his cum mixed together, then your hand cups his balls gently, massaging them as you bob your head deeper.

Jake’s free hand fists in your hair, gripping tight as his voice stays remarkably steady, only the slightest roughness betraying him.

“Yes… I specialize in trauma and… ah, attachment issues… No, that’s quite common. We can start there.”

You hollow your cheeks, sucking harder, taking him deeper into your throat until he throbs against your tongue. His hips twitch once, fighting for control and you swirl your tongue around the sensitive underside, moaning softly around him. His knuckles turn white around the phone.

“Perfect… I’ll see you then. Take care until then.” He hangs up abruptly.

The second the call ends, Jake lets out a broken groan. “Fuck— Y/n—”

He cums hard within seconds, the thrill of the risk pushing him over the edge. Thick, hot spurts flood your mouth as he holds your head gently in place, trembling. You swallow every drop, eyes watering but never breaking eye contact and when he finally finishes, he pulls you up into his lap, kissing you deeply, tasting himself on your tongue.

“I’m gonna die because of you one day,” he chuckles breathlessly, “You’re gonna kill me, you know that?”

IN BETWEEN ?

Sex is nice. Sex is fulfilling and comfortable. Sex makes you feel a thousand different things you couldn’t possibly feel when you’re dressed.

But sex fades.

When the clothes are back on and the gaps are empty all over again, you remember how fragile people are. Even if they try their best to hide something, their words will always speak for themselves.

That’s why you cancel the next appointment— you need time to think, because sex is fun, but the lies you tell others aren’t.

You spend the day trying to mend your marriage, you make sure Samael’s wound is correctly bandaged and that he has enough to eat, like a captive to your own lifestyle, you water a decaying plant in hopes it might bloom again.

It won’t. Not when something else has already taken root in you.

The phone never stays silent, the person you need the most is trying to reach out but it seems that the guilt is a stronger pull. When you send a cancellation message— a few brief words describing that Samael’s gotten better— it doesn’t take long for Jake to reply.

Don’t mistake a good day for recovery, y/n.

And he’s right, deep down, a good day won’t last forever. Sooner or later, your husband might fall back in, and finding him on the floor like you did last time, is not something you want to experience again.

So you check in on him, you make sure the knives are carefully hidden in a locked drawer.

Which when you think about it- brings back old memories of you mom. It’s probably what Dr. Sim had meant the other day when he was still inside of you— that you’ve been conditioned to this.

It doesn’t sound weird when your therapist keeps pulling you back in his practice— for one reason or another, whether it’s doubts about your husband’s condition, or your darkening under eyes. The same he’s noticed when running into you in town, out of the blue, when he appeared, like a savior in a white cap, and told you he’d cancel a few appointments to make time for you.

Sim Jake is a caring man, who’d do anything for your well being.

And you wish you could know him better, understand the things he says, but there’s a line you have to draw— he’s someone who knows are your deepest secrets, someone who’s studied brains and human behaviors, he’s not your friend.

Surely, a therapist shouldn’t touch his patient like he did, but there’s something so therapeutic in it, that you excuse it as a simple mistake.

So you reschedule for the next day, and of course, he finds a slot for you.

He welcomes you in, and it hits you then, that this is the place you’ve healed and lost your mind in. You sit in the sofa, and he does in his armchair, as per usual. Dr. Sim asks how you’re doing, he can’t seem to help looking at your thighs where his hands had once been, at your lips which his blood had once stained— but it’s like he’s a totally different person in sessions and when the clock signals the end.

Speaking of clocks— his is still gone. The wall still bare, has a red stain in its center, probably from his little accident a few days ago.

Dr. Sim asks about Samael. You tell him he doesn’t want to listen - that he’s in the attic all day long, and that you feel like he probably doesn’t need you. Like you’re failing him.

He sets his glasses on his nose, and leans forward, “He does. He needs you more than he needs medication, you’re the only thing keeping him alive, y/n.”

You feel like someone’s placed a rope and hung you to a tree. If the therapist is right, then every hour you spend away from Samael becomes an act of neglect, every smile you share with someone else a theft.

Guilt blooms fast, invasive as ivy, wrapping itself around every thought until you can no longer tell where your own responsibility ends and his certainty begins. You lower your eyes to your hands, fingers curling together, afraid to look up in case he’ll see the panic spreading through you.

The possibility that one person could be keeping another alive feels impossible— and yet, spoken in his measured voice, it sounds less like an opinion than a fact.

“What… time is it?” you ask, searching for an escape from his words.

“It’s…” Dr. Sim checks his watch, “It’s been 10 minutes, do you have somewhere to be?”

You shake your head, “No, I was just wondering where the clock was. I remember there was a clock here on the first session… and now it’s not here anymore.”

His mouth curls first, not into a grin but the ghost of one, the kind adults wear before humoring a child. His eyebrows lift ever so slightly, eyes soft with almost affectionate disbelief.

“A clock? There’s never been a clock in this room.”

Your mouth opens just slightly. Your eyes flick instinctively toward the wall where you could have sworn the clock had been hanging the first few sessions. The empty space greets you without explanation. You frown, searching his face for the punchline—for the moment he’ll admit he’s joking—but all you find is patient concern.

“I…” Your brows knit together. “I saw it.”

You know you did. Didn’t you?

Your gaze flickers back to the wall. White paint. A faint rectangle where the light falls differently. Or is that your imagination?

“I remember hearing it.” you stutter.

Dr. Sim’s expression softens, almost sympathetically. He removes his glasses and wipes the lenses slowly, as if giving you time to realize something on your own. “Do you?” he asks gently.

The question makes your throat tighten. “Yeah, I did Jake.”

He nods thoughtful, “Memory’s a fascinating thing, Y/n. It’s like… people often believe remembering something means it happened exactly as they recall it. But our brains don’t store experiences like a recording, they reconstruct them. Every time we revisit a memory, we can unintentionally change it.”

He pauses, watching your face. “Stress, fear, exhaustion… all of those things can make memories feel incredibly vivid. Sometimes even more vivid than reality itself.”

Your fingers tighten together. “So you’re saying I imagined it?”

A small smile touches his lips. “I’m saying you should be careful about trusting something simply because it feels certain, you’re a smart girl, i’m sure you understand that.”

You’re a smart girl, you do understand now.

IN BETWEEN, a couple days later.

Your garden’s no Japanese zen garden, but it’s a nice garden nonetheless, with small lights and a few plants. You sit on the old wooden bench, a forgotten book open in your lap, pages fluttering occasionally in the breeze. Your eyes keep drifting toward the house, checking the lit windows for any sign of Samael moving around inside. He’s been quieter than usual today, locked in the attic again. You wonder if he even cares that you’re pulling away, that you’re not his anymore. If you’ve ever been his in the first place, that is.

You’ve felt nothing short of an impostor these past few days, for countless different reasons, the main one being : adultery.

After your latest appointment with Jake, you haven’t seen him since, it’s almost like he’s been out of your life, but still constantly checking in like he has an eye on you. Sweet, right?

It would be sweet if you didn’t felt the distance in your bones. Like being away from him cost you something important. Like you’re less of yourself when you aren’t in his office.

Across the quiet street, Mr. Paulson’s house sits dark and silent. The streetlights have just flickered on, casting long, pale pools on the pavement. Today’s trash collection day.

His bins are weirdely still tucked beside the garage, untouched. You click your tongue softly, remembering how he’d winced the last time you played chess, complaining about his back even though he tried to laugh it off.

He’s only sixty, but the years have not been kind to his spine.

PLAY NOW

You set the book down, smooth the skirt of your dress, and cross the street with one last look towards the attic. The neighborhood feels unusually empty tonight, the windows of other houses glowing with warm, distant life that somehow makes Mr. Paulson’s dark home feel off.

You knock on the front door twice and the sound echoes hollowly.

“Mr. Paulson?” you call softly. “It’s Y/n. I noticed your trash bins…”

There’s no answer. Guilt pricks at you for bothering an older man so late, but at the same time, you’d hate him to end up with a pile of trash because he missed trash day.

So you knock again, louder— but there’s still nothing.

You hesitate, then walk around the side of the house toward the back, thinking maybe the bags are already out and you can drag them to the curb for him. The wooden gate creaks open under your hand and the backyard is overgrown with shadows.

You see that the back door is ajar, just a few inches, a thin slice of deeper darkness visible inside.

“Mr. Paulson?” you call again, voice smaller now. You push the door open carefully and step inside.

The smell hits you first.

It’s thick, sickly-sweet, and rotten— like meat left too long in the heat. Flies buzz lazily in the stagnant air, their wings catching faint moonlight from a window; the kitchen’s dark, only faint streetlight filtering through half-closed blinds. Your shoes stick slightly to the floor with every step but you cant see what it is because of the darkness.

It’s something wet, the only scent that resembles it is cat urine.

“Mr. Paulson… are you okay?”

There’s no answer. The buzzing grows louder as you move deeper into the house, heart hammering against your ribs. The hallway feels narrower than it should, the walls pressing in.

You flick on the hallway light, and your eyes instantly fall to your shoes. They’re covered in a yellow-ish liquid.

Cat urine, most likely.

Your main concern right now, is to determine whether—

Blood.

Your eyes meet the smears of it streaking the pale wallpaper in long, dragging trails. Droplets on the floor lead toward the living room like a path.

Your breath catches in your throat and turns your mouth completely dry; it’s suddenly like the world starts ringing in your ears. You move, shoes squeaking and smearing pee all over the floor, and what you see next makes your stomach twist agonizingly.

The living room is ten times worse.

Then, in the center of the persian rug, Mr. Paulson lies on his back. You recoil, clasping a shaking hand to your mouth, and all the muscles in your body clench.

His arms are splayed like a broken doll, bent in a nauseating way and his beige hat rests a few feet away, stained dark.

His torso’s been torn open —a brutal, gaping wound from sternum to pelvis. Intestines spill out in glistening, purplish coils across the floor, some of them ruptured and leaking.

Bile rises to your throat as you take in the scene, and you have to hold yourself up in order not to fall.

You want to throw up, you want to throw up.

Flies crawl greedily over the exposed organs, their buzzing a constant, obscene drone. Mr. Paulson’s eyes are open, cloudy and staring at the ceiling.

But that’s when you notice his mouth.

Petals of pale white flowers have been brutally stuffed into his mouth, some of them protruding between his teeth, soaked dark with blood. More petals are scattered across his chest like grotesque confetti.

They look like peonies, stained in everything that once made him human.

You clutch the edge of the side table for balance, gagging violently, but your hand slips in something warm and wet.

When you look down, a single human tooth —cracked and bloody — rests in your palm.

You want to throw up your bones, your blood and organs. So you scream, flinging it away, and vomit onto the floor, heaving until your throat burns.

The world tilts as disgusting flies land on your arm.

You stumble backward, nearly slipping in the blood, and run. You run for your life, taste of vomit and metal still in your mouth. You burst out the back door, gasping for clean air, and sprint across the street, your dress is smeared with blood from where your hands are sticky with it.

Seconds later, you crash through your own front door, screaming. “Samael! Samael!”

Your husband comes thundering down the attic stairs, eyes wide with alarm. “Y/n? What happened?“

But you can’t speak. Your hands shake violently as you hold them up —covered in Mr. Paulson’s blood. Tears stream down your face and Samael’s face pales when he sees the state you’re in. He grabs your shoulders, shaking you gently.

“Y/n, talk to me, what the hell happened??”

You collapse on his chest against your will, sobbing incoherently, and you feel him dig in his pocket for his phone, indifferent to your shock.

Why won’t he hold you? Why won’t he?

Your mind begs the gruesome images of your friend’s corpse to go away, but there’s one that your stubborn brain won’t let go of, no matter how hard you try.

The peonies in Mr. Paulson’s mouth looked awfully familiar.

Weird, no?

“Peonies?”

Hours later, at the police station, you nurse a pathetic cup of water. Sat in a metallic chair, your husband kneels in front of you, clutching his bandaged arm.

“Shh, lower your voice Sam. I’m not even… supposed to say this.” your voice comes out hoarse.

“Im just trying to understand, why are you bringing the peonies up, y/n.” Samael raises both eyebrows.

The image of the flowers sticking inside Mr.Paulson’s mouth are engraved in your mind— as much as you throw up, they don’t want to leave. Looking at your husband’s face, you remember the day you found him in the kitchen. The pathetic look on his face, when he told you not to look, that he was sorry.

But what sticks to your mouth like sugar on teeth, is the vase on the counter.

A vase of white peonies.

Ones you didn’t buy that day, or ever. You hate peonies, they smell bad and they remind you of—

They remind you of a burial site, a few cities away where your father lies underground. A place you refused to go for a long time, guilt stricken and immature.

When your father killed himself, you were unable to sleep, unable to eat, unable to drink anything else but your own saliva when you swallowed your remorse.

You were a kid, barely 16, and you thought everything happening in the world was your fault— no one was there to tell you the contrary, so you laid awake at night with one thought :

I could’ve saved my father.

Your mom wasn’t able to and you hated her for many years— but now you empathised grandly, because you came very close to living the same thing.

It goes without saying, now you don’t hold a grudge against your mom anymore, because people are so volatile— you can only figure out something’s wrong when they make themselves heard.

And you hate the peonies because those were the last beautiful thing your father would be surrounded with, beneath soil and flesh eating insects, he would still have the white flowers.

You remember someone bringing them in at his funeral, putting them carefully on the headstone. No one had brought flowers, they’d all poured beer on the tombstone because your father joked about it a couple years before.

He’d said, “If I die, pour Ginger ale on my grave”

But someone had brought something pretty, a couple of flowers way too tender for a man that had taken his life with a 23 caliber and a knife.

“The day you…” you look down at your husband’s bandage, “the day I found you, there was a vase of peonies on the counter.”

Samael blinks, confused, “Yes? What about them y/n, you’re confusing me.”

“Where did you get those?”

Your husband chuckles, perplexed, “What do you mean where did I get those? I thought you got them ?”

You shake your head, “Sam, I didn’t get those.”

Samael looks down, sighing, “Well then what? Must be a secret admirer then? Someone who’s in love with you?” he lets out a humorless laugh.

It’s not funny though. Nothing about it is. Words come to your mind, you hear them clearly,

“You deserved to be cherished, no tolerated, not managed. Cherished.”

PLAY

Crazy how the person you doubt the most is the one person you keep going back to when fear sinks its teeth into you. Logic whispers that something is wrong, that their words don’t always fit, that their comfort comes a little too easily, yet panic has no patience for logic.

It remembers only familiarity.

When you’re drowning, you don’t inspect the hand reaching into the water, right? You grab it, even if it’s the same hand that might’ve pushed you in.

That’s how you find yourself in Sim Jake’s embrace.

After countless hours of interrogation with the police, after reliving every detail of the scene, describing every inch of your friends’ body, you were finally able to to breathe. Samael was long gone, privileging other things to the wellbeing of his wife.

You found yourself alone, no car, and only your phone with 10% battery on it.

So you did what desperate women do. You called your therapist.

He answered on the second ring, like was perpetually waiting for your call, and when you told him you needed a ride, he provided.

Now, in his office on Maple Street, the pathetic creature in you sees the safe man in him.

The helpless lamb whos never learned how to bite the hand of the shepherd that keeps it.

It’s incredibly sad, but it calms everything down.

Your head needs his strong chest, and he cradles you like a thing he owns, fingers dinging in your hair, pressing you as close to him as possible.

Like wolf and lamb, you’re caught in an eerie dance, you want to believe he’s nothing but a sweet man, but his grip tells hundreds of other stories.

Jake’s hand goes to the back of your neck, and he looks down at you, coaxing your chin up. When your eyes meet his, he cups your cheek, rough hand against tender skin. “You wanna tell me what happened, love?”

You witness his eyes get glassier and glassier, until eventually, it seems one tear is about to escape— like he’s devastated to see you sad.

“He died…. my friend-” you hiccup, tears streaking down your face, your lips quivering.

Jake tilts his head to the side, biting down on his lower lip as his eyes fill up with tears of his own, “Oh, poor thing. Come here baby.” He gently puts your head on his chest, next to his heart, and holds you tight.

You sob, clutching his shirt, and his own tears seep in your hair, “God… I hate seeing you in pain. If I could carry it for you, I would.” he murmurs in your hair. “I promise… no one’s going to hurt you again.”

You feel his lips on the top of your head as you speak, “He didn’t… he didn’t deserve this.”

Jake cups your face, kissing away the tears with infinite gentleness, “No one deserves to die, my love.” he kisses your nose, then your forehead. “But sometimes life asks impossible things of people.”

You still completely, tears coming to a halt in your eyes. Your eyes open to see he’s already looking down. “Why would… you say that?” you stutter.

He loosens his embrace just enough and his thumb erases salty water from your cheekbone.

“Because I don’t want you looking for monsters where there are only broken people, y/n.” Jake murmurs. “I’m saying the world is rarely divided into monsters and saints.”

Only then do you realise that he’s in no hurry to let go, his hands are clasped firmly on your face— he’s turned something comforting into an eery embrace. You’re sure right now, that if he put enough effort, he could crush your face between his palms, not that you think he would.

You gently pull away, sniffling, “Can you let go?”

Jake immediately does, he lets his hands drops to his side, “Of course.”

He wipes hastily at his face, as though embarrassed by his own emotion. It strikes you, suddenly, how young he looks— not in years, but in the way frightened children look when they think they’ve disappointed someone they love.

“Did I do something wrong?” He bites down on his lip and his breath catches. “Please tell me.”

“Wha- what?” you stutter, taking another step back before you even realize you’re moving.

Jake’s brows knit together, face etched in confusion. “I scared you, didn’t I?” his teeth catch at a piece of skin on his lips and he tears at it until blood trickles down his chin, “I didn’t want that.”

Before you can understand what he’s doing, he slowly lowers himself to his knees, like a man to an altar, he looks up to a God. “Please…”

The word is almost inaudible when he speaks it,“Don’t look at me like that.”

His hands remain at his sides, palms open. But this time see through it. Sim Jake is a predator wearing a prey’s skin.

“Tell me what I did.” Jake’s voice trembles, “I’ll fix it, i’ll fix it. I’ll fix it okay? I always do.”

You want to leave. Your stomach is in knots, and you want to leave. The door is close, so close, but your legs won’t move.

Your mouth opens but no sound comes out for the briefest second, when you’re finally able to form words, they’re sparse.

“Jake.. what- what did you do?”

Like a bathtub filled with water, tears spill out of the man’s eyes, “What did I…?” He stares at you, blinking as though the question itself hurts. “I did what I needed to keep you safe.”

A COUPLE WEEKS LATER

Jake’s office remains exactly where it has always been, tucked between the pub and the pharmacy, as though nothing inside it has changed. You left him there, walked to the door, and he let you.

The next few weeks, you replay every session in your mind until each memory becomes unrecognizable. Every reassuring smile, every careful touch. Every single damned silence.

You can’t decide whether you’ve uncovered the truth or destroyed the only place that ever made you feel safe, it sickens you, you constantly feel the need to throw up.

Because if hed been violent, at least you’d have the certainty he’s a bad man.

And without proof, suspicion begins to sound like paranoia— even to yourself.

Sim Jake, the man who’s helped you through it all, a monster ? The man who’s cried on his knees as if leaving you would kill him, who’s done everything to make you feel safe.

It’s impossible, because monsters are supposed to be easy to recognize.

They’re supposed to have cruel smiles and empty eyes. They’re supposed to enjoy the pain they cause. They’re supposed to look like something you should run from.

Not like the most tender story of your life.

What if the safest place you ever found was only safe because he built the walls himself, what if every time he told you he would protect you, he meant something different?

What if the same hands that wiped your tears were the ones that made sure you would have more to cry about?

You want to hate him, you try to, but your mind keeps returning to the image of him on the floor, his voice breaking as he begged you not to leave.

Someone who could look that devastated couldn’t possibly be the person you’re afraid of.

Could he?

Your fork scrapes against your plate, you’re playing with the peas like they’re footballs. And Samael’s not having it one bit.

“Y/n stop with the sound” he sighs, palming his face. His bandaged arm is propped on the dining room table and he seems thoughtful.

You stare down at your food more than you eat it. Your appetite has been strange lately. Some days you forget to eat entirely and other days you force yourself because you know someone will notice.

“Can we talk? You’ve been avoiding me lately,” Samael speaks.

Your fork clinks on the plate as you drop it.

Is he being serious?

Ironically, the king of all avoiders is telling you you’ve been avoiding him lately. Funny.

You reach for a fry and dip it in ketchup, knee bouncing and rattling the table. “Go ahead, talk.” you say, emotionlessly.

There’s no room inside of you to even bother.

“I’ve been meaning to tell you something y/n, but i feel like you never listen.”

You laugh then, a small cold laugh, and you drop your head, truly amused. “I never listen?”

Samael shakes his head, aggravated, “You don’t. You’re never available to talk, you only avoid me. It’s like i’m not your husband anymore.”

Your smile fades when you realize he’s being a hundred perfent serious, and you look up with cold-dead eyes,

“What?”

The irony of a man who’s made you cry countless times by his lack of interest is so laughable. But you don’t laugh, you don’t have it in you anymore.

“You know what, i’m gonna say it.” Samael leans forward on the table, clasping his hands together, “I booked an appointment with Dr. Sim the other day.”

Every single thing in the room stops moving.

From the blinds dancing with the wind, to the steaming water boiling in the pot, your whole focus is shifted to Samael’s lips as he says those words.

He’s said hundreds of twisted things, but right now, nothing sounds as ominous as this.

“See, i knew you’d react like that.” your husband sighs in his hands. “Come on y/n.”

But you don’t care about his stupid therapy and his stupid shame.

“When?” you stammer, “When did you book an appointment?”

Samael’s eyes raise to you and he looks insanely aggravated, “Why does that matter y/n, it was weeks ago or something. That one evening I was away at my friends’, remember?”

Bile raises up to your throat until you’re sure you’ll choke soon if he doesn’t stop talking. You’re taken aback by the sudden wave of nausea that makes you clutch your stomach.

You barely make it to the kitchen before your hand covers your mouth.

That day, while your husband was asking for help from a professional— you were on your knees between Sim Jake’s legs, eating a prohibited fruit like it was candy.

And it makes you feel sick.

You feel like you’re standing outside your own body, watching someone else live your life.

Behind you, your husband appears in the doorway, “What the heck’s happening to you yn?”

You wipe your mouth, shaking your head like a manic, clutching the edge of the sink like handle bar.

“It’s just therapy.” Samael scoffs.

It’s the same man who used to tell you only weak people went to seek advice from men rather than going to the Lord.

It’s the same man who used to point at the mental institutions and laugh mockingly ‘Look at that,’ he’d say, shaking his head. ‘People really pay someone to tell them what they already know?’

And now Samael’s standing across from you, calmly telling you that the man behind that same kind of door might be the one person who can save him.

The same man who once laughed at the idea of needing help is now asking for it.

The same man who once looked down on vulnerability is suddenly speaking Jake’s language.

Who’s messed with your husband’s brain?

“Dr. Sim called me this morning to confirm our appointment, so whatever you have to say, i don’t wanna hear it y/n. It’s just therapy, it’s not just for crazy people.”

Samael shakes his head, handing you a towel to wipe your mouth, he brings water to your lips and wipes the traces of your disgust.

“And plus, I think Dr. Sim might actually be able to help me, you’re not gonna take that away from me, right?”

𓁹 𓁹

If you’ve made it to the end, I’d like to leave you with one final thought. This story was never meant to be a love story, nor was it written to romanticize obsession, manipulation, abuse, coercion, or the misuse of trust & murder. The relationship at its center is intentionally unhealthy, built on power imbalances, psychological control, and the gradual erosion of another person’s sense of self.

Any moments that appear tender or intimate are meant to exist alongside that discomfort— not to excuse it, justify it, or make it desirable.

Real love does not isolate, deceive, possess, or convince someone that their reality belongs to another person. The characters in this story are deeply flawed, and some are dangerous; their actions are not endorsements, but examinations of how obsession can disguise itself as devotion and how easily manipulation can wear the face of care. If this story unsettled you, then it achieved what it set out to do. Fiction can explore the darkest corners of human psychology without celebrating them, and that has always been the intention here.

Please take care of yourselves, remember that everyone deserves relationships built on mutual respect, honesty, and safety, and thank you for trusting me enough to follow these characters to the very end, even though the pacing was not all that

ok drop the serious voice— it goes without saying, if you have something hateful to say idc, you read this for free so fuck off.

I’m totally open (begging) for constructive criticism & thoughts. Open ending and a lot of loose ends because you gotta THINK or else it’s not funny !

please, if you read my stuff just for the smut, don’t bother commenting 10 minutes after i posted cause i can tell you didn’t read the whole thing lol, idc what u wanna read but it’s not really cool when u spend time writing shit and people only read the smut.

a little sneak peak of my notes while writing this bye—

taglist ❡ : @jakeycakeys @justpassingdontworry @beomgyuafterdark @ja4hyvn @taelvvrzz @cicadarequiem @kienhawon @jinniepilled @eczlipse @wxnizz @cupcakeangel9 @yuudaiinhs @xysza. @lcvemonth @acaibowl37 @jjujjukeukeu @sinmiedoalamor @jjuhoonn @inadazeee @naiasayo @thvgia @melfresita-ruri2 @beljakovina @vpsided0wn @meyesthethird @hrtmyfeeling @inkniki @nota10butadefinite8 @yoonaaas @dearmiau @oiosoobin @kpopsmutty69 @kristynaaah @itsneveroversstuff @ihavethegutsto @ni-kichromeheartzz @eyekonsavage @iverrr @cherrylippies @uninvited690 @jxngwons-pinkyy @gojosdickkissesmycervix @muffinwz890 @mercielouv @rikisfattestfan @ilovethezaza @xoheedeung @bingka @lawjakesim

dadasimjaeyun

haven’t even read it yet but i’m already exploding

Trending Blogs

Recently Viewed Blogs

NRKJYWGLAZER