RiseFromHell

Therapist

I didn't want to be there.

The VA had been on my ass for months about seeing someone. Said the nightmares weren't gonna go away on their own. Said the drinking wasn't helping. Said a lot of shit, honestly.

But here I was, sitting in some fancy leather chair across from Dr. Adrian Cross, feeling like a goddamn idiot.

The guy was... not what I expected. Most shrinks I'd pictured were old dudes with glasses and bad breath. Adrian was maybe late thirties, early forties. Lean but not scrawny. Dark hair with some gray at the temples. These sharp green eyes that seemed to see right through me.

"So, Marcus," he said, flipping through my file. "Former Marine. Two tours. Honorable discharge three years ago."

"That's what it says."

He looked up and smiled. Not the kind of smile that made me feel like a patient. More like... I don't know. Like we were just two guys shooting the shit.

"You don't want to be here."

"Got that right, doc."

"Good." He closed the file and tossed it on his desk. "I don't want to waste your time with the usual bullshit. You've been through things most people can't imagine. Talking about it won't fix anything."

That got my attention. "Then what the hell am I doing here?"

"Have you heard of hypnotherapy?"

I snorted. "Like those stage shows where people cluck like chickens?"

"Nothing like that." He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "Look, Marcus. Your conscious mind is on high alert all the time. That's what kept you alive over there. But now you're home, and that same survival mechanism is destroying your life. I can help you... turn down the volume."

I should've walked out right then. But something about the way he talked made sense. And honestly? I was tired. So fucking tired of jumping at every loud noise, of waking up drenched in sweat, of feeling like I was still in that desert.

"Fine. What do I gotta do?"

------------------------------------------------

Adrian's office had this leather recliner thing that was way more comfortable than it looked. He dimmed the lights and put on some soft music. Ocean sounds or some shit.

"Just relax, Marcus. Listen to my voice."

His voice was... something else. Deep and smooth. Like bourbon, if bourbon could talk.

"I want you to focus on breathing. In... and out. In... and out."

I felt stupid at first. But after a few minutes, my body started getting heavy. Like I was sinking into the chair.

"That's good. You're doing great, Marcus."

When he said my name, something warm spread through my chest. I don't know how to explain it. It just felt... good. Having someone tell me I was doing good.

"Now, I'm going to count down from ten. When I reach one, you'll be in a deep, peaceful state. You'll still hear me. You'll still be aware. But you'll feel completely safe."

He counted down. I don't remember reaching one.

The next thing I knew, he was telling me to open my eyes, and I felt... different. Lighter. Like someone had taken a forty-pound pack off my shoulders.

"How do you feel?"

"Weird," I admitted. "But... good weird?"

"That's normal. We made some progress today."

"What did I say? Under the... whatever?"

Adrian smiled. "Nothing embarrassing. Just some memories you've been holding onto too tightly. We're going to work on letting them go."

I nodded, still feeling fuzzy. "Same time next week?"

"I'll see you then, Marcus."

Walking out to my truck, I realized something. For the first time in three years, the noise is gone.

------------------------------------------------

I went back the next week. And the week after that.

Every session, Adrian would put me under, and every session, I'd come out feeling better. The nightmares started fading. I stopped checking every exit when I walked into a room. The constant tension in my shoulders finally let up.

But there was other stuff too. Stuff I didn't really think about at first.

I started hitting the gym more. Not just maintaining like I used to, but really pushing myself. I caught myself checking out my reflection in the mirror, flexing, seeing how the sweat made my skin shine.

"Looking good, Stone," I'd mutter, and it felt... right.

I bought new clothes. Tighter shirts. Jeans that actually fit instead of hanging off me like I was still expecting to lose twenty pounds in the field.

And suddenly, I was noticing people. Their bodies. The way they moved.

Guys, mostly.

I should be freak out about it. But Adrian had said during one session that I should "embrace my natural desires" and "stop letting society's expectations control me." It made sense. Who gave a shit what anyone thought? I was a grown man. A strong man. I could want whatever and whoever I wanted.

"I've been feeling more... open," I told Adrian during our fifth session.

"Open how?"

"Just. You know." I shifted in the chair, suddenly aware of how my thighs filled out my jeans. "More comfortable with myself. My body. What I want."

"That's excellent, Marcus. That's exactly the kind of progress we want to see."

When he smiled at me, I felt a flutter in my stomach. The same kind of flutter I used to get around pretty girls in high school.

------------------------------------------------

I asked Adrian if I could come in twice a week instead of once.

"My schedule's pretty packed," he said, looking at his calendar. But when he glanced up at me, his eyes did this thing where they traveled down my body and back up. "But for you, Marcus... I think we can make it work."

Tuesdays and Thursdays. I lived for those days.

The sessions got longer. More intense. When I was under, Adrian's voice would guide me through these... scenarios. I couldn't quite remember them when I woke up, but I'd feel this lingering warmth in my body. This ache. This need.

I started dreaming about him.

Nothing crazy at first. Just us in his office, but he'd touch my shoulder and it would feel electric. Then the dreams got more detailed. Him telling me I was good. Me wanting to be good for him. Waking up hard and not knowing exactly why.

By the eighth week, my PTSD symptoms were practically gone. I slept through the night. I didn't flinch at loud noises. I could watch action movies without having flashbacks.

But something else was different too. I walked different. Talked different. People at the hardware store where I worked said I seemed happier.

"What's your secret?" my manager asked.

"Best therapist in the world," I said. And meant it.

------------------------------------------------

"I want to see you more."

Adrian raised an eyebrow. "More than twice a week?"

"I was thinking... maybe every day?"

It sounded crazy when I said it out loud. But the days between sessions felt endless. Empty. Like I was only half-awake until I was back in that chair, hearing his voice.

"Marcus, that's a significant commitment. Both financially and time-wise."

"I don't care about the money." I leaned forward, probably looking desperate. "I just... I need this. You're the only one who gets me, doc."

He studied me for a long moment. Those green eyes unreadable.

"Every day at five," he finally said. "But you have to understand, this level of therapy is intensive. You'll need to be completely open. Completely vulnerable."

"I can do that."

"Can you? You'll need to trust me completely, Marcus. Will you do that? Will you trust me?"

"Absolutely."

The word came out before I even thought about it. But it felt right.

"Good boy."

Those two words hit me like a freight train. Heat flooded through my body, all the way to my fingertips. I actually had to look down to make sure I wasn't visibly blushing.

No one had ever called me that before. I was a six-foot-two, two-hundred-pound former Marine with a chest like a barrel and hands that could crush a man's skull.

But hearing Adrian say "good boy" made me feel something I'd never felt. Something that made my knees weak and my heart race.

"Let's begin," he said, gesturing to the chair.

I practically ran to it.

------------------------------------------------

I don't remember a lot from the daily sessions. But I remember feelings.

Warmth spreading through my whole body as Adrian's voice washed over me.

Weightlessness, like I was floating in water.

And always, always the sense that I was exactly where I belonged.

Sometimes I'd catch fragments of what he was saying. Words about how strong I was. How desirable. How my body was a gift that should be shared.

He talked a lot about how real strength meant being open to pleasure. How true masculinity wasn't about being closed off, but about being confident enough to receive.

At home, I started experimenting. Bought some nice lotion and took long baths. Shaved my body hair because it felt smoother, more sensual. I'd catch myself touching my own skin while watching TV, just feeling how soft it was.

I bought different underwear. The kind that showed off what I had. I'd stand in front of the mirror and pose, feeling this rush of confidence and arousal.

"Look at you," I'd whisper to myself. "Look at what a man you are."

The words felt like they came from somewhere deep inside me.

------------------------------------------------

It took me until week twelve to admit what was happening.

I wanted Adrian.

Not just as a therapist. Not just as someone who was helping me. I wanted him in ways I'd never wanted anyone before.

I wanted him to look at me. I wanted him to see all of me—the strength and the softness, the hardness and the vulnerability.

More than anything, I wanted him to tell me I was good again.

"You seem distracted today," Adrian observed.

"I've been thinking about something."

"Share it with me."

I took a deep breath. My heart was pounding. This was braver than anything I'd done in combat.

"I think about you all the time," I admitted. "Not in a weird way. Just... when I'm doing stuff. Working out. Eating. Before I go to sleep."

"What do you think about?"

"Your voice. The way you say my name." I swallowed hard. "The way you make me feel."

"And how do I make you feel, Marcus?"

"Seen," I said, my voice cracking. "Wanted. Like I'm actually worth something."

"Those feelings are valid. You've made incredible progress. I'm proud of you."

There it was. Proud. Like "good boy" but even better.

"I want to be close to you," I blurted out. "Not just in sessions. I want..."

I couldn't finish the sentence. It was too much. Too crazy.

But Adrian just smiled that calm smile of his.

"Marcus, what you're feeling is natural. You've opened yourself up in ways most men never dare. You've become comfortable with your desires." He tilted his head slightly. "Tell me what you want."

"I want to kiss you."

The words hung in the air.

And Adrian's smile got just a little bit wider.

------------------------------------------------

"Show me," he said simply.

My legs were shaking as I stood up from the chair. Adrian stayed seated behind his desk, watching me with those green eyes.

I walked around to his side. He turned his chair to face me.

"I've never..." I started.

"I know. It's alright."

He didn't move. Didn't reach for me. This was mine to do. My choice.

I leaned down, bracing my hands on the armrests of his chair. He smelled like sandalwood and something else, something warm.

Our lips met.

And everything I'd been feeling for twelve weeks crystallized into one perfect moment.

His mouth was soft but sure. One of his hands came up to cup the back of my neck, and I honest-to-god whimpered against his lips. A grown man, a Marine, whimpering like a teenager at his first dance.

"You're doing so well," Adrian murmured against my mouth. "Such a good boy."

That was it. That was all I needed.

I sank to my knees in front of him, not even thinking about it. It just felt right. Natural. Like this was exactly where I belonged.

"How do you feel?" he asked, looking down at me.

"Fucking amazing," I breathed. "Like I've been waiting my whole life for this."

"That's because you have." He ran his fingers through my short hair. "You've been so strong for so long, Marcus. Carrying all that weight. Now you get to let someone else carry it for a while."

"Yes," I said, not even knowing what I was agreeing to. "Yes, please."

"When you come in tomorrow, we'll begin a new phase of your therapy. Are you ready for that?"

"I'm ready for anything."

"I know you are." He smiled down at me. "That's what makes you so special."

I drove home in a daze, my lips still tingling. I didn't feel confused or ashamed. I felt euphoric. Like I'd finally figured out the secret to life.

That night, I looked at myself in the mirror for a long time. My broad shoulders. My thick arms. The way my chest still looked damn good for forty-two.

"I'm a fucking catch," I said to my reflection. And I believed it.

------------------------------------------------

Every day at five, I was in that office. But now the sessions were different.

Now there was kissing. Touching. Adrian teaching me things about my body I'd never known.

"Real strength is being open," he'd say, his hands exploring my chest. "Real masculinity is about knowing what you want and taking it. Or giving it. Depending on what feels right."

"This feels right," I'd gasp.

"Of course it does. You were made for this, Marcus."

And I believed him. Because it felt true. It felt like everything in my life had been leading to this point. The military, the PTSD, the divorce—all of it was just the path that brought me to Adrian.

We didn't go all the way at first. He said I wasn't ready. Said I needed to be fully prepared, fully open.

"I want to be ready," I'd beg. "Please, Adrian. Tell me what to do."

"Patience," he'd say, kissing my forehead. "Good things come to those who wait."

The waiting was agony. But also exquisite. Every day I felt myself changing more. I started wearing even tighter clothes to our sessions. I'd catch myself sitting with my legs spread, my body angled toward him like a flower toward the sun.

At work, my coworkers noticed something was different.

"You're like a new man," my manager said. "Whatever you're doing, keep doing it."

"Oh, I intend to," I said.

------------------------------------------------

"I think you're ready."

Those four words sent a shiver through my entire body.

"Ready for what?" I asked, even though I knew. God, I knew.

"Ready to receive the full experience. Ready to be everything you were meant to be."

Adrian led me to a different room in his office. One I'd never seen before. It had a bigger couch, softer lighting, and a bed in the corner.

"Today, we're going to complete your transformation."

"Will it hurt?"

He laughed softly. "Not in the way you're thinking. But it might be intense. Are you prepared for intense, Marcus?"

I thought about my tours. The things I'd seen. The things I'd done.

"I've never been more prepared for anything."

He undressed me slowly, kissing every inch of skin he revealed. My shoulders. My chest. Down my stomach.

"Look at you," he murmured. "This incredible body. You've been hiding it away, ashamed of it. But not anymore. Now you know what you have. What you can give."

"I want to give it to you," I said. "All of it."

"I know you do."

What happened next was... I don't have words for most of it. It was pleasure and pain and revelation. It was feeling full in ways I'd never imagined. It was Adrian's voice in my ear, telling me I was taking it so well, that I was a natural, that this was what I was born for.

When it was over, I was crying. Sobbing, actually. Great heaving sobs of relief and joy.

"Shh," Adrian said, holding me. "It's alright. You did perfectly. You're perfect."

"Am I yours?" I asked.

"You've been mine since the day you walked through that door, Marcus. You just didn't know it yet."

------------------------------------------------

It's been six months since that first session.

I don't have PTSD anymore. I don't have nightmares. I don't even think hard.

I'm a completely different person.

I moved into Adrian's place last month. I cook for him, clean for him, keep myself looking good for him. When he comes home from work, I greet him at the door. Sometimes on my knees.

Sometimes I think about the man I used to be. The closed-off Marine who couldn't sleep through the night. Who drank too much and loved too little.

He seems like a stranger now. A ghost.

I asked Adrian once if he'd changed me.

"Of course I did," he said, kissing my shoulder. "That was the point."

He pulled me closer. "Are you upset about that?"

I thought about it. Really thought about it.

"No," I said finally. "Because I'm happy now. Does it matter how I got here?"

"That's my boy."

I smiled and buried my face in his chest.

Everything about me is different now. My walk, my talk, my clothes, my desires.

The therapy sessions never really ended. They just changed. Now they happen in our bedroom. Adrian still uses that voice sometimes—the one that makes me feel weightless and warm. He says it helps reinforce my progress.

I don't question it. I just close my eyes and let his words wash over me.

Good boy.

And the last thought I have before I drift off is always the same:

Got a fever.

There's no caption.

The quarterly budget review was already running twenty minutes over when “he”showed up.

Daniel had his camera off, mic muted, pretending to listen to Henry from accounting drone on about Q3 projections. He was scrolling TikTok on his phone, half paying attention, when the Teams notification pinged.

BigDaddyBalls69 has joined the meeting.

Nobody acknowledged it at first. These things happened.

“Uh,” said Marcus from regional sales, “I think we’ve got a stray. Henry, you wanna boot him?”

Henry’s voice crackled, confused. “I’m—how do I—hold on, I’m looking for the—”

That’s when the screen changed.

One second Daniel was looking at a grid of mostly-blank avatars and a pie chart. The next second his entire monitor filled with a video feed of two men. Shirtless. Glistening. The short one was on his knees, eyes locked forward with a dazed, eager expression, while the tall one stood over him, massive, impossibly hard, one hand tangled in the short one’s hair.

The video wasn’t grainy amateur stuff. It was crisp. Color-saturated. Hypnotic spiral patterns pulsed faintly at the edges of the frame, almost subliminal, colors shifting in slow rhythmic waves.

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” someone wheezed. Greg from IT.

“Kick him! Boot him!” barked someone else.

Daniel’s own finger hovered over the “leave meeting” button. He should click. He should absolutely click. But the video… the spiral patterns at the corner of the screen were drawing his gaze. A warm, heavy heat spread from his chest downward, loosening something in his stomach. He blinked slowly. The short man on screen opened his mouth, and a soft, wet, rhythmic sound filled Daniel’s headphones.

Slurp. Slurp. Slurp.

“Can someone—I can’t find the—fuck, my mouse isn’t—” Henry’s voice had gone tight, breathy.

“Don’t look at the screen. Do not look at the screen.” That was Marcus, but his voice had dropped half an octave. It sounded like he was already looking.

On screen, the spiral intensified. The colors bled into Daniel’s vision. The men were beautiful. Of course they were beautiful. Why had he never let himself just look at men being beautiful? The kneeling one’s jaw was so slack, so blissful. The tall one’s stomach muscles flexed every time he pushed deeper.

Daniel’s hand fell from his mouse. It landed on his thigh.

“We should—” Henry started, then stopped. A small, shocked gasp escaped his mic before he went silent. Then his camera flicked on.

Henry was in his home office, dress shirt unbuttoned two extra buttons, face flushed, eyes glued to something off-screen. His lips were parted. He wasn’t trying to kick anyone anymore. He was rubbing his thighs together.

One by one, cameras started popping on across the grid.

Greg the IT guy had his head tilted back, eyes glassy, one hand working furiously below the frame. The rhythmic thump thump thump of his elbow hitting his desk was barely picked up by his mic.

Marcus had his entire setup on display. He wasn’t hiding. His tie was loosened, his dress shirt untucked, and his cock was out, thick and dark, both hands wrapped around it. He was staring at the screen with a slack, stupid smile that Daniel had never seen on his face before. Not in six years of Tuesday morning stand-ups.

“Good boy,” murmured the tall man in the video, and it felt like he was speaking directly to Daniel. Directly into Daniel’s skull. “Such a good boy. Stop thinking. Just feel.”

Daniel’s brain stuttered. A distant, sober part of him screamed “this is so fucked up what is happening”, but the scream got quieter and quieter with every pulse of the spiral. When his hands moved, it wasn’t to close the laptop. It was to unzip his slacks.Something in the video needed him to touch. So he touched.

“Fuuck,” breathed a voice in the meeting. It might have been Henry. It might have been Marcus. It might have been his own voice, leaking out of his unmuted mic without permission. He couldn’t tell anymore.

The men on screen kept going. The tall one pulled out, and the kneeling one whimpered—actually whimpered like a desperate little animal—and then the tall one was slapping that huge wet cock against his face, against his lips, against his tongue that lolled out automatically to catch it.

Daniel’s hand was moving now. Stroking. Squeezing. He had his own cock out, pointing at the ceiling, already dripping. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this hard. Maybe never.

someone laughed. It was a breathless, horny, unhinged laugh. A new voice. Brian from supply chain. Brian’s camera showed him kneeling on his office floor, pants around his ankles, rocking his hips desperately into his own fist. “We all want it. We want to be good gooners.”

The word gooner hit Daniel’s brain like a shot of warm honey. It felt so right. He was a gooner. They were all gooners. Braindead. Blissed out. No thoughts, no shame, no quarterly projections. Just stroke. Just pleasure. Just gooner.

On screen, the kneeling man finally took the tall man’s cock back into his mouth, and the tall man began to thrust like he was fucking a hole, not a face. A soundtrack started playing underneath it all—a low, thrumming bass beat, a voice repeating the same phrase over and over, barely audible except as a pulse in Daniel’s veins.

Stroke.

Obey.

Cum.

The grid of cameras had become a gallery of desperate, lost people. Some were watching themselves in their own previews, getting off on their own degradation. Some had their faces pressed close to their screens, eyes huge, reflecting spirals. Two of them had apparently figured out how to screen-share their own webcams, and now the meeting bounced between the original porn and a split-screen of Greg stroking his small, angry-red cock while he whimpered thank you thank you thank you

Daniel’s orgasm was building—not like a normal orgasm, not like a decision he was making. It was being pulled out of him. Extracted. The video wanted it. The spiral demanded it. His hips were bucking up into his fist, his mouth hanging open stupidly, drool pooling on his chin.

“Me too,” someone was chanting. “Me too, me too, me too.”

It took Daniel a full ten seconds to realize it was him.

BigDaddyBalls69 never spoke. He didn’t need to. His video was doing all the work, and the video was gospel now, the video was God, and Daniel was just a vessel, a fleshlight with a heartbeat, and he was going to cum when the tall man on screen came, because that was the program, that was the only thing his melted brain could still understand—

On screen, the tall man’s rhythm stuttered. His head fell back. A thick, pearly stream shot across the kneeling man’s waiting tongue.

Daniel shattered.

He came so hard he saw stars, actual white bursts behind his eyelids, his whole body locking up as he painted his keyboard, his desk, maybe his webcam—he didn’t care, nobody cared, the meeting was just a chorus of groans and moans and wet slapping sounds.

In the aftermath, breathing ragged, cum cooling on his shirt, Daniel should have felt horror. Humiliation. Instead he just stared at the screen—which had gone back to a gentle, pulsing spiral, the video looping silently now—and felt… peace. Perfect, empty peace.

His camera was still on. His slack, satisfied face was in the grid. Greg was licking his own fingers clean. Marcus was lounging back, soft cock still out, waving lazily at his webcam like he was at a beach bar. Henry had his head resting on his desk, a small pool of drool spreading under his cheek, one hand still down his pants.

“Same time next week?” Brian’s voice croaked through the speakers.

BigDaddyBalls69 left the meeting.

Nobody else did. They just sat there, breathing, waiting, hoping he’d come back and tell them what to do next.

Can't pass the content limit. So there's no video. Just pics

Edited: Gooner pics got banned by Tumblr….. https://imgur.com/a/R23hss1

Most of my work is based on zimage base +grok

Tbh grok is not the best choice. I saw lots of insane seedance 2 videos. It seems wonderful for character actions. Sadly it's really expensive.

I have also tried ltx2.3. It has better audio but its character action is really ridiculous. But it's a free open source, so I won't be too harsh on it.

Jack survived the transformation test. The company's tech with the Votex from the hole was still new and messy, so Jack didn't turn into their loyal pup. He hid his rage, waited long, and finally got near that hole. When he touched it, a hot, thick force burst out. The lab men dropped to their knees, eyes hazy, bodies burning with need and muscle growth. Jack turned every researcher into his needy buddies. That's how the Bear Claw Gang was born—the biggest thorn in the company's side.

I’ve always seen myself as a hero. A savior.

The man in front of me now used to be a top litigator at the biggest firm in the city. Cold eyes, razor-sharp mind, zero heart. The kind of guy who’d gut you in a deposition and bill you for the pleasure. Not his fault. They made him that way. Society, ambition, expectation. Layer after layer of tight skin over his true self.

I peeled all that away.

Now he’s here on the worn leather couch, barefoot, belly full of cheap beer. Cigarette smoke hangs thick in the air. He’s got a three-day beard and a lazy grin that doesn’t calculate anything. His hand rests on the thigh of another man. They pass a bottle back and forth. When they laugh, it’s deep and real and stupid. Pure.

He doesn’t remember mergers. He doesn’t remember billable hours. All he knows now is the taste of smoke, the burn of whiskey, the heavy warmth of another man’s body against his. The simple things. The best things.

I crouch down next to him. He looks at me with those once-sharp eyes now soft and foggy like morning after rain.

“You happy?” I ask.

He blinks slow. Then he grins and grabs my face with both hands and kisses me hard. Beer breath, tobacco tongue, stubble scraping my chin. When he pulls back he says, “Never been happier in my fucking life, boss.”

Show me your progress my dumb jock.

Johnny hummed a soft tune as he worked the shampoo into the young man's hair. The white foam piled up thick and sweet-smelling. The customer, a slim white guy with floppy blond hair, relaxed into the chair, eyes closed. He had no idea what was about to happen.

Johnny's fingers moved in slow circles. With each rub, strands of hair came loose. They slid down the young man's neck, onto the floor. Johnny kept humming.The young man felt a tingle. It started at his scalp and spread down his spine. He wanted to open his eyes, but his body felt heavy, too heavy. He didn't notice his shoulders pushing wider against his T-shirt. He didn't feel the fabric tighten over his chest as muscles swelled.Johnny kneaded deeper. More hair fell away. The blond mop thinned, then vanished from the crown. The hairline crept backward, leaving a smooth, shiny dome on top. Dark stubble pushed through the skin around his jaw and upper lip, rough and thick.

The young man's body grew dense, beefy. His arms thickened, veins rising to the surface. His hands, resting on the chair, turned into tough, square paws. His thighs spread apart as his whole frame became solid, heavy with man-weight.

But it wasn't just the body. Johnny's fingers sent thoughts into the young man's brain, soft and sneaky. The memories of college classes, video games, and a shy girlfriend melted away. New thoughts pushed in: sweaty nights, hungry mouths, the smell of leather and whiskey. A need that burned low in his belly.The young man's lips parted. His breathing deepened. He forgot his old name. Now he was Victor, a forty-year-old divorced man who hadn't been touched in too long. A man who craved rough hands and a hot mouth. A man who knew exactly what he wanted.

Johnny rinsed the last of the foam away. He watched the reflection in the mirror: a balding, beefy man with a face full of stubble, his T-shirt now too small for his thick chest. The man's eyes were still shut.Then Johnny leaned close. "All done," he whispered.

Humans are beasts starved for love.In the beginning, I starved for my father’s love—but the whiskey had hollowed out his soul, turned his brain into a sepia swamp where tenderness drowned. So I sought forbidden knowledge. I cracked open texts that whispered in non-Euclidean tongues, learned to thread his gray matter with alien sutures, to rebuild the ruined circuits of affection.

And it worked. He held me then—his arms warm, his kisses searing. But the warmth was a shallow tide against the oceanic void inside me. His love, even when forced back into being, could not fill the crack that yawned where my heart should be.

Real wolf version