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hyuneflix · 2 months ago

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THE CURE 0.2 • Bang Chan

sex therapist!chan x client!reader after years of unhappy endings, your friend suggests a trip to sydney's most up and coming sex therapist. you hadn't expected much, least of all to discover the cure you'd been looking for all this time was your therapist himself.

word count: 13k << back to dash // next episode >>

CONTENT WARNINGS

𐙚 - female masturbation, mutual masturbation, vibrator use, guided masturbation, dirty talk, use of "slut" and similar terms, chan is called sir, light degradation, light spanking, slapping, more orgasm denial, fingering, oral both female and male receiving, sub!reader, soft dom!chan but some hard dom too, slightly possessive chan, praise, very tiny breeding kink in the form of chan pushing his cum inside her.

! - inappropriate relationship dynamic (chan is her sex therapist), reader is written to be neurodivergent though it isn't explicitly stated, therapy talk/setting, descriptions of self help and healing, brief mention of toxic positivity and dissociation, very brief description of reader having a difficult childhood, talk about hopelessness and feelings of defeat. like last time, everything is intentionally vague but approach with caution all the same.

episode two - a cure for self-dissatisfaction

You couldn’t believe it. You couldn’t believe that you were actually here, again. Making another appointment had sounded so promising in the after-glow of your first ever orgasm–or, at least, the first that felt like that–but now that you were actually here you questioned your sanity. How could you possibly face him after that phone call? Sure, it had been an entire month since then, plenty of time to get over it or just cancel the one-hour slot. You never did, though, and you still couldn’t quite decide why. Was it him that you wanted to see again? So entirely unable to close this chapter of your life now that he’d suddenly made its contents more interesting; turning the pages of your life from dull shades of black and white into hues of technicolour.

Or, maybe it was just that. He made things interesting and you needed interesting.

You weren’t sure when it had happened, the manner with which your fairytale life had twisted and morphed into something so mundane. You had the fancy beachside apartment, the dream job with the fun co-workers. You had the nice clothes and the sparkling jewels to go with them; large wardrobe full to the brim with rare pieces and garaments alike. Even your dating life had been exciting, meeting famous faces and well-off suitors in the upscale establishments you frequented with your friends. But it wasn’t enough. You feared nothing would ever be enough. Nothing exciting enough, glamorous enough, expensive enough to fill the growing feeling of indifference that threatened to paint your entire world grey.

A part of you liked familiarity, needed it, even. Clung to it in the same way you gripped the straps of your favourite tote bag. It was comforting to ease the unknowns of life with something habitual and constant. But when you did settle, when the anxiety did dissipate, it was like you almost missed it in its absence. It was the adrenaline you craved rather than the anxious wracking of your brain; the adrenaline that followed every redundant fear your mind conjured up; the push of chemicals through your veins as you murmurred ‘oh fuck, am i going to miss my train?’, ‘shit did i leave the stove on?’, ‘did i have a meeting today or was that tomorrow?.’ The bubbling of nervous adrenaline, it was like a shot of espresso, or the abrupt sound of your morning alarm clock. It forced you back to reality, tore you from the prison your restless thoughts built around your consciousness.

Chan had been that too in a lot of ways, a rude awakening of sorts. He had astounded you in more ways than one, tearing you from normalcy and forcing you from your comfort zone in the process. No longer just floating through life while your mind hummed with restless noise. Perhaps that was why, despite every anxious part of you that wanted to run away from him, a deeper, unheard part refused. You’d regret it, wouldn’t you? Walking away from him, vowing to never see him again. You’d regret it almost instantly no doubt, the tick of your apartment’s clock taunting you as it reminded you where you should’ve been on the day of your cancelled appointment. Your mind would trap you again, filling your head with thoughts of what could’ve been, should’ve been, if you’d just pulled yourself together.

That was of course without mentioning that you indeed remained uncured. You were still very much afflicted with the same inability to get yourself off no matter how hard you tried. You’d done it once, you so foolishly believed from that moment onwards it would be easy. It was not. Even with the vivid memory of that night playing over and over in your mind like a song caught in a loop, you were back to square one. You needed the dark to find the light. How true that had turned out to be, how unfortunate that your infatuation for your therapist was turning out to be more practical than whimsical. You really did need him.

The timing of your appointment meant that within moments of your arrival, the doe-eyed receptionist was already hurrying off for her lunch break, insisting that you wait for Dr Bang in his office instead. Dr Bang, hearing her say it almost pulled a laugh from your parted lips; what a suitable name for someone in his profession. She didn’t join in with your amused half-chuckle as she gathered her purse and coat. You didn’t blame her, you were sure she’d heard the stifled laughter a million times before. Thanking her one last time as she motioned you toward his office, you pushed open the door expectantly.

Immediately your eyes fixed on the black oak desk situated in the foreground of the furthest wall. The room was empty, no muscular figure tucked behind the neat workstation, nor situated in the same leather chair he had been a month prior. You breathed out a sigh, your throat finally releasing a breath you hadn’t even realised you’d been holding until you accounted for his absence. You made your way inside, letting the door close behind you with a clack. It felt eerie being in the infinite silence of his abandoned office. Not even the sound of the AC lulled in the background as you wandered throughout the space, taking in the details as if it were your first time being here, and in a way, it was.

During your last visit you’d been so distracted by Chan you’d been unable to focus on much else, let alone the intricacies of his office. The much too large windows were the first thing you’d noticed, both today and the last. Unlike a month ago they were covered by enormous blinds, the afternoon heat so unbearable today that having the sun exposed would be as sweltering as standing on a shadeless street corner. The lack of AC left the office tepid, and the vacancy of natural light shadowed the once bright room. You felt as if you had stepped into the embrace of a warm hug; one that sucked all the sound from the atmosphere until all that remained was the thumping of your heart.

You could hear it now; your heart. It beat with uncertainty as your eyes trailed across the shelves upon shelves of awards and personal photos behind his desk. You felt like you’d snuck into a secret place you weren’t supposed to be, taking in every detail of someone’s life without an inkling of what any of it meant. One frame held a picture of a smiling boy, a younger girl tucked under his arm in a near chokehold. Judging by the look of disdain on her features, and the mischievous expression on his own, you figured they were siblings. Another picture captured an older version of that boy, one that now more closely resembled Chan. He knelt on the grass, a dog, who’s white fur was blotched with copper-tones, smiled up at him, pink tongue spilling from its mouth. You knew Chan’s life hadn’t started when he met you, but it still felt strange to see it all play out in front of you now.

The office door opened with a clatter, your body spinning round at the intrusion; trusty tote bag slipping from your arm in the process. You caught hold of the strap before it could fall from your rigid limb completely, eyes settling on Dr Bang himself. He seemed frozen in place, palm clutching the door handle with bleached knuckles. His nervous disposition suggested he’d been preparing himself for this moment, to no avail, and if that were true, you were thankful. At least then you’d be in the same boat. In a second, a mere tick of a clock’s hand, he was back to his usual self, pushing a large smile atop his pillowy lips.

“Hello, y/n. How have you been?” His voice was soft as he closed the door behind him, the hand that wasn’t clutching a stack of papers flicking on a second set of lights. In an instant the room was engulfed in pale yellow hues, your eyes blinking to adjust. He walked the distance from the door to his desk, letting the pile of papers fall down with a dull thud.

“Could be better, could be worse.” You murmured, still feeling like a deer in headlights. He nodded at this, almost as if he silently understood, agreed even. You didn’t know whether you should stay rooted beside his desk or take a seat, body itching for another of his commands. You hated how badly you wanted him to tell you what to do and how to do it, no matter if it were a simple seating arrangement or one of his filthy, guided masturbations.

“That’s a start, hopefully by the end of the session we can turn it around?” He spoke, tone as level as it had always been, though you noticed how quickly his eyes seemed to wander. It had been impossible last time to look anywhere but him, that intentional and scrutinising stare holding yours for what felt like eternities. His gaze was scattered now, moving from your face to his desk and back again, fingers re-arranging his already neat desk as if attempting to regain control.

But, regain control of what? His thoughts, his racing heart, his body? You wanted to know. You wanted to crack him open, let the secrets spill from him like yolk. You wanted to study his mind the way he studied you. It was intoxicating, the mystery that still surrounded him. So intoxicating that you were starting to find you didn’t need to get lost in the shadows of his stare, only needed to be close enough to feel the palpable energy, the magnetic charge, that radiated from him like the sun’s unbearable warmth.

“Should we get started?” He asked, brown eyes leaving the surface of his immaculate desk to search your expression. You nodded, pushing a smile atop your lips as you moved toward the leather chairs, slouching into yours right away.

You noticed he wasn’t wearing that same dark suit this time, instead he wore a crisp white dress shirt with a few too many buttons undone at the top. The bottom part of it was tucked half-hazardly into a pair of tight ebony trousers. It didn’t remain that way for long. With a raise of his hand–fingers combing through dark curls–one side fell from its confines, a slither of pale skin meeting your hungry gaze. You swallowed, drawing your eyes from his figure as it drew nearer to you, stopping only when he reached the chair opposite you.

“Shall we start with an update?” He questioned, taking a seat while his hand tightened around that same large ipad. “How have you been doing, did you manage to climax again?”

“No.” You admitted right away, head shaking in disappointment. It was hard to hide how frustrating it was, even more now than before. At least prior to your first happy ending you were none the wiser to how much greener the grass truly was on the other side. Now you’d grazed in it, tasted it, felt it between your fingers and toes. How could you ever return to astro turf after you’d experienced the real thing?

“No?” Chan looked surprised at this, chin tilting to the side as he drank in your expression. You were sure you looked anything but pleased, brows furrowed as you shook your head no once more. “Okay, did you follow the routine?”

“I did, yeah.” You mumbled, digits playing with the pleats in your skirt.

“What do you think was different?” He asked, looking genuinely curious by your dilemma.

“Do I even have to say it?” You released a huff of air, heart jumping nervously behind its skeletal confines.

“It would help if you did. Guessing games can lead to miscommunications.” HIs smile was back, dimples pressed prettily against his plush cheeks. How badly you wanted to cup them, how badly you wanted to let the pads of your thumbs brush against the indents that dotted them. How badly you wanted him.

“I just… I feel like I need your help, you helped so much that time… ever since I haven’t managed it, I mean, what does that tell you?” You asked, heart racing a little faster now, hands growing clammy; thoughts scrambling as you felt your frustration grow. Your situation felt so hopeless, so entirely unfixable. It shouldn’t hurt, but it did. It always would.

So many past relationships flashed across your mind, so many times when you’d watched the partners in your life walk away. Their promises that you’d never be too much, that there was no storm you couldn’t weather together, ground to dust beneath their retreating steps. There had been other issues that ended the relationship of course, not this one, never this one. Yet it still seemed so unbelievably ironic how, try as they might, they never could fix this little problem. How laughable it was that Chan had managed within hours of meeting him.

“You- you need my help with climaxing?” He seemed taken aback, his innocence almost sending your eyes rolling. How could he be so surprised? Had he not been on that phone call with you after all, had that all been a vivid dream?

“I think so, yeah.” You opted to speak instead, fingers still playing lazily with your clothing in search of some relief from the awkwardness of the conversation.

“I’m sure you just need a little direction and practice.” He shook his head, ever the dismissive party out of the two of you. But you knew better now. You’d heard the way he fell apart, heard the things he’d said when all resolve had vanished. He was just as depraved, just as desperate and needy but he hid it well. He cowered behind fabricated boundaries, crossing one and then inventing another. He pushed, and he pushed, but he always found a new way to hold back. You wanted to test that, wanted to make him snap. Was that bad?

“I’m twenty-five Chan, I think if practice was going to do it I’d have done it by now.” You shook your head, tone uncharacteristically sarcastic as you let your frustrations slip. He winced at this, taken aback by the change in your tone. Easily your annoyance dampened, sigh falling from your lips as quickly as your apology “I’m sorry, that was– I’m just– I feel defeated.”

“It’s understandable, you don’t need to apologise.” Chan offered you a comforting smile, eyes glimmering with a patient understanding that had you thawing instantly.

“Can’t you just, I don’t know, tell me what to do. Like give me some direction or something.” You asked, trying to pry more solutions from his all-knowing brain.

“Like on the phone?” He questioned, palm gliding across his thick thigh as he spoke. You couldn’t help the way your gaze followed its movement, long fingers instantly taking you back to that night. You pictured them wrapped around his length, the wet sound of his desperate, thrusting grip, too much to think about right now. You squirmed in your seat, thighs pushing together in momentary distress.

“Yeah like then, is there more I can do?” You asked, trying to hide your growing weariness behind another frustrated huff.

“Perhaps you need to focus on finding ways to relax, maybe you have a problem switching off, moving from one task to the other. If you’re still tense when you’re masturbating then it can be hard to let yourself go.” He was so composed, seemingly so unaware of the way you were breaking down internally. How did he do it? How did he look at you with such easy indifference after that night. Maybe he was just that; indifferent. Maybe you’d been looking at this all wrong.

“Okay.” You shrugged, barely listening by now.

“You don’t look happy with that.” Chan pushed for an answer, clasping his apple pen a little tighter in anticipation of your response.

“I’m not patient enough. I guess I just hoped that it was fixed. But, now I have to get used to the idea of this being some long healing journey as if I haven’t had enough of those. As if I haven’t–fucking–read enough–fucking–self-help books or listened to enough ‘all you need is recharged rose quartz and you’ll be fine’--fucking–influencers.” You felt your hands grip at your forehead in defeat, palms attempting to erase the tension that settled there through half-hazard motions. You wanted to laugh at the way you got so easily wound up, but the idea of starting yet another ‘healing era’, felt suffocating, impossible even.

How much more growing was there to do? Some people say it never stops, but you’ve had a lifetime of it. A lifetime of people pointing out your flaws, telling you what was wrong or what needed fixing. You’ve had a lifetime of changing everything about you until something felt right, like a puzzle piece clicking into place. A lifetime of trying to do everything right just to be told you were doing it wrong, anyway. You weren’t emotional enough, then you were too emotional. You were loud, then too quiet. You were rude, then you were compliant. It took reaching your twenties to realise you didn’t really care who you were, or how you acted, as long as you were happy with yourself.

It felt freeing, so entirely exhilarating to feel as if you were done changing, morphing and growing into someone else’s idea of a normal human woman. It matched you well, but it was also tiring. You’d grown to be independent far younger than you probably should’ve, your therapist said it built character, you thought that was stupid even at ten years old. Having a childhood built character, having healthy relationships and good role models; that was what you needed. People’s incessant criticisms had felt like the only freedom from your independence for so long; the only time you weren’t thinking for yourself. Bittersweet was the lingering feeling that remained for a few years after your new found self-assurance.

It was stupid, to crave something that had been so toxic, but that was just so unequivocally you. Hate something with every fibre of your being when you had it just to miss it when it was gone. Didn’t matter how much it hurt you, didn’t matter that it damn nearly killed you, only the good parts of it remained in its absence. The ghosts of memories even your unrelenting, self-sabotaging brain forgot. Were those the causes of your dissociation? The fragmented memories of times gone by, the missing pieces still stashed away in some untravelled corner of your mind?

“These things do take time, yeah.” Chan pulled you from your thoughts, tugging a sigh from your lips as you shook your head in defeat.

“Fuck that, there’s gotta just be something in me that doesn’t work, right? Like there’s just a part of me that can’t do it and I’m gonna have to just live with that.” Your arms raised in exasperation, frustrated rambles not phasing him in the slightest. You figured that shouldn’t surprise you, despite everything that had transpired between you, despite how unlikely it sometimes seemed, he was a therapist. A person you were paying to listen to you speak. A person you had essentially paid to make you cum. Jesus.

“But you did.” He countered.

“No, you did.” You reminded him, his brows rising at the implication.

“That was all you, I just helped.” He shook his head, dismissive once more.

“Can’t you help me again, then? Just tell me what to do, show me. Make that part of me wake the fuck up and realise it has a job to do. Fix me again.” You murmured helplessly, searching his mind for something, anything that could ease your anguish.

“You want that? You want me to teach you? You want me to fix you?” He spoke after a beat of silence, plump mouth emphasising your latter sentiment. A switch had seemingly been flipped in him, reminding you of his faltering resolve from a month ago. You were sure it was your imagination–after all he was so quick to collect himself–but that was expected, you didn’t know him well enough. You didn’t know how badly he yearned to ‘fix you’.

There was a saying that went along the lines of this; therapists need therapy the most The first part of their adult lives were dedicated to learning the secrets of the mind, just to spend the rest of it fixing other people’s. The perfect distraction; fix others so you don’t have to fix yourself. Yeah, that was him. Finding distraction after distraction to avoid the complicated mess in his own brain. But that wasn’t just it. No, Chan was a people pleaser, a man so desperate to be needed that he put his heart in danger every single fucking time.

He’d lost count by now, the amount of times he’d run in blindly; falling for a pretty girl with pretty problems. A pretty girl with a pretty smile and a pretty big hole in her pretty heart. He did it every single time. He’d never mixed work with self-sabotage though, this was unchartered territory. But that was then, one slip up, one mistake made in the heat of the moment. How could he not? You were so pretty, sounded so pretty pleading for him to help you. Not even he had the patience for that.

“Yes.” You breathed out, eyes turning wide and expectant beneath his weighted retort. There you were again, looking hopeful, as if he really did have the power to cure you. But he didn’t, Chan had learned that again and again; he couldn’t change the last girl, or the girl before, or the girl before that and he couldn’t change you. Not like this anyway, not through lust or–heaven forbid–love. Growing attached, letting them be dependent, it was bad in the end; always bad, never good like he’d intended.

“I can’t, you’re not broken.” He assured you, not a drop of insincerity mixing with the honey sweet tone of his soft voice.

“Then pretend I am and fix me anyway– break me just to put me back together again– I don’t care, just please do something to make it stop.” You felt a little frantic now: he wasn’t giving you the answers, wasn’t providing solutions. Was it really that hopeless? Were you really this cursed? Knowing that the cure was right in front of you, within arms reach, but too far to hold. Too distant and closed off, too unwilling to give you what you know you needed.

Were you crazy for thinking he wanted it to, were you delusional for thinking you could see the fire in his eyes every time you reached for him with words? The air around you didn’t lie though, did it? Or were you the only one feeling that constant chemical reaction that surrounded you both. That fizzle and burn, that electric fever that drove you crazy; depriving you of clean, pure air with every breath. It was filling your lungs with hot embers, you could feel it, could feel the way it choked you of all sense and left only desire in its place. Could he really not feel it too?

“Make what stop, love?” The nickname wasn’t lost on you, its presence sent a ripple of hope across your skin, igniting goosebumps in its path.

“I don’t know, everything I guess. The boredom, the anxiety, the noise, the frustration, the emptiness; all of it went away that night and I’ve been trying to get back there ever since.” You admitted, teeth gnawing at your lip, brows scrunched together in frustration. Chan thought you looked utterly pitiful in the hottest way. Was that possible? To look pathetic and undeniably attractive all at once. Yeah, it was; you were.

“I can’t cure you, you know that right? You have to do that on your own.” He insisted. It was true, wasn’t it? Historically speaking, practically speaking. People can’t change other people, that was how it worked right? They had to change on their own, grow alone, love themselves before they could learn to love someone else. If they didn’t, they’d be forever codependent, clinging to the sun that helped them grow into a fully flourished person. But the sun went down, it didn’t stick around forever; he couldn’t stick around forever.

“But what if…”

“I can’t.” He was quick to cut you off, not wanting to fill your head with pointless sentiments of hope. Whether he wanted to or not, whether you wanted to or not, you had to stand on your own two feet. He knew this to be true more than ever when it came to your own pleasure. You couldn’t depend on him for that; he couldn’t fill the void. He’d fall in love too easily, catch feelings in an instant. How could he ever make it out of that alive? It wasn’t right, you deserved better. Deserved to know your own body, how it felt, what made you feel good.

“Try?” You spoke, voice barely above a whisper, eyes wide and pleading.

“I can’t.” He huffed through gritted teeth, jaw stiff with useless restraint.

“Please?” You looked at him as if he held the world and all its mysteries in his grasp, ready to hand them over if only you could wear him down enough. It wasn’t not working, he hated to admit.

“Don’t… don’t do that.” He shook his head, eyes dipping to the ipad in his grip as he drew mindless patterns across its slick screen. It was enough to distract him for a moment, but not long enough.

“So, I just, I just go home and try the same shit again then is that it? Another month of nothing? Or can I call again, would you pick up if I did?” Your words had his cock twitching, palms growing clammy. That night haunted him. It felt so wrong, so completely fucked up. He lay awake for nights after that wondering if he should resign, turning his dream of owning a successful therapeutic clinic into a distant memory with the same stroke. But more than that, he wondered if you’d call again. Would you need him some more? Would you lean on him a little longer? Was it really true that he was the missing piece? That only he could make you cum.

“You know I would.” He responded in an instant, too quick in fact. “I’m surprised you didn’t call, to be honest.” He chuckled, attempting to seem unaffected. As if he hadn’t been waiting by the phone every evening, as if he hadn’t checked and re-checked for missed calls when sleep didn’t come to him easily.

“I wanted to try on my own; I’m really trying.” You half-whined and that sound alone was enough to have every noise from a month ago flooding his mind at once. His hips shifted, tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip.

“I know, baby, you’re so good.” He sighed, resolve slipping; gaze darkening along with it. You saw it happen right in front of you, pupils dilating, mask slipping from his handsome face. “How about this… You show me how you do it at home and I’ll see if there are areas for improvement?” Chan suggested, against what he knew to be his better judgement. Fuck it, though, right? He could cross another line, just one more, find a new one to draw between you to keep you at arms length. You’d seen right through him in that regard, knew exactly how he justified each gradual crawl toward your eagerly awaiting form.

“You want me to… now?” You blinked, fireworks erupting in the pit of your stomach signaling an internal celebration of what you were almost sure was a triumphant victory.

“Isn’t that what you want? To make a mess of my chair? To cum again?” His words sent a jolt of something electric and sweet straight to your core. Your teeth felt like blades, threatening to draw blood from the plump flesh of your bottom lip as you nodded wordlessly, too turned on at the prospect of getting to climax again to formulate a coherent sentence.

“Why don’t you lift that little skirt of yours and show me how you pleasure yourself.” His voice was low, impossibly dark gaze studying you with an almost predatory stare. Your nerves stood alert like the hairs of your arm, hands moving at their own accord. You moved the hem of your skirt up the meat of your bare thighs, his eyes following your motions closely before fixing on the sheer fabric of your damp panties.

You felt like an imposter in your own skin as you spread your legs, circling the pads of your fingers across your clothed clit in compliance. You tried to stop the heat from rising in your cheeks, from pulsing through your blood like lava, the molton toxicity wetting your panties even more. You were helpless to it; the growing intensity of your lust. It was strange, the combination of embarrassment mixed with desire. It felt like a dangerous cocktail, one destined to leave you with a hangover unlike any other you’d felt; a banging headache, a sick feeling, a desperation for a wellness you could never reach without it.

Was that what this was? A growing addiction? An inability to feel better without him, or an unwillingness to find an alternative cure? You pushed the thoughts from your mind, easily too with the help of his sultry voice, though all the same the bubbling of nervousness remained.

“This is how you do it? What’s rule number one? What did we do last time?” He asked, too put together considering the pornographic movie that was playing out in front of him. His eyes told a different story though, hungry and feverish as you moved your fingers clumsily.

“Umm, take my clothes off?” You managed between huffs of impatient air, wanting nothing more than to skip to the part where your toes were curling, head tipped back in reticent ecstacy. You moved your hands away from your clothed cunt, starting to remove the tight fitting crop top a strap at a time. You watched his jaw grow slack at this, your confidence growing in place of the initial uncertainty.

You put on a show for him, suddenly abandoning the idea of being taught the ways of your pussy in favour of winding him up. Both straps fell past your shoulders, the rough material of your tiny top grazing your perky nipples as you dragged it down your chest, letting your plump breasts spill out from beyond its fabric confines. His brow twitched, lips faltering along with it as he watched the bounce of your tits.

“Mhm and start with your nipples, make them feel good, work yourself up.” Pulling your top off completely, you followed his demands, fingers tugging at your hardening buds. You remembered his advice from the last time, making sure to wet your digits with your tongue in a slow sinful motion. This earned a half moan from the man, his body shifting as he hid his faltering confidence behind a closed fist. With his chin resting against it, he gazed at you through his lashes, watching every pinch and tug with a hawk-like intensity.

“I’m already so worked up.” You groaned, unable to hold his heated glare any longer. You lulled your eyes toward the wet patch growing in your panties, pussy clenching around nothing at the sight of it.

“I make you worked up?” He mused, leaning forward in interest. Leveled as his voice remained, his restless form gave him away; dilated pupils darting between your hard nipples and your soaked underwear. His bottom lip caught between his teeth, moan designed behind a cough at your response.

“Yeah, so bad.” You mewled, one hand traversing the expanse of your smooth skin until your fingers met with the pool of sticky wetness between your thighs. You pulled at the band of your panties, sighing at the feeling of the tight fabric squeezing against your sensitive clit. You watched his expression as you drank in every movement, the obvious stiffness mounting in his crotch area not going unnoticed by you.

You wondered what it would take to have him desperate for his own release again, enough to disregard every one of his frivolous boundaries until his head was too clouded with intoxicating lust to draw a new line between you.

“Don’t focus on me, focus on yourself and your body.” It was almost like he knew, as if he could read your mind; could sense the way it reeled with thoughts of him and him alone. You tugged at your panties again, focusing on the movement of your fingers as they swirled around your excited nipple. “That’s good, don’t be shy now, you weren’t shy last time.”

“You couldn’t see me last time.” You murmured, the tips of your ears and apples of your cheeks the same shade of crimson.

“You’re beautiful, don’t be embarrassed.“ Chan shook his head, shifting in his seat once again. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t get comfortable, not when the growing ache in his pants became harder and harder to ignore. “Now do what we did last time, feel what works best for you, take your time.”

“This?” You questioned, fingers pulling your panties aside as strings of sticky cum followed suit. You touched your bare clit with care, jolting and wincing with each caress. You were so sensitive, so turned on by the intent stare he fixed on your soaked cunt. You traced a finger down the seam of your pussy, rubbing the thick, juicy substance across your bundle of nerves in a clockwork motion.

“Yeah, that’s right, feel yourself.” He drew a breath, tongue darting across his lips, hands not sure what to do with one another as he watched the sight play out in front of him. “That’s good, does that feel good?” Chan questioned, slouching back in his chair as if the increased distance would afford him some alleviation from your mesmerising performance.

“Yeah, I think so.” You retorted, repeating the back and forth between your clit and dampening folds. You teased your entrance with the gentle prod of your fingers, tight clenching accompanying each experimental push.

“Do what makes you feel good, learn what you like.” It was unbearable how calm he was, a whine leaving your lips as his professional tone.

“How.” You murmured, the strumming of your clit increasing in speed as you felt a pleasurable sensation begin to wash over you.

“Try new things, keep touching yourself–why don’t you take those panties off and give your pussy a slap.” You nodded, eagerly complying with his wishes as you pulled your panties down your legs letting the sheer fabric pool at the base of your chair. You placed your skirt there too, completely bare save the pair of kitten heels snug around your feet.

“What?” The second part of his statement had you puzzled though, or perhaps it was just the intense feeling of being exposed in front of a person who was not only fully clothed but seemingly unbothered. Yeah, maybe that was it; that would be enough to have anyone confused and uncertain.

“You like it rough don’t you? Smack your pussy, give your clit a spanking for me.” His words had your hips shifting, a moan tumbling from your lips. Everything sounded better coming from his full mouth, the gravel tone interlaced with his thick accent–it was unbearable.

“Like this?” You questioned, landing a smack against your sensitive clit. Both of you moved in sync, hips shifting at the shrill noise your palm made abusing your sensitive nub. Your face screwed up at the feeling, the delightful sting accompanied by another wave of self-satisfaction.

“Harder.” He growled, moan mingling with his next words. “Yeah, you like that? I can see how wet you are, keep spanking your pretty little cunt.” You complied, strings of whines and groans following each harsh slap.

“You’re making me this wet.” You mewled, expression still contorted in pleasure. Chan wasn’t sure how he’d expected to make it through this entire ordeal, that had been foolish thinking on his part. He hadn’t expected you to be so brazen though, both nervous in your disposition but shameless in your filthy words and actions. His cock was impossibly hard in his pants now, hand itching to relieve the tension.

“Fuck don’t say that, gonna have to learn how to make yourself cum when I’m not around.” He insisted, though in truth you were saying all the right things to morph him into malleable putty, substance perfect for the palms of your hands; mass supple enough to wrap around your finger. “That’s good, yeah that’s good fuck you’re clenching around nothing.”

“Wanna be full.” You whined, pinching and rubbing at your clit with a rise and fall of your hips. You could tell the chair beneath you was drenched by now, the surface becoming slippery beneath your clammy thighs.

“Fuck yourself with your fingers, start with one and keep adding as many as your greedy little cunt needs to feel full.” His resolve was slipping, you could tell, could connect the dots from that night a month ago. It filled you with confidence, had your heart racing and limbs squirming as you rubbed your clit more furiously.

“Not gonna be enough.” You shook your head, hoping, so intensely, that he would just give up and finish you himself. You could practically sense it, the way his fingers would make you feel, the sharp rush of intense white light that bubbled up with every thrust of his skilled digits. How perfectly they’d fill your tight hole, stretching you open as if preparing you for his fat cock. You slid a finger inside, feeling empty despite the new intrusion.

“You just need to learn how to make yourself feel good baby, curl your fingers, do a scissor motion, whatever makes you feel the best.” He was still instructional in his method, but he looked anything but the calm teacher he’d been previously. Chan was leant forward now, tongue poking out his mouth, elbows propped on his knees as he watched you intensely.

“How?” You questioned, brows scrunched.

“How, what baby? Use your words.” He asked, his palms rubbing together in a useless attempt to distract his mind from the ache in his pants.

“How do I make it feel good, sir.” You elaborated, pushing another finger inside your convulsing pussy.

“Fuck, god, gonna make me crazy if you keep that up.” He run a hand through his hair, hips rising from the chair. His dark hair looked a mess by the time his fingers were done combing and tugging with restraint. You didn’t think it was possible for him to look any sexier, but his disheveled appearance proved otherwise.

“Please.” You implored, the steady back and forth of your fingers slowing to a standstill at his next words.

“You want me to show you, yeah?” He licked his lips shamelessly at you, hungry eyes awaiting your response with uninhabited lust.

“Yes, please, so bad.” You mused, squirming in your chair at the prospect of his fingers tucked snugly inside your needy pussy. You hoped this wasn’t a dream, that you weren’t about to jolt awake to the shrill sound of your alarm clock.

“Beg, show sir how badly you want his fingers inside you.” He murmured, jaw clenching at the sight of your pussy as it squeezed around nothing. “Keep circling your clit, yeah, keep going.” He commanded you, and without hesitation you followed.

“Please, please, want you to fill me so bad, please sir- please.” You keened, fingers toying frantically with your bundle of nerves.

“That’s it baby, keep getting yourself off, you're doing such a good job on your own.” He licked his lips again, chest heaving with every circular motion. You pushed your fingers back between the snug walls of your cunt, moving your hips to accompany the thrust of your digits.

“I need more, please.” You wailed, the edge you’d wanted to revisit so badly gradually inching into view.

“You really want my help, baby?” He asked, almost as if he were undecided. That couldn’t be it, though. There was no conceivable way Chan could doubt your desire to have him, in whichever way he was willing to give. He wanted to hear you beg some more, didn’t he? Wanted to hear just how badly you needed him, as if seeing it wasn’t enough.

“Please.” You gave him what he wanted, putting on your best forlorn expression to better your chances. It worked, a little too well judging by the haphazard way he fell to his knees in front of you. Whatever glimmer of self-discipline he’d been clinging to, it was gone now, and in its place: a man starved.

“You’ll tell me if you wanna stop, can you do that for me?” He looked up at you with hopeful eyes, his final attempt at giving you an out. An insincere part of him hoped you would, that you’d be the one to grasp ahold of your better sensibilities and put an end to your affair. But you didn’t, of course not, you never would, would you? He doubted it, not when your gaze exuded a level of desperation he was sure he’d only seen in wild animals. Instead, you nodded, teeth claiming your bottom lip as you did so. “Good girl.”

Chan wasted no time sliding a finger inside your warm walls, a drawn out groan falling from his lips at the spongy grip that took a hold of his digit. His hips shifted compulsively as you tightened around him, a second finger inching its way in as he studied every rise and fall of your expression. Another moan from your lips–another half-grunt, half-groan from his own. He pushed his digits deeper, thrusting them in and out at a steady pace, letting his knuckles brush against your velvety clit.

“Ugh, that’s good.” You practically screamed out, head tipping back with a wide open-mouthed grimace; face contorted in unimaginable pleasure. How was it possible to feel this good? You thought you’d reached the maximum capacity for bliss that night, but Chan was showing you an entirely new palette of gratifying hues.

“Barely touching you, darling. So desperate, hmm? Not been able to get off without me? Need me that badly?” He mewled, lips pressing wet, desultory kisses to your shoulder and collarbone. Your body twitched and seized beneath him, eyes rolling back at the sensation of his plump mouth against your hypersensitive skin. Every nerve felt as if it were going haywire, every brush of his bony flesh against your clit feeling like a rush of adrenaline. It was then that he did something truly toe-curling, the sudden feeling of something prodding at just the right angle inside of your tight walls; it had your spasming wildly beneath him.

“Yeah I need you, need you to make me cum–need your cock in me, want you to stretch me out.” You sang in between moans, hands clinging to his clothed shoulders, nails latching onto him harshly.

“Fuck, baby, slow down. Gonna take my time; you gotta take your time.” He panted, dark eyes finding yours in among the thick haze of lust that consumed you both. It had you moaning even louder, the combination of his intoxicating stare and that unidentifiable sensation threatening to push you over the edge prematurely.

“Oh god, so much better.” You whined, tears filling your eyes, forehead shifting to press against his own as you clung to him for dear life. The warmth that radiated from his body was like a balmy embrace, the rousing scent of his cologne only adding to the numbing of your senses. He smelled incredible; expensive and masculine but with an undertone of something musky and thrilling. You wanted more of it, more of him. Wanted to taste him, to feel his cock pushed so far past your walls you could feel him rearranging your guts; the head of his member visibly prodding at the pit of your stomach. You wanted his mouth on yours, tongue exploring the inside of your mouth until he’d discerned every inch of you, top to bottom.

You felt safe beneath his strong body, the hand that wasn’t busy splitting your open prying at your thigh until he managed to hook a leg over his shoulder. You felt your head fall back again, eyes squeezing shut as he sped up his pace, the room filling with the sound of your drenched pussy. The squelching was so lewd, so loud that you were sure you’d cum from that alone. Could feel it in the way your cunt clenched again and again, sucking his digits in and refusing to let them free.

“That’s ‘cause I’m curling them. Feel the difference?” He murmured, tone the only thing calm about him now. Looking down at him, you saw the frazzled expression painted across his handsome face, the frantic look in his eyes underpinning that same predatory stare. “Mmm fuck– gonna find your g-spot; gonna make you scream.”

“Chan, fuck, please.” You wailed, hips bucking upwards in motion with his thrusts. He pushed you down with his free hand, cheek pressing against the meat of your leg as he watched you intently. His attentive stare didn’t last long, though, not when your pussy was putting on such a pretty show for him. His arm was soaked, the chair beneath you was drenched, juices pooling on the floor by your clothes.

“So hot–stay still for me baby, did I hit the spot?” You could only nod now, moans coming out in pitchy screams as you bucked against his firm palm, desperately trying to fuck yourself with his fingers. You couldn’t describe it, the pleasure that was building inside of you, the edge that was careening so close to your helpless, frantic body that you could taste your orgasm on the tip of your tongue.

“Yeah, think so, oh god, oh my god.” You found your words at last, whining disapprovingly when his fingers left your needy pussy empty in favour of pushing past his plump mouth. Your gaze drank him in as he did so, watching with narrowed eyes as he sucked on them. It was slow and erotic and downright torturous, a string of desperate moans tumbling from his glistening pink lips.

“Fuck you taste so good, let me taste you properly, please can I?” Apparently it was his turn to beg, his nose nuzzling against the inside of your thigh as he adjusted the leg propped atop his shoulder.

“Please, please, do whatever you want, own me.” You nodded frantically, wanting nothing more than to return to that blissed out state you’d been so caught up in.

“You want me to make this pussy mine, for real? Want me to fuck you rough like the slut you are?” You wanted him to mean what he was saying, but something told you he wasn’t. That was as a line you were certain he wouldn’t cross, not for now anyway, but you could live with that. A sentiment that rang even truer when you felt the rough texture of his tongue against your puffy, sopping cunt.

The reverberation of his moans only added to the intense wave of pleasure that overcame you, his frenzied ministrations causing your hips to buck, thighs closing around his head. He took it all, licking up and down your pussy as if lapping up your juices. Whatever lesson this was supposed to teach you about masturbation, you didn’t know, and you weren’t about to question him about it, not when you switched to burying his face in your leaking pussy, tongue fucking you with purpose as his nose prodded your swollen clit.

“Yes, please, sir–ruin me.” You grabbed ahold of his hair, earning another moan from the man as he continued devouring your drenched cunt. Every time he lapped at your sweet juices, more poured from your clenching hole, his tongue drinking up every last drop as he shifted between your entrance and your sensitive nub.

“Fuck this isn’t good.” He groaned, breathing out words in the short amount of time he spent away from your pussy; allowing him mere moments to suck in oxygen before he dove back in. “We shouldn’t be doing this, baby, you’re driving me crazy.”

“Ugh, that feels so fucking good.” This time he focused his mouth on your clit, lips wrapping around your bud as he pushed his fingers inside of you, thrusting in knuckles deep with a pace that bordered on animalistic. Your fingers gripped his hair just as aggressively, hips moving at their own accord as you felt the edge of your orgasm hurtle towards you.

“Good keep going, use my fingers fuck yes.” He moaned, breaths coming out in desperate pants against your sensitive clit. The gentle push of air paired with his relentless thrust of his fingers against your g-spot was enough to have you screaming, head falling backward, cunt convulsing as you felt that white light begin to encase you.“Shit you’re cumming so soon? Oh fuck, yeah, fuck, so messy.”

“Fuck, please, keep going– no why did you stop?” That feeling you’d been so frantic to chase, the bright, welcoming light that you’d been so ready to rush toward was ripped from you the moment his fingers exited your clamping walls. You looked at him in disbelief, body spent, skin aglow with sweat.

“It's your turn, do what I did.” He rejoindered.

“No, no please” You shook your head, tears welling over as you pleaded with him to give you release. This was bordering on mean, knowing how frustrated and desperate you were to feel that warm white release only to pry it from your begging hands.

“Come on pretty girl, you got this. Let me help you.” His palms ran comforting patterns across your skin, face still level with your pussy as his breath fanned across your sensitive core. You twitched beneath him, stare holding his own in hopes your beseeching eyes could reason with him.

“Not the same.” You murmured, shaking your head once more.

“Don’t be greedy now, come on.” He spoke, landing a slap against your clit in warning. Your hips jumped, sensitive pussy clenching around air as you greedily accepted your punishment. Despite your momentary disobedience, you followed his request, pathetic fingers moving down between you both to begin thrusting in and out of your weeping hole. “Good girl, keep going.”

“Need yours.” You sobbed, the feeling of your digits nowhere close to the pleasurable strokes of his thick, veiny hand.

“Hmm, why don’t we try a new toy? See if you can make yourself cum like that?” He suggested, and how he’d managed to maintain any semblance of his role as your sex therapist after annihilating your pussy with his pretty lips, you had no idea. Truly the man was a saint, he hadn’t even touched his hard cock once, too busy pleasuring you to even notice the impossibly tight feeling in his pants.

“Okay…” You agreed, body beginning to ache with fatigue.

“Keep playing with yourself, slap that pretty little clit around while I find a toy for baby girl to play with.” Chan commanded, and you obeyed.

You watched him walk the short distance to his desk, opening one of the cupboards to look over a collection of unboxed sex toys. The consistent branding told you it was probably a sponsorship deal, a collaboration of sorts. But you didn’t pay the toys enough attention to confirm this, no, instead you watched the way his back flexed, vein hands tugging at a box before returning it to its home. It was utterly unfair how even the back of him could drive you crazy; everything about him was thick, masculine and oozing sex appeal. Yet despite the plumpness of his arms, thighs and ass, his waist remained tiny beneath the crisp fabric of his shirt. You wanted to see what lay beneath his tight-fitting clothing so badly, the thought enough to have your fingers speeding up in a newfound wave of ecstasy.

“What about this? Long like my fingers, that’s what you like right?” He returned with a different vibrator. Unlike the other one, this had some sort of vibrating node for your clit; making sure to stimulate every inch of you it could touch.

“Lemme show you how this works, okay? Gonna use it just like the vibrator, push it up as far as your little cunt can bear.” Chan grumbled, tongue licking his lips as he lowered himself to his knees again. Removing it from its packaging with ease, he pressed the velvety device against your desperate cunt, quizzical gaze searching for any signs of hesitation.

“I can take it all, please make me take it.” You were quick to retort, squirming in anticipation of what was to come. You hoped, no you prayed, that this time he’d make you cum, not stopping till your body was limp and spent, eyes rolled back in your head and screams so pitchy not a sound came out. You wanted that, you wanted that so bad.

“Fuck, you’re so hot when you’re all wound up baby, you sure you want that?” His voice was low, free hand coaxing your leg back over his shoulder as he peppered kisses to your inner thigh.

“Please, pretend it's your cock. How would you fuck me?” You whined, hands shifting to pinch at your nipples desperate for any form of release.

“No, no you can’t think like that baby.” He shook his head dismissively, using the toy to push up and down your gushing pussy, chuckling wickedly every time your body twitched.

“You want it too, don’t you? Wanna know what it’s like to fuck me? So do–” You couldn’t even finish getting the words out before he was shoving the toy into your needy hole with force, a dark expression atop his faltering features. “Yeah fuck, like that.” You screamed out, your pussy barely able to sheath the toy with how puffy and swollen your walls were.

“That feel good, baby?” He growled, teeth gritted as he pushed the device in and out of you with fever.

“So good.” You whimpered, bucking your hips in time with his thrusts.

“Gonna have to take over, you need to learn for yourself.” He reminded you, your head shaking in an instant.

“Not yet, keep going please.” You sobbed tearlessly, moans coming out in broken, melodic strings of half-cries and curse words.

“Haven’t even turned the vibrate on and you’re already clenching like a whore.” He tutted, tongue spilling from his lips as he got lost in your pleasure. It looked like he enjoyed this almost as much as you did, his brows furrowed in concentration as he took in every change in your expression.

“Can I touch you?” You whined out, hips bouncing in time with his expertly timed thrusts. Your hands reached out, starting to undo the buttons of his dress shirt with a growing desire to see him naked and exposed like you were. He didn’t show any resistance, even shuddering beneath the graze of your nails against his bare chest as you opened the unbuttoned top. He looked delectable; toned muscles flexing with every thrust of his arm.

“No, then I really will wanna fuck you.” He murmured, setting another boundary you had every intention of crossing; his forehead leaning down to press against yours, bodies as close as they could possibly be given the current position. His lust-filled gaze sparkled in the shadowed confines of your close faces, the soft whimpers and laboured breaths that left his parted lips sending your body into overdrive. You leaned forward to connect your lips, mouth ghosting over his for a nanosecond before he moved his face away from yours. You whined, aching to chase after him but opting to pry a little more instead.

“Will you touch yourself when it’s my turn then?” You questioned, hungry eyes searching his for any signs of defiance.

“You want that?” He whimpered, free palm pushing you down against the soaked leather chair once more, trying to keep your quivering body still beneath him.

“Yeah wanna hear you moan again.” You yelped, clenching again and again around the silicon toy, wanting more than anything to replace it with his meaty cock.

“Does that turn you on?” Chan asked, proud grin on his lips.

“So bad.” You murmured, head rolling back as you felt him graze against your g-spot with the tip of your new device. “Wanna watch your cock make a mess– oh my god I’m so close Channie~” He didn’t let you finish, turning the vibrator on mid sentence. The sudden change in sensation caused you to shake and convulse beneath him, creaming the toy with every pointed thrust he offered your greedy cunt.

“Yeah? Take over for me baby, fuck yourself like the depraved slut you are.” You could barely think straight, eyes glazed over with unadulterated, carnal desire.

“Fuck you’d break me open so good, want your cock so bad.” You mumbled, taking the toy from his grip to try and match his relentless pace. You weren’t even close, too tired, too rigid to compare.

“God, bet you do, never enough for your greedy little pussy is it? Just want more and more.” Chan mused, the sound of his belt clattering drawing your attention to his lower half. You watched eagerly, excitement growing with every push of his hands. He pulled his cock out hurriedly, leg still propped over his shoulder as he fisted the base of his cock.

You whined at the sight, free hand clawing at his half-clothed chest before gripping the meat of his upper arm. You hoped, pointlessly so, that the feeling of his toned muscle beneath your hold would ground you, keeping you steady as you worked yourself with the toy. The sight of him jerking desperately at his leaking cock, though, was far too compelling. Moans fell from his mouth, curse words interjecting every sinful noise.

You’d thought his pointed gaze was enough to hypnotise you, but the image of his stiff member as it oozed pre cum transfixed you in an entirely new way. You couldn’t look away, couldn’t tear your eyes from his thrusting hips and eager fist as it worked its way up and down his length. You were sure you’d not seen a cock quite as pretty as his, either. It wasn’t overly large but it was thick and veiny with an angry red tip that you knew would prod your cunt in all the right ways. You wanted it, you wanted him so bad. You were salivating at the thought, mouth gaping wide open at the prospect of it.

“Bet you’d fuck me dry, so desperate you’d milk my cock of every drop.” He groaned loudly, hips bucking into his first with an air of impatience.

“Yeah, want that so bad sir.” You could feel your high approaching once more, the edge coming into view in new and improved shades of technicolour bliss.

“That’s it, good girl, you’re doing so well.” He praised you, head lulling back as he hissed, teeth clenching, face scrunching; the hottest fucking thing you’ve ever seen. His adams apple bobbed, thick neck glistening with sweat as he squirmed, face falling to rest against your leg.

“Cum on me, in my mouth.” You pleaded, trying to match the rhythm of his thrusts, imagination fixing on the idea of it being him fucking you like this.

“Fuck that’s so hot, you’re so fucking hot.” He instantly complied with your wishes, hand abandoning his cock momentarily in favour of getting to his feet. He gently lowered the leg once propped atop his shoulder as he did so, discarding his trousers and underwear properly when he was stood. He was frantic in his motions, wanting nothing more than to dump his load on your pretty face.

Hovering over you, he watched as you eagerly opened your mouth, head angled to allow him to aim the tip of his length toward your lips. He hummed at the sight, face scrunching again as he began to fist at his cock. The wet sound of his cum streaking the length of his member had you keening, tongue darting out to lick at his tip desperately. He bucked his hips at the new sensation, shoving his cock closer to your mouth in the process. You kept lapping at his head, enjoying the salty taste of his cum as it hit your tongue–the bitter flavour pulling pornographic moans from your throat.

“Oh god that feels amazing. Yeah, keep doing that baby.” He too moaned, pumping his cock relentlessly while you leaned closer to him, sucking the head of his twitching member feverishly. “Such a good girl, yeah, your lips look so pretty around my cock baby.”

“More.” You begged, the initial taste of his salty cum enough to have you craving more. You wanted all of it, wanted to feel his mushroom tip abuse the back of your throat, wanted to choke on his fat cock until breath became a necessity. You were positive you’d see the white, orgasmic light then, when you were deprived of all air, forced to take in every inch of him until he was done using you for his own pleasure.

“No, don’t be greedy. Take what I give you and say thank you like a good slut.” He landed a slap against your cheek, not hard enough to hurt, just enough to sting and fuck it felt incredible.

“Mmm, thank you sir.” You whined, complying instantly, pussy clenching around the toy still thrusting in and out of your numb cunt. Your arms were in a similar position, movements growing sloppy and slow as you tried to chase your high through till the end.

“Good, now you gonna cum for me?” He asked, fucking his fist with the same fierce pace he’d gifted you. “Yeah, fuck you’re so hot.” He moaned, watching you struggle to pleasure yourself, movements ragged and desperate as you became unable to control your limbs.

“So close, so so so– please.” You cried out, riding the toy with one final push of determined energy.

“That’s it, keep fucking yourself. You’re so close, baby don’t give up now.” He moaned out, his own high building with every snap of your hips, the noises your mouth and pussy were making so sinful it had his eyes rolling back. He resisted though, keeping his well-trained eyes on your abused cunt. You were struggling, he could tell, something in you not quite snapping the way you clearly wanted it to. It wasn’t your fault, he’d tired you out by now; he blamed himself for that.

“Come on, you can do better than that. Like this baby.” He abandoned his own pleasure again, hand leaving his cock to replace yours. His pace was exactly what you needed, your body convulsing the moment he replaced your sloppy grip.

“Oh god, yes, please keep going.” You cried, almost scared he’d deny you again.

“Yeah? You gonna cum? Look at the mess you’re making pretty girl, fuck, I bet it tastes delicious.” He growled, pushing the toy as deep as your puffy cunt would allow, angle directed toward the extra-sensitive spot you seemed to love so much. “You’re taking it so well, such a good little slut.”

“I’m gonna cum.” You wailed, hand gripping his, half-reacting to the sudden feeling of overstimulation that washed over you, the part of the vibrator pressed against your clit sending you into spasms with every hard thrust.

“That’s right, come on baby, good girls cum– you’re my good girl aren’t you? Gonna cum like sir told you to?” He growled, the possessive tone that had overtaken him sending shockwaves across your limbs.

“Yeah, yeah fuck! I’m-” You didn’t have time to respond to his pleas before you were thrown from the edge, same white light blinding you in the process. You lost all feeling, all consciousness as you came, the explosions errupting throughout your spent body going unnoticed by your fucked out mind. Your chest heaved as you started to come to, hand still clamped around his now motionless wrist as his voice broke through your heavy breathing.

“Shit, you squirted everywhere baby. Fuck that’s so hot.” You whimpered, scrambling to sit up in embarrassment. You looked at the chair first, the leather slick with your release, but it wasn’t until you gazed at Chan that you saw the extent of it. His white shirt was dotted with wet spots, looking almost like the splatter of something colourless. His hand and arm were soaked, chest glistening too.

“Sorry.” You frowned, suddenly embarrassed by the mess you’d made.

“Shh, don’t be sorry, you did so well baby; look at you, so messy, so pretty.” He was quick to assure you, abandoning the vibrator in favour of cupping both your cheeks. You took each other in for a moment, no words spoken between you as your eyes lowered to his lips. One of his hands moved toward your chin, tugging our gaze upward again; not letting you linger with the thought of kissing him.

“Lemme make you cum.” You spoke after a beat in time.

“No, no lovely girl, you need to rest a second.” He smiled, pad of thumb caressing your plump bottom lip before he shifted, seemingly ready to clean you up and send you on your way. You weren’t ready for the moment to end, though. Couldn’t bear the thought of not getting to see him like this again for another month, or, god forbid, longer.

“Then use me to finish.” You reached for him, grabbing ahold of his wrist before his back could straighten, reaching his full height.

“Baby, fuck.” He moaned, clearly battling with the idea of you crossing yet another of his lines. He couldn’t blame you, not wholly anyway, he let you do it easily every time. Deep down he knew they were nothing but silly justifications; a safety net to fall back on when he broke every rule in the book.

“I want you to.” You assured him.

“This is supposed to be about you.” He shook his head.

“Then do it for me, use my mouth.” Your persistence seemed to be enough for him, still-hard cock twitching excitedly at the prospect.

“Get on your knees.” His eyes darkened, turning to face you properly as he watched you position yourself on the floor, obedient as ever. “That’s it, good girl.” He swallowed thickly, guiding you toward his painfully hard length. He tapped your outstretched tongue with the tip, wordlessly ordering you to open wide.

“Tastes so good sir.” You mewled as he slid the base of his cock along your tongue, moaning at the texture of your muscle against his veiny member. His patience, or whatever was left of it, was slipping away with every messy lick of your tongue, his hand shifting to grip your hair.

“Squeeze my thigh if it's too much, okay?” Your nod was enough to have him pushing his length past your parted lips, cock giving you no time to adjust as he pushed his hips forward. “Such an obedient little slut, aren’t you? Touch your clit for me, want you cumming with my cock shoved down your throat.” He growled, pushing his length as far down your throat as your tight mouth would allow.

“Oh fuck yeah, yeah, yeah that’s so– ohmygod you feel amazing.” You moaned the moment he afforded you a few seconds to breathe. Your fingers toyed with your clit just as he’d requested, but you were far too focused on swallowing his member to focus on the tingling feeling between your thighs.

“Bet your pussy feels better though, doesn’t it baby? Filled all the way up with my fat cock.” He grunted, grip in your hair tightening as he thrust his length past your lips harshly. You squealed at this, sound muffled by the back and forth of his cock as he used your throat to chase his own release. It was hard to focus his gaze as he pushed his cock all the way to the base, your nose pressing against his toned flesh as you gagged, tears spilling down your cheeks.

“Are you crying? Yeah? Sir giving it to you too rough? This is what greedy girls get–a throat full of cock.” He growled, any hints of his prior softness dissipated with the tightening of your throat around his sensitive length. He started setting a pace, no longer mindlessly pushing you down his cock. Rather he pulled out of your swollen mouth, giving you a few seconds to breathe before he thrust in, repeating that motion again and again with a frenzied persistence. If he had any doubts about your feelings on the matter, your soaked cunt gave it all away.

“God your pussy is drenched, sounds so good. Does it feel good, baby? Getting mouth fucked while you play with your little cunt for me?” He moaned, fucking your face with a new found fever, his approaching high numbing his senses until all that remained was the sound of your wet pussy clenching around nothing and the feeling of your tight throat seathing his desperate cock. In all of the blissful chaos though, the man couldn’t help but take pity on you; the tears streaming down your cheeks, drool coating your chin, was enough to have him pulling out. You instantly gasped for air, forehead falling against his thigh as you caught your breath.

“Sit up baby, spread your legs. Gonna paint your pussy with my cum–gonna make it mine.” He instructed, helping you back atop the chair when you looked at him with pleading eyes. Your chest still rose and fell, gaze glossy with fresh tears as you whimpered, barely able to register the possessive way he wanted to claim you beneath your heavy fatigue.

“You gonna cum for me too, yeah? gonna fuck my cum inside you with my fingers while you play with your clit.” He was back to those sinful rambles, an apparent sign of his impending orgasm as he worked his cock, hovering above your spread legs while he watched you circle your clit violently. “Good girl, good girl, fuck.”

“Yeah fuck, mine, my good girl, looking so pretty for me.” His pace picked up, abs tensing with every twitch of his cock. His tip leaked with presumptive release, small bouts of thick cum running down the head, aided in its journey by the drying slick of your spit. “So useless without me aren’t you baby? Can’t do anything without me, need me so badly.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, oh god.” His words had you quickly barreling toward the edge again, consciousness slipping as you fell in and out of subspace.

“Say you’re mine.” He growled, face contorted in the hottest expression you’d ever seen. He looked determined, the first that fucked his cock thrusting at such a frenzied pace you wondered if it was painful. “Mmm” Was all you could manage, before a harsh slap to your cunt was enough to jolt you away from the fucked-out state you found yourself in.

‘Say it, slut.” He insisted.

“I’m yours, all yours; only yours. No one else can make me feel like this, not even me, this pussy belongs to you.” Your words were all it took, his entire body shifting, twitching and shaking at the sudden onset of his climax. His knees almost buckled, the half-awkward position causing his muscles to burn and tense as he milked his cock of its stringy cum. Moan after moan fell from his lips as he watched it splatter against your lower half, your hungry cunt clenching as the warm liquid painted your clit and abdomen.

Lowering to his knees again, he kept his promise, pulling your hand away from your puffy clit in favour of collecting up all the cum that settled on your skin, sticky substance coating two of his digits as he shoved it inside your overworked pussy. “Cum for me, come on. Don’t make me spank you again.”

You moaned out, shrill noise almost awakening his cock once again as he drilled your cunt with his fingers, pushing his cum as far into you as your swollen walls would allow. “Good girl, that’s a good girl; such a good little cum slut.” He cooed as you lost all control, body seizing beneath the weight of another orgasm; the wave of ecstasy so sudden and unexpected it stole the air from your lungs, the noise from your voice.

Chan rode you through your high, pressing kisses to every inch of your inner thigh, fingers slowing to a halt inside you. Sweet praises filled the air as he pulled his digits from your defeated cunt, palms rubbing soothing patterns against your skin. He kept this up until the ability to move seemed to finally return to your aching limbs, your body shifting to sit upright. Your breathing was laboured as his eyes leveled with yours, searching for any signs of pain or discomfort.

“Are you okay?” He asked, fingers back to tracing your skin affectionately; an action that felt just a little too sweet considering the events that had just transpired. You nodded, still not quite able to form words as you moved forward, pulling him into your embrace, desperate to lean on him for support. He let you, of course he did, arms wrapping around your fatigued body as he pulled you against him. Your head fell to the crook of his neck when you lowered from the chair, awkwardly positioned atop his kneeling form until he shifted to accommodate you.

For a moment you stayed like this, the sounds of your breathing the only thing breaking through the heavy silence. It gave you both time to think, to come down from your post-orgasm bliss and retrace the events of your appointment.

“Fuck, what are we doing.” Chan was the first one to speak, a heavy sigh pulled from his downturned lips.

“I don’t know but I don’t want it to stop.” You whispered, neither of you making any attempt to put distance between you.

“We have to.” His response was instant but insincere, there was no denying that now. Not even your anxiety could trick you into believing that Chan didn't want this.

“But do you want to?” You asked, making the first move as you pulled back to look him in the eyes. Maybe his mouth lied, but his gaze never could.

“...No. do you?” He said after a beat in time, large gaze studying you just as you did him. His palms moved to grip at your bare waist, a single hand shifting to run up and down your right side, tracing the curve of your hips as he waited expectantly.

You smiled, the fireworks that erupted behind every one of his caresses giving you the answer you'd been looking for: “Never.”

“Never?” Chan stared at you dubiously, hand stilling at this.

“Never.” You didn’t hesitate, head shaking. A small smile tugged at the corners of his lips, eyes flicking from feature to feature in search of any insincerity. He found none, only a flourishing of adoration that threatened to grow tucked behind your gaze.

He decided to believe you. You decided to believe it too–hoped so badly for it to be true–wanted so badly to have finally found the cure. Needed so badly for him to be the cure.

<< back to dash // next episode >>

taglist @mangojellyyy • @diekleinesuesse • @bahablastplz • @jeonginnieswifey • @skzittomebabyuhhuhx3 • @yaorzu-blog • @skzreader25 • @sseungmongi • @swaggylili • @geni-627 • @fun-fanfics • @channiesluvrclub • @iambangchanswife • @bluesungology

A/N: jfc i nearly didn't finish this in time oopsies! semi-unedited again so apologies for any sloppy writing in places. thank you all for 200 followers!! next chapter is due for release at the 350 milestone <3

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tsuutarr · 6 months ago

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Yandere!Hero (Chosen One) x Saint!Reader

Being the Hero – the Chosen One – means that the world’s fate is on Elias’ shoulders. He’s long since forgotten how to live for himself, his life belonging to everyone but him. He’s merely a puppet that’s being strung along by the world for the sole purpose of saving it.

At first, he was honored to be chosen as the Hero – it’s a privilege most don’t get. But everyone expects too much – everything – from him. His life is carefully shaped into what others want of him, people only looking at his role and not him as a person.

Now, he fights and saves people due to duty, not desire. There is no sparkle of pride when he helps villagers. Instead, all that is left is another thing checked off of his mental checklist. Now, he just wants to rest. He just wants things to be over.

So that’s why he despised the idea that some Saint from the Church would be his “helper.” Traveling with someone else is only going to slow him down. Not to mention the fact that he doubts the Saint has ever seen bloodshed and disease like he has.

But when he actually meets and travels with you, the Saint, he realizes that you’re actually not that bad. You’re actually kind of nice. He’d expected you to turn your nose at the commoner population, refusing to heal them, but you actively seek them out to help. You’re kind and gentle, but headstrong. Even when you’re visibly exhausted, you do your best to keep going.

It’s… kind of impressive, actually. He had misjudged you, perhaps.

Even now, you’re helping the knights that were attacked by bandits (which Elias had vanquished), healing not only their bodies but their souls, too. He can’t help but look at you, a raw beacon of kindness that he hasn’t seen before in his travels.

Once you’re done healing the knights, you look up at him, before a gasp escapes your lips. “Elias!”

He blinks at you, curiously.

“You’re bleeding!”

“Ah.” Elias looks down at his hand, blood dripping down his fingers. He had instinctively grabbed a knife by the blade earlier because he wouldn’t have been able to dodge it in time. “This is nothing.”

“Oh, shush!” you say, approaching him. You push him towards a tree stump, forcing him to sit, which he allows. Carefully, you take his hand in yours, frown deep set on your mouth. Your hand is so warm that it makes his heart burn.

“You’re tired,” he states, bluntly. He doesn’t tug his hand out of yours. “You’ve healed too many people.”

“I can–”

“No.” He shakes his head. “Rest for now, Saint. I am fine.” And he’s right – he’s the Hero, after all. His wounds heal much faster and better than a normal human being. He doesn’t necessarily need your healing.

“Still,” you murmur, looking up at him. “Can I at least clean and bandage it?”

It’s pointless, really, but Elias says, “Do what you want.”

So you do. You disinfect and clean his wound, before carefully wrapping his hand with bandages. For some reason, his heart squeezes painfully as he watches you tend to him so gently. He doesn’t remember if anyone’s ever treated him this kindly.

“There.” You look proud of yourself. It’s kind of cute.

“You didn’t have to,” he mutters without really thinking about it.

You give him a smile that makes his brain stop. “I wanted to. I want to support you.”

For some reason, your words almost make him want to cry. He’s not sure why – he’s seen so much death and destruction to the point that his emotions have become numb. Yet, you bring flickers of his feelings back to him – happiness, sadness, anger, love.

You make him feel like he has an existence beyond just being the Hero. You make him feel human.

So, how can he let you go? He can’t – and he’ll do everything he can to make you his. Even if it means he has to destroy the world.

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phantasm-echo · 8 months ago

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POV: you wake up in the middle of your own autopsy with force powers then immediately get brainwashed into falling to the dark side

I was reminded of the fact that I haven’t drawn inquisitor!fives’ autopsy scars in way too long so here I am, delivering a few too many Fives 💀

Anyway I know I don’t post much about the AU on here so props to anyone who knows what’s going on here even slightly, I’ve decided to nerf siren!echo (who WAS part of this AU yes I know quite random) but since him being turned into a siren kinda limits what I can do with him story wise he is now an AU of the AU.

That means the name I came up with for the au (dead mean walking/swimming or dmw(s) as I’ve been tagging it) is kinda irrelevant. I’ll just call this the inquisitor fives AU but if you have any AU name suggestions feel free to drop them.

Here are some of the major factors of the AU:

It gets worse before it gets better

(WARNING: there are quite a few heavy topics covered in the AU such as torture, dehumanisation and su*cidal thoughts, so pls read at your own discretion)

- fives wakes up in the middle of his own autopsy with force sensitivity, then gets brainwashed into falling to the Dark Side by Palpatine. As an Inquisitor, he does not remember anything about his life because those memories were blocked by Palpatine.

- Palpatine discovers that Fives is essentially immortal, and any injuries inflicted on him will heal no matter how bad.

- when echo gets rescued from skako minor, he is recalled to Kamino for experimentation, first of all so they can figure out what the Techno Union did to him, second of all to see how he survived his injuries. Nala se, who knows that fives came back to life, theorises that since he and echo were tube twins they share the “immortality”. He is kept on Kamino for VERY extensive experimentation where terrible things happen to him (cough vivisection cough lobotomy) and so never joins Clone Force 99 even if he did work with them on Anaxes.

- Fives in this time is sent out on many missions by Palpatine that involve him unaliving many people, and after the rise of the Empire he hunts a few Jedi.

- Fox, who throughout the war had experienced many blackout missions where he woke up afterwards covered in blood, is the last living Coruscant Guard commander. (Thorn dies, stone vanishes one day, Thire mistakes Vader for a Jedi and pays the price) Despite the best efforts of his son secretary Dogma (no way!?) Fox has very little will to live, is extremely depressed and borderline suicidal, he would like nothing more than to bite the dust, but still feels he has a duty to the very few remaining corries and so tries to keep it together (he is failing)

- one day Palpatine decides he doesn’t need Fox to do his bidding anymore since he has much better assets at his disposal (Fives), and decides it would be ironic to sic his pet clone inquisitor onto Fox. Fives still doesn’t remember anything, and only knows that Fox is responsible for the main scars on his body and believes fox is the reason he doesn’t remember most of his life, and so sets out to kill fox. They battle it out (ref to that one animation wip I posted) and fives is on the verge of killing fox (who didn’t really try to fight that much, like I said he would very much like to die and dying at the hand of the vod he “killed” seems fitting to him) when he gets a sudden vision of echo.

- all fives knows is echo is extremely important to him and must be rescued and that snaps him out of palpatine’s control. He knows he probably can’t rescue echo alone, and since fox has already been betrayed by the empire he decides “fuck it” and basically kidnaps fox and they run. They make a deal, that once echo has been found, Fives will put Fox out of his misery (fox feels that fives should be the only person to kill him, and only goes along with the plan because he refuses to let anyone else kill him)

- fox and fives proceed to go on an intergalactic road trip to “rescue echo” even though neither of them know how to do that. They become closer friends throughout, and fives slowly regains bits and pieces of the Before

- meanwhile during the destruction of Kamino, the bad batch stumble on echo and rescue him and he stays with them for a little bit before leaving with Rex

- meanwhile Dogma helps the rest of the remaining Corries desert, kills too many storm troopers, and tries to go after his buir fox and the bastard inquisitor who kidnapped him

This is the main stuff you need to know for the AU haha so if you’ve got new name suggestions I’m all ears ty!!

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marvelstoriesepic · 1 month ago

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Wake up (part 2)

Pairing: Avenger!Bucky x Avenger!Reader

Summary: Bucky will not abandon you unconscious while hoping for answers about what viciousness is running through your body. After all, Hydra always takes everything a person has to offer.

Word Count: 6.2k

Warnings: mentions of Bucky’s past; Bucky is going through some emotional shit here; Hydra; vomiting; seizure; guilt and self-blame; medical setting and distress; grief; PTSD; anxiety; panic attacks; so much angst

Author’s Note: A second part to Wake up has been the winner of my poll, so here we are. I’ve been sticking with the angst of the first part and I'm not gonna lie, this might have been the hardest thing I’ve written so far. So, please read the warnings before diving in and be beware that this does not end well. (I really don’t believe that all hope’s lost but read for yourself) But I actually do like how this turned out despite it hurting me so much lol. Let me know what you think ♡

part three

Angstober Masterlist | Masterlist

Bucky Barnes has lost a lot in his long life.

He has lost pieces of himself - some torn away violently, others slowly dissolving in his grasp no matter how hard he tried to keep them.

It was torturous and agonizing, prolonged over time, creating empty voids where something complete once used to be.

He has lost the weight and warmth of his own limb, his left arm stolen from him under the most excruciating circumstances, only to be replaced by a piece of metal that messed badly with his nerve endings.

His body bears the evidence. Scars marrying his flesh, muscle and sinew replaced by cold and unfeeling vibranium.

His mind has suffered even worse. Memories shattered, rewritten, erased. A name that once meant something - James Buchanan Barnes - reduced to something foreign, something he had to claw his way back to.

He has been unmade and remade too many times to count, his identity fractured into a thousand pieces. Each one holds remnants of the pain, of orders barked in languages he barely recognizes, of faces he was forced to forget the moment they fell.

His past is an open wound that never quite heals, no matter how much time passes. He has lost friends, family, freedom - every tether to the life he once lived.

But he survived.

Somehow, despite the things Hydra did to him, despite the decades of blood staining his hands, despite the decades of his limbs moving to another brain, despite the guilt slithering through his veins and dragging its nails down his spine. He survived.

He fought his way back. For you. Because of you. You helped him get himself back.

And that’s why this loss - your loss - would be different.

He doesn’t even acknowledge this with dramatics, doesn’t try to make it sound noble or poetic. It’s not something to be proud of. It’s just the truth. A certainty.

If you leave him, he will not survive. He would not even try.

A simple fact that is not simple at all.

It’s the most devastating, soul-crushing fact of his existence.

Because if you never open your eyes again - if those beautiful, expressive eyes, the ones that soften whenever they land on him, the ones that twinkle like stardust only for him because you love him so much - stay closed forever, then what reason does he have to go on?

If he never sees that smile again, the one that makes his knees weak, that makes his chest feel too small to hold everything he feels for you - the smile only made for him because you love him so much - then what point is there in taking another breath?

If you never wrap your arms around him again - never squeeze him so tightly he can feel your affection seep into him, warming the coldest, most forgotten parts of him, because you love him so much - then what is he supposed to do with himself?

If your lips never touch his again, never press against his skin, never ghost over his own in those kisses that steal his breath even if it is a simple peck, or if you end up breathlessly clinging to each other, all because you love him so much - then he might as well have nothing at all.

And if your voice - your sweet, adoring, and grounding voice - never speaks those three words again, the ones that leave him on this world, the ones that remind him that despite everything, despite all that he has done and all that he has lost, he is still capable of being loved - if he never gets to hear those words again, then there will be nothing left of him.

Because without you he is just a man with too many ghosts and too little purpose. A man trying to walk on broken legs, reaching for something, grasping at something, hoping for something, that will never be found.

He would not survive it. Not again. Not this time.

Bucky doesn’t remember the run to the med bay.

It went so fast but also way too slow.

Moments before, he was in your shared room, shaking you, begging for you to wake up, and then, he was barreling down the hallways, your body limp in his arms.

His boots slammed against the floor, his breath coming in ragged rasps. His grip around you was so tight that if you had been awake, you would have told him to ease up, that you weren’t going anywhere with that soft and gentle voice of yours. But you weren’t awake. It was only him.

He doesn’t remember how many doors he crashed through, doesn’t recall how many people shouted his name as he stormed through the compound like a man possessed.

All he could focus on was you, your weight in his arms, the unmanageable silence coming from you. It was too quiet. Too still.

You were and still are the only thing in his focus. The only thing in his mind.

The moment he bursts into the med bay, Bruce is already moving, eyes wide behind his glasses as he takes one look at Bucky’s desperate face - at you - and points to the nearest examination table.

“Put her down. Now.”

Bucky hesitates for only a second.

“Barnes!” Bruce snaps, voice sharp.

And Bucky moves, his hands trembling as he lowers you onto the cold metal table, his touch lingering longer than it should have, afraid you will leave him the moment he lets go.

Then Bruce is there, hands on you, tilting your head, checking your pulse. Bucky feels something inside him snap.

Bile surges up his throat, hot and acidic, and before he can stop himself, he staggers backward, barely making it to a medical waste bin before his stomach heaves violently. His whole body shakes with the force of it, his metal hand clutching the edge of the table so hard it groans under the pressure.

He only hears someone - Tony - mutter behind him. “Jesus. Alright, Barnes, maybe you should-”

“No.” His voice is hoarse, sore. He doesn’t even look up, just wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, his entire body coiled so tightly he feels like he might snap in half.

He is not leaving.

He doesn’t hear whatever else is said because Bruce is calling for Dr. Cho, his voice tight, controlled but urgent. She appears within moments, already shrugging into her white coat as she assesses the situation with a practiced eye.

“Tell me everything,” she demands, moving beside Bruce as they work over you.

“She was exposed to something - some kind of airborne agent.” Bruce says quickly, Bucky not able to get a word out. “Came back from the mission fine, but then-”

“Then she wouldn’t wake up,” Bucky rasps, his voice barely above a scratchy whisper. He forces himself to step closer again, his fingers jerking at his sides. He wants to touch you, needs to touch you, but Bruce has already started attaching monitors to your chest, your temples, your wrist.

So Bucky can only stare at your unmoving face, and his gut contracts dreadfully, twisting like a wrung-out rag. A breath flees his mouth in a rough gust.

Because you are lying here, looking as if you are fading further away by the second.

Bucky is grateful that no one is paying him any mind.

Every ounce of attention in the room is on you, and that’s exactly where it needs to be. No one spares him so much as a glance, and hell, he is thankful to be ignored.

Because if they looked at him, they would see the way his hand wouldn’t stop shaking. Even the metal seems to be quivering, the nerve endings in his shoulder acting up. They would see his chest rising and falling too fast, his breaths sharp and strained like he is moments from shattering into something unrecognizable.

But none of it matters. Because you are still lying there, too still, too limp, too silent, too pale against the stark white of the medical bay’s harsh lights.

The color has drained from your face, your lips slightly parted, your breathing faint but regular. It’s the only sign of life you give.

Your head remains tilted unnaturally to the side, strands of hair sticking to your cheek from the moisture of Bruce’s sensors as they gather data, searching for something that might explain what the hell is happening to you.

Tony is somewhere behind him, speaking hurriedly into his earpiece. “Yeah, well, tell me something useful, here, Fitz!” His voice is sharp, frustration a part of it, but there is something else there, too - something too close to fear. Bucky doesn’t hear that in Tony often. “I don’t care what Fury’s saying - no, I don’t care - just get me those samples analyzed faster.”

There are agitated voices somewhere to his left. Steve and Natasha. Steve is trying to get to him. Bucky knows it without turning around. He can feel his best friend's presence, hear the urgency in the way his boots scruff against the floor, the way his voice lowers as he mutters something to Natasha, arguing. But the redhead doesn’t budge, Steve doesn’t reach him, and Bucky is left standing in place, barely keeping himself upright.

Bruce and Dr. Cho are working in tandem over your body. Bruce adjusts the monitors, his fingers hovering over your wrist for a moment, measuring something by touch alone. His jaw is tight, his usual steady hands moving just a fraction quicker, his eyes switching between the data on the screen and your unmoving form.

Dr. Cho is settling up and IV, her hands deft as she inserts the needle into the delicate skin of your forearm. The bag above you fills with something clear, something Bucky doesn’t recognize, but he trusts her. He has to. She murmurs something to Bruce, and he nods, glancing at one of the monitors before adjusting the oxygen mask now resting over your face.

“We need a full toxicology scan,” Dr. Cho says, voice firm but calm. Something Bucky can’t manage right now. “Start running a metabolic panel and check for neurotoxins. If this was airborne, we need to know if it’s still in her system.”

Bruce is already moving, tapping rapidly at a tablet screen. “Her vitals are stable, but they’re low - lower than they should be. She’s there, but barely.”

Bucky’s hands clench into fists, his nails digging into his palms, he is sure even the metal will have marks. His head is spinning, everything outside of you irrelevant to him. There is too much movement, too many sounds, too many people talking, but none of it matters because you still haven’t moved. You still haven’t opened your eyes.

His bones feel like they are collapsing. Like a house of cards caught in a slow fall.

And Bucky swears that if you don’t wake up soon, he won’t be able to breathe at all.

The waiting for results is maddening. He is hardly moving, hardly breathing, only able to wait for someone to say something that will make sense of this.

Bruce is the first to speak. He pushes his glasses up to the bridge of his nose, squinting at the tablet in his hands like maybe if he looks at it long enough, the numbers will rearrange themselves into something different. Something fixable.

“There’s nothing,” he says, voice quieter than before. Stunned.

Bucky blinks, his body stiffening. “What?”

Bruce glances at Dr. Cho, but she is already busy studying the results on a separate screen, her lips pressed tightly together.

“Nothing toxic in her blood,” Bruce continues, carefully neutral. “No neurotoxins, no foreign substances - nothing that should be causing this.”

Bucky’s insides lurch, churning like a sea under a violent storm. He tilts his head forward as if he misheard, his mind running. “No. No, that’s not-” He gestures uncoordinatedly to where you still lay, unmoving, breath slow but there. “Look at her! There’s gotta be something.”

Dr. Cho finally speaks, measured but voice set. “Medically speaking, she should be awake.”

Bucky got shot in the chest once.

He still doesn’t know how he survived. It hurt like hell.

But those words are the bullet that will tear through his heart, make him crumble, kill him.

Should be awake.

But you fucking aren’t.

“You’re saying she’s fine,” he grits out, his tone steely, voiced with something dark. The same darkness that knots deep in his belly. “But she’s not moving, not waking up, not-” His voice breaks, and he presses his mouth closed so tightly to make a sound stop from boiling up. His head shakes vehemently. “There has to be something.”

“Bucky-” Bruce tries, but Bucky doesn’t let him finish.

“Check again.” His voice is lower now, dangerous, but everybody surely hears the desperation in his tone. “Check again, check everything - you must’ve missed something.”

Bruce exhales, rubbing his temples. “I’ve run the tests twice-”

“Damnit, then run it a fucking third time.” Bucky’s voice rises.

“We’ve checked everything. There is nothing wrong-”

“Then why isn’t she waking up?” Bucky roars, and suddenly, everyone in the room is dead silent.

Tony looks between Bucky and the doctors, his expression grim. Steve, who had edged closer, takes a careful step back, but looks at Bucky warningly, yet still utterly sympathetic. Natasha has just the slightest sheen over her eyes herself, but tries to keep her composure. Sam is standing in a corner, watching without a single remark. That’s new for him.

Even Bruce and Dr. Cho pause for just a second, eyes falling to him.

Then Dr. Cho exhales sharply, snapping her gloves off with quick, almost harsh movements. “Everyone out. Now.”

Tony raises a brow. “You kicking us out, doc?”

“Yes,” she replies curtly. “You’re all in the way. We need to focus. Here are too many people. This won’t help us and it won’t help her.”

Steve hesitates but eventually nods, throwing one last glance at Bucky and at you before stepping out, Tony following behind. Natasha slips out almost quickly, searching for a place to be alone. Sam leaves without a word, expression stony. The room empties.

But Bucky doesn’t move.

“Bucky,” Bruce says, softer now, as if he is speaking to a wild animal, careful not to startle it. “You should go too.”

Bucky doesn’t even blink. “No.”

Dr. Cho frowns unpleased, crossing her arms. “You’re not helping her by being here. You’re just getting in the way.”

“I’m not leaving,” Bucky grinds out, planting his feet like a goddamn mountain. His breathing is too rough, his pulse too high, but he doesn’t have time to care. The only thing he cares about is not to leave you.

Dr. Cho lets out a breath through her nose, but she doesn’t argue further. There is no time to fight with a stubborn ex-assassin who looks like he’s one wrong word away from losing his mind.

“Fine,” she relents, turning back to Bruce. “Then stay out of the way. We have work to do.”

Bucky doesn’t even acknowledge her.

Guilt sits in his chest like something rotten. It is an anxious tangle of nerves and dread and agony that curl in his stomach, inescapable. It’s as if his body is rejecting him all over again.

It feasts on every nerve and every cell and gnaws and gnaws and gnaws, hollowing him out from the inside.

He let himself believe that you were fine. That this is just his paranoia, just his need to keep you wrapped up, shielded from every possible danger - the worry he always feels for you, the way he clings so much.

But your chest rises and falls so slow and mechanical, and it’s not right. Your color is drained to the point that you look ghost-like. It’s as if your body is just pretending to be alive. As if it’s just waiting for something, stalling.

You look like you are already knocking on death’s door.

And they try to tell him there is nothing wrong.

The words make his scull vibrate with rage, but even more so with fear. Such a gripping and burning fear. His pulse is a single beat he can feel all along his skin.

Because what if there really is nothing? What if there is nothing to fix and you are already half gone?

His hands are trembling so hard, not even forming a fist can stop it.

He should have brought you here sooner. Should have forced you here the second you got back, should have ignored your reassurances, your sugary and alluring voice telling him that you feel fine and that you love him and there is nothing to worry about.

But he did worry.

He did have that awful, gut-deep feeling, a whisper in the back of his mind, telling him that something was wrong. But he convinced himself that it was just him. That you are fine. And you would be fine. And this was nothing. And there was nothing to worry about. That you would wake up and smile that soft smile at him and wish him a good morning, honey. You sleep well? with your endearing morning voice and all would be fine because you would be there and awake and with him and in his arms and the sun filtering in would illuminate your body and make you gleam in your ethereal glow and he would tell you you look beautiful and you would giggle and you would kiss him and you would tell him you love him and he would repeat it a thousand times over and-

He wants to throw up again, feeling the nausea rise. He wants to undo whatever led you here, wants to rip apart the universe until he finds the moment where he should have acted, should have saved you, should have known better.

Because things like that happen to Bucky Barnes.

The voices are there. Bruce and Cho speaking in hushed and clinical tones, words slipping past his ears. He hears them. Knows they are saying things that should matter. Should mean something.

But he can’t focus.

Because the only thing his brain registers, the only thing anchoring him to anything right now, is the slow and rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor.

It pounds in his eardrums, in the space behind his eyes, sinks beneath his skin. Unchanging. It should be a comfort. A reassurance. But it’s not.

It sounds too artificial - as if it’s the machine keeping you here instead of your own will. Instead of you.

His heart seems to try and outrun a fate that has not been decided yet. His hands flex and curl, doing nothing else. He is so helpless. Drowning in the air, like a scream caged behind his ribs with no way to escape.

Bucky is not a man who would ever think about praying.

But for you, he would sink down onto his knees and beg, beg until his lungs give out, plead until his voice dies, and him with it.

He wants to move. Wants to do something. But all he is forced to do is watch. Watch the way your body doesn’t stir, the way your lips remain slightly parted, breath scarcely there. You seem asleep in a way that isn’t right.

Bruce says something. He doesn’t catch it.

Dr. Cho responds, sharper this time, with a note of urgency in her tone. But Bucky still can’t process the words.

Because the beeping is the only thing.

The only proof that you are still here.

The sole factor preventing his thoughts from plunging into a darkness he can't drag his way out of.

The sound of your heartbeat, manufactured and distant, is the only thing between him and utter ruin.

And then it stutters.

Just for a second. A fracture of a hesitation, a hiccup in the mechanical pattern.

But it is clear.

And Bucky’s breath seizes, every nerve ending in his body lighting up under a fire that might just burn him to the ground.

Another stutter.

He lunges forward without thinking, knocking something over in the process, metal clattering against tile. Bruce shouts his name, Cho curses, but Bucky doesn’t hear anything.

Because something is happening.

The beeping stutters again. Then again.

Then your body jerks. A sudden, unnatural motion, like a puppet with its strings, yanked too hard. Your chest arches up, limbs jolting, fingers curling in on themselves like they don’t belong to you anymore.

The heart monitor lets out a rapid sequence of beeps, the steady pattern broken, discordant - like a song ripped apart note by note.

A seizure.

Bucky doesn’t even have time to feel the utter terror pumping up his belly and rushing up to his face in less than half a second, only that it is propelling him forward. He doesn’t care that Bruce and Cho are already moving, doesn’t care that there are hands trying to hold you down, voices shouting instructions.

He drops to his knees by your head because his legs won’t hold him up anymore. His hands reach instinctively - one cradling the back of your head, the other threading into your hair, gripping almost too tight, as if he can keep you here just by holding on. He never should have let go in the first place. Another thing to hate himself for.

“No, no, no, baby, baby, please-” His voice is wrecked. Shattered and gravelly, rasping against his throat like it’s tearing him apart from the inside out. The words barely make it past his lips, broken things gasped between strangled sobs.

“Stay with me, doll. Please. Please, don’t- don’t do this, you don’t get to do this, not to me, not to me-”

His breath is failing him, catching on every desperate syllable, every plea. His chest aches and caves under the panic and horror, he can’t hold himself up properly anymore. His forehead presses against yours, his tears hot where they land on your skin, his entire body shaking against you.

He is crying, saying things not even he understands. His voice is a single crack, a sound so undone it doesn’t sound human. He begs and begs and begs, but you continue to cramp.

A sob rips through him, brutal and loud, and he sucks in a desolate breath between the wreckage of his words.

He doesn’t know the way Cho and Bruce are working frantically, doesn’t hear the sounds of other people in white coats hectically running around.

All he knows is you.

And the way your body seizes beneath his hands, the way your face remains slack, the way your breath catches as if your body itself is deciding whether to keep you here or let you go.

Bucky grips you harder and presses his lips to your temple in a way that is almost rough.

“Stay with me,” he whimpers against your skin, voice not even a real whisper, hoarse and thick with cries. “I can’t lose you. Won’t survive. I won’t survive.”

You gasp.

Your body stills. Limbs falling back onto the hard table with a sharp clang.

And his world is falling apart, into itself, collapsing, crumbling. His eyes fail, not showing him the whole picture anymore, burning his vision away and replacing it with cruel pictures. He falls into an abyss so deep he won’t ever meet the ground and the reprieve of shattering into the floor-

Beep.

A single note.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

It’s rhythmic. It’s there.

Your heart is still beating.

The sound sends a shockwave through his chest, his heart, his core, him. It rattles his ribs.

Bucky shudders. A deep, guttural sob rips through him and he buries his face against your hair, his arms wrapped so tightly around you it’s as if he’s trying to fuse you to him, trying to force the universe to let him keep you.

He chokes on a sound, nothing more than a shattered breath. His body sags, overwhelmed, drained, but his hands refuse to loosen their hold on you, careful of the cables attached to your body.

The chaos of the room dims just slightly, shifting to more focus.

“That-” Bruce analyses in a clipped tone. “That wasn’t just a seizure. That was an autonomic collapse. Her body just shut down.”

Bucky is still swimming in the aftershock of nearly losing you, he can’t comprehend anything other than the smell of your hair and skin.

“That’s not possible,” Cho considers, voice low, but there is just the tiniest hint of concern in her voice now. “Not without something triggering it.”

There is shuffling around him - machines being adjusted, readings being analyzed. But Bucky stays right there, forehead pressed to yours, his thumbs smoothing over your cheekbones as if you were made of glass. “Come back to me,” he breathes, pleading. “Please come back, please. I can’t- I can’t do this without you. Can’t do anything without you. Y/n, please!”

Bruce releases a breath somewhere nearby. Bucky lost all his senses.

“I need to see the chemical breakdown of that gas - now,” he instructs.

“Come back. Come back to me, baby, come back,” Bucky croaks out, still not addressing the two discussing your situation, his voice rough and barely working. His lips don’t move from your temple.

Cho’s hands move over the tablet, scanning your vitals. “Her body didn’t just react to it. It adapted to it. And now-” She pauses, face tightening as she processes the data. “It’s waiting for something.”

Bucky heaves up a breath, a sick and swirling tension writhing in his stomach like a nest of snakes. “Waiting for what?” he finally acknowledges.

Bruce’s gaze flicks up, something apologetic and utterly pained behind his eyes. His voice is careful. “A command.”

Silence slams into the room like a sudden, vicious drop in pressure.

Bucky grows cold. The sickening sensation in him spreads. His hands tighten around you in instinctual protection.

Fucking Hydra.

“This wasn’t just some toxin or experiment,” Cho continues, flipping through the data, her expression darkening. “This was programmed. Her nervous system - her brain - it’s been put in a dormant state. Not a coma, not unconsciousness. Something else.”

Bucky is shaking his head before she even finishes speaking. “No. No, she - she’s right here, she’s breathing, she-”

But he can’t deny it. Can’t ignore the chilling, creeping terror worming around his spine, despair festering it. Because he knows this. Knows the way Hydra takes people and twists them, programs them like machines, like weapons, like him.

His stomach sinks, drops, falls - down, down, down. Falling into the abyss. Never to land. Never to return.

Nausea rolls over him in sick ways. But he can’t let him heave it up again. Because therefore, he would have to let go of you. And he will not do that.

“It’s got to be some kind of activation sequence,” Bruce says grimly. “A failsafe. Whatever was in that gas, it did something to her. Put her into a kind of-” he pauses, carefully glancing at Bucky, “-standby mode.”

Bucky’s jaw is hard, it would hurt if he could feel it. “Then wake her the fuck up.”

“We’re trying,” Cho snaps back, stress sharpening her usual calm tone. “But this isn’t just a medical problem, Barnes. It’s neurological. It’s programming.”

Bucky flinches. His fingers tangle in your hair and he tucks you impossibly closer. “She’s not a machine,”he spits out, voice shaking, harsher than he means it to be but not able to change it. “She’s not like-”

He stops himself. The words She’s not like me nearly escape, but he forces them back down his throat, though it burns.

Bruce and Cho exchange a look.

And that’s when Tony speaks up from the corner of the room - seemingly having allowed himself to come back inside - voice resolved, hard. “Then we need to figure out what the hell they were trying to turn her into.”

No. Please, god, no. Not her. Not you.

Bucky is unaware of his movements, of the way he is clutching you tighter, the way his body trembles, the sting in his throat from how ragged his breathing has been for the last couple of however long he’s been here already.

He can’t keep you from this. Can’t protect you from something that has already taken root inside you.

Just like it did in him.

His vision is a hot fog. The room nothing but a smear of sterile white light and moving shadows, the voices of Banner and Cho turning into indecipherable noise as they scramble for answers.

Tony is heading to his lap to probably run every scan known to a man on that goddamn gas. Steve is speaking too. Where did he come from? Since when is he here again? But Bucky doesn’t care. He doesn’t listen.

Because you are still motionless in his arms.

They are talking about activation sequences. Standby modes. Neurological programming. They’re using all these terms, these medical, scientific explanations - but none of them are saying what it really means.

Hydra did something to you.

Hydra put something in you.

And if there’s one thing Bucky knows, one thing that has been burned into his very being, it’s that Hydra does not give. It does not take halfway. It does not leave things unfinished.

They only ever take everything.

And only with a little bit of smoke in the air, you have been exposed to for mere minutes.

A rough, strangled sound makes its way up his throat, and it takes him a second to realize it’s even coming from him. A horrible, cracking noise of grief and rage and devastation. His fingers dig into the warmth of you, your neck, your back, your thigh, needing to feel you, needing to have you here with him even though his mind is screaming at him that all the parts of you he had are gone already.

But he won’t accept that.

Shaking fingers card through your hair, pushing damp strands away from your face, his metal hand cradling your cheek.

His voice is an aching whisper. “You’re stronger than me, you know that?” His breath shudders over the words, his quivering lips brushing against your forehead, lingering there. “You always have been.”

His thumb gently strokes over the hollow beneath your closed eye, his jaw clenching hard as he takes in the deep stillness of your body. His chest tries to draw in air but is constricted.

He can’t see you like this. You are never this still. Never motionless. You live in the moment - in bright, uncontainable energy.

“You’ll get through this.” Each word drags thickly from his throat. It hurts so much. Everything hurts so much. “I know you will. You always do. You always pull me with you, too.” His laugh is soft and hollow, broken like the man he is in process of becoming again. “Even when I didn’t want saving, you just-”

He swallows hard, squeezes his eyes together, and takes a deep breath filled with your scents. But it mingles with the sterile smell of that moisture and clinic. A tear slips past his lashes. Another follows.

“You never let go.”

His head bows, his forehead against your temple, a shallow gasp slips from his lips.

“And I won’t either.”

His flesh thumb presses lightly to your neck, enough to feel your pulse. He hears the beep of the monitor but he needs to feel it.

“I’m right here, baby,” he breathes. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He presses his lips to your temple, to your cheekbones, to your forehead, your nose, everywhere he likes. Everywhere he has to. He lets himself feel the warmth of you, the thumps of your heartbeat against his fingers.

Another tear slips past when he presses another strained whisper to your skin.

“I’d go anywhere with you. I’d follow you to the end of the world. But you gotta wake up, baby.”

“Bucky,” Steve’s voice finally meets his ears, but it sounds too damn soft. As if he is talking to a wounded and aching creature.

As if he expects Bucky to break. He might. He will.

Bucky snaps his head up, and the look on his face must be something terrible because Steve actually takes a step back.

“You think I don’t know what this means?” Bucky growls, his voice a debris of sound. His hands shake so hard against you, he can’t even hold you as tight as he wants to anymore. And for the first time in his life, he hates the warmth of his flesh. Hates that the metal doesn’t run through both arms, because maybe then he wouldn’t have to feel this overpowering helplessness.

Maybe then he wouldn’t feel human enough to understand what it means to lose.

Maybe then he could just return to be the machine he was supposed to be all along.

He already feels himself going back to him.

“She’s not like me,” he snarls, voice catching on the words, breaking them apart. “She’s not going to be like me.”

No one answers him.

No one says no, of course not, she’s going to be fine, we’ll fix this, we’ll wake her up and this will just be another nightmare we all wake up from.

Because no one knows if that’s true.

Bruce’s fingers move over his tablet. “Whatever Hydra did… it’s not finished yet. We need to be prepared.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Bucky’s voice is lethal, pure steel dipping into panic.

“It means,” Bruce hesitates, glancing at Steve for help but the blonde doesn’t seem to know better, so he continues. “We don’t know in what state she is in. This could have done anything to her-”

A low, animalistic sound rumbles from Bucky’s chest. “Then we stop it.”

Bruce looks at him, eyes trying to soften, but he seems too remorseful. “We don’t even know what it is yet.”

“We stop it,” Bucky repeats, harsher this time. Because the alternative is something he can’t think of.

He sways, a choking sense of deja vu inching up his spine. He knows this feeling. He’s lived this feeling. That moment, the harsh, dizzying drop into nothingness, when you realize you don’t know yourself anymore. That you never really did.

And now, Hydra is doing that to you.

Cho stiffens suddenly, eyes rapidly moving across the screen in front of her. “Wait - something’s changing-”

Every muscle in Bucky’s body locks as his gaze snaps to you, his breath stalling.

Your fingers. The barest twitch. A tiny, nearly imperceptible movement against his chest.

But it’s there.

Bucky sucks in a breath so sharp it burns. “She’s-”

Before he can finish, your entire body spasms intensely.

Alarms shriek. Machines stutter to life. A sharp, erratic beeping floods the room.

Your scream tears through the space. Guttural and fervent and wrong.

Bucky’s blood freezes mid-flow, turning to shards of ice beneath his skin.

Because you are screaming like you are dying.

And suddenly, everyone is rushing around. Bruce and Cho are lunging forward, Steve is cursing under his breath.

Bucky can’t move.

Frost crackles through his veins, leaving only numbness behind.

You continue screaming. It sounds like it’s affecting your vocal cords.

There is winter inside of Bucky.

His arms tighten around you, his body moving on pure instinct, pressing you to him.

“It’s okay, baby,” he gasps out, not even sure if you can hear him, but he can’t help it. He cups your face between his hands, hoping to still the way you thrash around and bump your head against the metal beneath you. “I’m here. It’s me, baby. It’s Bucky. I’m here. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

But your screams don’t stop.

Your hands claw weakly at your own chest, at your throat, as if trying to get something out, as if your own skin is suffocating you. Your nails leave scratch marks on your collarbone.

And Bucky loses it.

“Do something!” he yells, his head whipping around to Bruce and Cho, his voice shredded with desperation. “Help her!”

Bruce quickly injects something into your IV, Cho adjusts the monitors as they beep wildly.

But Bucky doesn’t see any of it.

He only sees you.

His world narrows down to your face, to the way your lips part on a strained gasp, the way your body shakes in his grip, the way your screams turn to whimpers and then stop altogether.

Then, your eyes snap open.

Bucky stops breathing. Stops moving. Only stares agape.

Your gaze is on him, wide and glassy and soaked in terror.

But you look at him in a way you never looked at him ever before.

You look at him like you are not yourself anymore.

You look at him like you don’t know him.

You look at him like you don’t recognize him at all.

“Without you, the world means nothing to me.”

- Emily Brontë

Part three

692 notes · View notes

aspenmissing · 3 months ago

Note

hey! just wanted to say that i LOVE your writing style!!! :3 is it possible to get an s\a comfort for the arcane characters? nothing in detail of course- just the characters find out that reader gotten s\a'd. i'd really like that as someone who survived s\a. if you don't want to do that, that's fine! i get it. :) thank you! 🤍🤍🤍

ꜱᴀꜰᴇ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇɪʀ ᴀʀᴍꜱ

ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ | ᴠɪᴋᴛᴏʀ | ᴊᴀʏᴠɪᴋ | ᴠᴀɴᴅᴇʀ | ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ | ᴍᴇʟ || ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ/ᴄᴏᴍꜰᴏʀᴛ/ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ-ɪꜱʜ || 6598 ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ || ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ᴘᴀꜱᴛ ꜱ/ᴀ (ɴᴏ ᴅᴇꜱᴄʀɪᴘᴛɪᴏɴ/ᴅᴇᴛᴀɪʟ)

ʀᴇQᴜᴇꜱᴛ ᴀɴꜱᴡᴇʀ: ᴏʜ ᴍʏ ᴅᴇᴀʀ, ʏᴏᴜ ᴅᴇꜱᴇʀᴠᴇ ᴀʟʟ ᴛʜᴇ ʟᴏᴠᴇ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴏʀʟᴅ! ɪ ʜᴏᴘᴇ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʙᴀꜱᴛᴀʀᴅ ɢᴏᴛ ᴡʜᴀᴛᴇᴠᴇʀ ʜᴇ ᴅᴇꜱᴇʀᴠᴇᴅ. ɪ'ᴍ ꜱᴏ ꜱᴏʀʀʏ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʜᴀᴘᴘᴇɴᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ʏᴏᴜ, ᴀɴᴅ ɪ ʜᴏᴘᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀʀᴇ ᴅᴏɪɴɢ ᴡᴇʟʟ! ɪ ʜᴏᴘᴇ ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴄᴀɴ ɢɪᴠᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ꜱᴏᴍᴇ ᴄᴏᴍꜰᴏʀᴛ, ʙᴜᴛ ɪ ᴅᴏ ᴡɪꜱʜ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀʟʟ ᴛʜᴇ ʟᴏᴠᴇ! <3 <3 <3 <3

JAYCE

The workshop was quiet, save for the occasional scratch of Jayce’s pen against parchment. Hextech schematics lay sprawled across the table, half-finished, waiting for the spark of genius he often found in the quiet moments. But tonight, his thoughts were elsewhere.

You sat by the window, the soft glow of Piltover’s streetlamps casting a golden sheen over your face. You hadn’t spoken much today, lost in a silence Jayce didn’t quite understand—but he felt it. The weight of something unspoken, something that pressed against your chest and refused to let go.

Jayce wasn’t the kind of man to push. He knew you’d talk when you were ready. But seeing you like this, so distant, so unlike the spark of life you usually carried—it hurt him. He had seen you in your brightest moments, laughing with unfiltered joy, eyes alight with wonder as you watched him work. Now, it was as if the light had dimmed, and he hated feeling helpless.

“Mi Amor,” he murmured, setting his pen down and pushing aside his work. He stood, crossing the room in slow, careful strides, as if afraid to break you further. “Talk to me.” (My love)

You didn’t look up, eyes trained on the world outside, but your fingers curled tighter around the fabric of your sleeve. He could see it now—the tension in your shoulders, the way you curled in on yourself as if trying to make yourself small.

His heart clenched.

Jayce had seen battle, had faced opposition, had fought tooth and nail to make the world a better place. But nothing, nothing in the world made him feel as powerless as watching you fight a war inside yourself that he couldn’t see. He wanted to fix things, but some wounds didn’t heal with science or innovation. Some wounds simply needed time, and someone to hold the pieces together.

“Please,” he said, softer this time. He knelt beside you, resting a warm, calloused hand over yours. “Whatever it is, you don’t have to carry it alone.”

A shaky breath left your lips, and that was the beginning of it. The unraveling.

Your voice was barely above a whisper. “Something happened to me… a long time ago.”

Jayce didn’t move, didn’t speak, but his grip on your hand tightened—not enough to hurt, just enough to ground you. To tell you he was here. That he wasn’t going anywhere. His mind raced with questions, with anger at the world, but he pushed it all aside, focusing on you and only you.

“It wasn’t my fault,” you continued, and the way your voice broke shattered something deep within him. “I know that. I do. But sometimes, I still feel like—like I’m dirty. Like I’m weak.”

Jayce inhaled sharply, his jaw tightening. Not at you, never at you, but at the cruelty of the world. At the injustice of it all. But he forced himself to exhale slowly, to push down the anger, because right now, you needed him to be something else.

Gentle. Safe.

“Hey,” he whispered, shifting onto the couch beside you, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. He felt the way you tensed at first, before slowly sinking into him, letting him hold you. He pulled the blanket from the couch’s armrest, draping it over you both, creating a barrier from the outside world. “You are not weak, Y/N. You are the strongest person I know.”

A small, trembling hand clutched at the fabric of his shirt. “I just… I don’t want it to define me.”

Jayce pressed a kiss to your temple, lingering there. “It doesn’t.” He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, warm brown meeting yours with nothing but certainty. “You define yourself. Not what someone else did to you. And I swear to you, I’ll be here—every step of the way.”

A tear slipped down your cheek, and Jayce caught it with his thumb. And when you finally let yourself cry, truly cry, he didn’t try to shush you, didn’t try to rush your pain away. He just held you, strong and steady, as long as you needed.

Because that’s what love was.

As the minutes passed, the heavy silence between you slowly morphed into something lighter. He traced gentle circles on your back, whispering reassurances whenever he felt your breathing hitch. The world outside carried on, the distant sounds of the city moving forward—but in this moment, it was just the two of you, wrapped in warmth, in safety.

“I love you,” he finally murmured, resting his forehead against yours. It wasn’t about fixing you. You weren’t broken. It wasn’t about saving you. You didn’t need saving. It was about standing beside you, through the shadows and the light.

And he would. Always.

VIKTOR

The evening was quiet, save for the steady tick of a clock and the occasional rustle of papers as Viktor reviewed his notes at the dining table. The soft glow of candlelight bathed the apartment in golden hues, casting long shadows against the walls. It was a rare moment of stillness—no rushing around the lab, no frantic calculations, just the gentle company of one another.

You sat curled up on the couch, a book resting open on your lap, though your eyes had long since stopped reading the words. Your gaze was distant, unfocused, as if staring past the pages into something only you could see. Something in your mind weighed you down like a heavy chain, an old wound resurfacing without permission, dragging you into memories you wished you could forget.

The warmth of the apartment should have been comforting. The scent of old books and Viktor’s faintly metallic, oil-stained presence should have grounded you. But tonight, none of it was enough to stop the shiver crawling up your spine.

Viktor’s cane tapped lightly against the wooden floor as he made his way toward you, his movements careful and precise. Even with his slight limp, there was an elegance to the way he carried himself, a grace you had always admired.

“You are awfully quiet tonight, drahý.” His voice was soft, tinged with curiosity but not pressing. He lowered himself onto the couch beside you, resting his cane against the armrest. His presence was gentle but unwavering, his sharp gaze studying your face, taking in every small sign of distress. (Dear)

You swallowed, your fingers tightening around the edge of your book. “I just… I remembered something I wish I hadn’t.”

The words felt heavy as they left your lips, like they had been stuck in your throat for too long. You hadn’t meant to say anything at all. The last thing you wanted was to weigh Viktor down with your ghosts. But there was something about his presence, the way he sat patiently beside you, that made it impossible to hold everything in.

Viktor didn’t speak immediately, but his golden-brown eyes flickered with concern. He was always quick, his brilliant mind piecing things together with little effort. He had known for some time that you carried burdens—unspoken ones, locked away in the depths of your heart.

Gently, he reached out, his calloused hand resting over yours. His touch was warm, grounding. “You do not have to tell me if it hurts too much,” he said quietly. “But if you wish to… I am here.”

You looked down at his hand over yours, the contrast of it. Viktor, for all his genius, for all his sharp wit and unrelenting ambition, had always been so careful with you. Like he understood you needed gentleness more than anything else.

A shaky breath escaped your lips, and after a moment of hesitation, you whispered, “Someone hurt me. A long time ago.” The words felt foreign in your mouth, like they didn’t belong to you. “Not just hurt. They… they took something from me. And sometimes, I still feel like I can’t escape it.”

Silence followed, but not the uncomfortable kind.

Viktor’s grip on your hand tightened ever so slightly, his fingers curling around yours in a silent vow. His eyes darkened—not with pity, but with something deeper, something unreadable. There was an anger there, not directed at you, but at whoever had left these scars on your soul.

“I see,” he murmured after a long pause. His voice was careful, steady, but you could hear the tension beneath it. Viktor, who prided himself on his ability to understand the world, to solve its mysteries—this was something he could not fix. And that thought seemed to pain him.

Tears welled in your eyes before you could stop them. You hated crying, hated feeling like this. But Viktor made no move to hush you, no attempt to tell you it would be okay when he knew such words were empty.

Before the first tear could fall, he shifted closer. He moved slowly, always mindful, as if giving you the space to pull away if you needed.

“May I hold you?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

You nodded.

With a tenderness that contradicted the sharp, brilliant mind always whirring with thoughts, Viktor pulled you into his embrace. His arms wrapped securely around you, his warmth seeping into your skin, steady and unshakable. You buried your face into his shoulder, inhaling the familiar scent of parchment and faint oil.

He didn’t speak right away. He didn’t try to fix it, didn’t try to offer empty reassurances. Instead, he simply held you, his hand rubbing slow, soothing circles against your back, his other threading carefully through your hair.

“I hate that this happened to you,” he murmured, his lips brushing the crown of your head. “You did not deserve it.”

The weight of his words unraveled something inside you, and the tears finally slipped free. You clung to him, shaking, but he never wavered. He held you like you were something precious, something unbreakable despite everything.

For a long time, you stayed like that. Viktor didn’t rush you, didn’t try to fill the silence with unnecessary words. He simply let you cry, let you be however you needed to be.

After some time, when the shudders had eased, he pulled back just enough to look at you. His hand came up to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing away the last traces of tears. “I do not claim to know what you need to heal,” he admitted. “But whatever it is, I will be here. Always.”

His words wrapped around you like a safety net, a promise woven into the very foundation of who he was. Viktor had never been a man of empty promises, never one to say things just for the sake of them. He meant every word.

You let out a trembling sigh, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. “Just this,” you whispered. “This is enough.”

And Viktor, ever patient, ever kind, simply held you tighter, as if he could shield you from every nightmare, every ghost of the past. And maybe, in this moment, he did.

Because for the first time in a long time, you felt safe.

JAYVIK

The apartment was warm, lit by the soft glow of streetlamps filtering through the window. It had been a peaceful night—until it wasn’t.

Jayce’s hands had been on your waist, his lips tracing a path down your neck, and for a moment, it had been fine. You’d wanted this. You loved them—both of them. But then something shifted, something in the way he pressed a little too close, the weight of him trapping you against the couch. It sent a jolt of ice through your veins, a memory clawing its way up from the depths of your mind. Panic gripped you like a vice.

You barely registered the way you shoved him off, stumbling to your feet as your breath came too fast, too shallow. Your chest tightened, your vision blurred at the edges, and you could feel the room spinning.

“Y/N?” Jayce’s voice was distant, concerned, but it only made the nausea worse.

“Don’t—” Your voice cracked, shaking as you wrapped your arms around yourself, trying to ground yourself, trying to remember you were safe. But your body wasn’t listening.

Then, a familiar voice, steadier, softer, cut through the haze. “Drahý, breathe.” (Dear)

Viktor. His presence was close, but not too close. He stood carefully, his cane in hand, eyes locked onto yours with the kind of patience that had always made you feel safe. He wasn’t reaching for you, wasn’t crowding you—just waiting, offering you the space to come back to yourself at your own pace.

Jayce looked helpless, torn between wanting to comfort you and fearing he’d only make things worse. “I—I didn’t mean to—”

“I know,” you choked out, barely able to meet his eyes before squeezing yours shut. You hated this. Hated that the past still had this much power over you.

A warm hand, tentative but grounding, touched yours. Viktor. He was sitting now, careful, his golden eyes searching yours. “Come, sit,” he murmured, tapping the space beside him. “Let us be here with you.”

You hesitated, but your legs felt weak, trembling beneath you. Slowly, you sank down beside him, his cane resting against the arm of the couch as he adjusted, staying close but not overbearing. Jayce followed suit, hesitant, careful, his usual confidence replaced with concern.

“Was it… something I did?” Jayce asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

You swallowed hard, staring at your hands. “No. Not really. It just—reminded me of something.”

Jayce inhaled sharply, as if realizing exactly what that meant. “Shit. Y/N, I—”

Viktor gave him a pointed look, and Jayce stopped, nodding in understanding. This wasn’t about fixing it. This was about being here.

Viktor’s hand, still on yours, gave a gentle squeeze. “You are safe,” he reminded you. “With us, always.”

Your breath hitched, but this time, it wasn’t from panic. It was from the overwhelming sense of love wrapped around you, steady and unwavering.

Jayce exhaled and ran a hand through his hair before resting his palm on your knee, warm and solid. “We don’t have to do anything you don’t want. Ever.”

You nodded, still shaken but feeling less alone. Less like you were drowning. Viktor’s fingers traced slow, rhythmic patterns against the back of your hand, a silent reassurance.

“We can just stay like this,” Viktor murmured. “For as long as you need.”

The warmth of their presence enveloped you, a steady reminder that you weren’t alone. Viktor’s hand remained in yours, his touch light, patient, as if he was anchoring you to the moment. Jayce, still hesitant, moved just a little closer, his knee brushing against yours, testing the boundaries of what you could handle.

Minutes passed in silence, save for the quiet hum of the city outside. The steady tick of the clock on the wall gave a slow rhythm to your breaths, helping you count, helping you focus on the present instead of the ghosts clawing at the edges of your mind.

Jayce shifted, carefully, his fingers flexing on his knee before he spoke again. “Is there anything you need? Water? A blanket?” His voice was still thick with guilt, but it was softer now, focused on you, on making sure you were okay.

You hesitated, considering, before nodding. “Water… might help.”

Jayce stood immediately, as if grateful for something to do, and disappeared into the kitchen. The sound of cabinets opening and the faucet running grounded you further, the normalcy of it cutting through the lingering panic.

Viktor tilted his head slightly, watching you. “Would you like to talk about it?”

You chewed on your lip, unsure. Did you? The thought of saying it out loud made your throat tighten, but at the same time, you wanted them to understand. Needed them to know why your body reacted this way even when your mind told you you were safe.

Jayce returned, pressing a cold glass of water into your hands. You murmured a quiet thanks and took a sip, the cool liquid soothing your dry throat.

Finally, you exhaled. “It was a long time ago,” you began, voice barely above a whisper. “But sometimes… sometimes my body remembers before I do.”

Jayce sat back down beside you, his brows furrowed. “That’s not fair,” he muttered, frustration evident—but not at you. Never at you.

Viktor nodded, his expression unreadable, but his fingers gave another soft squeeze. “No, it is not. But you do not have to fight this alone.”

Tears pricked at your eyes, but this time, they weren’t from fear. They were from the sheer relief of being understood, of being loved despite the weight of your past. Viktor and Jayce didn’t ask for more than you could give. They didn’t push. They just stayed.

And right now, that was everything.

VANDER

The Last Drop had always been a place where time seemed to slow down. A haven for the weary, the broken, and the ones who had yet to be whole again. The flickering light from the lanterns cast a soft glow over the mismatched tables and worn stools, giving the place a sort of melancholic warmth. It had a life of its own, one that felt like a lullaby to those who found comfort here. But tonight, the usual chatter of laughter and boisterous conversation was missing. The bar was quieter than usual, and you could feel it in the air. Something was different.

Vander moved behind the bar with his usual fluid grace, his large hands skilled at cleaning glassware and wiping down counters. But there was something more to his movements tonight. The way his shoulders were drawn tight, as if he was carrying the weight of a thousand unsaid things. His eyes occasionally flicked toward you, noting the way you sat at the far end of the bar, your posture rigid, your gaze lost in the grain of the counter beneath your fingertips. You hadn’t even touched your drink, which was unusual for you. Your usual spark, the warmth in your expression that always made you stand out, was missing. Tonight, there was only a quiet storm behind your eyes, and Vander wasn’t one to ignore that.

He watched you for a moment longer before placing the rag down with a soft thud. The sound of it against the wooden bar seemed louder than it really was in the heavy silence. He made his way around the bar, his large frame blocking the faint light from the corner as he settled onto the stool beside you. It was a small gesture, but one that spoke volumes. He didn’t sit behind the counter, creating a divide between the two of you. He was right there, at your level, making it clear that he was present, not just physically, but emotionally, too.

“Y/N,” he said, his voice a low rumble that seemed to reach deep into your chest. “You alright, love?”

It was a simple question, but the tone of his voice, the gentle concern in it, made you flinch before you could even stop yourself. It was so small, barely noticeable to anyone else, but Vander didn’t miss a thing. His eyes softened, and he studied you for a long moment, looking for something you weren’t ready to show. You tried to force a smile, but it came out more like a thin line, your lips barely moving, and certainly not reaching your eyes.

“Just tired,” you mumbled, hoping the vague answer would be enough to satisfy him, to make him leave it alone. But Vander wasn’t someone who would settle for half-truths. Not when it came to you.

His gaze didn’t waver. “Y/N,” he said again, his voice low and steady. “You don’t have to tell me if you’re not ready, but somethin’ is weighin’ on you.”

The words hung in the air, heavy like lead, and for a long time, you didn’t say anything. What could you say? How could you explain it all without sounding weak? Without feeling like a failure? But Vander wasn’t asking you to explain. He wasn’t looking for your pain; he was just offering a place for it, a space where you didn’t have to carry it alone.

The silence between you stretched on, filled only by the quiet murmur of voices in the background. Finally, you sighed, the sound raw and full of weariness. You weren’t ready to tell him everything, but maybe you could start somewhere. Maybe just enough to take the weight off your chest, if only for a moment.

“Something happened,” you whispered, barely loud enough for him to hear. Your voice trembled despite yourself. “A long time ago. Before I came here. Someone—” You faltered, your throat tightening as memories flooded back, unwanted and sharp. The images came unbidden—faces, voices, moments you tried to bury deep within yourself. But they always resurfaced at the worst times.

Vander’s hand came down over yours, warm and steady, grounding you in a way no one else could. The simple touch of his palm against your trembling fingers was enough to silence the storm in your chest, even if just for a moment. He didn’t ask you to continue. He didn’t need you to tell him every detail. He just gave you the space to breathe. To be.

“You don’t have to tell me more than you want to,” he said softly, his thumb rubbing over the back of your hand in slow, reassuring circles. “But somethin’ happened to you, and I can see it’s still hauntin’ you.”

You swallowed hard, and for a moment, it felt like the world was spinning too fast. You didn’t want to admit it. You didn’t want to let him see you weak. But it was too much to keep inside. So, you let out a shaky breath and whispered, “It’s not easy to talk about.”

His gaze softened, but there was no pity in it. Just a quiet understanding that went deeper than anything words could express. He didn’t push you. He didn’t demand more than you could give. Instead, he waited, patiently, with the calm strength that was always there when you needed it most.

When you spoke again, it was barely above a whisper. “It’s just... sometimes it feels like it still has power over me. Like no matter how far I go, no matter how much time passes, it’s still there. Still lurking in the back of my mind.” You looked down at your hands, trying to steady them, but they were trembling, betraying you.

Vander’s grip tightened just a little, not enough to hurt, but enough to remind you that you weren’t alone in this. “It doesn’t have power over you, love,” he said, his voice firm with conviction. “Not here. Not with me. No one’s ever gonna hurt you like that again. Not while I’m around.”

The weight of his words settled on your chest, a warmth spreading through you despite the cold ache that lingered in your heart. It was like the first breath of fresh air after a storm, the first ray of light after the dark. For a moment, you almost believed it. You almost believed that it really was over, that the past couldn’t reach you anymore. But then the walls you’d built inside yourself started to crack, and the tears you’d been holding back began to fall.

You didn’t try to hide them. Instead, you leaned into him, letting his warmth surround you like a shield. Vander’s arms encircled you immediately, holding you close, strong but gentle. His scent—a mix of smoke, ale, and something deeper, something more comforting—filled your senses. It was the scent of safety. Of home.

“You’re safe, Y/N,” he murmured against your hair, his voice low and steady. “Always.”

And for the first time in so long, you believed him. You let yourself believe him, if only for this moment. Because with Vander, you knew that the darkness of the past could never reach you here. You were safe. You were whole. And in his arms, you had the peace you’d been searching for, even if just for tonight.

Vander didn’t speak again. He didn’t need to. He just held you, his presence a quiet reassurance that you weren’t alone, and that you never would be again.

SILCO

The rain drizzled against the windows of Silco's office, a gentle tapping that seemed to mirror the quiet storm in his mind. His usually sharp focus on the papers before him had waned, his dark eyes drifting, unfocused, to the water running down the glass. The rhythmic sound of the rain should’ve brought him peace, but today it only reminded him of the unease that had taken root inside him. It was an unusual occurrence for Silco, a man whose mind was always a step ahead, never easily distracted.

Y/N had been distant for the past few days, but today… today it was worse. She wasn’t just quiet or distracted. There was a heaviness in her gaze, a sadness that hung around her like a thick cloud. Silco had always been able to read people—had to be, to survive in the underbelly of Zaun. But with Y/N, it was different. Her pain, her struggles, never quite made sense to him. He knew she had a past, one that she rarely spoke of, but he never asked about it. Yet, now, he couldn’t shake the feeling that whatever haunted her had finally caught up to her, and it was something much worse than what he had imagined.

At first, he assumed it was just the stress of their work together—the constant battles with Piltover, the endless scheming, the weight of their shared ambitions. But today, as he watched her interact with the others in the hideout, he noticed small things. The way she flinched when one of the other members brushed past her, her hands trembling just slightly as she reached for a glass, and the hollow look in her eyes when she thought no one was watching.

It was when he had found her earlier in the hallway, almost jumping out of her skin when he stepped too close, that he finally understood. Something had happened. Something more than stress, more than the chaos of their lives. It was deeper. Darker. And Silco had no intention of letting her face it alone.

He had always been a man who kept his distance, preferring to watch and observe rather than reach out. But with Y/N… He had never wanted to be the type of man who ignored the pain of someone close to him. It didn’t matter how cold the world was, or how much the darkness seemed to consume everything—it mattered to him that she was safe. She mattered to him.

A soft knock at the door interrupted his thoughts. He barely registered it, his mind still tangled in worry for her, but the sound was enough to bring him back to the present. He glanced up as Y/N stepped inside, her head down, eyes cast toward the floor. Her posture was small, like she was trying to make herself invisible, and that only made his heart ache more.

She was different now. Gone was the woman who once held herself with a quiet strength, confident and steady. In her place was a shell, fragile and cracked. Her pale face, usually so expressive, was now hollow, her eyes dull with the weight of some unseen burden. Silco could feel his own pulse quicken at the sight of her. He hated this. He hated seeing her like this.

"Y/N," his voice was steady but soft, a rare tenderness in the way he spoke. "Come here."

There was hesitation in her movement as she crossed the room, and Silco didn’t miss the way she kept her distance, as though afraid of being too close to him. It wasn’t like her. He could sense the hesitation, the quiet wariness in her actions, and it cut through him like a blade.

She finally stopped in front of him, her eyes refusing to meet his. She stood there, trembling slightly, as though unsure of what to do. Silco rose from his desk, his presence commanding but gentle as he approached her. He didn’t need to ask what had happened. He already knew. He had known for a while now, even before she had come to him for comfort.

He didn’t ask her to speak. She didn’t have to say a word. It was enough for him to see the way she struggled, the way she tried to hold herself together in the face of her pain.

"You don’t have to carry this alone," Silco murmured, his voice low and smooth, each word measured and deliberate. "Whatever happened… I’m here. You don’t need to keep it buried, Y/N."

Y/N’s lips trembled, her breath shaky as she forced herself to look up at him. Her eyes flickered with an emotion too raw for her to hide—fear, shame, pain. She bit her lip, trying to suppress the tears threatening to spill. Silco could see it all: the weight of her grief, the sorrow she tried so desperately to hide. And in that moment, he knew that she needed him. More than ever.

He didn’t wait for her to say anything. Instead, he stepped closer, his hand reaching out to gently lift her chin, guiding her eyes to meet his. The warmth of his touch was enough to steady her for a moment, to make her feel grounded again.

"You are not broken," he said, his voice calm but firm, carrying a quiet authority. "Whatever has happened, whatever you’ve been through… it does not define you. You are not weak, Y/N. You are stronger than you think."

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat, and for the first time, she let her guard down. She closed her eyes, leaning into his touch as a sob broke free from her chest. She hadn’t allowed herself to cry for so long, hadn’t let herself feel the weight of everything she had been carrying. But with Silco, there was no need for restraint. There was no need to pretend to be strong when the pain was too much.

Silco’s thumb brushed gently across her cheek, wiping away the first of many tears that fell. His heart twisted with every drop, but he didn’t pull away. He wouldn’t leave her to suffer alone. Not now. Not ever.

"You’re not alone," he whispered, his voice breaking the silence. "I’m here. I’ll always be here. No one will hurt you again. Not while I’m around."

Y/N’s breath shuddered as she clung to him, her arms wrapping around his waist in a desperate need for comfort, for solace. Her tears soaked through the fabric of his coat, but he didn’t flinch. He held her close, feeling the tremors in her body as she let herself fall apart in his arms. She was broken, yes, but she was also stronger than she realized. And he would help her rebuild, piece by piece, if that’s what it took.

For a long time, they stood there in the quiet of his office, the only sound the steady rain against the glass and the muffled sobs of the woman who had come to mean more to him than he ever expected. And as she clung to him, Silco realized something he hadn’t before: he didn’t just want to protect her from the world. He wanted to protect her from the parts of herself she felt ashamed of, the parts that told her she wasn’t worth saving.

Silco gently lifted her head, his fingers brushing through her hair as he gazed down at her. His expression softened, his usual cold demeanor replaced by something warmer, something rare. "Rest now," he murmured. "You don’t need to carry the weight anymore. Let me carry it for you."

Y/N didn’t say anything, but the way she pressed her cheek against his chest told him everything he needed to know. She trusted him, in a way that felt sacred, and for once, Silco let himself feel the weight of that trust. He would protect her. He would stand by her side, no matter the cost.

For now, the world outside—the chaos, the schemes, the endless struggles—could wait. All that mattered was this moment. Silco and Y/N, two broken souls finding a quiet reprieve in each other’s arms.

And Silco… for all his ambition, for all his coldness, would be the one to show her that even in the darkest moments, there was still a glimmer of warmth waiting to be found.

MEL

The door to the bedroom creaked open slowly. Mel, fresh from a council meeting, entered, her heels clicking lightly against the floor. But something felt wrong—an unfamiliar stillness hung in the air. The usual warmth of their shared space was now replaced by an overwhelming silence.

As her eyes scanned the room, they found Y/N sitting by the window, her back hunched slightly. Mel’s heart tightened at the sight. Y/N’s hands were clasped tightly together, her shoulders trembling, and the soft sounds of stifled sobs drifted toward her.

“Y/N?” Mel’s voice was low and gentle as she moved toward her. She knelt in front of her, carefully reaching out to touch her lover’s hand, noticing how cold it felt. The contact was gentle, like a lifeline, but it sent a shiver of unease through Mel. Something was terribly wrong.

Y/N’s head snapped up at the sound of her name, her eyes red and swollen from crying. She immediately wiped at her face, but it was clear she hadn’t been able to hold it together for long, the rawness of her emotion still etched on her face.

“I’m sorry,” Y/N whispered, her voice cracking with the weight of unspoken sorrow. She quickly tried to mask the pain in her eyes, but it was no use. She couldn't hide it from Mel.

Mel’s breath caught in her throat. She leaned closer, her voice soft, but filled with concern. “Y/N, love, no... Don’t apologize. You don’t need to hide anything from me.”

Mel gently cupped Y/N’s face, her thumb brushing away a stray tear that had fallen, while her other hand rested on Y/N’s trembling arm. The vulnerability in her lover’s eyes tore at Mel’s heart.

“What happened?” Mel asked softly, pressing a kiss to Y/N’s forehead, her touch like a balm to the raw, exposed feelings surrounding them. “You don’t have to say anything you’re not ready to, but I need you to know that you don’t have to go through this alone. I’m right here.”

Y/N sniffed, her chest tightening as she shook her head slightly. She didn’t want to say it—didn’t know how to say it—but the weight of her past was a shadow she couldn’t outrun. She hadn’t told Mel about this part of her life before, and it felt like a secret that would destroy everything if it came out. But the truth was suffocating her, pressing her to confess.

“I…” Y/N began, but the words lodged in her throat. She choked on her breath, her mind racing with the painful memories she had kept buried for so long. “I… I don’t know if I can say it. It’s just… it’s too much. I’m not strong enough.”

Mel sat down beside her, her presence a steady, unwavering comfort. She didn’t pressure Y/N, didn’t force her to speak before she was ready. Instead, she wrapped her arms around Y/N, pulling her close. Her touch was firm and safe, offering warmth and strength.

“Y/N, whatever it is, we’ll face it together. I promise,” Mel’s voice was quiet but filled with certainty, a pledge that she would never leave Y/N, not now, not ever. The words wrapped around Y/N like a shield, grounding her in the love they shared.

For a long moment, they simply sat there in silence. Y/N clung to Mel as if she were the only thing anchoring her to the present, the overwhelming flood of emotions threatening to drown her. And then, finally, the truth spilled out, her voice shaky and small, as if saying it aloud would make it all the more real.

“I was… I was hurt a long time ago. By someone I thought I could trust.” Y/N’s breath hitched, and she turned her face away from Mel for a moment, ashamed of the tears she couldn’t stop. Her heart raced as she spoke, the memories still sharp and painful. “I didn’t… I didn’t know how to tell you. I thought I could bury it, but it’s not gone. It’s… it’s still here.”

Mel’s heart shattered for her, but she didn’t say a word. She simply held Y/N tighter, pressing her cheek against the top of her head. She felt the tremble in Y/N’s body, the silent sobs that wracked her form.

“You don’t ever have to face this alone, Y/N,” Mel murmured, the words both a promise and a comfort. She let her lips brush against Y/N’s hair, smoothing her fingers over the back of her head, her hands gently coaxing Y/N to let go. “I’m here. I always will be. And this, what you’re feeling? It doesn’t define you. It doesn’t change who you are. You are so strong, but it’s okay to feel broken, love. It’s okay to feel anything.”

Y/N’s body shook, the weight of everything coming to the surface. It wasn’t just the hurt of the past—it was the shame, the guilt, the sense of having lost something she would never get back. But in Mel’s arms, she felt a safe place to let go, a place where the dark corners of her mind couldn’t reach her.

“I’m so sorry,” Y/N whispered, her voice barely audible, full of guilt and fear. “I should’ve told you before. I should’ve been stronger…”

Mel pulled back just enough to look Y/N in the eye, cupping her face gently. “No, love, you don’t have to be strong for me. You just need to be you. And you are enough. More than enough. I love you, and nothing in this world, not even your past, will change that.” Her words were firm, resolute. The sincerity in her gaze was clear, her devotion evident in every syllable.

Y/N finally let herself break. She cried freely, her tears flowing without shame, without restraint. She had carried these burdens for so long, but with Mel there, holding her, whispering comforting words, she felt a sense of relief she hadn’t known she needed.

And in that moment, Mel held her—no words needed—just the warmth of her embrace and the unspoken promise that they would heal together, one step at a time.

Mel kissed Y/N’s forehead again, her hand gently stroking her back. “You are not alone in this, Y/N. I will never leave you. Not for any reason. Not for anything.”

The weight of those words, the depth of Mel’s love, was a balm to Y/N’s soul. Slowly, the tears began to subside, but Y/N didn’t pull away from Mel. Instead, she let the quiet comfort of her presence settle in, the warmth of their connection something she could lean on as they faced the future together.

Mel stayed with her, never rushing her to stop crying, never pressuring her to move forward before she was ready. They stayed there, wrapped in each other’s arms, letting the healing begin.

#arcane #arcane fandom #arcane fluff #reader insert #mel x reader #jayce x reader #jayce x you #jayce x y/n #viktor x reader #viktor x you #viktor x y/n #vander x reader #vander x y/n #vander x you #silco x reader #silco x you #silco x y/n #jayvik x reader #jayce x reader x viktor

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yanderenightmare · 1 year ago

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Bakugou Katsuki

TW: PTSD, trauma, angst

gn reader

Seven days.

For seven days the two of you were trapped beneath that building, in the rubble and dust, in the cold, dreary dark, waiting for the air to run out.

He had shrapnel through his thigh, and any movement made him bleed to no end. He would have died if you hadn’t done your best efforts at first aid and forced him to sit still, talking him out of any plans of blowing the debris away as it would only make it come crashing down on you both.

He’d been curt with you the first few days you were trapped as he struggled with the fact that he’d wasted his life sacrificing it to save some quirkless nobody. He should have just left you when the building came tumbling.

But, something happened to him beneath the rubble with you – in the midst of the two of you huddling for warmth on the cold concrete and telling each other your deepest secrets with the fear that you wouldn’t get to tell anyone anything ever again.

You didn’t even tell him your arm was broken. You wouldn’t burden him with the information while you set out on those dangerous scavenges you both would have died without – crawling through collapsed flooring for a mini bag of chips and a can of coke you survived on until rescue finally dug you out.

It felt wrong to sleep without you the days after the rescue. A lot of things felt wrong. He kept waking up with the fear that you’d died in your sleep – tossing and turning in his soft silk sheets with his heart hammering and brow beading with sweat until realizing you were soft and safe in your own bed somewhere.

He thought long about it. He wanted to talk to you but didn't really know how to approach it all… after all, you two didn’t really know each other – only under the circumstance of life or death.

Therapy wasn’t going well for him. Suppose he could reach out and ask how it was coming along for you…

It wouldn’t be all too strange for him, as a professional hero, to check up on a victim. Especially given that you’d survived the incident on account of each other. In fact, it would be strange if he didn’t contact you. You ought to be each other's pillar of support in all this.

But, running through the logistics, he comes to the conclusion that it could never go long-term.

Any relationship you’d establish would be based on your shared trauma together and he isn’t delusional enough to deny how it could only end in disaster for you both.

So despite how much he wants to hold you again, he’ll steer clear so that you can heal.

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quitesins · 1 month ago

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Non Mc! Reader & Mentor!Rafayel [Sfw]

Thinking of writing a fic where you’re a young artist who gets sort of mentored taken in by Rafayel, years before he reunites with Mc. You spend almost every day with him, learning new skills both in and outside of art. You’re still young and timid, but Rafayel’s penchant for never pulling his words, forces you to match his energy. He makes you honest. You’re trying new things, going new places, comfortable in relying on Rafayel to keep you confident. Despite all the back and forth, the sass that isn’t spared on you, you find it’s far too easy to fall in love with him.

And for the most part it’s also easy to keep that part of your heart secret.

Until he meets Mc. You’ve heard of her in passing and you knew the day would come. What you didn’t expect is for your daily meetings to lessen, gallery trips missed and the art events reserved for you, now for a girl you can’t even seem to hate.

She’s too nice. You can see exactly why she holds Rafayel’s heart entirely. That’s why you decide to protect your own, no longer trying for Rafayel’s company or attention and even turning him down the rare moments he reaches out first.

You think it’ll be fine but Rafayel isn’t stupid. You’re his friend, and he knows something is up. Unfortunately the both of you are as tense as each other because the conversation he hopes to go smoothly, ends up a awful, angry argument. One that when you try to leave, has him grabbing your arm on instinct. Rafayel is just as shocked as you, instantly pulling back like he’d been burned. But it’s enough of a scare that you don’t say another word, practically running out of his place. He doesn’t chase after you, a deep set guilt keeping him anchored and a bubbling heat in his hands that he hasn’t yet understood.

He doesn’t see you again. For a while he doesn’t talk of you either. He doesn’t see you around Linkon, your place, he swears he was passing on accident, seemingly vacant. The egregiously painted pots the two of you once made, no longer displayed proudly on your door step. Only in secret guilt filled moments does he think of you, but never feeling enough to reach out.

When he does mention your name, it’s been years and somehow Thomas’s casual nostalgia feels wrong. It’s like you were just some fleeting figure, not a friend he once upon a time deeply cared and even felt responsible for. But there’s nothing more he can do. You aren’t his responsibility, you maybe never were. And there’s no reason to seek you out now.

So it’s his surprise when he does find you. Two cities over, he almost thinks his eyes are playing tricks on him. Your hair has changed a bit, and you’ve definitely grown— into yourself, a proper adult now. There’s a simmering pride within him, watching how the shy thing he once gave security to, now struts around on her own without the need for him to keep you balanced.

But there’s confusion too. He wonders why you aren’t an artist anymore. Your name is never said amongst his industry peers, and even if it changed, he’d recognise your style in a heartbeat. You were so close to being great, how could you give it up so easily.

He thinks to ask why, but as he approaches, it takes one look at your hand, the healed skin from a burn that could only be his, for him to come to the horrible realisation himself.

A/n: fa me it would be purely platonic on his end, I loveeee unrequited love, but I also want to see rafayel feel guilty so it’d be over him being a shit friend… also also for some reason the idea of Rafayel unintentionally taking on a nurturing protective role is sooo interesting to me and I’d loveee to explore it…

Guys if this is ooc it’s okay because I can imagine anything 🫡

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reborn-readings · 2 months ago

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What does your heart need from you at this moment?

Tip Jar | Masterlist | Personal Readings

Hello hello! Back with a new Pick a Pile, the third one in my 'needs from you' series. Let's see what messages your heart has for you 💚

This is a group reading, so take what resonates and leave the rest. Don't force anything if it does not fit. Remember that the future is not set in stone and that other potential paths exist depending on your movement through the course of time.

Pile 1 (Left)

Immediately the Rx Queen of Cups suggests a loss of control over emotion, or maybe a lack of emotion. This is also a rather sword-focused reading. Cups govern our heat, but swords can guide it. The four suits of Tarot are not separate—they intertwine and work together to improve out lives.

In order to get back to a place of evenness, you must allow these elements to work together. It sounds contradictory, but in order to help your heart heal, it asks you to follow your mind for now. It especially wants to emphasize that recognizing and feeling grief is important for your health and that rest is necessary—not only that, but the requirement of rest is a gift to humanity.

Allowing your mind to accept new knowledge and to expand will give you the tools you need to follow your heart. The world right now seems like a lot, what with spring coming (in a physical or metaphorical sense) and all these new, budding options available to you. For now, let logic guide you with the faith that your heart will return to you when it’s ready to help guide you.

In your relations with others, you walk a tightrope between honesty and compassion. Though you seem to be the kind of person whose kind words are not competing with your honest words. Continue your march of kindness and others will soon recognize you and show their bright colors in return.

Contrary to popular believe, protection lies not in the past or what is stable and unchanging, but in the future and in your ability to move on from past events. Each step forward is another bit of strengthening for your ward.

Other messages – Kindness to all living things (and maybe even some nonliving). What goes around comes around. Your true expressions are needed. Making a decision and moving on (it’s not as big of a decision as you might think—will it matter in a year?). Solitude/pulling back to gain wisdom.

Symbols – A matte feeling on your fingers and thumb. The color blue, like a snowy winter sky. Gold thread.

Pile 2 (Middle)

Pile 2, have you ever seen a cicada coming out of its shell? That’s the image that I get of you right now. They spend the first seventeen years of their lives in bodies that aren’t theirs, only to climb up from the ground, anchor themselves to a tree, and split open on the back, emerging for a few months of whirlwind love.

This is an intense reading for me. It’s like you’re shock still now, but about to break forth and go tearing across the world to find your home. My heart is pounding just thinking about it! I suppose your heart just wants to warn you about the upcoming flurry of activity?

Yes, all your bindings will drop around you and you will create something magnificent. You will learn easy, rest easy, manifest what you desire, and transform into the new you. My throat got a bit tight when that message came to me—if this is something that you fear, know that your heart, your core, will stay the same. You’ll still be you! Only a more competent, independent, creative, merciful, confident, masterful you! When you’re through the transformation, it will feel as if it happened in the blink of an eye, and your heart will swell and feel warm with recognition of your accomplishments.

Other messages – Embrace the light of a new day. Confidence and belief. Make sure you get enough sleep. Heat and words as tools of creation. Energy.

Symbols – As I mentioned, insects coming out of pupae/cocoons. Races. The colors blue and yellow. The number 7. Soft/textured fabric.

Pile 3 (Right)

I get a distinct feeling of loss from you, Pile 3. Not something tangible or concrete that has been lost, but the loss of a certain feeling or thrill. The loss of passion. First, please know that these feelings, or lack thereof, are only temporary. Second, your heart has some messages for you to help you haul yourself out from this place.

Firstly. Several of the cards are pointing toward too much of an emphasis on the material. I see this manifesting as a sort of fear—fear of losing what you already have, fear of not being able to get what your body needs, fear of not being good enough to earn your keep, as they say. The counter to this fear is to invest in areas of life that develop you as a person. Be grateful for the opportunities that come your way, recognize your feelings and that each new relationship could be the start of something grand, maybe take up a new topic of interest to study or contemplate. Go for a nature walk and see what the world has to offer! I see you getting your hands dirty—maybe you’d like gardening, or something similar?

Secondly, a lot of the cards are pointing toward confidence. It feels like everyone can see how much swagger you have except you. But a lack of confidence is a self-fulfilling prophecy, and if you don’t believe in yourself, who will?

There is so much in this world waiting for you to dig it up. Hold onto hope, please, and remember to take life one day at a time.

Other messages – None. Listen to your heart, take note of how it feels. I sense that a higher power wants to bring you the rest of your messages, if you don’t already feel like you understand what comes next.

Symbols – Globe. Droplets of water. Overgrown plants.

If this was helpful, please consider donating or expanding on your personal messages in a reading💚

Dividers by @/saradika-graphics

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astraystayyh · 9 months ago

Text

An eye for an eye.

assassin!hyunjin x journalist!yn. slow burn. suggestive and angsty at times. she/her pronouns. 7.4k.

it is perhaps the most decisive night of your life. what are the odds that at the same time and place, it happens to be hyunjin’s too?

warnings: mention of alcohol, guns, bruises and injuries. brief talks of grief.

a.n: this is prompted by how hot villain hyunjin looks in the ate era 😭 it was supposed to be a drabble and i didn’t plan on it to be this long.. but i hope you’ll enjoy reading tehee it’s different from anything i’ve ever written so please feedback would be so appreciated,, muah muah 😘❣️

A ruby red lipstick.

Your first childhood dream was to become a journalist, but not the complacent, obedient kind. You wanted to shed light on uncovered events, dig into the raw truth with your claws, and hold it up for the entire world to witness. You craved justice. You never believed in letting things flow their way, like a current that morphs into a torrent, destroying everything in its path.

No, you were a dam, forcing the water to change its trajectory. After all, you have always believed that all it took for change to happen was a trigger, a single flicker that would in turn burst into flames.

You wished to be it.

It was hard to grow into this specific kind of journalist, though. Not because you lacked drive, passion, or discipline. Especially not because you weren’t curious enough, brave enough. You were Seoul Press’s youngest and brightest reporter, after all.

But in a highly competitive field, you still needed your big story, your breakthrough which would put you on the radar of esteemed awards that all journalists venerate. Though you deemed it much easier to obtain a Pulitzer than to squelch your heart’s quest for truth, justice, and most importantly, in an unpredictable curb that life threw at you— revenge.

Your second childhood dream was to put on ruby red lipstick. Your thirteen-year-old self deemed it the ultimate show of power and confidence, each time you saw your aunt wearing one to her most important meetings. You dreamed of the day you could put it on as well, on your way to uncover the truth.

And tonight, as you applied your ruby lipstick precisely, gliding the vibrant color across your lips, you felt nerves tighten like thorny vines in your stomach, puncturing your tender skin and leaving you a bloodied mess from within.

Tonight, in your black gown and your ruby lipstick, in San Heo’s mansion, your country’s most prominent presidential candidate, and the man who ruined your life, it seemed like you were about to achieve both dreams at once.

…

The clock hand points nine on Hyunjin’s Tank Louis Cartier watch. He throws a fleeting glance at the Victorian watch, before eyeing the people mingling at San Heo’s party.

He knows all of the guests, memorized their faces and their habits. He knows the school where they drop off their kids and what bar they frequent every Sunday. He memorized their mannerisms and antics, knows what set them off and what did not.

This is the fruit of two years of work, after all.

He knows exactly why everyone is here, tonight particularly. Three politicians’ families and friends gathered as a show of power, to prove that they weren’t afraid of whoever’s been forcing politicians to come clean about their crimes for the past three months.

In the least glamorous manner, at that too, to put it delicately—ten bloodied tapes sent to the country’s most prominent media channels, where ministers and heads of multinationals are bound by ropes to a chair, recalling their most heinous crimes: money laundering and embezzlement for most, theft and murder for some.

The latter is Jung Cho’s case, San’s most successful competitor for the presidency, who has also mysteriously vanished from the police’s grasp since the release of his tape. No one can get a hold of poor Jung Cho anymore.

Hyunjin smirks lightly to himself. His knuckles seem to have healed well since he last dislocated Jung Cho’s jaw. Well, that was before he shot him through the roof of his mouth.

The golden cuffs of Hyunjin’s Versace blazer reflect the light of the dangling crystal chandeliers, and he runs a weary hand through his black locks. He never chose to gel them back; he wasn’t one for structure, preferring the feeling of his silky strands brushing against his fingers.

His eyes catch those of San’s across the room, who tips his glass of whiskey towards Hyunjin—a job well done, he reads in San’s stare. Hyunjin raises his red wine back, before settling it across the table once more.

It is a boring half an hour that awaits Hyunjin.

That is until he sees you.

You weren’t here two minutes ago, Hyunjin is sure of this. And, judging by the way you are leisurely sipping your sparkling water, your eyes gliding across the room in search of someone in particular, you had just stepped foot into the party.

Fashionably late, if he were to add.

But that is none of Hyunjin’s concern. What intrigues him the most is that your face isn’t familiar to him. That isn’t normal.

You weren’t supposed to be here, then.

Who are you?

As if hearing his question, your gaze locks onto his. He cocks an eyebrow at you; you mirror the gesture like clockwork.

Thus ensues an intense game of eye contact. You don’t break away from his gaze until two minutes later, a light scoff escaping your lips that he can discern even from afar. You then turn to look at San, your eyes morphing into something fiercer, more determined— a sniper finally locking eyes on its target.

Hyunjin feels a slight headache growing at the base of his temple. He downs his drink, before taking long strides towards you.

It’s official, you’re going to be his nuisance for the night.

27 minutes.

“Care to dance?” Hyunjin inquires as he materializes before you, a hand extended towards your body.

“Pardon?”

“A dance? To the lovely music we are hearing right now?”

“I know what you mean,” you roll your eyes, leaning your body against the chair right next to you. Hyunjin’s eyes glaze over your legs peeking through the high slit of your dress. Had it been another setting, the sight of your black sheer tights would have made this night turn much differently.

Your voice dispels his thoughts like morning fog. “I mean why are you asking me?”

“Because I’m bored.”

“How flattering,” you grin sarcastically and Hyunjin feels the smallest urge to return your smile, although he knows it isn’t genuine.

“I know. Shall we?”

Your gaze flees to San once again, seemingly debating something in your head before finally sighing.

In the few seconds of scrutiny you consecrate to his boss, Hyunjin’s gaze lingers on your bright red lipstick, and the way you tuck your lip slightly into your mouth as you ponder.

A beautiful nuisance, he corrects himself.

“Fine,” You place your manicured hand in his in response.

“What’s your name?” he asks, as he settles one hand atop your waist. The fabric of your black dress is too thin, he can feel the heat emanating from your body seeping through his palm.

Focus. You need to discover who she is.

“Julia,” your hand settles atop his shoulder, while the other entwines with his. “And you?”

“Sam. What are you doing here?” he quickly inquires.

You shake your head slightly, gliding your hand from the base of his neck to the end of his shoulder.

“Isn’t it my turn to ask you a question?”

Hyunjin tilts his head curiously at you, before smirking slightly— “Yes ma’am.”

“What do you work for?”

“I’m Mr. Heo’s political adviser.”

“You’re quite young, though,” you note.

“I know.”

“And I don’t see you by his side a lot.”

“I work in the background, mostly. I don’t do well with the cameras.” He spins you around, picking up speed as the orchestra picks up the violin. “How do you know Mr. Heo?”

“I’m Kang’s niece, you know, Mr. Heo’s economic adviser? Uncle Kang is ill, and my father is out of the country so both of them chose not to come.”

Hyunjin’s memory faintly brushes off Kang’s single niece, completing her architectural studies in Paris’ Sorbonne.

“C’est beau à Paris?” Is it beautiful in Paris?

You don’t even blink— “Même magnifique, tu devrais visiter.” Marvelous even, you should visit.

Checks out.

“I’ll hold you on to that offer,” he says, before spinning you around, your chest settling across his back. Hyunjin ignores how his heart skips a singular beat at your proximity.

“So, what are you doing here?” he asks, his lips tantalizingly close to the shell of your ear. He watches as your chest rises once before your airy voice floods his ear.

“Networking, though you didn’t quite allow me to speak to anyone but you,” you tease slightly.

“I fail to see what an architect has to do with politicians,” he muses, as he sways you gently from left to right.

“I want to oversee the building of Jamsil Sports Complex.”

“So you’re using your father for work connections?” he taunts and you swivel around, placing both your hands on his shoulders before interlinking your fingers behind his neck, caging him within the notes of your perfume.

“Is it a crime?” your voice is airy, too airy, everything you say sounds rehearsed, you don’t seem intimidated by him, by this setting, as opposed to how a newly graduated student, one who grew up away from her father’s world should.

“Depends on your definition,” he counters.

“Do you regard it as such?”

Hyunjin’s gaze flickers all over yours. He senses something urgent in your gaze, as if you are pushing for more, beyond what this simple question entails.

When he remains quiet for a tad too long, you let your hands drop by your body, taking a step away from him.

“I need to go,” you say. He grabs your wrist instantly. “Where to?”

“Bathroom.” And with that, you quickly turn around and walk away, leaving behind notes of your floral perfume and ghosts of your ruby lips.

Hyunjin steals a glance at his clock. 09:13 p.m.

He drags a hand across his forehead wearily. He won’t let you ruin this night.

17 minutes.

You are washing your hands obsessively in the bathroom, lost in thought as you gaze at your reflection, all blurry from your unfocused eyes. You only turn off the water once your skin starts to sting from the force of your touch.

The orange-scented soap doesn’t seem to get rid of the stench of blood.

A week ago.

“I don't understand your obsession with Mr. Heo,” Christopher Bang calmly removed his glasses, placing them next to the shiny placate reading ‘Editor in Chief of Seoul Press’.

“He is corrupt.”

“As all politicians are,” he spoke matter of factly, and it angered you how unfazed he seemed before your, you admit, far-fetched request.

“You don’t understand, sir. He’s different.”

“Did he do something to you?” Chris asked, leaning back against his chair. You felt exposed all of a sudden, like a flower left bare without its stem.

“Would my answer change anything?” You inquired tentatively.

“It would explain many things, yes actually,” he got up from his chair, before sitting on the one right across from you. “You are a talented journalist, Yn.”

“Thank you—“

“But you are utilizing the company’s resources to conduct your personal investigation on San Heo.”

He knew.

“You’ve been working on his case from the day you joined our media. Which was exactly 389 days ago. I know that you’ve managed to uncover quite some dirt, one that would make an explosive case if you get more information. That’s why I turned a blind eye to everything you did because I trust your skills and integrity.”

You remained silent.

“But now, you’re asking me to completely disregard my deontology by finding a way for you to break into Mr. Heo’s mansion. That is a crime.”

“Not break in. I want an invite to his party, it is the first time he organized one in his home, probably the last time, it is my only chance to—”

“Details,” he waves a hand disinterestedly in the air, cutting you off. “Your intentions aren’t to mingle with politicians, it is to dig in his office and find something of substance. While I admire the lengths of what you want to go through, I must stop you here.” He leveled his eyes with yours. “This can land you in jail, he is the most important man in our country right now.”

“What if I tell you he did something to me, that he ruined my life? Would you help me then?” your voice was hoarse, tears pricked your eyes as you tried your best not to avert your gaze. You hated displays of weakness, despised them even more in professional settings.

“What did he do?”

You bristled at the question, ugly memories flashing before your eyes like a blinding light, your body begging you to flee away from this question and the heavy response it entailed.

Still, you spoke.

Christopher remained silent as you recalled what happened on your doomsday, the night in which your world ceased to spin, and simultaneously, the reason why you joined his company, to begin with. When your sniffles subsided a few minutes later, he gently handed you a napkin, a silent invitation to wipe away the tears that had escaped.

He sighed deeply, running a hand through his weary face before finally speaking.

“I’ll give you the invite tomorrow. Say that you are Kang’s niece, her name is Julia. She went to Paris for architectural studies, and that you are back for a vacation. Kang is ill these days, he won’t attend the party, and his brother is out of the country, no one will question you.”

“How do you know this?”

“Because I know them,” he toyed with his lower lip lightly before a tiny smile drew upon it. “An eye for an eye, right? I’m Kang’s cousin. I changed my last name because I didn’t wish to deal with them anymore.”

“So Bhang isn’t your real last name?”

“No.” He ran his thumb across his lower lip, seemingly debating adding something. “San’s office is on the far end of the third floor.”

You heaved a sigh of relief.

“Thank you.”

“Don’t get yourself killed.”

13 minutes.

It was one thing to stare at photographs of San seared behind your reddened eyelids or to stand at the far end of his press conferences. It was another to step foot into his mansion, to stand amidst powerful people who are capable of ruining your life had they known of your motives.

But you didn’t have time to dwell on your personal feelings. Fear, nerves, all of those feeble emotions pale before the chance you have today. So, you nod at your reflection in the mirror, count to three in your head, and finally head out of the bathroom.

“Five minutes, were you crying?” Sam’s bored voice startles you as soon as you set foot outside. He’s leaning on the wall across from the door, hands deep into the pockets of his suit.

Not again.

“I know that I’m very pretty but don’t you have better things to do than to follow me?” you ask, pausing right in front of him.

“I’m not following you, I just happen to be particularly fond of the architecture of this corridor,” he jokes and you ignore his words, walking past him with a renowned determination. He pushes himself off the wall, only to grasp your wrist once again, spinning you around until you’re facing him.

He chuckles softly, tilting his head to the side. His icy blue contacts pierce through your skin like a puncture needle. “You know, I’m curious, Julia. You seemed very eager to get away from me.”

You take a step forward, closing the distance between you two. “Have you considered that I found your company utterly boring?”

“You wound me,” he places a hand on his heart, any trace of humor absent from his voice. His grip tightens on your wrist for a millisecond. A warning. “I need you to leave.”

“I’m sorry?”

“I’m serious. You shouldn’t be here tonight.”

“And why should I listen to you?” you challenge and his eyes darken further.

“I can’t tell you.”

“Then let me go,” you mutter, slipping your hand away from his grasp.

“Julia,” he says sternly, pulling you back till your back is against the wall, his hands rooted on either side of your body.

It is a dimly lit hallway, and the sound of the orchestra barely reaches you. Your worry intermingles with a new kind of nerves, all orchestrated by his proximity, and the way his gaze brushes against your body like a skilled painter.

“I’m not joking, leave.” His voice is much softer when he adds, “It’s for your own good. What will happen later doesn’t concern you.”

He knows something that you don’t know, something that, from his tone, none of the guests are aware of. You see something human in his eyes, in the slight crease doting his eyebrows. He seems genuinely worried for the innocent civilian he thinks you are.

Your eyes turn to look at his hand near your head, only to notice his faintly bruised knuckles, shades of purple and green doting a delicate porcelain skin. They have healed well, then.

Should you unearth the memory from two weeks ago— pleas for mercy, a deafening gunshot, and an excruciating silence afterward, the quiet after the murder that you remember most?

Then, another scene rings in your head like bells of an ancient church— a bruised hand brushing against your own in an art gallery from two days ago, raven locks, and familiar, melancholy-tinted eyes.

Could it be?

Your voice turns sweet, tender, “should I trust you for the night?” your thumb brushes against the skin underneath his eye, wiping away the concealer you knew you spotted.

There it is, the eye mole you thought he covered.

It clicks in your mind in an instant, pieces of a puzzle falling into place, there are still a few missing but you manage to grasp the bigger picture.

If he’s not letting you go then he could be of good use.

What other choice do you have but to gamble with a killer?

Your sharp nails drag across the nape of his neck, before settling right beneath his jaw. You mimic a gun, his eyes narrow in response.

“Is this how you killed Jung Cho, Hyunjin?”

You feel a cold barrel instantly press against your stomach. “Police officer?” he asks.

“No.”

“Journalist ?”

“Yes,” you slowly mutter.

“What’s your name?”

“I don’t wish to tell you.” The gun only presses further onto your skin. You feel a cold bead of sweat roll down your exposed spine.

Breathe.

“It’s Yn.”

“What do you know?”

“It’d be easier for me to talk if you removed the gun,” you smile lightly and Hyunjin only leans further, a distance as thin as a blade between you both.

“Speak.”

“You killed the only candidate that stood a chance in front of San. You drove him to the empty deposit near Inwangsan Mountain, tortured him for three days, filmed his confessions, and then sent them to many media outlets. Ours included. I know it because I followed you.”

“Why did you follow me?” he questions. Your eyes flee to the end of the corridor where an impossible staircase sits. You are wasting your time.

“Because I am investigating San. And through following him I ended up getting to know you. You are different from everyone he meets. Very secretive. So I figured it’d be worth a shot following you too,” you explain as calmly as you can. You’re sure the barrel of the gun will leave a bruise on your skin.

“And why didn’t you write a piece about me? Everyone is dying to know who I am.”

“I have, I just haven’t released it. If I don’t come back home in an hour my head chef will post the video of you murdering Mr. Cho on every SNS. The public loves you for what you’re doing. But the politicians will come together to kill you. They have a price on your head. You are threatening everything they ever built.”

Hyunjin drags his gun up your stomach slowly, trails it across your collarbones before it settles on your jaw.

“I could kill you too, right now.” His tone is cold, evil. Very different from the man who asked you to dance. You know that I can.”

“My death would only sign yours.”

Hyunjin’s forehead rests on the wall right next to your head. You can hear him inhale deeply, hear the gears turning in his head. “Fuck, you are driving me crazy.”

He drops the gun and takes a step back. “Why didn’t you expose me?”

“You are not the one that matters to me.”

“What do you want from me then?”

“Three minutes. Open San’s office, and then I’ll go. No one will ever know of your identity.”

He remains silent.

“Hyunjin, please.”

“Fuck, fine. But whatever happens next you’ll have to trust me, okay?” his hands settle on your shoulder, his eyes leveling with yours, “if you’re not leaving then you’ll have to trust me enough, for tonight.”

8 minutes.

“After you,” Hyunjin bows slightly as he opens the door to Heo’s office. You step in first, and he steals a quick glance behind him—no one’s here, for now.

“That saved me the hassle of breaking the door.”

“You know how to do that?” he asks, slightly impressed.

“One of my hobbies,” you shrug before walking directly to the desk. Hyunjin leans against the wall, watching as you lift your dress slightly, revealing a small packet tucked into your garter. The sight drives Hyunjin a little crazy, and he closes his eyes for a second.

He really, really wishes he hadn’t met you here tonight.

You take out a listening device, tapping the bottom of the desk until you find a suitable spot, and then you stick it in place.

“Another one of your hobbies?” he smirks.

You giggle. “Mm, aren’t I the most fun?”

“You are,” his eyes drag across your figure, and he notices a slight falter in your posture, “the most beautiful too.”

You blink, and he’s suddenly in front of you, trapping you between the auburn desk and his toned body. You don’t seem intimidated, placing a palm on his chest as you tilt your head to the side.

“Aren’t you curious why I’m going after San?”

“No, he angers a lot of people.” His thumb caresses your cheek, a touch so soft in contrast to his next words. “A lot of people fantasize about his death.”

“Are you one of them?” you question, cocking an eyebrow at him.

“Right now, all I’m fantasizing about is you.” His voice is husky, and he finds it comes out much easier when he actually likes the person he’s attempting to seduce.

It takes you a few seconds to speak again. “Is that so?”

“Mm, let’s dance.”

“Didn’t we dance downstairs?”

“That was Sam and Julia dancing,” he says as he entwines his fingers with yours. “You see, Hyunjin is a different kind of dancer.” His hand presses against your back, snaking against your bare skin. “Can I pull you closer?” he asks, and you simply nod, eyes fleeting widely all over his face.

His chest presses to yours, so close he’s sure your hearts are syncing with one another, his inhales alternating with your exhales.

“Yn,” he whispers your name, as you look up at him through the curve of your eyelashes.

“Yes, Hyunjin?” His name sounds soft as it stumbles from your ruby lips, innocent from all the blood that drenches his soul.

“I like the way you say my name.” He glances at his watch above your head. 9:57.

“Hyunjin,” you repeat, as your hand drags up his neck, grabbing a fistful of his hair and gently dragging it backward, exposing his enticing neck to you. “You are always looking at your watch, what are you waiting for?”

He chuckles faintly, grabbing both your hands and spinning you around till his chin rests on the small of your shoulder. “You’re perceptive,” he mutters, as his fingers drag down your bare arms. “But so am I,” he says coldly as he grabs both your hands, bringing them behind your back. “Look, your hands are shaking just from my proximity. I don’t think you have it in you to film me killing Jung Cho. I don’t think you have it in you to watch me torture someone for three days.”

Click. Cold metal wraps around your wrist in an instant, handcuffing you to the leg of the table before which you’re standing.

“I think you lied to me, Yn. I don’t like being lied to.”

“What are you doing?” you ask disoriented, panic spilling from your being like an overflowing cup.

Hyunjin pays you no mind, taking out his phone and dialing a number. “Boss, we have a problem. I caught a journalist trying to get into your room,” he taps his chin slowly as he looks at you. “No, no need for security. Just come alone. Don’t alarm the guests.”

2 minutes

“Are you serious?” you ask as soon as he hangs up, a prominent lump in your throat. “You told me to trust you.”

“Did I say I was worth that trust?” he pouts, seemingly mocking the vulnerable ordeal you found yourself in.

A loud chuckle escapes your lips, your head thrown back as if before a hilarious spectacle of sorts. Hyunjin frowns, crossing his arms in front of his chest as your giggles slowly quiet down.

“You’re a peculiar person, aren’t you Hyunjin? You need to hide your identity but you crave normalcy still, so you open your art gallery. You go to crazy lengths to cover your moles and wear contacts because you wish for people to look at you with admiration in their eyes, kindness. But you don’t deserve it.” There is a fire lit in your eyes, flames latching into his black suit and burning his already scarred skin. “You’ll always be as evil as them.”

Hyunjin doesn’t respond for a while, his eyes simply softening at your words.

“I know,” he whispers.

“Who’s this?” San’s voice booms loudly as he sets foot into the office. Hyunjin’s eyes break apart from your figure to look at San, bowing slightly to greet him.

“Julia, she infiltrated the party,” Hyunjin explains, stealthily locking the door behind San. “She’s been investigating you for quite some time now. And… She knows about the murders.”

“Mm, she’s clever. Should we hire her?” San jokes and Hyunjin smiles politely, dragging his eyes over your face. You simply roll your eyes, seemingly more bored than scared.

Cute.

“Anyways,” Heo stares at you for a fleeting second before tapping Hyunjin’s shoulder. “She looks easy to kill. Just get rid of her. But don’t stain my carpet though, it's expensive.”

“Sure thing,” Hyunjin nods, taking out his gun and pointing it at your temple. He steals a final look at his watch— 9:30 p.m. he reads.

Time’s up.

“You didn’t think I’d let you go?” Hyunjin mocks, cocking his head at you. In a split second, a bullet ricochets loudly, but not at you. It grazes San’s ear, making him pause near the door, his back towards you both.

“Right boss?” Hyunjin’s tone is slightly whiny, annoying is the best way to describe it. You can hear police sirens blare loudly outside, see the red and blue hues reflect off the window. Loud shouts erupt downstairs, Hyunjin leisurely reloads his gun, one hand deep into his pocket, San’s posture slightly falters, his fingers digging into the skin of his palm.

“Do you hear that Heo? Your mansion is surrounded. All your filthy dirt is exposed. The police officers are arresting everyone downstairs right now. And they’re coming for you. The man of the hour.” Hyunjin makes a show of curtsying deeply. You stifle a giggle at his theatrics.

“You dare turn your back on me?” San yells, pivoting around to face Hyunjin’s barrel, the latter simply yawns as if it’s a regular Saturday activity for him.

“Oh, don’t get emotional on me,” Hyunjin pouts, before his eyes narrow down coldly. “Now kneel. Let’s end this without staining your carpet.”

You see San slowly lowering himself to the ground, Hyunjin’s gaze sets on you for a millisecond, his pupils dilated in apology, in concern, you don’t know, you don't get to decipher his look because San is taking out his gun from his back pocket, aiming it at Hyunjin. “Watch out”— is all you manage to shout, and hyunjin ducks in an instant, propelled by the sound of your voice to the ground.

He could have died, he could have died because he looked at you.

It all happens so fast, Hyunjin diving into San to take away his gun, both their weapons flinging into the air, San punching Hyunjin’s mouth and the latter retaliating by flinging his fist up against his nose. You’re struggling with your restraints, trying to reach out for the lone gun that fell to your right.

A bit more, tune out the sirens, tune out the punches, slowly, only a few centimeters left, your wrist is on fire but that is the least of your concern, almost, there, you grab it.

You fire the gun.

It’s quiet once again, for the first time in two years, it is quiet in your head.

It’s over.

You close your eyes, tilting your head back into the desk. The sound of your mother’s laughter floods your ears, her airy giggles as she brushes your hair and tucks you into her chest, her being a vision of beauty underneath the sun’s caress.

“Are you okay?” Hyunjin kneels before you, wiping away the tears rolling down your cheeks with his bruised knuckles. He is worried, even behind those icy blue contacts, you can still grasp his worry.

You nod, swallowing the sob that is lodged within your throat. Hyunjin is quick to unlock your handcuffs, entwining your fingers with his as he pulls you off the ground.

You slightly push him aside, your eyes set on San’s bleeding figure. He’s still alive, rugged breaths escaping his chest, his palm pressed to the bullet that punctuated his stomach.

“I want him dead,” you mutter, grabbing Hyunjin’s forearm to support yourself, “but I want him to rot in prison too.”

“He will, for all his crimes. I have it all documented. The police have it too,” his palm rubs soothingly against your back, you lean further into his touch.

“He’s a monster.”

“I know. They all are. That’s why I killed them,” he simply says, before guiding you back to a couch on the right of the office. He shrugs off his suit, draping it over your trembling shoulders.

“Give me a minute.”

You watch as he grabs the gun you fired off of the ground, before taking a handkerchief out of his pocket. He wipes your fingerprints, making sure to leave his all over the gun. He then walks to the table, taking away your listening device and crushing it to the ground.

He’s calm and collected as he rearranges the scene to his liking, it looks like he has done this a million times before, as if this is the element in which he thrives— a sunflower turning to face the sun, at long last.

He kneels before your freezing figure one last time, tilting your chin to the side so you’d look at him.

“I fired the gun. You had no idea any of this would happen, you’re just an ambitious journalist who wanted an insider scoop.” He senses you’re somewhere far, pulled by the ropes of memories that had long haunted your dreams. His warm palm presses to your cold cheek, your eyes are glossy as they rest on him.

“You didn’t do anything. I’m the one who used you as a scapegoat to bring San up here, just like I agreed with the police. Alright? You did nothing.You know nothing.”

“Alright.”

Hours pass in a cold blur, the weight of time lost on you as three police officers take turns questioning you. You repeat the lines Hyunjin taught you, your voice flat, devoid of emotion. Even as you step out of the police station, with Hyunjin's hand resting gently on your back, you feel nothing. A slight tremor runs through you when he mentions that San survived and will be transferred to prison once he's healed.

You don’t know why you’re disappointed you didn’t become a killer.

You don’t know anything, don’t feel anything as Hyunjin drives you home. You don’t question how he knows your address or the code to your elevator. It’s only when you unlock your door and he starts to pull away that reality snaps back.

Without thinking, you grab his wrist, suddenly aware of the loneliness that awaits you inside, an uninvited guest preying on your vulnerable heart.

“Would you like some tea?” you ask, your voice tinged with hopelessness, knowing just how silly you sound. Why would he stay? He has so many loose ends to thread after his finishing blow, you know he’s part of something far larger than you.

As if mocking your question, his phone buzzes for the tenth time in the span of five minutes.

But then, to your surprise, he turns it off.

“Yeah,” he says with a soft smile, “I’d like some tea.”

As you bring the water to a boil, Hyunjin rolls up the sleeves of his white shirt, casually wandering around your apartment as if it’s not his first time setting foot in here. He’s always at ease— with a gun pointed at him or while looking at the souvenir magnets on your fridge.

His calmness helps instill some peace in your heart too.

“I like your apartment,” he says, accepting the cup of chamomile you hand him. “It’s cozy, feels like a home.”

“Thank you,” you whisper as you sink into the couch, your head hung low. So much has happened in just half an hour, too much for you to fully comprehend and process.

“Let me see,” he says a few sips later, as he gently removes the cup from your clutch, before sliding his thumb across your right wrist. The bruises have already begun to form, the red marks from the handcuffs clear evidence of your struggle to reach the gun.

“I’m sorry I involved you in this,” he murmurs, frowning as he avoids your gaze, staring intently at your wrist as if he could will the blue hues away. “I didn’t plan for you to be at the party.”

“I involved myself,” you chuckle softly. You’re not one for physical touch, but you don’t feel the usual urge to pull away from his grasp. His hands are warm, the roughness of his fingertips a stark contrast to the softness of your skin.

“You’re a stubborn journalist,” he says with a small smile, finally meeting your gaze. you suddenly yearn to look into the rich brown of his eyes once more. Was its shade as deep as you remember?

“And you’re an excellent painter,” you retort, eliciting a surprised laugh from him. The sound is unexpectedly endearing, and you’re caught in a whirlwind of contradictions. Is this really the same man you saw taking a life? The same man now holding your wrist as if it were made of porcelain?

“Right, you figured out my identity. What gave me away?” he asks, still smiling.

“I heard about this new gallery where the artist’s only clue to his identity was the name signed on his paintings. So, I decided to see for myself. While everyone else was captivated by the artwork, I noticed you, standing in the corner, observing the reactions of everyone around. You smiled when someone smiled, and your grin grew wider with each compliment. That’s when I started to suspect that the artist was you, all along.”

“I remember it now. I bumped into you as you were leaving,” he says, and you nod.

“What stood out to me were your sad eyes. That’s what I remember most. Well, besides your bruised knuckles.”

“And that’s how you connected the dots.”

“Yes, and your eye mole, too. Even though you tried to conceal it with makeup, it still showed.”

“Very perceptive,” he says with a grin.

“Thank you.”

“Aren’t you worried I’ll expose your identity?” you ask, as his hand gently slides into yours, his fingers resting lightly on top of yours. A simple, innocent touch, yet it stirs something unknown in the pits of your stomach.

“I trusted you when you said I’m not the one who matters to you.”

“Why would you trust me?”

“I don’t know. Maybe because I miss putting my faith in someone, even if they end up failing me. Isn’t that the most human trait of all?”

How could an assassin create such heartfelt paintings, overflowing with emotions too hard to explain with words, let alone colors? Perhaps because this isn’t the life he always wanted.

“Did you choose this?” you ask softly, your voice barely a whisper. Maybe it’s the exhaustion from the interrogation, or the near brush with death, or perhaps the relief that this chapter is finally closing for both of you. But something compels you to keep talking, to ask, to hold on to Hyunjin just a little longer.

“Being a killer, you mean?” His voice carries a tenderness that seems at odds with the weight of his words. He’s a walking contradiction, balancing two identities within himself—Hyunjin and Sam. One feels heavier on his bones than the other.

“I grew up in this world,” he continues. “My parents run a large network of assassins—or vigilantes, depending on how you see it. Some people hire us, and sometimes we act on our own when we see injustice or corruption festering for too long. We conduct thorough background checks. We only kill those who truly deserve it. We always make sure of that.”

“An eye for an eye.”

He nods, his gaze dropping to the floor. “I always feel good in the midst of a case. One less evil in the world. But after, there’s just this emptiness. Now what? I always wonder. So I try to fill the void with painting.”

“Now what…” you repeat, your voice trembling as a lump forms in your throat. “Now what? What should I do now?” Tears well up and spill over suddenly, streaming down your face in an unstoppable torrent. “San is behind bars, but my mom isn’t coming back. So what now? What was all of this for if I can’t get her back?”

You find yourself burying your head in the crook of Hyunjin’s neck, his arms wrapping tightly around you, holding you close as if he could contain your sadness, preventing it from seeping from your soul and reaching your mother, wherever she may be.

You haven’t allowed anyone to hold you like this in two years, denying yourself any comfort until you could bring your mother’s killer to justice. It was a promise you made to yourself after San drunkenly ran her over and fled the scene, leaving you alone to hug her cold body in that sterile hospital room.

“It drove me crazy,” you sob, your words broken and incoherent. “He bribed everyone—the doctors, the paramedics, the stores nearby. Everyone acted like my mom didn’t d-die because of h-him,” you hiccup, and Hyunjin only holds you tighter, closer, enough to stitch your wounds with time, only if he remains this close to you. If he wishes to, if you allow him to.

“But now he’s behind bars, and I still don’t have my mom. What do I do now that I can’t bury myself in revenge? Hyunjin, what should I do when I miss her so much and I can’t see her?”

Five hours later.

“The article is perfect, no corrections needed,” Chris says, removing his glasses and looking at you with approval. “Excellent work, Yn.”

“Thank you,” you nod, feeling a mix of relief, but mostly exhaustion. “I stayed up all night working on it.”

“Goid, it’s only 6 a.m. so we know that no other media outlet has touched this yet. Our article will be the one to shape public opinion. This is a big win for us. It’s a thorough investigation, and I’m confident you’ll get the recognition you deserve,” he writes something down onto his notebook before looking at you once more. “Take a few days off—you’ve earned it. I’ll reach out if anything urgent comes up.”

“Thank you, sir.” You bow slightly before turning to leave the suffocating office. Or maybe it’s your own mind that’s suffocating you. You don’t have time to dwell on the question before Chris speaks again.

“Oh, Yn?” Chris calls out just as your hand touches the doorknob. “One last thing, did you ever figure out who was behind all those tapes?”

Your grip on the doorknob tightens imperceptibly. “No sir, no clue.”

One month later.

It’s a few minutes before the art gallery closes when you walk in. Hyunjin spots you before you see him, your distinctive walk etched in his memory as vividly as if it were only yesterday that he had seen it.

He approaches quietly, stopping behind you as you gaze at the newest addition to his collection.

“Is this us?” you ask, not turning around. Hyunjin’s eyes follow yours to the abstract painting of a couple waltzing in a ballroom, their hands intertwined just like yours were, four Saturdays ago.

“Yes,” he replies softly.

“It seems I left an everlasting impression on you,” you tease, he can hear the smile in your voice without seeing it.

“You did. You looked beautiful.”

“So did you.”

“I’m glad you came,” he says sincerely. “I missed you.”

“But we only spent a day together,” you giggle quietly, and Hyunjin wishes he could capture your laugh and tuck it away in the veins of his heart.

“Didn’t that day feel like a year, though?” he muses, resting his chin gently on your shoulder. You lean back into him, closing the space between you.

“It did,” you admit before nervously clearing your throat. “Are you free right now? We could grab a drink, if you’d like?”

“Chamomile tea?” he chuckles, and your laughter vibrates through his being.

“No, something stronger this time.”

He hums, hesitating as he despises the words that would stumble out of his mouth. “I have some things to handle tonight. Urgent matters.”

“Ah,” your voice dips slightly, the disappointment clear in your tone. “Well, it’s okay. I’ll see you another time, then,” you say, finally turning to face him.

He really missed you.

“Okay. I’ll see you.”

“Okay.”

“Congratulations on your award, by the way,” he says, watching your expression soften, a delicate smile forming on your lips.

“You saw it?”

“I did. I read your piece, too. I’m sure your mom would be proud of you.”

Tears of gratitude well up in your eyes, and you squeeze Hyunjin’s hand tightly as you whisper, “Thank you. Really. Thank you, Hyunjin.”

Hyunjin’s words linger in your soul, echoing through your mind for the rest of your day, his voice the only sound that seems to fill the silence within you. That is until three loud knocks resonate through your apartment, just minutes before midnight.

You open the door to find Hyunjin standing there, a fresh bruise marring his jaw, his knuckles freshly scraped and bloodied.

“Let me guess, you had nowhere else to go?” you joke, trying to regain your composure at the sight of him once more.

“No,” he replies, his tone earnest, “I wanted to come to you.”

Your smile falters at the sincerity in his voice. You can’t quite place what it is about Hyunjin that pulls you toward him, how amidst everything that’s happened in the past month, the most vivid memory is how he held you gently as you cried and cried.

“I forgot something,” he says, pulling a tube of cooling cream from his back pocket and offering it to you. “I meant to give this to you for your bruised wrists.”

He’s a month late, you both know your wrists have long since healed.

“I… yeah,” he sighs before your silence, turning to leave, a light blush tinting his cheeks. But before he can, you drop the tube and grab his hand, spinning him back around.

“I forgot something too,” you say quickly before pressing your lips against his.

You don’t fully understand what draws you to Hyunjin, but you know his lips taste as sweet as cherry chapstick, that his hand around your waist feels like water flowing gently over your skin, warm and encompassing. That his brown eyes remind you of sunlight dancing on autumn leaves, that no one has touched your soul as deeply as he has.

You know you wish to make him feel as human as he makes you.

#stray kids x reader #skz x reader #skz x you #skz imagines #stray kids imagine #stray kids imagines #skz scenarios #stray kids scenarios #skz au #skz reactions #hyunjin imagines #hyunjin x reader #hyunjin x you #hyunjin angst #skz angst #stray kids angst #skz fanfic #skz fluff #hyunjin fluff

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mayvnwrites · 9 months ago

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Fox demon sy au, except more demon and less uwu.

After dying due to expired food, SY wakes up as a fox demon with a natural affinity to poisons and poisoning. He is unamused at the irony, thanks, but at the same time... he IS kind of in some chaotic demon realm adjacent like place and needs all the help he can get, so ... thanks?

His transmigration even came with a subspace for drying and preserving herbs and ingredients, and an encyclopedic manual of all the possible tinctures, ingredients, and handling procedures installed into his brain.

Pretty adequate, although the subspace can only take medicinal ingredients and can't be used for growing/raising ingredients, and the manual is so massive SY feels like it will take decades to read. (Spoilers: it does take decades to read)

Cool, SY thinks, I can be a wandering apothecary and stuff - but of course things don't turn out like that, because why wouldn't this world be full of poisonous plants that require... um ... *alternative* methods of healing.

After the fifth time someone tries to force SY to cure someone with papapa, he says fk it and, unable to escape in more conventional ways, he poisons his way out of the demon lord's castle.

SY is also beginning to understand which world he's been transmigrated to and is cursing a "Master Airplane" under his breath nonstop as he stomps angrily away from rando demon lord's territory, almost no guilt in his heart because the dude and his vassals eat people and are *assholes*.

SY starts using the direct method (aka poison) in refusing persistent inquisitors that want help he's unwilling to give (whether it's papapa or just a matter of principle) and slowly becomes known more for poisoning than cures. Doesn't help that SY has evolved from death-poisons to poisons that would make you wish you were dead.

Soon SY is known as a fox who would rather kill you than speak to you.

At first SY feels upset about this, because after all that work curing people, killing people is what he's known for? But eventually he's like, whatever gets people to stop bothering me~.

After decades, SY has embraced getting his way with his pretty face and poisonings, becoming a bit of a naughty foxy, and is enjoying his life away from the plot and with much less harrassment by the demons.

He's gained the title of Poisonous Shoutao (longevity peach), and his reputation as a venomous fox demon who could cure whatever ails you but would rather poison you has grown far and wide (as well as his foxy bewitching ways as he gloats over poisoning you).

SY has a long list of admirers and haters alike, including those grateful for his healing and those who want revenge for his poisonings, but what good demon *doesn't* have an enemy or 20?

And then one of his haters sets him up to be the scapegoat of a rash of poisonings in some human communities, and suddenly SY is the target of some pony-tailed pretty boy head disciple from Cang Qiong with a mole, who hasn't realized that the Poisonous Shoutao is outside of his capabilities... after paralyzing the boy, SY thinks about just ending the kid but... well, SY has used his pretty face to sway others before, but this is the first time he's been swayed by a pretty face.

B-besides, it's probably better to avoid making enemies of Cang Qiong, no matter where in the plot they are right now! So SY just teases the kid until the kid's practically steaming (out of anger? or...), reveals he's NOT the culprit, and disappears into the night with a faint scent of nightshade lingering behind.

Expecting it all to be done and dusted after that, SY is surprised to find out that the pretty boy now has a vendetta against him and has sworn to take him down.

Cue cat-and-mouse interactions all over the two realms with a poisonous (and slightly flirty) fox demon chased by a serious (but easily flustered - at least when it comes to a certain fox) young cultivator.

#svsss #svsss au #liushen

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astro-tag-9 · 2 months ago

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Flaws of the venus signs

Aries venus: You maybe only fall in love with two people ever. And have no problem stringing along people you aren't entirely interested in, as long as they are still serving some kind of purpose to you. Learn to cut people lose and spare other's feelings when you realize it isn't for you. Taurus venus: Falling in love for you happens about 8 times a day. You can meet somebody, and instantly find 16 reasons to fall in love with them. Not every day is a rom-com movie. Not every stranger you meet is trying to flirt with you. Gemini venus: Not everybody needs you to be a hero. How about trying to save yourself for a change? You're all about self-help, except you will let your ego and emotions get in the way of loving yourself as you should be. You cannot fix yourself by fixing others. Cancer venus: You have to let people you love have free will. Not everything in love is up for grabs. Some things are beyond your control. Learn to love the unplanned and unexpected joys of love itself. People will surprise you, for better or for worse. But molding a relationship or a person to what you want, will sadly not give you the results you are wanting. Leo venus: You must give as much or more than what you take in relationships. Not everything is about you. No need to take everything personally, and there is also no need to be delusional. Things are as they are, not as you want them to be in your head. Virgo venus: The simplest things about love are the greatest. Stop expecting a whole show, when warm hugs and laughter are ultimately the finer things in love. It is ok to make the most of little moments, as before you know it they are gone. Libra venus: You have never actually gotten over any of your exs, and want them to all still be in love with you til the end of time (even if you don't want them anymore). You are such a huge lover, that part of you will always find yourself caring for the people in your past, even when you don't want to. Scorpio venus: You love deeper than you ever really know how to show. The ones you hold dearest to your heart, may have a hard time actually feeling your love for them on a day to day basis, even though you would literally die for them. It is ok to show affection and be vulnerable in love. Sagittarius venus: You never know how to express your feelings until they are too late sometimes. You always put your dreams first, which is amazing, but you are prone to lose out on real true loves because you never knew how to ask people to come with you on your adventures. Capricorn venus: In the beginning, sometimes it feels like you rush head first into love, and then once you are in it, you try to back out. Real love isn't always about the chase, and it isn't always about the rush. Good things take time. Let love grow instead of trying to force it. Aquarius venus: At your core you just want to be loved but you believe you are damaged, and instead get too picky on who you let in. It's like everybody has a time limit with you. Don't set unrealistic standards for love, and get upset when people are unable to make them. Pisces venus: People often wonder if you truly cared for them at all with how fast you tend to move on from others. I think you do this, because you don't want to give your heart too much time to feel hurt. But truth is, the pain of love is necessary to truly learn and move on. Take your time to heal before trying to start over before your learn your lessons. Each relationship will teach you something.

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hopelesshaidys · 19 days ago

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Midnights (3AM Edition)

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

‧₊˚♡pairing: Bakugou Katsuki x Reader

‧₊˚♡summary: Katsuki can't sleep, oh, and he's hopelessly in love with you

‧₊˚♡tags: obviously cussing, reader has a quirk that manipulates/creates shadows, no pronouns are used but reader is written as gender neutral as possible, blood is mentioned, mentions of reader being American mb bro i cannot help myself, also reader has that weighted stuffed dinosaur from target bc i have one and i cannot sleep w/out him, there's mention of the bnha war arc and i just decided the reader got impaled during the war for the drama of it all sue me, reader has scars - so whether that be from the war or anything else that is up for you to decide

‧₊˚♡masterlist

inbox is open so hmu!!

☾ ⋆*·ﾟ:⋆*·ﾟ

Bakugou Katsuki has a schedule. A strict set of rules that he must follow because Bakugou Katsuki is very serious about his state of well being.

For years he has made sure to train his body in a multitude of ways; through diet, exercise, and especially his sleep. Once 8:30PM strikes on the clock Katsuki has already brushed his teeth, washed his face, put on comfortable clothes, and is tucked in bed with the lights off and eyes closed. Sure his friends had made fun of him for it but since when did he ever take them seriously? Watching them mope around in the morning while he was alert than anyone else in the class.

That was, until the war.

Some may not realize, but participating in a war as a literal teenager, is not very healthy for one's psyche. Especially when that war causes one to die and then come back to life.

The physical healing procedure was already tormenting enough. His heart still spiking when he exercises, and his body still aching from the broken and bruised bones. Despite the complications, Katsuki could take it. This was merely a bump in the road, and what didn’t kill him will only make him stronger. Mentally healing however, that was a more demanding and strenuous battle.

Which brings him at 3AM sitting straight up in his bed drenched in sweat.

Not only was Katsuki struggling to even fall asleep before 12AM, now he was jolting awake when his nightmares replayed the moment he lost his life.

Katsuki was tired. He was tired of feeling like every other one of his dumbass friends in the morning, and he was tired of having to relive his trauma every night.

“You look like shit.”

Katsuki’s eyes shifted upwards, the sun coming through the classroom windows making him squint. When his eyes adjusted to the newfound brightness, suddenly all he could do was stare. The sun had perfectly lit you up, your hair, eyes, whole body. You looked like a goddamn angel.

“Not even a snarky comeback, damn, you really are feeling rough huh?”

Grumbling, he forces his line of sight away from your body. He mumbles a quick “fuck off” but you did the exact opposite, jumping up on his desk and putting your face in his view.

Katsuki knew he had a crush on you, he knew he had feelings for you and he knows he’s a coward for never asking you out. Things just happened so quickly; by the time he finally admitted to himself that he was basically "in love" with you (Kaminari’s words, not his), Izuku had left and the both of you were too busy trying to get him back to further your relationship.

That never stopped him from his endless pining though. Everything about you drove him insane, he had never felt so at ease and like a madman at the same time. Your drive, strength, intelligence, courage, beauty, way with words, humor. All the way down to the way you look at him, he was down bad. In his eyes, you were perfect.

“Kats,” the softness of your voice caused him to look back into your eyes, immediately relaxing his shoulders. You turned your hand palm-up, a silent way of asking him to intertwine his fingers with yours. This was a new habit between the two of you, starting during Izuku’s disappearance. At first it was just the pinkies, both afraid of the intimacy of it would bring into their friendship. That was, until one particularly grueling night, where it turned into Katsuki fully holding onto your hand with both of his, as if he was scared of you disappearing into thin air.

Katsuki stared at your hands for a moment, taking in the small scars and calluses littered all over. Without a second thought his hand was laced with yours, already starting to feel better. What a loser he's turned out to be.

You nudged him with your knee, head craned to look at his face that he was hiding from you. “What’s going on?”

He was hoping that you wouldn't ask, knowing that he would immediately open up like the lovesick fool he is. Taking in a deep breath, Katsuki shifted his neck to look back up at you.

“Can’t sleep, makin’ me all shitty.”

You snorted, not being able to help yourself being tickled with his childish mumbles. You quickly shot him a quick “sorry” when his eyes narrowed at your laughter.

Rubbing the back of his hand with your thumb, you spoke up. “Yeah, nightmares are the worst.”

Katsuki nodded his head slowly, knowing you’d understand despite the lack of information.

“You know you can always come crash with me if you need it.”

Katsuki was now more awake than he had been in weeks. His eyes widened as they glued onto your casual demeanor. Swinging your feet, you looked up and smiling at your friends as they stumbled into classroom waving enthusiastically at each other. The words just flowed out of your mouth, and not a single tell with your body language hinted at those words being unnatural to you. So much so, when you looked back at him you had the nerve to look at him confused and chuckle at his expression.

“You’re a freak,” Katsuki mumbled as he slipped his hand out of yours. He folded his arms and set his head back down onto his arms, but that only caused you to laugh harder.

You ruffle his head affectionately getting up from his desk, Katsuki grunting as he pretended he didn’t enjoy the domesticity. While you walked away, he couldn’t help but let his gaze follow. Seeing you so bright just interacting with your friends, it was something that never ceased to amaze him. You had gone through so much mentally and physically despite being so young. With all the trauma you had endured, Katsuki watched you live life to the fullest. He watched you continue to have fun, laugh, cry, do all the things you love; he watched you become a hero.

That is exactly why Katsuki found himself standing in front of your dorm door at 3 in the morning, hand only inches away from your door handle. This is stupid, it's so immeasurably idiotic, he had to be insane. The lack of sleep had indubitably affected his ability to think straight because what the hell did he think he was doing? This was only going to keep him more awake, he was going to be so goddamn nervous laying in your bed and being that close to you. Nonetheless, Katsuki turned the knob, immediately cringing at the creak the door made. Was he supposed to wake you up when he got in there or just...lay down? This was the first time in his life he entered a room without knowing how to proceed and that is how he knew he had gone full berserk.

He took a single step into the room, immediately nearly blew up the whole goddamn school. There was the unmistakable sound of a man's voice.

Now on full alert, Katsuki scanned the area despite his eyes having to adjust to the dark in order to see where the source was coming from. The voice was deep, and speaking in English which only lead Katsuki to become more irritated. It wasn't until he made out your laptop being on and playing a video, that he was able to let out a sigh of relief. He forgot that you liked to put on YouTube while you slept.

"Helps me for when I wake up in the night, 'cause then I can just watch it. Helps get my mind off of things until I fall asleep." You explained shrugging your shoulders, mouth still chewing on whatever candy Sero had thrown your way.

"Plus I don't like being in the silence with my own thoughts," you tilted your head over at Katsuki as he raised an eyebrow at you. "The voices say the wildest shit sometimes."

At the time, Katsuki was not shy about how weird he thought you were for having some random guy play video games in order to sleep. However, with his new predicament he understands the appeal much more. It's a good distraction to use in order to stop thinking about whatever traumatic incident you just relived momentarily, not that he was ever going admit to you about all of that.

Shutting the door, Katsuki put one foot in front of the other, feeling like he was in some sort of hypnosis. Maybe you were awake and your started to use your quirk on him, stupid umbrakinesis or whatever it was called. (That is what it was called. Katsuki made sure to memorize it and learn everything he could about it- the creation or manipulation of darkness and shadows- a powerful quirk only made sense given how perfect everything else about you was. Although Katsuki has a strong feeling he'd still love you even if you were quirkless.)

When he finally got to your bed, like the awkward pathetic idiot he is, Katsuki just stood there. He could not, for the life of him figure out what to do next. He was actively trying to decide whether if he should just turn around to leave. Act like nothing even happened, just have to live with the embarrassment for the rest of his life.

No, he couldn't give up now! If he goes back to his dorm he'll just stay up even later than usual just replaying what he just did over and over until he rips all of his hair out. Besides, you told him he could "crash" in your room, he had even made sure of it later that day to make sure he wasn't hallucinating those words.

When the two of you finished sparring for the day (the only reason you won three times in a row was because he was tired, no other reason) he stomped over to you. "What the fuck did you mean by me 'crashing with you' twilight"

(not Katsuki's best work nickname wise but seeing you laugh and let him call you that caused him to keep using it)

"Kat," you huffed as you rolled your eyes at his attitude. "You told me you're not sleeping well because of the nightmares, and I just wanna help you out."

You unraveled the cloth wraps from your fingers, something that Katsuki was weirdly attracted to and had no idea what to do with that information. You looked up from his hands, causing him to snap his head back up and pretend like he wasn't oogling at your arms and hands.

He continued to watch as you shoved the cloth in your gym bag, continuing your explanation.

"Speaking from experience; I know how lonely it can get when you wake up from an agonizing nightmare all alone, and I wondered if having someone there keeping you grounded could help." Your eyes met his, sweat still running down your face from the previous activity. He watched as you extended your hand to his, gently grabbing the tips of his fingers. "I'm here for you, seriously."

And goddammit if that didn't convince Katsuki to come into your room at 3AM after an "agonizing nightmare." Just his luck, he dreamt of the moment of your impalement during the war; watching the life leave your eyes and your body drop to the earth. It was too overbearing to relive, and Katsuki knew he had to see you in order to convince his brain that you were okay, that you are safe.

Putting one knee on the bed, Katsuki observed your face, sound asleep. You were sprawled out, cuddled up to that stupid weighted stuffed dinosaur that you always insisted bringing to movie nights and sleepovers. Mina often had hosted sleepovers that even the boys could join in on, and whenever he found out you would be present he'd stay up a little later just to be with you. You would have that stupid thing in your lap all night long, and Bakugou Katsuki will neither confirm nor deny that he was jealous of a plushie.

You slowly turned your head onto the side, your movement causing Katsuki to snap out of his thoughts. Anxiously, he made sure to study your breathing just to make sure you were still okay. Once he concluded that you were healthy, his eyes continued to drift over your unconscious form.

Your pjs consisted of an oversized shirt that had your home state football team on it, but was fading due to how old it was. The goddamn shirt was so big on you he couldn't tell if you even had pants on (once you shifted Katsuki carefully and painfully watched to make sure you had shorts on which you did- thank gods). You wore the shirt often, wondering the hauls of the dorm with it on. It wasn't originally yours, and you never told Katsuki who it belonged to before hand. All that he knew was it was someone hard for you to bring up, but you still had love for.

Another thing he found himself weirdly jealous about, the fact that you had an entirely different life before Japan, before him. Selfishly, it always made him feel better whenever you confided in him about how miserable you were before you moved. Although those early years of your life was important to you, Katsuki was glad he was apart of your life that you were actually happy during.

Continuing his examination, he followed the tracings of your scars with his eyes. Always finding the markings both admirable and sickening because of the pain you had to endure in order to receive them. Looking back up at your face, he had to fight the urge just to find out if your skin is really as soft as it looks. As much as he loves having your eyes on him, he had always enjoyed your sleeping form. Unable to explain, it made him feel satisfied to see you at peace and finally get the rest that you deserve.

Katsuki noticed you have never been a good sleeper, and he certainly had noticed that only got worse after the war. Study 'dates' ended with you falling asleep in his bed, or during lunch you tended to sneak a quick nap on Katsuki's shoulder when the two of you sat in the hallway to avoid the noise of the cafeteria. He hesitated, worried that his interruption may worsen your sleep for the night, before a loud noise came from your computer.

Despite the computer being on a low volume and his focus on you, Katsuki jumped. His knee bounced the bed due to the pressure he laid on it as he stumbled away, and much to his demise, you woke up. Loudly.

A fury of shadows came shooting out of the walls, nearly hitting the backside of Katsuki. His previous exhaustion being long forgotten as he dove onto your bed in order to dodge a tendril near him.

"Katsuki?!"

All of the tornado-like-shadows froze, the fear in your eyes slowly leaving and the shadows started to dissipate as a result. Katsuki let out a breath of relief, changing from his hands and knees hunched over position to sit with his legs off of your bed awkwardly. You stared at him for a moment, eyes still wide from shock and mouth open. He knew you were waiting for an explanation but now that he was actually sitting on your bed, eye to eye, he had nothing to say. Your incredulous expression stayed the same before you looked around throwing your hands around, eventually let out a loud sigh.

You rubbed your hand over your face, trying to rid of the sleep in your eyes before finally speaking. "Dude, what the fuck is going on with you?"

It’s ironic, Katsuki had been repeating those same exact words to himself all night. He was sure that it was a mixture of the sleep deprivation and the nightmare of you that brought on his body to move on their own all the way into your dorm.

He must have been staring off into space for longer than you liked, because the bed shifted and your hand was now on his shoulder. Slowly, Katsuki looked over at your hand, flinching when he saw a stream of blood dripping down your arm. When he blinked, however, the blood was gone and your arm was back to normal.

"Kat..." You scooted closer to him, daring to move your hand up his neck and resting right at his jawline. The two of you were only inches apart, but all Katsuki could focus on was your steady breathing. He swears he can see that lifeless look in your eyes sometimes, and if he let himself he could feel how cold your face felt when he cradled you in his arms.

Finally, after forcing himself to breathe again, Katsuki spoke up. "Nightmare."

He didn't want to risk worrying you so he spared the details. He knew you were going to feel some sort of burden for something you can't control. Thankfully his one word appeared to be good enough for you because your demeanor changed, shoulders relaxing and your thumb on his jawline started to caress soothing lines.

"Lay down." The bed started to shift more as you sat up fully in criss cross position, Katsuki looking at you speechless.

You, however, just raised an eyebrow at him. "You came in here to crash yeah? So lay down, get some sleep."

A moment of Katsuki staying frozen passed, the two of you maintaining sleepy eye contact. Finally, he let his heart give in as the logical side of his brain screamed at him to refuse, to leave. But he did the opposite, and he laid down staring at you still not convinced. Those feelings only grew when you laughed at him.

"You look like a newborn baby being put down into a crib for the first time.”

"You know what fuck you I'm leavin-" Katsuki started to sit up but you pushed him down with a single hit, shushing him while you did so.

"Just fucking relax man," you rolled your eyes playfully, grabbing at the covers to pull over you. "Lay on your left side, back facing me."

"You better not pull some dumb shit Twilight or else I'll-"

"Yeah, yeah you'll blow off my face or whatever predictable bullshit you were 'gonna say." You chuckled at Katsuki's awkwardness again as he stiffly moved onto his side. His eyes were wide open, every muscle in his body was tense. There was more shifting behind him before he felt you fully lay down behind him. Your lips were hovering over his neck, your breath hitting his skin causing goosebumps to rise.

"Let me know if this is too much." Your whisper against his neck was nothing compared to your arm slithering over his ribcage and leg pushing in-between where his right leg rested on top of his left. Your left hand was simply pressed against his back, which distracted him momentarily from the fact that your right hand intertwined itself with his own hand.

He stayed still for a moment, feeling as if he was on fire. Not from the two bodies being so close together, but rather from the fact that it was your body being pushed up against his. Your head was now rested against his back, and Katsuki feels as if every part of you that was touching him was melding into his own skin. He was suddenly very grateful that you had him face away from him because you surely would have made fun of the way his face reddened. He kept his breath low and shallow, so overwhelmed with the touch that he had craved from you for so long. Katsuki wasn't sure what to think, his mind completely and utterly blank.

Behind him, you took a long, deep breath. In, and out; the new relaxation of your body just caused you to sink even further into his. Thoughtlessly, Katsuki did the same thing. He forced himself to take a deep breath in, and out, closing his eyes slowly. He let go of any anxiety or fear that clung onto his fibers, allowing your fiery touch to morph into a comforting heat. As he steadied his breathing, he realized he was matching the pace of your breathing. With his eyes still shut, he allowed himself to be lulled by the existence of you. Melded into his skin, breathing at the same tempo, hands intertwined.

“Good night Kats,” you mumbled against his back. Katsuki was already half asleep, but before his consciousness slipped away, he spoke.

“Thank you.”

He felt your lips morph into a smile, but didn’t say another word. That was okay, you didn’t have to say anything.

Katsuki flipped around to face you. Now confused, you looked up at him squinting your eyes. Instead of saying anything, he wrapped his arms around you and hold onto you tightly. Wordlessly, you made yourself comfortable in the new position. This was what he needed, to hold you when you were alive, in his arms. The proximity allowed him to feel the beat of your heart, comforting his fears further. He pressed a kiss onto your forehead, letting it linger longer than he should have. Before his nervous system could catch up with the fact he just did that, your lips pressed against his chest. Against his heart.

Finally, Katsuki started to drift off to sleep. Something in him told him that he wouldn’t have anymore nightmares as long as he had you.

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*gulp* hey guys... 😀 ✦ listen ik its been a while but in my defense; chronic pain. also i cannot eat anymore??? like i can only eat three gluten free nuggets max and im sickly full for the rest of the day. life is so weird

✦ anyways i'll still post bnha here and there but i'll be writing for another man in a series cuz he's so scrumptious and i miss him

✦ also guys be honest is it weird to write x readers for real life people...esp if its smut... im so conflicted cuz there's literally thousands of x readers for this man but idk i get nervy so just lmk i don't wanna outfreak anyone 😔

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k ily bye 🩶

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