#my sanity is barely clinging by a thread
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phagodyke · 8 months ago
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if my neighbours don't shut yhr fuck up and go to bed im going to make the news tomorrow
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maomao-words · 28 days ago
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I've been in the mood for some pettiness lately, so here are the results of my feelings (^≗ω≗^)
I received more Wind Breaker asks (very exciting!!), so expect more posts soon! If you have any angsty requests, too, please send them my way. I never turn down angst!
No TWs. Mostly fluffy with a dash of pettiness (on your side) and groveling (on the boys' side).
I hope you enjoy!
Wind Breaker: How the boys react to being banned from touching you after calling you clingy (Sakura, Kiryu, and Endo).
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Sakura Haruka:
Sakura's face was colored crimson, the lovely color slithering to cover the tips of his ears down to the inner skin of his neck. He spluttered, an adorable pout in tow, in response to your tight embrace.
"H-hey! Don't you think you're being too-- clingy??" Sakura's tone was sharp, but his arms were tender as he opened them further to accommodate your body. You paused, hands stilling in their attempt to thread through your boyfriend's hair, before a measured "clingy?" left your lips.
You slowly pulled your arms away from him, receiving a confused huh? in response to your sudden withdrawal. You patted your dress down, quietly trying to get your irritation in order, just as Sakura joined you up from the picnic blanket you carefully laid out on the lush grass a few hours ago.
A gentle smile was on your lips as you faced Sakura. You didn't want him to suffer from your clinginess, now, did you? Sakura gulped, feeling his throat constrict at the uncomfortable feeling now settling at the bottom of his stomach.
It didn't take Sakura long to understand his mistake. In all honesty, it was difficult to miss the signs. After all, you stopped wrapping your arm around his own each morning you met up on the way to fulfill your schedules. You didn't even glance twice at Sakura when he timidly extended his hand to lightly touch your cheek, and barely showed any joy as your boyfriend suggested that he walk you back home after he finished his patrols around town.
Sakura's heart ached and trembled, but it never broke apart. While you withdrew all of your affectionate touches, you still maintained a careful distance from him. Far enough for him to clench his teeth at his losses, but close enough for him to yearn deeply for you. You still smiled as brightly as the sun, still asked him softly how he slept the night before, and remained as tender as always when you delivered handmade lunches to him every noon.
You were driving him insane, acting hot and cold in the same breath, pecking his cheek and leaving traces of your favorite gloss behind, but refusing to allow Sakura to hold your hand as you went on a date.
Sakura felt like suffocating with every missed opportunity to feel your hands on him, like he was near a sharp edge leading directly toward the depths. With his sanity driven against the wall, all Sakura could do was to collect every piece of bravery he had ever mustered to beg for your forgiveness.
"I'm sorry," he mumbled, "I-- I didn't mean to hurt you." His words were close to a whisper, as he loosely held your hand in his own, looking as close to a kicked puppy as you had ever seen. Your heart clenched at the sight, but you bit your tongue and held back from immediately comforting your distressed lover.
"How can I make you forgive me?" The familiar blush was now back on Sakura's face, as his voice grew panicky and wobbly, "Ice cream? a movie? another picnic? h-hugs? name anything and I'll give it to you!"
How could you ever resist such awkward, yet heartfelt words? You wordlessly extended your arms, watching in pure delight as Sakura's blush deepened, his lips curling in the tiniest of smiles before he hurried directly into your embrace.
Kiryu Mitsuki:
The arcade was glowing in various vibrant colors, with flashy music echoing across its walls, as endless visitors trickled past its doors. You were clinging to Kiryu's firm back, hands crossed at his chest, right on top of his steadily beating heart. Kiryu huffed a teasing sigh, for the third time since he started playing this specific gacha game, and tried to twist around to see your face.
"Cutie, I can't get you the plushie you want with you cutting off my oxygen supply like this!" His voice was dripping in genuine amusement and affection, enough for you to barely take offense at his accusations. You giggled, lips parting to justify your need to be as close to him as humanely possible, when Kiryu added. "You're so clingy, honestly!"
Time seemed to halt in its steps after your boyfriend uttered those words, an odd quietness filling your ears. You breathed in, taking in Kiryu's familiar fresh scent, before you lifted your arms off of him. A confused hmm? echoed off Kiryu's chest at your sudden withdrawal, but his attention was taken away by the moving machine in his sights.
When the machine glowed in different colors, announcing his win, Kiryu turned around to celebrate finally getting his hands on the bunny you had wanted for some time now. You were now standing a few feet away from him, a soft smile on your lips, with your head tilted as adorably as you knew Kiryu liked it.
"So," you flutter your eyelashes once, then twice, "I'm clingy?"
Kiryu felt his blood run cold at the words falling out of your lovely mouth. Thoughts raced in his head, and he quickly tripped over his own words to apologize, only to stop talking once you got closer to him again. Your pretty smile was now strained at the corners, and all thoughts of escaping through a quick apology disappeared from his mind.
Fuck. Kiryu thought to himself. He won't be off the hook for a long time, would he?
And Kiryu was right. From that day onward, you denied him all of your girlfriend privileges. No more spontaneous pecks as soon as you meet up after work, no more carefully crafted meals offered to him during his gaming sessions, and definitely no more allowing him to envelop your waist or touch the small of your back whenever you stroll down the streets together.
Kiryu was wilting, deprived of your love. His eyes lost their sparkle, his smile was strained in the corners, and his hands trembled each time you came within touching distance of him.
"My baby," Kiryu cooed gently at you within the eighth day of your torture, "my sweetheart, love of my love, apple of my eye." Each endearing term was accompanied by a honeyed tone and an affectionate kiss on top of your knuckles.
You bit back a shiver and disciplined your face into neutrality, but you knew you were slowly cracking under your boyfriend's ultimate attack: his puppy eyes. Once Kiryu backed you into a corner, a literal wall behind your back, he leaned closer to you. His voice was smooth as silk, and his eyes sparkled in complete sincerity.
"Tell me. How can I fix this?"
As thoughts of all the possible ways Kiryu could melt your heart enough for forgiveness to find its way to you, you grinned easily and extended a hand to touch your puppy's cheek. A proper apology deserved proper rewards, after all.
Yamato Endo:
You almost jumped out of your skin when you felt a warm puff of air near your ear out of the sudden. One second, you were waiting for your boyfriend in front of your favorite coffee shop, then in the next one, your heart was crawling out of your throat as you whirled around and tried to identify the person creeping up on you.
"Aw," Endo's husky voice filled the tense air, " did I scare you, baby?"
The teasing words were only halfway out of his lips when you jumped directly into his strong arms, a giggle in tow. Anticipating your reaction, Endo only laughed carefreely, and cradled your body closer to his chest the minute he had you near him.
"You're really clingy, aren't you?" The words felt like a careless follow-up, something he had barely put any proper thought into, but somehow managed to immediately crawl under your skin. You lifted your face from the crook of Endo's neck and looked him in the eyes, finding nothing but the usual combination of adoration and amusement. Putting you down more gently than anyone would suspect, Endo extended his hand toward yours, signaling his readiness to be guided wherever you wanted.
Irritation filled your guts at the daredevil attitude (which ironically made you fall for him in the first place), and you stubbornly refused to place your hand in his. When Endo continued to wait for your warmth to envelop his fingers, which never came, he turned around with a question on the tip of his tongue, only to pause at the look on your face.
"Hmm?" Endo curiously tilted his head toward you, "Why do I get the feeling that I'm sleeping on the couch today?"
"It's because you are!" You laughed, a hint of rage punctuating each word, before spinning on your heels and walking into the coffee shop, not bothering to hear your boyfriend's semi-panicked wait a fucking second now!
It was on, you thought to yourself. This was going to be a hard battle.
The thing about banning Endo from touching, kissing, and embracing you is that... he doesn't respond well to being told what to do. So, instead of instigating a lost fight from the onset, you chose to subtly implement your plan. If Endo reached for your hand, you let him do it, but you kept your fingers loose, never intertwining with his own. When he leaned for a kiss, you didn't pull your face away, but rather twisted ever so slightly so his lips landed on your cheek instead. As for his hand constantly around your waist, you found that moving ahead of your boyfriend and dancing around him were usually enough for him to give up on chasing you all over the streets.
All of your actions got you a raised eyebrow and an amused huff at the beginning. But once Endo started to feel devoid of your touch for days with no end in sight, he began to persistently attempt a reconciliation.
"You're so petty. It's cute," he whispered in your ears late in the evening. You spent an hour escaping his clutches around the park, only to succumb under him once exhaustion claimed your four limbs. You turned your head to the side, refusing to look at your boyfriend, as a pout bloomed on your face.
Endo laughed again, a loud, carefree, and amused sound that filled your stomach with butterflies. His hand snaked its way around your thighs, and he faked a sigh before he gently dropped his forehead into yours.
"My pretty doll, how can I make this up to you, hmm?" Endo's eyes gleamed under the fading sunlight, and his smile thinned into a small grin, devoid of his usual teasing style.
"Don't ever call me clingy again," you retorted back at him, only for his lips to seal yours the instant you finished speaking.
"That's all? I'd rip my heart out for you, if you'd just ask."
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carolina-thiell · 15 days ago
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Crash Landing (Into You) · Jack Abbott x Plus Size!Reader-
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Character: Jack Abbott
Pairing: Jack Abbott x Plus Size!Reader (Adriana)
Format: Fic (Part 1 of 3)
Word Count: ~2.5k
Genre: Smut, Domestic Fluff, Humor, Post-Night-Shift Softness
Warnings: Sexual content, strong language, aftercare, mild medical references (non-graphic)
Status: Part 1 of 3
Summary:
Jack Abbott shows up at Adriana’s door after a brutal night shift; sleep-deprived, coffee-stained, and clinging to the last thread of sanity. She offers eggs, thighs, and a soft place to land. What follows is chaos, comfort, and a very intimate reminder that even the most put-together surgeon sometimes needs to fall apart in the right arms.
Author’s Note:
This is my first fic for The Pitt, and I'm still finding the rhythm of Jack’s voice, so he may be a little out of character. Thank you for being patient with me while I explore him!
Read part 2 HERE.
Read part 3 HERE.
6:52 AM: Adriana’s Apartment.
The knock on her door was a disaster; three uneven pounds, followed by what could only be described as a forehead thump against the wood. Adriana opened it to find Jack Abbott, trauma surgeon, former combat medic and king of composure looking like a wet cat that had fought a blender and lost.
Hair mussed, scrubs wrinkled and one shoe untied. There was a coffee stain on his shirt like a chest wound and eyes wide with post-shift dissociation. He blinked at her.
—I witnessed twelve people’s intestines today and one guy said you look like Jesus before passing out. My intern cried because I told him adrenaline wasn’t a personality trait.
Adriana stepped aside silently and gestured him in with a mug of chamomile already in hand.
—Come in, O great war god. Tell me about your day and I’ll feed you scrambled eggs and thighs.
Jack stumbled in.
—Thighs?
She wiggled her eyebrows and pulled at the hem of her sleep shirt; oversized, hanging off one shoulder. Bare legs and curves on display like a damn Venus painting.
—Mine, obviously.
Jack let out something halfway between a groan and a prayer.
7:08 AM: Kitchen Chaos.
While she stirred eggs and hummed off-key, he just stood there watching.
—You’re not going to ask how many people almost died?
—Nope.
—You're not going to say thank you for saving lives?
—No; you’re sweaty and rude and need to sit your heroic ass down and eat.
Jack blinked and she turned, pointed the spatula at him.
—Also, stop looking at me like that unless you're planning to do something about it.
That got a smirk out of him, low and lethal.
—Something like what?
She gave a slow shrug and the sleep shirt shifted, slipping lower on her shoulder.
—Like throwing me on the couch and working off the last twelve hours of trauma with your mouth.
Jack dropped into the kitchen chair with a thump.
—Okay, yeah. That's it. I'm in love.
7:20 AM: The Couch Situation.
The eggs were left abandoned and the shirt gone. His, not hers. Jack had her underneath him, couch cushions shifted to hell, her plush thighs bracketing his hips. His hands slid over her sides like he was starving.
—You always smell like vanilla and fuck me; do you know that? —murmured Jack against her neck.
Adriana whimpered, gripping his hair.
—Jack...
—Shhh, don’t talk. I’ve held other people’s spleens for twelve hours. Let me have this.
His mouth trailed down her chest. He kissed the softest parts, bit the curve of her hip, buried his face between her thighs like it was oxygen. She gasped, ached and moaned his name like a spell. Jack groaned like a man letting go of the last thread of sanity.
—You’re so fucking beautiful. I should come home covered in blood more often if it gets me this.
—Jesus, Jack...
He looked up from between her legs, eyes dark.
—Say it again.
She blinked.
—What?
—My name like that. Like I’m your favorite thing you’ve ever tasted.
Adriana was gone and when he kissed his way back up and slid into her arms came around his shoulders and held. He moved like he had to prove something, like no one else would ever get to touch her and needed to claim every breath she had.
—You take me so well, baby. You make everything stop.
She cried out, pleasure crashing through her and Jack’s voice broke.
—You’re the softest thing in my whole damn life, Adriana. You make me feel safe.
8:00 AM: Aftercare King Mode Activated.
They were tangled up in a throw blanket on the floor, her head on his chest, his fingers tracing slow circles on her back. He kissed her forehead.
—Sorry for arriving like a corpse.
She snorted into his neck.
—You brought body fluids and a mild existential crisis. It’s kind of your brand.
He laughed a real one.
—Thanks for being here. For reminding me I’m not just the guy who fixes broken things.
She looked up.
—You’re the guy I love, with or without blood on your shoes.
Jack touched her cheek.
—I love you, too; especially when you threaten me with pancakes and sex.
She kissed his jaw.
—Crash here, sleep. Then you can show me round two when your brain is online.
Jack was already half asleep.
—You’re getting thighs for dinner, just so you know.
Adriana smiled.
—Count on it.
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lost-in-thoughts03 · 1 month ago
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FLATLINE || Hwang In-ho
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" How could you pull the plug and leave me flatline?"
Summary: A party attended by various wealthy businessmen who are your father's business partners. He invited you because he wanted to introduce you to the son of his business partner. However, there's someone who is envious and dislikes sharing you with others.
Warnings: 🔞, MDNI, smut, au, dad's best friend, soft-dom! In-ho, older man x younger woman (legal), age gap, unprotected sex, PiV, oral (F receiving), erotic, kissing, markings, tension, possessive, slight dark, jealousy, forbidden, piano sex, riding, power dynamics
“ I just came to tell you both about a business party this weekend.”
“ I need you there, sweetheart. It’s time you meet some of the big players.”
You raised an eyebrow. “ You mean...a setup?”
Your father grinned. “ There’s a young man I want you to meet. Smart, well-connected, runs one of the biggest tech groups in the city. I think you’ll get along. Maybe more than that.”
You could feel the shift beside you.
You turned slowly.
In-ho’s expression was different now.
He wasn’t smiling.
His jaw was set.
His eyes were on fire.
You knew that look.
That was the “mine” look.
The one he used when some guy even thought about standing too close to you.
“ I didn’t know matchmaking was part of your business model.” In-ho said, voice deceptively smooth.
Your dad chuckled. “ Oh come on, you know how it is. Business and pleasure, right?”
You nearly choked on your own spit.
You glanced at In-ho.
His stare didn’t move from your father, but that possessive tension vibrated off him like a warning bell in an active warzone.
You leaned in slightly, whispering just loud enough for In-ho to hear, “ Don’t worry, I’ll be on my best behavior...for the tech guy.”
His head snapped toward you.
His eyes raked over your face, unreadable—until you saw the corner of his mouth twitch.
Dangerous.
You had just poked the beast.
Good.
...
1 week has passed…
You arrived at the venue gripping your clutch like it was the last thread of your sanity. The ballroom shimmered with chandeliers that looked more expensive than your college tuition, and everything smelled like money and polished ambition.
You hated it.
The crowd.
The flash.
The performance.
So, like a child clinging to a parent on the first day of school, you hid behind your father’s broad back as he navigated through a sea of tailored suits and designer gowns.
" Come on, sweetheart." Your father coaxed, not looking back.
" You’re not five anymore."
“ Mentally, I just regressed.” You muttered, but followed anyway, awkward and tense.
Then you heard it. That voice.
“ Ah! And this must be your lovely daughter.”
You peeked out.
And saw him.
Cho Tae-hyun.
The face card?
Never declined.
He looked like he stepped straight out of a K-drama finale—a tall, crisp black suit hugging his lean frame, eyes that sparkled with easy charm, and a smile that could probably restart your heart if it was flatlined.
You barely managed a smile before he took your hand—gently—and bowed slightly.
“ You look breathtaking. That dress should be illegal.”
Your knees quivered.
What the hell.
He was smooth.
You couldn’t stop the blush creeping up your cheeks.
And when you looked up, your dad and Tae-hyun’s dad were grinning like two middle-aged cupids who were way too proud of themselves.
“ Perfect match, don’t you think?” His father chuckled.
“ We’ve been talking about this for months.” Your dad added, nudging your side like he just handed you a gift-wrapped fiancé.
You wanted to disappear. But Tae-hyun made it bearable—fun, even.
He laughed easily, talked to you like you were the only one in the room, and when he offered his hand to dance, you actually smiled and nodded.
For once, you didn’t feel like an anxious mess in a sea of sharks.
He led you to the dance floor with surprising confidence. You let him hold your waist—too close for polite distance, but not quite scandalous.
His fingers gave you a gentle squeeze.
You blushed harder.
But you didn’t see him.
In-ho.
Across the ballroom, standing with a group of executives, holding a champagne glass that now had a hairline crack from how tight he was gripping it.
His eyes were locked on you.
On Tae-hyun.
He watched the way that bastard smiled at you.
How you laughed.
How his hand dared to explore that dangerous zone at your waist like he had the right.
The champagne glass creaked in In-ho’s grip. His jaw clenched so hard you could see the vein throbbing in his temple.
The charming smirk he usually wore in social settings was gone—replaced by an expression darker, tighter. Possessive.
He couldn't storm over here.
Not here.
Not in front of your father.
Not while the press and potential investors were milling around.
But God, he wanted to.
His eyes narrowed when Tae-hyun spun you, and you giggled—pure, radiant, happy.
You never giggle like that with him.
He took a step forward.
Stopped.
Took another sip of his drink.
Bitter.
He imagined dragging you away by the wrist. Pushing you up against the nearest wall and reminding you who you really belonged to.
He imagined wiping that smug, polite smile off Tae-hyun’s face with one punch to that sharp jawline.
But he didn't.
Because he couldn’t.
Not yet.
So he stood there, burning in silence.
His fingers twitched.
His whole body was on lockdown.
But the fire behind his eyes raged, locked and aimed like a heat-seeking missile.
He was going to let you have your little dance.
But later?
You were going to forget Tae-hyun even existed.
The night dragged on, but you didn’t notice the time. Tae-hyun was charming, easy to talk to, and honestly?
A distraction you didn’t know you needed.
He made you laugh.
He complimented you with a kind of sincerity that made your heart flutter.
You danced with him again, maybe twice—okay, three times—and every time his hand lingered on your waist just a little longer.
But eventually, nature—and champagne—called, and you excused yourself from the ballroom. You barely made it to the hallway when a hand closed around your wrist.
You froze.
In-ho.
He didn’t say a word.
Just yanked—gently but firmly—pulling you down the corridor like he owned the building.
You barely had time to register anything before he pushed open a heavy door and dragged you into a private lounge—dimly lit, empty, too lavish for its purpose.
The door slammed shut behind you.
" In-ho—"
“ Don’t…” He snapped, voice low, dark, and shaking with restraint.
You turned to him. “ What the hell is your problem?”
He stalked toward you.
You stepped back instinctively—but he followed, slow, controlled, like a lion circling its prey.
“ You’re my problem.” He growled.
“ Waltzing around in that dress, giggling like a goddamn schoolgirl, letting that bastard put his hands on you.”
You bristled. “ It’s a dance, not a proposal. And Tae-hyun is actually respectful—unlike some people.”
That struck a nerve.
His jaw tightened, and his eyes flashed.
He stepped in so close your backs nearly touched the wall.
You could feel the heat rolling off him like a furnace.
“ Respectful?” He whispered, voice like smoke.
“ You think I didn’t see the way he looked at you? Like he already had you unwrapped and bent over that dance floor?”
You gasped. “ You’re one to talk. You’ve had plenty of chances to say something, but instead you stand there like some emotionally constipated statue and now you’re what? Jealous?”
He leaned in, forehead almost brushing yours, his breath hot against your lips.
“ You want me to say it?”
“ Say what?”
“ That you’re mine."
Your breath caught.
“ You’ve always been mine. But you keep pushing, keep running to other men because I don’t hand you a damn declaration on a silver plate.”
You blinked, heart racing.
“ And now? After watching you smile at him like that?” His voice dipped lower.
Rougher.
Hungrier.
“ I’m done being polite.”
His hand slid to your waist, fingers digging in, pulling you against him.
You felt all of him—tension, fury, desire.
It crashed into you like a wave.
“ You’re not leaving this room until I remind you exactly who you belong to.”
Your hands gripped his jacket before you even realized it. “ You think you can just claim me like that?”
He leaned in, lips brushing your ear. “ No. I’m going to make you remember.”
You shivered.
There was no more room to speak.
The heat burned too loud.
The jealousy, the hunger, the months of unresolved tension—it all flooded the space between you like oxygen on an open flame.
He kissed you like it was a punishment and a promise.
And God help you, you kissed him back like you’d been starving. His mouth crashed into yours, no hesitation, no room for doubt.
It wasn’t gentle.
It wasn’t sweet.
It was possessive—hungry, primal, like he’d finally snapped and couldn’t hold back any longer.
You gasped into the kiss, and that was all the invitation In-ho needed. His hands pinned your hips against the wall, grinding against you, forcing you to feel the full weight of what he’d been holding back.
Every restrained glance.
Every unsaid word.
Every jealous thought watching you with Tae-hyun.
You moaned softly, and his grip tightened—like he was afraid you’d disappear again if he didn’t hold you there, completely.
“ You drive me insane.” He growled against your lips.
“ You think I like being the one who waits, who watches while you flutter around some polished puppy with a fake smile and shiny shoes?”
You kissed him back harder, nails digging into his back through his jacket.
“ Maybe if you said something sooner—”
He bit your lower lip gently, making you gasp.
“ I’m saying it now.”
Your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer. He dipped his head to your neck, his lips and teeth blazing a trail down your skin.
You arched into him, legs weak.
“ In-ho…” You breathed, head lolling back as he mouthed over your collarbone.
His voice was hoarse, breath hot on your skin.
“ You think he can touch you like this?” His hand dragged down the curve of your waist, slipping over the bare skin your dress barely covered.
“ You think he knows how to make you fall apart?” His fingers pressed into your thigh, possessive and slow, trailing up beneath your dress as your breath hitched.
“ Tell me…” He demanded, lips brushing your jaw.
“ Tell me he makes you feel this way.”
Your mouth opened—but no words came.
You were melting.
Because no.
No one made you feel like this.
And you both knew it.
But just as his hand gripped under your thigh and lifted you slightly off the ground, just as his lips were heading south, just as you were about to beg him not to stop—
SLAM.
The door burst open.
You both froze.
You slowly turned your head—
Tae-hyun stood there.
Eyes wide.
Mouth slightly open.
He blinked. Twice. His gaze dropped to where In-ho was still holding you up, your dress pushed up just enough to kill you inside.
“ I…” He cleared his throat, backing up.
“ Sorry. Didn’t mean to—um. You left your phone at the table.”
He dropped it on the small side table and turned around like his soul was trying to escape his body.
The door slammed shut again.
...
“ Dae-ho…” You groaned into your phone as you leaned against the stone railing outside the ballroom, trying to find solace in the slightly cooler night air.
“ You’re not gonna believe what the hell just happened.”
“ You sound wrecked.” Dae-ho said.
“ Is this about the dress? Did someone wear the same thing?”
“ No. Worse. I got dragged into a secret room and kissed within an inch of my life by In-ho.”
Silence.
“ HELLO?!”
Your eardrum exploded.
“ YOU WHAT?!” Dae-ho shrieked.
“ You filthy, lucky—WHORE! TELL ME EVERYTHING—what was he wearing? Did he pin you? Was there tongue? Did he groan? Did you groan?! Wait—WAS HE SWEATY?!”
“ Shut up!” You hissed, giggling.
“ Yes to all of it. And the way he growled when he said ‘you’re mine’? Dae-ho, I swear to God my uterus blinked.”
“ OH MY—”
But you flinched mid-laugh when someone stepped into view from the corner of the balcony.
Tae-hyun.
Crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled up, tux jacket nowhere in sight.
He looked effortlessly cool, cheeks slightly flushed, hair tousled like he’d just stepped off the cover of a fashion magazine.
You panicked. “ Dae-ho—I’ll call you back.”
“ NO—”
Click.
Tae-hyun smiled as he approached, hands casually in his pockets. “ Sorry to interrupt. Was that a boyfriend?”
You choked on air.
Violently.
“ No! No no no. Just my best friend. He’s loud. And dramatic. Think drag queen energy trapped in a man who runs on Red Bull.”
Tae-hyun laughed—a warm, easy laugh that immediately made you feel lighter. “ Sounds fun.”
You offered him a grin, eyes instinctively trailing down—damn.
The shirt clung to him in all the right places. His arms flexed every time he moved.
You did not mean to stare, but well, God made art for a reason.
He raised a brow. “ Are you checking me out?”
You blushed. “ I plead the fifth.”
He laughed louder. “ Don’t worry. It’s a safe space.”
The two of you leaned over the balcony edge together, the noise of the party fading behind you.
The stars above twinkled like they knew secrets, and for a moment, the world felt less overwhelming.
Until Tae-hyun’s tone dropped.
“ Hey…Can I tell you something?”
You turned to him, surprised at the sudden shift in his energy.
He inhaled deeply. “ I haven’t told anyone this. Not even my closest friends. But…I trust you.”
Your heart skipped.
“ I’m gay.” He said softly.
“ And no one knows. Not my parents. Not my dad. Especially not my dad. If he finds out…I don’t know what he’d do.”
You blinked. “ Tae-hyun…”
“ I know. I’m sorry, I just…you’re easy to talk to. You didn’t come on too strong. You’re funny. And real. And I just—needed to say it out loud.”
You were stunned—but not in the way he feared.
A moment passed.
Then you smiled.
“ Well, shit, now I have competition for best dressed and hottest guy here.”
He looked startled—then cracked up, relief washing over his features. You laughed with him, louder now, the tension breaking like a wave.
“ Seriously, I’m honored you told me. And also a little mad. Because damn it, Tae-hyun, I was this close to falling for you.”
He smirked. “ Same, bestie. That dress nearly cracked my gay defenses.”
You both high-fived like you’d known each other for years. The bond was instant. Something between soul siblings and a newly formed chaos duo.
“ And for the record…” He added, wiggling his eyebrows.
“ That steamy hallway scene you two put on earlier? Hottest thing I’ve ever witnessed in real life. I’m still fanning myself.”
You groaned and smacked his arm, laughing hysterically. “ You saw that?!”
“ I walked in! It’s burned into my brain! You moaned so loud I thought I was watching HBO!”
You were dying. Tears of laughter pricked your eyes. But neither of you noticed the man watching from the ballroom window.
In-ho.
Drink in hand, face like thunder, gaze locked on you and that bastard—laughing again.
He expected the whispers are already circulating around the room about “the hallway” and “the scandal.”
But In-ho didn’t care about the rumors.
He only cared about the way you looked with someone else.
The smile on your face.
The way you leaned into Tae-hyun.
The way you laughed like nothing happened between you and him just minutes ago.
Jealousy still crawled under his skin like a damn disease.
He didn't know Tae-hyun was gay.
He only saw you, glowing in the moonlight, and some other man standing next to you like he deserved to be there.
His grip on the glass tightened again.
He wasn’t going to sit back and watch anymore.
The ballroom was thinning out now. Music soft, lights dimmer, the last clinks of champagne glasses like the closing credits of a movie you didn’t ask to be in.
Your heels had officially committed a crime against your feet, your back hurt from posture-pretending, and your face was about to fall off from smiling at people whose names you couldn’t even remember.
Tae-hyun walked beside you, brushing off a mosquito that had boldly tried to become a third wheel in your friendship.
“ Gosh, it’s like those bugs were summoned by Satan himself.” He muttered, scratching his arm.
You laughed and rubbed your own, “ I’m 90% sure I’m patient zero for Dengue.”
Inside again, the air felt heavier—not from heat, but from the tension.
The minute you stepped in, you felt it.
There he was.
In-ho.
Sitting beside your father like he belonged on the cover of a Forbes magazine—one hand resting lazily on the back of the chair, the other holding a glass of amber whiskey.
He looked expensive, bored, and absolutely lethal.
And he was watching you.
Not Tae-hyun.
You.
The corner of his mouth twitched, but there was no humor in it. His jaw ticked subtly, and his eyes—God, those eyes—were fire and ice and a promise of something you absolutely weren’t ready to handle right now.
Tae-hyun, oblivious, led you over to a group of older guests and cracked some charming jokes.
He placed his hand gently on your waist—innocent, friendly.
But it was like a lit match in a room filled with gasoline. You felt the burn of In-ho’s stare the moment Tae-hyun touched you.
Your chest tightened.
You dared a glance—
Yep.
He was still staring.
That slow drag of his gaze down your body made you feel naked in your dress. Like he could see every thought you’d had tonight—every throb, every pulse, every unspoken moan.
You swallowed hard and turned back to the guests, nodding politely as you tried not to collapse under the pressure of being undressed by a single look.
Your father, finally noticing you, called you over with a warm smile. “ There you are, sweetheart. You did well tonight.”
You smiled. “ Thanks, Dad.”
The remaining guests offered parting nods and compliments, and you bowed respectfully, praying this night would end already.
Then—
“ You may head out.” Your dad said, patting your arm.
“ You must be tired. In-ho will take you home.”
Your soul flatlined.
What.
You slowly turned your head, and sure enough, In-ho stood up smoothly, placing his glass down like he had all the time in the world—and all the satisfaction of a man who just won a game no one else realized they were playing.
He adjusted his cufflink with maddening calm.
“ Shall we?”
Your lips parted, trying to find an excuse, an escape, a parachute, but your father was already waving you off and going back to his whiskey.
You could feel the impending doom pressing against your lungs. Tae-hyun squeezed your hand and whispered,
“ Good luck. He looks like he’s about to ravage a village.”
You hissed through your teeth, “ Don’t say things like that. You’re not helping.”
“ Oh, I know. I’m just living for this drama.”
With a forced smile and knees made of noodles, you followed In-ho out. The moment the doors closed behind the two of you, the air snapped.
Neither of you spoke in the elevator.
You were too busy trying not to combust, and he was standing there like a wolf who had cornered his prey in a glass cage.
His eyes didn’t leave you once.
You almost wished he’d say something—anything.
Instead, he leaned in slightly, inhaling, as if he was trying to remember what you smelled like after dancing too long and laughing with another man.
The elevator dinged.
You barely stepped inside the apartment when In-ho grabbed your wrist and pinned you against the wall, his body caging yours in.
Your breath caught. “ In-ho—”
“ You like him touching you?” He asked, voice low, dark, dangerous.
“ You like giving other men permission to touch what’s mine?”
Your mouth opened, then shut. “ We were just talking—”
“ Really?” He leaned in, his breath hot against your cheek.
“ Because from where I stood, he looked like he wanted to unwrap you like a present.”
Your chest rose and fell rapidly. “ You’re overreacting.”
“ Am I?” His thigh pushed between your legs just enough to make you feel how close he was.
“ Because you moaned for me earlier like you’d let me tear that dress off right there on the ballroom floor.”
“ You’re insane.” You whispered, pulse screaming in your neck.
“ I am, actually.” He growled, dragging his fingers up your thigh.
“ You make me insane. Watching you smile for someone else. Laugh with someone else.”
“ You were the one who didn’t say anything until—”
He cut you off with a kiss—hard, bruising, desperate.
One hand tangled in your hair, the other gripping your hip like he could break through your bones to claim you from the inside out.
You whimpered, grabbing at his shirt, your legs already buckling. And when he finally pulled away, lips swollen, pupils blown wide, he whispered into your mouth:
“ You can pray all you want. But it’s already too late, sweetheart.”
...
The door clicked shut behind you with a heavy finality. In-ho tipped the driver, barely muttering a thanks, and then followed you in like a shadow soaked in gasoline.
You walked in, still silent, nerves fluttering in your chest like moths trapped in a glass jar. Despite staying here for a while now, you always forgot how huge his apartment really was.
Modern, masculine, expensive as hell—just like him. It smelled like expensive cologne, aged whiskey, and something dangerous.
You barely took a step into the living room when—
A large hand wrapped around the back of your neck, firm but not cruel. You gasped, whirling, only to be dragged forward as his lips crashed onto yours.
It was not a kiss. It was an attack.
A claim. A consequence.
His mouth moved with a hunger that had been caged far too long.
His tongue demanded, not asked.
Your lips parted on reflex, and he took.
Took the gasp. Took the fire. Took the control.
You stumbled backward, trying to stay upright, but he was relentless. The heat between your bodies fused like molten glass.
And then—clang—your back hit cold ivory keys.
The piano.
You startled slightly at the sound, a sharp breath escaping your lips, and In-ho used that instant like a wolf who found a weak spot—he groaned, gripped your hips tight, and plundered your mouth again.
Your tongues clashed, wild and reckless.
Each kiss is deeper, wetter, messier.
You felt the low rumble in his chest vibrate through your ribs.
“ You like playing games?” He rasped against your lips, panting, pressing you harder into the piano.
“ You like teasing me, looking at other men while I’m standing right there?”
You gripped his shirt, trying to breathe, trying to think—but he was everywhere. His scent, his body, his voice dropping low like sin itself.
“ I didn’t mean—”
“ You knew exactly what you were doing.” He said, kissing down your jaw, his hands spreading across your waist, fingertips like fire.
“ Wiggling that perfect little ass in that dress. Laughing with him. Touching his arm.”
He gritted his teeth, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes. His expression was furious…but also wrecked. Like he’d been holding something in for too long, and it finally exploded.
“ I watched you all night.” He growled.
“ Watched you glow for someone else. And I thought—fuck, maybe she really doesn’t care.”
“ In-ho…”
He slid a hand to your thigh, gripping it as he lifted your leg and hooked it around his waist, pulling you flush against his growing hardness.
“ But then you looked at me. Just once. And I knew.” His forehead pressed to yours, breath shallow.
“ You’re mine. Even when you’re being cruel. Even when you’re pretending not to be.”
You gasped when he shifted his hips, dragging delicious friction right where you needed to pulse the hardest. Your head fell back, hitting the piano with a dull thud. He chuckled low.
“ You’re noisy.” He whispered into your neck.
“ And I haven’t even started playing my game yet.”
“ In-ho, please—”
“ Oh no…” He cut you off with a wicked grin.
“ You started this. Teasing me. Eye-fucking me like a brat. So now—” He ghosted his lips down your collarbone, making you shiver.
“ You’re gonna sit back. Be a good girl. And play by my rules.”
You swallowed hard, heart jackhammering in your chest. “ And if I don’t?”
His smile turned feral. “ Then I’ll make sure you scream loud enough to break every damn string on this piano.”
You laughed breathlessly, unable to stop the fire that was curling in your stomach. “ You’re insane.”
He leaned close, lips brushing your ear, his voice dark and rich. “ I told you before…I’m insane for you.”
Your breath stuttered in your throat. You felt his words slide into your skin like velvet and fire, seeping into every weak spot you tried so hard to guard.
And the worst part?
You wanted to lose this game.
Your leg still wrapped around his waist, In-ho leaned in and kissed you again—slower this time, but no less intense.
His tongue explored your mouth like he had all night to memorize it. His hands roamed possessively, mapping your body like it already belonged to him.
He moved his lips to your jaw, then to your ear.
“ You think you can drive me crazy and get away with it?” His voice dripped with danger and sin.
Your fingers tangled into his hair. “ What if I do?”
He chuckled—low and feral. “ Then I’ll just have to remind you exactly who you’re dealing with.”
He pulled away just enough to look at you, eyes burning with lust and challenge. Then he spun you around in one fluid motion, pressing your stomach against the glossy surface of the piano.
You gasped—half from shock, half from the delicious anticipation that lit up your spine.
“ You think you’re clever.” He murmured against the back of your neck.
“ But you haven’t even seen what I’m capable of.”
He kissed your shoulder slowly, then trailed his lips downward along the line of your spine, lifting your dress with maddening patience.
Every inch of exposed skin felt like it was being branded by the heat of his breath.
“ You looked too good in this…” He muttered.
“ Too fucking good. I should’ve never let you walk out of the room wearing it.”
“ You didn’t let me do anything.” You bit back, breathless.
In-ho smirked. “ Exactly. And that’s your first mistake.”
One hand pinned your wrists gently to the piano lid while the other explored—teasing, deliberate, electric.
He was toying with you, but you knew this wasn’t just lust.
This was punishment.
This was claiming.
This was him saying: you can flirt, tease, laugh with other men—but no one will ever ruin you like I do.
“ You don’t get to tempt me.” He whispered hotly against your skin.
“ Then act like I’m the problem when I finally snap.”
“ And what happens.” You panted.
“ When I don’t want you to stop?”
He froze for half a second—just enough to show you that your words struck bone. Then—
“ You just gave me your consent.” He growled, pulling you back into him, mouth reclaiming yours with renewed hunger.
“ Game over. You’re mine.”
The air between you was heavy—so thick it pulsed.
Your skin flushed, the piano still humming faintly beneath you from the earlier chaos. But none of it compared to the way In-ho looked at you now.
His lips crashed against yours again, mouth hot and greedy, swallowing your moan as if he needed it to breathe.
His hands traveled to your waist with a kind of reverence and desperation all at once, fingers digging in, claiming you like he had something to prove.
You weren’t even sure who pulled away first, but your lungs begged for air.
The moment your lips parted, a thick strand of saliva stretched between you—glinting under the moonlight pouring through the floor-to-ceiling windows.
Neither of you looked away.
“ I wanted to rip him off you.” In-ho growled, his voice wrecked and raw.
“ When I saw his hand on your waist—my fucking place—I nearly lost it.” Your breath hitched, pulse thundering in your ears.
“ I wanted to drag you away. Pin you against the wall. Tell every single person in that room—including your father—that you’re mine.” He confessed, gripping your hips tighter.
“ Only mine. If anyone gets to touch you, it’s going to be me.”
You smirked, heat pooling low in your belly.
“ Sounds possessive.”
He leaned in, brushing his lips across your jaw.
“ It is.”
Your hands moved to his tux jacket, tugging it off his broad shoulders. You dropped it slowly to the floor, your fingers barely grazing the muscles underneath his dress shirt.
He didn’t stop you.
He watched you—hungry, breath shallow, pupils blown wide.
You gently pushed him back, and he obeyed, chest rising and falling as you turned your back to him and slowly began loosening the straps of your red dress.
“ Careful.” You murmured over your shoulder, voice like liquid temptation.
“ You might go completely insane tonight.”
His jaw flexed. “ I already have.”
The silk slid down your arms like water. But before it could pool at your feet, In-ho surged forward, catching you in his arms. The dress hung from your hips, forgotten, as his hands swept over your bare back.
“ You’re not just a body to me.” He said, voice quieter now, but no less intense.
“ You’re a goddamn obsession.”
He lifted you effortlessly, placing you back onto the piano bench—right on the black and white keys.
A discordant note rang out beneath you as the instrument cried softly in protest.
But you weren’t paying attention to the music anymore. His hands cradled your face. His eyes devoured you—like you were the most exquisite piece of art he’d ever laid eyes on.
“ If I’m going to make a mistake…” He whispered, brushing his thumbs along your cheekbones.
“ Then I want that mistake to be you.”
And then he kissed you again—not rough this time, but soft.
Devotional.
As if he wanted to memorize the taste of your mouth forever.
You clutched his shirt, pulled him closer, and whispered against his lips, “ Then ruin me properly, In-ho.”
A dangerous gleam lit in his eyes.
“ Oh, darling…” His smile turned slow and sinful as he unbuttoned his shirt, piece by piece.
“ Gladly.”
In-ho shrugged off the last of his white sleeves, letting the fabric fall like silk onto the hardwood floor.
The moonlight carved every sculpted line of his chest and abs into high definition—like a sculpture brought to life just for you.
His skin glistened slightly from the heat between your bodies, the contrast of soft shadows and hard muscle impossible to ignore.
Your breath caught as your fingers—driven by a hunger you no longer tried to hide—slipped across his chest.
The texture of his warm skin, the taut muscles beneath your palm, sent a shiver up your spine.
Your hand traced slowly, reverently, lower…fingertips grazing the ridges of his abs. You gasped at the feel, lips parting slightly as your thoughts turned sinful and your body followed.
He let out a sharp, guttural growl—low and full of warning. The kind of sound that wasn't meant to scare you off…but to devour your restraint.
You moved closer, pressing soft kisses across his chest.
You took your time, tasting him, marking him with your lips. With each kiss, his breath grew heavier—until a rough moan escaped him, reverberating through his ribs beneath your mouth.
You glanced up at him with a smirk, eyes glinting. You knew what you were doing.
And so did he.
But now…it was his turn.
In-ho’s hands moved with sudden purpose, large palms gripping your waist as he turned the tide without effort.
He pressed you against the edge of the piano again, his head dipping low to your neck—his breath hot, his mouth eager. You barely had time to gasp before his lips found your skin.
The first kiss was soft…but the second—God.
His teeth scraped lightly as he dragged them along your throat, then bit gently down, just hard enough to claim.
Then another.
And another.
He wasn’t just kissing you—he was branding you, leaving behind a constellation of hickeys like a secret language only he would understand.
You tilted your head back with a moan, hands gripping his shoulders like he was the only thing tethering you to this earth.
His mouth trailed downward.
Across your collarbone.
Licking. Nibbling.
Each motion deliberate, each moan he pulled from you more desperate than the last. Then, he knelt—slowly, reverently—before you, his gaze dragging up your body like a prayer spoken in the dark.
His hands slid up your thighs with a reverence that sent goosebumps cascading across your skin. When his lips reached your chest, he paused. Looked up at you. His eyes—normally so cool and composed—were glassy now.
Wide. Pleading.
As if asking: May I worship you?
And you…you just nodded.
He leaned forward, kissed your skin softly, then again—his tongue circling with maddening patience.
He groaned against you, the sound vibrating through your bones. His hands gripped your thighs, holding you steady, holding you here—right where he wanted you.
Right where you wanted to be.
Every touch, every sound, every breath between you was a crescendo building toward something unstoppable.
And through it all, the piano beneath you whispered low notes with every shift of your body—a haunting, accidental symphony to a night neither of you would ever forget.
“ Sit on the keys.” He said, eyes dark with want.
You hesitated, your legs still wrapped around him.
“ But…the piano—”
“ I don’t care.” He interrupted, already lifting you by the waist.
“ Let the whole world hear us.”
The second your bare skin touched the keys, a chaotic melody rang out—discordant, unplanned, but thrilling in its rebellion. You gasped at the sound, the intimacy of the moment heightened by the echo of keys beneath you.
He stepped back for a breath, only to let his hands slide down your thighs and grip them firmly, spreading you open like you were the answer to a question he’d been asking all his life.
The silk of your dress was tugged away in a single fluid motion and discarded without a second glance.
Now, there was nothing left between you but want.
His eyes dragged over you—hunger, awe, worship all tangled in the heat of his stare. You opened your mouth to say something, but the words never came.
He dropped to his knees like you were a deity, and he’d been starved of prayer for too long. Then his mouth was on you.
A cry escaped you—raw and instinctive—as his tongue dragged a long, deliberate stroke across your center.
His hands gripped your thighs harder as he buried himself deeper, tongue working you over with such precise desperation that your spine arched and your fingers flew into his hair, tugging, grounding, begging.
The keys clanged under you again with each jolt of pleasure, a haunting, broken symphony to the chaos of your bodies.
In-ho moaned into you, the sound vibrating through your core. His eyes flicked up to yours, wide and dark, seeking something wordless.
Permission. Trust. Surrender.
You nodded, breath trembling.
His long fingers replaced his tongue for a moment—he slid one between your folds slowly, carefully. You gasped as he entered you, the stretch sudden, and your fingers tightened in his hair.
“ You’re doing so well.” He murmured, voice rough with reverence.
Then he curled his fingers—once, twice—searching, until—
“ Fuck, In-ho!” You cried out, head thrown back as the keys beneath you clattered in violent protest.
He repeated it, again and again, curling, stroking that hidden place inside you that shattered reason. Your body trembled, your breath short and erratic.
You could feel it building—pleasure pulling tight, your whole being strung like a note about to break. And he never looked away from you.
Even as he took you to the edge, even as he licked, kissed, tasted the proof of how you unraveled beneath him—he stared up at you like you were a miracle unfolding in front of him.
You fell apart with a cry that echoed through the room, a sharp, sweet crescendo of pleasure that burst like stars behind your eyes.
The piano keys screamed your release with clashing notes, the room spinning around your breathless, shaking body.
And still, he stayed there. He didn’t stop. He tasted every last drop of you like it was something sacred. Like your pleasure was his purpose.
Only when your legs trembled around him and your fingers slid from his hair did he rise, his mouth glistening, his expression a mix of pride, awe…and something dangerously close to love.
He leaned in close, voice hoarse and reverent.
“ You’re…everything. I’d burn the world just to have this again.”
Your body trembled, legs barely steady as you tried to recover from the high he had just drawn out of you—but In-ho wasn’t done.
Not even close.
You watched as his hand reached down, the soft zip of his pants cutting through the haze in the room.
And then he freed himself.
Your eyes widened, breath catching at the sight of him—thick, flushed, and heavy against his stomach.
It pulsed with need, and the angry red hue of it made you blink, your face heating as intrusive thoughts raced into your mind.
That’s supposed to go inside me?
You stared at it, then at him, then back at it again.
“ Do you see what you’ve done to me?” In-ho growled, his voice rasping like gravel.
“ Come here.”
You bit your lip, hesitating. He caught that flicker of doubt in your eyes.
“ I…I’ve never done this.” You admitted softly, cheeks flushed.
“ No one’s ever touched me like this, In-ho. You’re the first. And you’re…you’re huge.”
A small, wicked smile curved his lips, but it faded into something softer when he saw the tremble in your hands.
“ I’ll guide you.” He whispered, reaching up to cup your face.
“ We don’t have to rush. If it hurts, stop. But if it feels good…take what you want from me.”
He sat on the edge of the piano bench, spreading his legs slightly, motioning you down.
“ Straddle me.”
You climbed down from the keys—making them clatter again—and positioned yourself over his lap, heart thundering.
He reached for your hand and wrapped it around the length of him. You inhaled sharply at the warmth and weight of him in your palm.
“ Now…” He whispered, brushing his lips against your cheek.
“ Take your time.”
You guided him to your entrance, nervousness prickling over your skin like static.
Slowly, achingly slowly, you sank down onto him.
The stretch made you whimper, and you clung to his shoulders, eyes brimming with tears.
“ In-ho…” Your voice cracked.
He kissed your jaw. “ You’re doing so well. You’re perfect. I’ve got you.”
The sensation was overwhelming, but his words kept you grounded. Inch by inch, he filled you—your breath hitching, your body trying to adjust to the fullness.
A tear slipped down your cheek, and he kissed it away.
When you finally took him fully, your bodies pressed flush, you both gasped—him from the feel of your tightness around him, you from the strange, raw sense of completeness.
“ You okay?” He whispered against your neck.
You nodded weakly. “ I…I think I can move.”
“ Then move for me, baby. Show me how you dance.”
With trembling legs, you began to roll your hips, slowly at first, testing.
The pain dulled with each pass, replaced with the warm pulse of pleasure spreading through your body like fire licking up dry leaves.
He groaned beneath you, hands anchoring you to him, guiding your rhythm. And then—he did the most ridiculous, beautiful thing. One of his hands stretched out behind you, fingers finding the piano keys.
You gasped when the notes rang out, soft and melodic—a romantic song building from nothing, while you moved on top of him.
“ You’re insane.” You laughed breathlessly.
He grinned. “ Maybe. But look at you. You’re the most beautiful melody I’ve ever played.”
The sight of him—bare, swollen with desire, playing a gentle piano piece while buried inside you—was so wildly erotic it nearly undid you. The harmony of your breathy moans and the tender melody filled the room like a fevered dream.
Your pace quickened, and he met each motion with a slow, deep thrust upward, refusing to let go of your hips. You gasped, your cries syncing with the keys under his hand.
“ Keep going.” He murmured, lips against your ear.
“ Dance for me. Show the world how good you are.”
You clung to his shoulders, your body moving in a desperate rhythm, chasing that final high.
It hit fast—sharp and blinding—your body tightening, trembling, until the world exploded in heat and noise and chaos.
In-ho growled your name, holding you still as his own climax tore through him, his arms crushing you to his chest as he buried himself deep, spilling every ounce of himself inside you.
Silence followed.
The last note of the piano echoed, then faded.
You collapsed against him, utterly spent, your forehead resting against his damp collarbone.
“ Well…” You gasped between panting breaths.
“ I guess the sun will have to wait. I can’t walk after that.”
He chuckled, wrapping his arms around you tighter.
“ Good. Let it rise. Let everyone know you’re mine.”
You smiled—exhausted, shaken, deeply full of him in every way. And in that moment, you weren’t just claimed. You were cherished.
296 notes · View notes
ki-yomii · 1 year ago
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baby, don't go | myg
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➥pairing | ex!min yoongi x f!reader, mentioned f!reader x omc ➥word count | 5.1k ➥warning(s) | 🔞 smut; dirty talk, pet names, praise kink, squirting, hand job, finger fucking, porn w/ plot, angst w/ a happy ending, alcohol, exes to lovers, implied cheating (omc is a fuckboy), implied getting back together (reader & yoongi still low key love each other), idol!yoongi ➥summary | "hii can I request for an exes to lovers trope with yoongi 😭💖 lovee your ficss" you find out your boyfriend is cheating on you. thankfully your ex Yoongi is more than happy to distract you. ➥notes | hope you enjoy this anon 😘💚 omc & ofc are named after characters from one of my favourite k-dramas (personal taste iykyk)
💚 masterlist | inbox | AO3 💚
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Don't cry, don't cry, don't cry.
Standing beside you, your friend Kae-In takes a swig of whatever's in her cup - a sickly sweet concoction of fruity soju and Chilsung, most likely - and coolly surveys the backyard.
Small groups of people dot the manicured lawn, others lounging by the fire as they catch up with one another. It's been far too long since everyone's schedules aligned like this.
Years in fact, and there are several who came in from out of town.
Ordinarily you'd be over the moon, but as it were you can barely drum up enough false excitement for your best friend. Let alone others you haven't seen in forever.
Cocking her hip, Kae-In puckers her mouth. "The alcohol isn't even that good." She sighs, pretty face scrunching in disappointment. "Some party this is turning out to be."
Your hard cider, still more than half-full, hides an awkward, ill-fitting smile.
Having nursed your own drink for the last hour, whatever might've been enjoyable about it is long gone. Any refreshing coolness and bright, punchy taste replaced by amber liquid far past room temperature in your clammy palm.
In fact, the fizzy warmth and tart aftertaste of moldering apples turns your stomach with every half-hearted sip.
"At least there's cute guys here - some of them have really grown up."
Her breath ruffles the fringe of her bangs when she huffs, casting an eye to the glass bottle strangled in your grip.
"Are you sure you don't want something a little stronger?"
You shrug. "Yeah, I'm fine - gotta be the DD just in case, y'know?"
"Girl, you're ALWAYS the DD. C'mon, you gotta live a little sometimes."
The nonchalant scolding stings, even if it's meant almost entirely in jest but it's not Kae-In's fault. She doesn't know. No one does. You couldn't muster up the courage to tell her the truth.
Not yet.
It's still too fresh. The wound too raw to go poking around with clumsy fingers.
"Don't be like that," you say with a faltering smile. "I'm having fun."
LIAR.
In actuality, you're a few frayed threads away from snapping. Stuck clinging to the edge of sanity by the fingernails as you battle back tides of crippling grief and blinding rage.
Have been since the first few messages came rolling in; questions with videos attached. There's a part of you grateful they reached out, while another altogether wishes you hadn't seen.
At least not until morning.
Would one more night spent in ignorant bliss have been too much to ask for?
Now you're riding a corkscrew of emotion, one that roils and chafes as ceaseless images parade past your eyelids with every blink. Each one as crisp and clear as the first time you pressed play.
The swirling lights, the heady thrum of bodies. A darkened corner. Your boyfriend of three years who said he couldn't make it. His hand sneaking beneath the hem of a cheap, glittery skirt. The dip of his head as he tucks into the curve of a neck, mouth open and smiling against bare skin.
You shudder, stomach rebelling. When you swallow, it's like trying to down buckets of sand.
Kae-In, none the wiser, flicks her hair over her shoulder. "Well, that makes one of us. I guess." Shrugging, she turns to you and asks with a furrowed brow, "Are you sure you're okay? You seem... a little off."
Panic grabs you by the throat.
This was supposed to be a night full of fun and laughter. You're not supposed to be suffocating in a crowded backyard. On the brink of tears and trying to act like your life hasn't imploded.
Alone - by your own doing, which is even worse - to deal with the crushing weight of an inevitable breakup. The painful extrication of two lives entwined.
How a relationship three years in the making can be shattered in a minute and forty-five seconds is mind boggling. You had it all, and now...
You thought you were going to marry him.
The whiplash of it all almost makes you laugh but only so you don't break down in great, heaving sobs. A heartbreak you're not sure you'll ever recover from. Not for the loss of him but rather the decimation of your trust.
"I'm okay, promise! No need to worry."
The lie weighs heavy on your tongue. Tastes of ash as the words you really want to say hover in the back of your throat, a breath away. Only they can't make it past your lips, stuck to your teeth like hard candy.
"It's just been one of those days."
Your shoulders shoot towards your ears when she hums in response. Fingernails picking at the corner of the sweating cider label so you don't have to meet Kae-In's piercing gaze. You know she can see right through you, and you hate it.
What started as a fun night of planned mayhem turned into desperate distractions though this party has done very little in terms of brightening your mood.
Instead, watching everyone you know have a good time while you stand on the side lines, a stranger in a sea of people, feels more akin to rubbing salt in an open wound.
Miserable but acting like you’re not; waves of bitter loneliness threatening to pull you under because you don’t want to ruin the night.
“Is this because Chang-ryul couldn’t make it?” Kae-In pats your back sympathetically. “What bullshit excuse did he give you this time? I swear, he always does this. Just wait. I’m gonna hit him next time I see him.”
Oh, you don’t even know, you think. You’ll definitely want to do more than hit him.
Your heart throbs at the sound of his name, and isn’t that funny? Such a simple thing - nothing but syllables and letters strung together - and yet it has the power to unmake you completely.
Your tongue swells as you struggle to swallow. Words burn like bile as you force out a laugh; brittle, scraped up from the depths of your chest
“I’d pay to see that,” you croak. Your knuckles ache from how tightly you’re gripping the bottle. “But - no. C-Chang-ryul has nothing to do with it.”
You hate that you stutter over his name.
And perhaps that’s why you don’t want to tell Kae-In just yet.
She’s always hated him.
Always said he was no good. Just another fuckboy looking for beds to warm and hearts to break. And she’s right.
God, why does she have to be right?
You know she’d never hold it over you, but the thought of admitting it - out loud - makes you want to vomit all over your shoes. You need time to stitch your edges back together. Too raw and ragged.
You only just found out.
Your pride can’t handle any more hits right now.
She thumbs her nose with an inelegant snort. “Whatever you say. I could take him in a fight. That boy ain’t shit.”
Your laugh startles you - the first genuine one of the evening - and you shake your head fondly. A soft smile tugs at your lips.
“Oh, no doubt. But really, I’ve just been in a weird mood.”
The twist of her lips shows she doesn’t believe a word you’re saying, but she’s kind enough not to press. Instead, she spends the next while distracting you with tales of her various escapades of the week.
And it helps for a time, truly.
But then you feel a buzz against your thigh, a ding echoing up from your pocket. Your stomach turns to lead, drops to your feet. Without looking at the screen, you pull the cell out of your pocket with shaky hands and quickly flick the ringer off.
Meanwhile, Kae-In watches silently with sharp eyes, and an even sharper frown though she declines to comment on your behavior.
“Anyway,” she continues once she has your attention, “as I was saying, did you see little Ji-Seok? Dude shot up like a tree! Last time I saw him he was as big as a bean sprout.”
You hum, worlds away.
“You could at least act like you’re paying attention,” she sucks her teeth before a smirk starts to slowly tug at her lips, “How about we talk about something - or someone - I know you’ll be interested in?”
Guilt sparks but slowly gives way to dread. You know that expression. Have gotten into trouble more times than you can count because of it.
Heart tattooing a rhythm against your rib cage, you sputter, “Oh no. No! Do not look at me like that.”
“C’mo-on!” she wheedles. “You’re absolutely right. We should be talking about,” she points at someone across the yard with her cup, “Yoongi instead.”
Currently leaning back against a stone wall making up part of the fence, Yoongi nurses a beer. Sticking out like a sore thumb now that he’s making it big as an idol, no longer as mundane as the rest of them.
Hushed whispers follow his every move, his bleached hair and flashy outfit commanding all sorts of covert attention.
The sharp cut of his shirt flatters his lean frame, the black leather jacket over top emphasizing the width of his shoulders. Dark jeans cling to his legs, as tight as a second skin, and causing your attention to stray where it shouldn’t.
And his eyes - oh, how you ever forgot is beyond you.
Dark, hooded, deep, and hungry; intense as they drag over the planes of your face like the caress of his fingers.
Shit.
You shove Kae-In’s hand down with a loud smack before she makes an even bigger fool out of you in front of another ex.
“What the hell are you doing?” You hiss. “That’s so rude!”
Not to mention embarrassing as fuck.
“Y’know,” she pauses to wiggle her brows and shoot you an impish grin, “I bet Yoongi would be more than happy to remind you of how rude he can be.”
You smother a groan in your hands, heartache temporarily forgotten. “I can’t believe you. Seriously. We’re no longer friends.”
“Bitch, you love me. And anyway, you know what I can’t believe?” She asks. “You!”
She gestures towards him again amid your flailing attempts to stop her. “Look at him. Like goddamn, you had it good.”
You take a sip of cider to give your hands something to do, nearly blanching at the warm liquid. Refusing to respond or look up as the topic of conversation watches like a hawk, gaze heavy.
How can he still make you weak-kneed after all this time?
He wasn’t even touching you and you still feel his presence down to your toes, setting your teeth on edge.
You hear your own heartbeat, your breathing shaky, sparks of awareness dancing along your spine. Heat creeps into the apples of your cheeks.
“Knock it off, I’m serious.”
“No, when are you going to get that Chang-ryul isn’t good for you?”
You swallow roughly, all the moisture leaving your mouth.
“Yoongi was the best boyfriend you ever had and treated you the way you deserve. And you know he’s never been interested in anyone but you. Hell, he’s barely looked away from you since he got here and the break-up was years ago.”
You shift, perspiration breaking out on your brow. “Can we please stop talking about this?”
“When will you give it up?” She blows a raspberry, shaking her head. “I know you regret how it went down between you guys. Now that he’s here - when you finally have a chance to make it right you just - just - ugh!”
Shooting her a weak half-smile and a shrug, you turn your attention to the small glowing fire pit.
Other��s are gathered around it, relishing in the glow of warmth that wars against the balmy summer breeze cutting through the air. Focusing on the dance and flicker of the flames is a needed moment of peace in entropy.
Though you know it isn’t going to last - not with a motormouth for a friend.
“So-o, what are you waiting for?”
“Sorry?”
She nods towards Yoongi subtly.
He’s finally busy with his own conversation, his gummy smile a quick flash of brightness. “When are you going to stick it to Chang-ryul and hop on that dick?”
“Oh my god!”
Kae-In shrugs. “What.”
“Don’t 'what' me. Seriously?”
A bony elbow digs between your ribs. You wheeze.
“C’mon,” she says, “You already know it’s good with him, and you deserve someone who’s there for you 110%. Someone who will treat you right. You know I worry about you.”
A wave of emotions threatens to completely drown you in that moment, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. Her tender concern - her care - feels altogether too much and not enough.
As overwhelming as a tsunami; your heart a raw, exposed nerve.
All you’ve ever wanted was to be loved.
To feel like someone’s first and only choice.
You used to think Chang-ryul was someone who could provide that. What a fool you’ve been. Men like him don’t fall in love, they only pretend to.
They sneak inside your heart and take what they want from your bed. To him, you’re nothing but a fun little stop; a footnote, read and forgotten.
Your heart squeezes, shuddering from a pain your palm can’t soothe away.
It’s a terrible idea.
But maybe…
Maybe it wouldn't be so bad to lick your wounds with someone you know cares about you. Has always cared about you, and probably always will.
Clearing your throat, you consider his profile from beneath your lashes.
Yoongi's always made you feel wanted. Looked after you as though you were something rare and precious.
It’s been a long time since you’ve felt that.
Somehow, some way, he senses you looking because he pauses mid-sentence.
Turns to meet you head-on, tracing your face with what can only be called greed. Stopping short when they catch on the lip trapped between your teeth.
Something akin to hunger cuts across his face.
His brows dip low, a palpable heat flooding the inky depths of his eyes. Shadows deepen the lines of his face, the shifting firelight highlighting the flex of a jawline for days, burning halo gold in his hair.
It’s a look you’re intimately familiar with.
Usually preceding a hand-shaking, mind-numbing fuck session where his cock gets as deep as it can, rutting hard and fast, bringing you over the edge again and again until you’re left a wrecked mess. 
Your heart jumps, gallops headlong into a rapid beat.
You feel the rush of blood in your chest, every breath stuttered, stomach lurching. Shaking. Jittery. Tongue tied in a thousand knots and you haven’t even said a word.
It was much easier to pretend you weren’t so magnetically drawn to Yoongi when you weren’t riding the single’s train. When he was away in Seoul chasing after his dreams.
Now that he’s got downtime and your relationship has hit a brick wall? His mere presence sears you to the bone. Drags you in like a black hole.
And that?
So not good.
Swallowing roughly, you tear your attention away. You’d forgotten how intense and blindly bright he can be.
There’s a throb developing in your temple, sharp little darts of pain lancing through your skull. An impending headache if you don’t get some air that doesn’t taste like wood-smoke and cheap alcohol.
“I think I’m gonna head in for a bit. Need to get away.”
You shake your head and toss your bottle into the bin on the way inside, Kae-In shouting her acknowledgement with a thumbs up. Makes you promise to contact her in case of any change in plans.
Nearly everyone’s outside so it should be less crowded, more quiet. Most importantly, away from Yoongi and that penetrating stare which makes you more flustered than you care to admit.
Alas, the kitchen isn’t empty not for long.
You’re lounging against the counter, elbows bent, head rolled back and stinging eyes closed when the back door creaks open. Biting off a groan, you swivel your head to the side.
When you see it’s Yoongi who follows you in, you almost slip and brain yourself on the tile. Mouth dry, palms sweaty, heart beating out of control; scrambling into a more flattering posture while patting down your hair.
He chuckles, his nose scrunched and smile coy.
Seeing him happy always makes you tender, weak.
It seems that hasn’t changed a bit.
No amount of pictures or videos do it justice. Granted, Yoongi looks good any time, any day. But seeing his whole face light up like that in person? Utterly priceless.
It’s a struggle to breathe properly around the lump forming in your throat.
Of course, it has to be him.
Wiping your palms off on your thighs, you greet him with an awkward wave, “Uhhh, hey - hey there, Yoongi.”
Oh my god. Abort mission, I repeat, abort mission.
“Y’know what,” you say, “I was just about to head back outside…”
As you pass by, he catches your arm.
Long fingers curl around your wrist, callouses dragging across your pulse. Your gut clenches, an unexpected bloom of warmth shooting through your core at the sight of his broad palm holding you captive.
His grip is firm but loose enough that you could pull away.
All it serves to do is remind you of nights spent beneath his body, the slide of sweat-slick skin, the taste of him heavy on your tongue, pussy filled to the brim with cock. His rough voice music to your ears, prideful as he gloats about how well you’re taking him.
"Leaving so soon?” He asks silkily.
A hard tug sends you slamming into the wall of his chest.
Air rushes from your lungs, your hands trapped against his collarbones. Firm muscles contract beneath your palms, his body shoving into your touch.
Twisting your fingers in the soft cotton of his shirt, you look at him from beneath your lashes. Your voice whisper soft when you say, “Yoongi…”
His dark eyes, the colour of a rich espresso, track the path of your tongue as you wet your lips. Fingers drag over the soft line of your neck, tracing your fluttering pulse.
Touch feather light as it stops by the corner of your mouth, pressing down on the swell of your lip.
“I haven’t said hello yet.”
Eyes wide, all you do is watch and wait with baited breath. Stunned into silence at his proximity. It’s been so long since you’ve been this close, the smell of his expensive cologne nostalgic.
Your body recognizes his, responding all the same. The connection between you electric, overwhelmingly so.
His head bows, bleached strands brushing your forehead. The tip of his nose rubs yours. You get lost in counting his eyelashes, tracing the bridge of his nose to the carved slope of his cheeks.
Surrounded by him, the urge to resist what’s happening is nearly non-existent. Though you wish it wasn’t so easy to be caught by him.
“One of the guys said something interesting,” he says, his breath ghosting across your face; mint and beer. “It's about you actually.”
He flashes the smile that sends your heart soaring, your stomach flipping.
The slightest peek of a metal chain resting in the crook of his neck, surrounded by a very tempting patch of skin you want to taste, has you a little dumbfounded, absentminded.
“Oh?”
You really hope you don’t sound as frazzled as you feel but the haughty superiority of his slow appraisal of your body, the cocksure smirk on his lips states otherwise.
You really wish you could knock him down a peg but confidence looks amazing on him.
Always has.
“They said you have a boyfriend now. Is that true?”
You manage the slightest shake of your head in the negative - no, not anymore - your heart thundering in your ears.
Your breath catches in anticipation just before Yoongi closes the remaining inches between you with a hum of approval.
His head tilts to the side as he slots your mouths together in a kiss that’s got your toes curling. A filthy wet slide of lips, his the slightest bit chapped, send you under, liquid warmth filling your belly.
You inhale sharply, a moan vibrating against his lips.
Melting into the cage of his arms as his hands clamp down on your hips possessively, tugging you closer. Pressed stem to stern like this there’s no hiding the evidence of his desire.
He’s already half-hard in his jeans, his erection pressing against the zipper.
His eyes are hooded when he pulls away.
“Wanna take this somewhere a little more private, baby?” Yoongi asks, running his nose up the length of your neck and inhaling.
How is this my life, you think, dazed.
His hips grind forward against you so there’s no mistaking what you’re dealing with. “It’ll be just like old times.”
After an awkward fumble and an elbow to the side, you settle on the downstairs bathroom. He follows, quickly pinning you to the door while struggling to toss his leather jacket over the sink.
With a flick of the lock, you’re finally alone without any possible interruption. The door muffles most of the ruckus outside, leaving you hyper aware of every hurried breath, every low-throated murmur.
For a long while it’s nothing but a mess of lips, his body molding to yours. Easy to fall back into the old rhythms of your relationship as though you never left it.
He holds you down.
His fingers in your hair, on your jaw. His tongue gliding over your lip, sucking it into his mouth and letting it slide back out through his teeth.
You meet him kiss for kiss, your hands finding their way into his back pockets, tugging, groping, loving how he bucks up into the cradle of your hips in response.
A sweet ache settles low and deep.
“Yoongi,” you sigh. “Fuck, I forgot how much you like to tease.”
His thumb circles your nipple through your shirt, teasing it into a sensitive, stiff peak that shows through the thin fabric.
The caresses send soft pulses straight to your clit, the intensity getting stronger and stronger the rougher he is.
Before long, you’re aware of how achingly empty you are.
Yoongi nips the corner of your jaw.
“Never forgot how fun teasing you is,” he murmurs into the silk of your skin. “How wet you get for me.”
“Shit, you can’t just say something like that.”
“Can’t I?” His laugh, genuine and vibrant, sounds through his chest and into yours. “You can bitch all you want, but I know you love it.”
A smile, all teeth.
“Isn’t that right, baby?”
You glare at him weakly through half lidded eyes.
Two can play that game.
“Fuck!” Yoongi bites out, those impossibly dark eyes sliding shut when you reach down to palm him through his jeans.
His breath whooshes from him in a loud exhale, his jaw working back and forth. “That’s cheating.”
You smirk, feeling him throb in your hand.
”What were you saying, Yoongs?” Humming, you rub your chest against his, using a fingertip to trace the outline of his shaft. “I didn’t quite catch that.”
Spearing you with a weighted look, Yoongi shoves you back into the door harder than before, the wood creaking under the pressure. Fist resting on the frame next to your head, his body cages you in.
Every shuddered inhale has the planes of his firm chest pressing into yours with the expansion of his lungs. His hips buck up into the softness of your palm with a grunt.
“Don’t start something you can’t finish, pretty girl,” he cautions.
Competitiveness is a gift and a curse.
Not one to be outdone, you brush away any lingering reservations - which being honest, there weren’t many left. His relieved groan when you tug out his cock reverberates through you.
Shit, that’s so unfair.
Yoongi already sounds wrecked yet you’ve barely touched him. How the fuck are you going to get through this without completely combusting when he actually cums?
Thinking that maybe focusing on what you’re doing will help, you look down.
Big mistake.
Dark designer jeans circle his thighs, low enough for his cock to spring free.
Flushed, curved towards his belly, the head swollen and sticky with pre-cum. The shaft a decent handful that pulses when your palm skims the side.
Feminine appreciation at the sight has velvet heat pooling between your thighs, pussy clenching at the thought of him inside you.
Sex with him was always stupidly good.
All those veiled lyrics about his skill in the bedroom far too accurate for comfort.
Since you broke up, you haven’t been with anyone that comes close to his ability in getting you off.
He’s ruined you.
His face burrows into the crook of your neck with a low groan. His breath puffs across your skin, shivers racing down your spine.
Low voice full of grit, he says, “Shit, baby, that feels…”
Hot palms anchor themselves to your hips.
“Wait a sec,” he says, body twitching with aborted thrusts, strong fingers kneading. “Wanna do you too.”
Heart jumping, you let go of him long enough to yank your shirt over your head and kick off your pants before returning your hand to his cock.
In the meantime, he rucks his shirt up under his armpits. You can’t help but make a noise in the back of your throat as the length of his torso is exposed.
All that soft, smooth skin stretching over his stomach as he flexes. You have to fight down the urge to run your tongue along the outline of his hip.
Mouth slack, Yoongi pushes up the cups of your bra. Watches laser-focused on the bounce of your tits as they drop free, subtly swaying with every jerk of your wrist.
His hips fuck up into the circle of your hand while one of his own inches down to brush the crease of your thigh. Your hips tilt towards his touch, desperate for friction.
“Oh god.” He moans, calloused fingers dipping between your folds. “You’re so wet for me.”
You wiggle, whining against his lips as you meet in a messy kiss. His touch is light, gentle, barely there as he traces the length of your slit.
You’re trembling, skin too tight, body feverish. “Stop teasing, I want you inside me.”
Those seem to be the magic words because Yoongi gives a rumble of approval, using his thumb to spread slick over your swollen clit in tight circles.
Heat coils in your belly, electricity racing down your spine. Your thighs splay as wide as they can, making room for his hand.
His knuckles brush your skin.
Dipping down to your entrance, Yoongi works on spreading you open with shallow thrusts until you take three fingers comfortably.
Your needy sighs and soft moans bounce off the walls.
His low murmurs right in your ear as the pads stroke your walls, his wrist flexing. He’s hitting all the right spots, still remembering how to get you off years after the fact.
You’re quickly turning weak-kneed and wet eyed.
“Fuck, Yoongs, right there,” you keen, baring down on the digits nudging your g-spot, your grip tightening around his shaft.
You grind your palm over the swollen tip, gathering beads of pre-cum.
He hisses, thrusts off beat.
Fingers nudge up suddenly, pressing deep and holding in retaliation. White lightening crackles behind your eyelids, thighs twitching, mouth dropping open.
“Yeah, just like that, pretty girl.”
Your world narrows down to every filthy slide of his cock in your hand, every gush of slick as he stuffs fingers into you over and over again until you’re a writhing mess against the door.
Your nerve endings are alive with pleasure, the stimulation too much and not enough.
“Please, don’t stop.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he says, doubling his efforts, wrist working faster.
Dapples of sweat litter his brow, his eyes staring into yours, glazed over and lusting.
Fuck, he’s handsome like this.
It’s a little embarrassing how bad he’s got you but between the blissed-out expression he’s wearing, the weight of him in your hand, and how full you are, you know this orgasm is going to be quick, messy.
The pace of his hips pick up, his breath hitching in his throat, length twitching and thickening in your grip.
He’s getting close, his touch rougher, more force behind the snapping thrusts of his hips, teeth nipping at the side of your neck.
“Come on, baby,” you say, breathless, twisting your hand on the upstroke. He smothers a grunt in your shoulder. “Give it to me.”
It doesn’t take much more to bring him to the edge.
A particular spread of his fingers has you jolting, a sudden, intense spike of pleasure shooting right to your clit.
In turn, you unintentionally massage his cock, knuckles bumping the underside of the swollen head.
He’s a goner.
Cumming with a low, wounded whine and a shuttered thrust, Yoongi smacks the door with his free hand. Thick spurts of jizz make an absolute mess of his stomach and your knuckles.
Sagging forward like a doll with cut strings, all his dead weight bears down on you.
He pants, small tremors wrack his frame. “Baby,” he murmurs, pressing a wet kiss to your jaw, “I missed you s’much.”
“Missed you too,” you reply, using nice, languid strokes to wring the last of his orgasm out of him. “More than I thought I did.”
In lieu of a response, Yoongi wiggles his fingers inside you, rebuilding the rhythm he lost. He flutters them, curls up against your walls, peppering kisses along the length of your jaw with a hum.
Slick drips down his wrist, the sloppy sound of him finger fucking your cunt blending with a surge of desperate moans.
“Yeah, that’s right,” Yoongi says against your chin. “So fucking hot, wanna see you cum.”
Your back arches, your fingers digging into the width of his shoulders, head smacking the door with a dull thud.
“Can you do that for me?”
Nodding frantically, you fall apart with a broken gasp. Clamping down so hard he can’t move, the cramps softened by the throbbing heat washing over you. Blood rushes in your ears as your pussy gushes around his fingers.
“Good girl,” he praises, tone heated. “You did so well for me.”
By the time your brain comes back online, you’ve forgotten all about Chang-ryul and the constant vibration of your phone where it’s shoved - forgotten - into your pocket.
The only thing that matters is Yoongi with his tender kisses and greedy hands.
845 notes · View notes
dystopicjumpsuit · 1 year ago
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The Plant Prowler of Pabu
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A/N: I’m scared that Pabu is going to be toast after this week, so I wrote a little fluff to make myself feel better. Also, this is the first time I’ve been able to finish a fic in six weeks, so… yay me!
Pairing: Crosshair x Reader (GN)
Rating: T (but MDNI as always)
Wordcount: 2.1K
Warnings and tags: mild language; fluff; a kiss; spoilers for The Bad Batch season 3
Summary: Exploring the island during his first morning on Pabu, Crosshair encounters a mastermind of botanical crime: you.
Suggested Listening: 
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Whoever said, “It’s darkest just before dawn” had clearly never woken up to go for a walk before sunrise. Even if Crosshair hadn’t had enhanced vision, it would have been easy for him to navigate his way down to the beach of Pabu in the dim half-light. Hunter had wordlessly watched him exit the Marauder, pretending to still be asleep, but Crosshair knew that his brother would have drawn his vibroblade in a flash if he’d even glanced sideways at Omega.
Crosshair didn’t exactly blame Hunter for his caution, but it didn’t make it any easier to swallow. The squad had arrived on the idyllic island the previous day, and Crosshair was immediately swarmed by a horde of curious locals. With Hunter determined to keep Crosshair in sight at all times, there had been no escape from their onslaught of hospitality, and by the time the celebrations had died down, Crosshair had been clinging to the tattered threads of his patience and sanity.
It was a hell of a thing to go from barely speaking to anyone for months on end to suddenly being plunged into the midst of a vibrant and chaotic crowd of nosy spectators. He’d escaped to the Marauder at last and pretended to sleep, keenly aware of Hunter’s eyes on him. He’d spent enough time under the microscope in the past several months, though, and he was ready for some privacy.
And so it was that he found himself wandering down the empty terraced walkways of Pabu, making his way to the shoreline in the pale gloaming. He didn’t encounter a single soul as he walked—barring the ubiquitous moonyos that seemed to frolic across the island at all hours. Pabu was the sort of place that seemed too flawless to be real. Too flawless to last.
Not quite as flawless as it seems on the surface, he acknowledged as he turned down a path that snaked through one of the sections of the island that had yet to be rebuilt after the catastrophic sea surge he’d heard about countless times at the welcoming party the previous night. The buildings had been reduced to rubble, and judging by the weeds sprouting in the cracks of the walkway, the locals tended to avoid this particular part of the island.
Perfect.
The gentle breeze off the ocean was chilly, and he told himself it was the reason his hand trembled more than usual that morning. He shoved both hands deep into his pockets as he navigated the last few levels before he reached the beach. As he stepped onto the sand, a gust of wind buffeted against him. It was bracingly cold, and it smelled like salt and aquatic vegetation and wet earth, and he closed his eyes for a moment, breathing deeply and focusing on the sensation.
When he opened his eyes, a flicker of movement in his peripheral vision had him snapping his head to the side. He froze. A figure meandered slowly down the beach, sticking close to the bottom of the hill where the lush foliage grew thickly right up to the edge of the sand. He was certain you had spotted him, but you didn’t immediately acknowledge his presence.
He watched for a moment as you paused and stooped down to examine one of the plants, then carefully plucked a few bunches and laid them in the basket you carried. Bizarre. What the kriff was this person doing out here so early? Nothing innocent, that was for damned sure. Why would anyone sneak down to such an isolated stretch of the beach at this obscene hour if they didn’t have nefarious intent?
Aside from me, obviously.
He squinted slightly. Even with his enhanced eyesight, it was dark enough, and you were far enough away, that it was difficult to make out your features, but he was reasonably sure you hadn’t been at the party the night before. 
Hmph.
He turned and walked the opposite direction, away from the person who’d had the audacity to interrupt his solitude by getting to the beach first. Better not to get involved.
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Crosshair took a different route the next morning, arriving at the beach just as the sun rose. As bad kriffing luck would have it, you were exiting the beach just as he arrived, and your paths inevitably intersected. He braced himself for a conversation, but you simply met his eyes and nodded quietly as you passed him.
He suppressed a sigh of relief. Stepping aside to make room for you to pass on the narrow trail, he couldn’t help noticing that your basket was filled with a variety of neat bundles of leaves and twigs. Odd, but your hobbies were none of his concern. Even if they did involve herb rustling and grand theft shrubbery.
He continued his path down to the shoreline and wandered along the water’s edge, staring out at the horizon. Out of the corner of his eye, he could still see your solitary figure making its way up the steep slope and into Lower Pabu. He was now completely sure that you’d not been at the welcoming party, nor had he encountered you in the village. It wasn’t that surprising; after all, hundreds of people lived on the island, and he wasn’t in any particular hurry to meet them all—or any of them, if he were honest.
Of course, he didn’t have much of a choice in the matter. Wrecker had flatly refused to allow Crosshair to isolate himself, while the gregarious mayor Shep Hazard seemed equally dedicated to the twin causes of thrusting Crosshair into the community and plying him with as much fruit as he could eat in a lifetime. He was starting to feel a tiny surge of violence every time he saw a jogan fruit.
On the third day, Batcher woke up with Crosshair and scrambled out of the Marauder, bounding ahead of him down the ramp and then turning to wiggle her entire body in anticipation as he followed. He let the lurca hound pick the path that morning, not bothering to hide his thin smile at Batcher’s endless curiosity and enthusiasm. She crisscrossed the walkways incessantly, sniffing and exploring, chasing the moonyos playfully down the hill, investigating every nook and cranny of the village, and easily running five times the distance that Crosshair traveled on their way down to the water.
The beach was empty this morning, to Crosshair’s relief. At last, some peace and quiet. Or at least as quiet and peaceful as it could be with Batcher rocketing back and forth across the wet sand, grunting and huffing as she charged into the surf and back up to Crosshair, crouching into a bow as she tried to entice him to play with her. When he didn’t immediately comply, she took off chasing a flock of seabirds, scattering them into the air in a cacophony of indignant squawking.
She chased the birds down the beach, barking joyously as she splashed through the surf. When the hound disappeared around a bend in the shoreline, Crosshair sped up slightly, not wanting to risk Omega’s wrath if anything happened to her pet on his watch. As he rounded the bend, he was greeted with a most unexpected sight: Batcher was lying on her back on the sand, writhing with delight as you rubbed her belly.
Your basket was overturned, and all the neat little bundles of herbs were strewn across the sand. It wasn’t hard to deduce the instigator of such carnage. Batcher spotted Crosshair and immediately jumped up and shook the sand off herself before rushing to greet him.
“Down,” he said sternly as she jumped up and swiped at him with her massive paws.
She dropped obediently, and trotted along next to him as he approached you. You’d already begun picking up your fallen bundles of leaves, and he quickly bent to assist you.
“Sorry about that,” he mumbled.
“No harm done,” you replied, shaking a bit of loose sand out of the bundles before you dropped them into your basket. “They all get washed before I hang them up to dry anyway.”
“So you’re not just engaging in botanical heists for the adrenaline rush?” he asked.
“Oh, yeah, it really gets the blood pumping,” you replied, deadpan. “My day just doesn’t feel complete without a little horticultural larceny.”
“I can see you like to live on the edge,” he said with a tiny smile. “The Plant Prowler of Pabu.”
“And I would have gotten away with it, if it weren’t for a mysterious stranger and his meddling dog.”
He liked you. Damn it.
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Crosshair didn’t see you for the next several days. He assumed you’d moved your criminal enterprise elsewhere on the island, and after the team returned from Barton IV, he didn’t feel the same need to escape the Marauder as he had previously. Still, he wasn’t sleeping particularly well, and after an excruciatingly restless night, he slipped out of the ship not long before dawn and wandered aimlessly down the streets of Pabu until he found himself in the unstable section he’d discovered on the first day.
As he picked his way through the ruins, he spotted movement two terraces below, and he grinned. Forcing himself to walk casually so you didn’t suspect how pleased he was to see you, he sauntered down to your level, only to find you ripping weeds up from between the fragments of pavement with uncharacteristic abandon.
“What did those plants ever do to you?” he asked.
You must have spotted him before he arrived, because you didn’t even flinch at the sound of his voice.
“Invasive species,” you replied. “I try not to over-forage, but in this case, I’ll make an exception.”
“And I thought your crimes only extended to vegetational theft,” he drawled. “I had no idea you’d escalated to floral murder and agricultural vigilantism.”
“The hero Pabu needs,” you said with a smile that had no business being as charming as it was, considering you were currently covered in a fine layer of dirt and assorted bits of leaves and twigs. “If this plant gets established on the island, we might never be able to eradicate it. It will outcompete the native plants and could cause significant disruptions to the ecosystem.”
“How altruistic of you,” he remarked drily.
“Not at all,” you laughed. “It also happens to be delicious.”
Crosshair stooped down and pulled one of the plants up by the roots, examining it closely. “It’s on sight, then.”
“Exactly. No mercy.”
As the first rays of the sun appeared on the distant horizon, you packed the large bundles of weeds into your basket, then stood and dusted your hands off on your trousers. You stretched a bit, clearly a little stiff from your labor. Impulsively, Crosshair spoke.
“Want to watch the sunrise with me?” You looked surprised at his offer, and he cleared his throat, looking awkwardly away. “Or do you turn into a meiloorun if you stay out past dawn?”
“Yes,” you said. “I mean, no. I mean, yes, I’d like to stay. No, I don’t turn into a meiloorun.”
You bit your lip and stared down at the bundle of weeds in your basket, poking at it ineffectually as you muttered something unintelligible under your breath. Stifling a laugh, Crosshair climbed up onto the crumbling half-wall of a destroyed structure and extended his hand to help you up after him. You scrambled up and sat down next to him, gazing out at the tranquil ocean as the sun began to paint the high clouds in brilliant shades of gold and pastel.
“Not a bad view, is it?” you asked quietly. 
“Definitely worth waking up early,” he replied, watching your face as the light caught on your cheekbones and reflected in your eyes.
Without making a conscious decision, he lifted his hand and brushed a little loose dirt off your cheek. His damned hand trembled, and he mentally cursed. You didn’t seem to notice the slight tremor, though—or if you did, you didn’t say anything about it. Instead, you turned your head slowly, grazing your lips across his fingertips as you met his eyes. It seemed the most natural thing in the galaxy to continue to trace the line of your jaw until his hand curled around the back of your head.
Your lips were soft and warm in the cool breeze, and you tasted like sea salt and dew and something he didn’t quite recognize. Something new. He liked it. You leaned into his kiss, and when at last it came to its natural conclusion, he drew in a shaky breath.
“Hi,” he whispered. “I’m Crosshair.”
---
Want more Crosshair? I have another Crosshair x Reader ficlet here!
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vyoongi · 6 months ago
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“Ave atque vale”
Summary: “No matter how much the world despises us, Caracalla. No matter how much we loathe ourselves. It shall always be you and I, until the marble of Rome crumbles to dust” In a secluded corner of the imperial palace, Geta confronts the devastating decline of his brother Caracalla, who is ravaged by a mysterious illness consuming both his body and mind. As Caracalla descends into delusions and paranoia, the bond between the brothers becomes a fragile thread woven with love and despair. Geta struggles to preserve his brother’s sanity while grappling with his own suffering. Pairing: Marcus Aurelius Antoninus | Emperor Caracalla/Publius Septimius Geta | Emperor Geta (Gladiator 2) Warnings: Incestuous relationship/incestuous undertones. Mental illness. Descriptions of sores, rotting skin and other signs of illness. Angst. Self loathing. Historical innacuracies. Guilt. Toxic relationships. Words: 1.9K Requested by anonymous! A/N: Title is from the poem written by roman poet Gaius Valerius Catullus to his dead brother. Translation would be ''Hail and Farewell''. I believe this doesn't fully align with what anonymous suggested, so I apologize in advance. In the context of this story, Caracalla's illness is already quite advanced and it doesn't exactly paint him in a positive light. It's more like exploring a 'what if' scenario where Caracalla and Geta were never removed from the picture. (I don't know if I should post this on AO3 since it's quite short)
Geta had been aware of the troubling signs since an evening that felt like ages ago: his brother's trembling fingers, the dilation of his pupils, the barely perceptible twitch at the corner of his parched lips. An elderly doctor had referred to it as a nameless affliction.
Now, Caracalla had struggled to his feet, swaying unsteadily like a ship on the brink of capsizing. A scream, more beast than man, tore through the stillness of the night.
"Vile traitors!" he roared, his voice breaking as he stretched his arms out wide, as though invoking a curse upon the heavens. "Rats! They stalk me, they watch me, moving between the columns! Do you not see them, Geta? They are there!"
Geta, his tunic dragging on the marble, walked slowly toward him, his hands outstretched in a sign of peace.
"There is no one here, brother. There is only you and I. Listen to my voice."
But Caracalla stepped back, heels hitting the edge of a table littered with empty goblets and shards of broken pottery. His chest rose and fell frantically, and in his piercing blue eyes Geta saw the reflection of the most primal fear: that of a wounded animal, trapped in an invisible cage.
“Do not approach!” His voice splintered like shattered glass. “It is you! It has always been you! You gaze upon me with those eyes, filled with hatred, seeking to choke the life from me!'”
Caracalla reached for something, anything, and his hand found the handle of a ceremonial dagger resting on the altar to Jupiter. He lifted it clumsily, but with enough fury that the edge gleamed in the flickering torchlight.
“Come, brother! Come closer and let us finish what we began in our mother’s womb!”
Geta didn't flinch. He didn't even blink. The dagger, trembling in Caracalla’s fevered hand, was no more than a shard of despair, sharp and cold like the abyss between them.
“If I am to die by your hand, then let it be so.” Geta moved forward, slow but resolute, the sound of his sandals striking the marble like the toll of a funeral bell. “But not tonight, Caracalla. Not like this.”
Caracalla groaned, his arm shaking and the dagger falling to the ground with a thud. At that moment, his body collapsed forward, straight into Geta, who caught him before he could hit the cold marble.
Geta's arms encircled his brother's fragile form, feeling the tension and spasms run through every fiber of his weary muscles. Caracalla sobbed, his nails digging desperately into his brother's shoulders, like a child clinging to a parent after a nightmare
“Hush now” Geta murmured softly, his voice barely a whisper through his disheveled curls. “No enemies here, brother. Only I remain”
Geta guided him to the couch carefully, almost tenderly, and forced him to sit. Caracalla could barely support his own weight, his body shaking like a leaf in the wind. Geta knelt in front of him, his firm, warm hands moving up to his brother's face, where the skin was cracked and damp with sweat.
“Look at me”, Geta's voice was a quiet command, firm yet tender. His dark gaze sought Caracalla's, until at last the emperor’s dilated pupils met his. “You are with me. There are no shadows here, no enemies. Only we two.”
Caracalla sobbed, his lower lip trembling beneath the layer of smeared makeup. Geta, with an almost instinctive gesture, leaned down and kissed his forehead, where the fever burned the strongest.
“Brother…” Caracalla’s voice was a shattered lament, as if torn from his very soul. “I would not be alone in the shadows”
“You shall not be”, Geta replied with quiet resolve, pressing a kiss to Caracalla’s damp cheek. “As long as breath remains in me, you shall never know solitude”
Geta’s lips moved slowly across his brother’s stained cheeks, until they brushed the corners of his mouth, where a tremor stopped them. Caracalla stood still, breathing heavily, his hands still clinging to Geta’s chest.
The world seemed to stop at that moment. The air heavy, laden with a silence that felt almost divine.
“Brother,” Caracalla whispered, and in his voice there was a plea, a total surrender. “Do not leave me”
Then, Geta embraced him, his arms a fortress of desperate strength, as if by that act alone he might piece together the broken fragments of his brother’s soul, preventing them from crumbling into ruin.
The dawn, once again, found them together. Caracalla slept with his head on Geta's lap, who slowly stroked his brother's reddish curls. His fingers ran over the scars and sores carefully, as if each one were a wound of his own.
On the horizon, Rome was awakening with its markets and forums, with the bustle of slaves and senators, with life that never stopped. But in that chamber, where the golden light was just beginning to filter through, there was calm.
Geta closed his eyes for a moment and rested his forehead on Caracalla's.
“No matter how much the world despises us, Caracalla. No matter how much we loathe ourselves. It shall always be you and I, until the marble of Rome crumbles to dust”
And in that instant, between the feverish sighs of a sick emperor and the tired gaze of his brother, time seemed to stand still. They were just two children again, lost in a palace too big, too cold, and with a destiny too heavy for their shoulders.
However, as time wore on, Geta found himself succumbing to the frailties of mere mortality. His affection remained immense, yet his patience grew ever more fragile. The illness consumed his will, suffocating his brother's body and mind in torturous madness.
The marble of the Palatine was cold even in the golden light of dusk. Outside, the Roman skyline burned with twilight fire, the silhouettes of columns standing like ancient sentinels, eternal witnesses to an empire that seemed infinite. Inside, in the dimness scented with olive oil and aged wine, the twin rulers were alone.
Caracalla, reclining on a purple velvet divan, watched Geta with an intensity that seemed to devour him from the shadows. The reflection of the light slid over his eyes, but there was something dull in them, something broken. Geta stood, his hands folded behind his back, his white tunic falling elegantly over his tall, thin figure.
“Why do you turn away, brother?'' Caracalla spoke at last, his voice raspy and tinged with a sweetness that did not match his hardened countenance. “Have I become a beast in your eyes?”
Geta pressed his lips together, shifting his gaze to the columns framing the balcony. For weeks now, something inside him had begun to twitch every time his eyes fell upon Caracalla's face. The small sores he tried to hide with makeup, the way his skin seemed more cerulean under the white powder, the faint but persistent smell of withered flesh that wafted in whenever his brother came too close.
“Do not speak nonsense, Caracalla” Geta replied in a measured voice, but he couldn't help the tense set of his jaw.
Caracalla smiled, a gesture that was meant to be seductive but in the uncertain light looked more like a grimace. He extended a trembling hand toward his brother, his fingers stained by the slight discoloration of his nails.
“Come here.”
Geta remained motionless, feeling the air thicken between them. That request wasn't new; The nights they shared more than wine and secrets were a tacit pact, a refuge in which the two emperors could escape the clutches of Rome. But now… now Geta felt something different. Something bitter that rose up his throat like a slow poison.
“I am weary, brother,” he answered at last, his voice barely above a whisper. “Tomorrow we must face the Senate. You should take rest.”
Caracalla dropped his arm with a sharp thud onto the divan. His smile twisted, revealing the wet shine of his teeth.
“You lie” he spat out, the words laced with contained fury. “You loathe to touch me, do you not? Do you think I do not see? Your gaze pierces me as though I were a corpse rotting in the sun!”
Geta closed his eyes for a moment, trying to contain the shiver that ran down his spine.
“Do not speak in such a manner”
“Why should I not?” Caracalla rose with a clumsy yet resolute motion, swaying for a moment before steadying himself. “Have we not shared all, brother? The empire, the purple, the power— even our bodies. Yet now you deny me, as though I were a leper.”
He moved closer, too fast for Geta to react. The sickly smell hit his senses as Caracalla took his face in his hands, his thumbs brushing his cheeks with desperate softness.
“Look at me. Have your feelings for me faded? Do you no longer burn with desire for me?” Caracalla whispered, his breath warm and bitter against Geta’s lips. “I am your brother, your other half, your very soul. You cannot turn away from me.”
Geta opened his eyes and found himself gazing into Caracalla's. Within those fierce depths, anger pulsed, but beneath it lingered an unsettling fear—deep and raw. For a fleeting moment, Geta felt a twinge of pity replacing his initial disgust. Yet, the sight of the sores at the corners of Caracalla's lips drew his focus back, shattering the illusion like fragile glass.
“Enough!” Geta pushed his brother's hands away with a sharp movement, taking several steps back until they crashed into a marble table.
Caracalla stood still, his hands shaking in the empty air where Geta's face had once been. His eyes widened, and for a moment he looked like a wounded child.
“Geta…” his voice was barely a broken thread.
“I cannot…” Geta muttered, unable to find the right words. The shadow of disgust was still there, clinging to his throat, and he knew Caracalla sensed it.
Caracalla let out a bitter laugh, teetering on the edge of a sob.
“I see.”
He turned slowly, returning to his couch with a defeated posture. His shoulders hunched, and for a moment he appeared less like the mighty emperor of the known world and more like a weary old man.
The silence that followed was heavier than any argument. Geta stood frozen, unable to move, as if his feet were chained to the ground. Caracalla, however, collapsed onto the couch, his face hidden in his trembling hands, as if trying to bury the weight of his own pain.
“Forgive me, brother,” Geta murmured, his voice barely more than a breath, a whisper meant for no one but Caracalla. “I did not mean to—”
“Begone,” Caracalla replied, his voice cold and distant, without even sparing him a glance.
Geta hesitated, but eventually turned and left the chamber. The door closed behind him with a hollow sound, like a stone slamming into a grave.
In the corridor, Geta leaned his back against a column, breathing heavily. His heart pounded, and the metallic taste of guilt filled his mouth.
He had loved Caracalla with the same fervor with which one loves a part of oneself, a bond so deeply woven into his soul that it was impossible to distinguish where one began and the other ended. But now, that love was tainted, shrouded in a veil of sickness, an affliction that gnawed at him, one he could no longer ignore.
And yet, deep within his chest, something still burned—desperation, yearning to return to the way they had once been, to hold his brother in his arms and attempt to heal the wounds that not even the gods of Rome could mend.
But he didn't.
In the dimness of the chamber, Caracalla stood alone, shadows covering his feverish body. His tears fell silently on his cheeks stained with smeared makeup, and the echo of his broken laughter was lost among the columns of the Palatine.
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jaywaslost · 1 year ago
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I Tried to Hold Him (but it didn't really last long.) [Kolour]
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Helloo :) This is, once again, something I've forgotten thats been lying around in my docs unposted for no real reason!
I don't have much to say about this one here, perhaps trigger warning for major character death? Should be about it though. Enjoy :)
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Sypnosis:
Colour healed him, put him back together.
The very man who kept him in one piece, held him like he was the most fragile thing in the multiverse with such gentleness, the one Killer found himself clinging onto.
He was colder than he should ever be.
Word count: 2.7k
Death was something Killer was familiar with.
It was something every Sans had long since gotten used to, but he was especially acquainted with it. The way it would come so suddenly, bearing its fangs and sinking them deep into the victim, leaving no time to process what had happened until it was too late to save them.
He had experienced it many times, but the amount of times he caused it far outweigh that. It’s what he would assume, at least.
The feeling of his knife tearing into the body of another, over and over to the point he lost count of how many had fallen to his hands. Hands and clothing covered in a thin veil of dust, all that remains after someone is gone. A reminder he is why they are no longer there, t̶h̶e̶ f̶e̶e̶l̶i̶n̶g̶ o̶f̶ i̶t̶ n̶e̶v̶e̶r̶ l̶e̶f̶t̶ n̶o̶ m̶a̶t̶t̶e̶r̶ h̶o̶w̶ h̶a̶r̶d̶ h̶e̶ s̶c̶r̶u̶b̶b̶e̶d̶ w̶h̶y̶ d̶i̶d̶ t̶h̶e̶ d̶u̶s̶t̶ n̶e̶v̶e̶r̶ l̶e̶a̶v̶e̶-̶ t̶h̶e̶ b̶l̶o̶o̶d̶-̶
It was almost like a dance to him by this point, the familiar weight of his knife grounding him in the midst of this sickening choreography he had become so accustomed to. It’d be a matter of time before the other monsters fell regardless of their skill, and he would simply need to last longer. A test of endurance, if all else failed.
He lost many people throughout his lifetimes, one’s sanity can’t stay intact for long after seeing your own family be mangled over and over, but Killer had long since lost track of time when he snapped. It felt almost like he was torn to pieces and put back together by fragile thread barely holding his aching soul in one piece when he made that deal.
It was too late to take it back by then, a decision he regret for a long time after.
His first victims were the family he tried so hard to keep safe.
If he killed them, it would hurt less, surely.
He would make it fast and easy, they would not have to deal with the pain much longer.
If he left it to the human, they would suffer.
They did not need to suffer more.
S̶a̶n̶s̶ Killer would make sure of that.
T̶h̶e̶ w̶a̶y̶ P̶a̶p̶y̶r̶u̶s̶ d̶i̶d̶n̶'t̶ b̶a̶c̶k̶ a̶w̶a̶y̶ f̶r̶o̶m̶ h̶i̶m̶ w̶i̶l̶l̶ a̶l̶w̶a̶y̶s̶ h̶a̶u̶n̶t̶ h̶i̶m̶. D̶e̶s̶p̶i̶t̶e̶ t̶h̶e̶ f̶e̶a̶r̶ i̶n̶ t̶h̶e̶ o̶t̶h̶e̶r̶'s̶ e̶y̶e̶s̶, a̶l̶l̶ h̶e̶ s̶a̶w̶ w̶a̶s̶ h̶i̶s̶ b̶i̶g̶ b̶r̶o̶t̶h̶e̶r̶.
H̶i̶s̶ b̶i̶g̶ b̶r̶o̶t̶h̶e̶r̶ w̶h̶o̶ p̶l̶u̶n̶g̶e̶d̶ a̶ k̶n̶i̶f̶e̶ i̶n̶ h̶i̶s̶ c̶h̶e̶s̶t̶, t̶h̶e̶ o̶n̶e̶ w̶h̶o̶ b̶e̶t̶r̶a̶y̶e̶d̶ h̶i̶m̶ a̶n̶d̶ l̶e̶f̶t̶ h̶i̶m̶ t̶o̶ b̶l̶e̶e̶d̶ o̶u̶t̶ w̶i̶t̶h̶o̶u̶t̶ a̶ r̶e̶s̶p̶o̶n̶s̶e̶, s̶t̶e̶p̶p̶i̶n̶g̶ o̶v̶e̶r̶ t̶h̶e̶ s̶c̶a̶r̶f̶ h̶e̶ c̶h̶e̶r̶i̶s̶h̶e̶d̶ s̶o̶ m̶u̶c̶h̶ w̶h̶e̶n̶ h̶e̶ f̶a̶d̶e̶d̶ i̶n̶t̶o̶ n̶o̶t̶h̶i̶n̶g̶n̶e̶s̶s̶.
Killer felt nothing about that any longer, it had been a while since those events happened. It didn’t matter to him, they forgot him when he left with the last reset, afterall.
T̶h̶e̶y̶ d̶i̶d̶ n̶o̶t̶.
H̶e̶ w̶a̶s̶ s̶o̶r̶r̶y̶ h̶e̶ w̶a̶s̶ s̶o̶ s̶o̶r̶r̶y̶-̶
From those days, Killer learned the price one pays for loving another.
A mistake he refused to repeat. He learned his lesson, he was not stupid.
T̶h̶a̶t̶ w̶a̶s̶ w̶h̶a̶t̶ h̶e̶ w̶a̶n̶t̶e̶d̶ t̶o̶ b̶e̶l̶i̶e̶v̶e̶.
It was no issue for a long time, especially after he met the one who called himself “Nightmare”. A̶ f̶i̶t̶t̶i̶n̶g̶ n̶a̶m̶e̶ f̶o̶r̶ t̶h̶a̶t̶ f̶r̶e̶a̶k̶ o̶f̶ n̶a̶t̶u̶r̶e̶. T̶h̶a̶t̶ c̶r̶u̶e̶l̶, v̶i̶l̶e̶ c̶r̶e̶a̶t̶u̶r̶e̶-̶ With him, Killer did not have to feel. He didn't worry about it anymore, he didn’t need to feel guilty anymore.
It was freeing.
I̶f̶ o̶n̶l̶y̶ h̶e̶ k̶n̶e̶w̶ b̶e̶f̶o̶r̶e̶h̶a̶n̶d̶, f̶r̶e̶e̶i̶n̶g̶ h̶i̶m̶ f̶r̶o̶m̶ t̶h̶e̶ s̶h̶a̶c̶k̶l̶e̶s̶ o̶f̶ s̶h̶a̶m̶e̶ w̶o̶u̶l̶d̶ o̶n̶l̶y̶ o̶p̶e̶n̶ s̶p̶a̶c̶e̶ f̶o̶r̶ n̶e̶w̶ o̶n̶e̶s̶. H̶i̶s̶ f̶r̶a̶g̶i̶l̶e̶ m̶i̶n̶d̶ c̶o̶u̶l̶d̶ n̶o̶t̶ t̶a̶k̶e̶ a̶n̶y̶ m̶o̶r̶e̶ f̶o̶r̶ m̶u̶c̶h̶ l̶o̶n̶g̶e̶r̶, d̶e̶s̶p̶e̶r̶a̶t̶e̶ f̶o̶r̶ a̶ s̶o̶l̶u̶t̶i̶o̶n̶ h̶e̶ o̶n̶l̶y̶ d̶u̶g̶ h̶i̶s̶ o̶w̶n̶ g̶r̶a̶v̶e̶.
S̶t̶u̶c̶k̶ o̶w̶i̶n̶g̶ a̶ d̶e̶b̶t̶ h̶e̶ w̶o̶u̶l̶d̶ n̶e̶v̶e̶r̶ b̶e̶ c̶a̶p̶a̶b̶l̶e̶ o̶f̶ r̶e̶p̶a̶y̶i̶n̶g̶, t̶u̶r̶n̶e̶d̶ i̶n̶t̶o̶ a̶ t̶o̶o̶l̶, a̶ t̶o̶y̶ i̶n̶ r̶e̶t̶a̶l̶i̶a̶t̶i̶o̶n̶.
If he was unable to feel, then the sensations in his chest were simply illness. His immune system was good, but even it gave out sometimes as any other one did.
It didn’t have anything to do with the one he had become so accustomed to, no.
He was too wounded to feel anything anymore, let alone one as pure as love.
Wound, after wound, after wound. Everything ached as he had been gutted of all empathy. Once fighting for love and now left with nothing, without the right to even dream of it any more.
Once with a gift of feeling so deeply, free as one could be in the underground, relaxed and happy.
The memories have never felt so distant.
A being made of events wrapped up together, trying to piece a person and falling apart constantly. That’s what he is.
A fraud, a construction of failed images and ideals, betrayal, dishonestly, filth all in a person’s form.
Something he would never qualify to truly be. Afterall, the soul has its own memory, his will never forget what he has done.
The blood that stains his hand is heavy from the sheer amount, but he has not the time to think about that.
But..
That man- the colours he brought into his world, these feelings that made him want something else-
Killer hated it. H̶e̶ c̶o̶u̶l̶d̶ n̶e̶v̶e̶r̶ b̶r̶i̶n̶g̶ h̶i̶m̶s̶e̶l̶f̶ t̶o̶.
He hated the way the other would always talk to him like a friend. Like he was an old familiar, the same as anyone else. He knew of Killer’s behavior and yet he never faltered.
When Killer decided to finally let him in, he learned the other's name was Colour.
Quite fitting. M̶u̶c̶h̶ l̶i̶k̶e̶ h̶i̶s̶ o̶w̶n̶.
Something about him drew Killer in. He didn’t know when it started- When he got so attached.
Killer didn’t deserve his kindness.
Colour never listened.
Killer warned him a multitude of times. Befriending someone like him will only end in pain. Colour only smiled at him, shrugging his shoulders.
“Doesn’t everything? Might as well do what I want to, won't you humor me?”
Speechless, he did.
Killer didn’t realize when they’d gotten so close. Before he knew it, all of his free time was spent with the man or thinking about him. He had something to look forward to for the first time in years.
It terrified him.
I̶t̶ w̶a̶s̶ a̶ m̶a̶t̶t̶e̶r̶ o̶f̶ t̶i̶m̶e̶ b̶e̶f̶o̶r̶e̶ N̶i̶g̶h̶t̶m̶a̶r̶e̶ n̶o̶t̶i̶c̶e̶d̶ a̶n̶d̶ k̶i̶l̶l̶e̶d̶ h̶i̶m̶. A̶ m̶a̶t̶t̶e̶r̶ o̶f̶ t̶i̶m̶e̶ b̶e̶f̶o̶r̶e̶ S̶t̶a̶g̶e̶ 4̶ c̶a̶m̶e̶ o̶u̶t̶ a̶n̶d̶ l̶e̶f̶t̶ t̶h̶e̶ o̶n̶e̶ h̶e̶ h̶a̶d̶ c̶o̶m̶e̶ t̶o̶ c̶h̶e̶r̶i̶s̶h̶ i̶n̶ s̶h̶r̶e̶d̶s̶, i̶f̶ n̶o̶t̶ d̶o̶i̶n̶g̶ t̶h̶a̶t̶ t̶o̶ h̶i̶m̶s̶e̶l̶f̶. C̶o̶l̶o̶u̶r̶ i̶n̶s̶i̶s̶t̶e̶d̶ t̶h̶a̶t̶ h̶e̶ c̶o̶u̶l̶d̶ h̶o̶l̶d̶ h̶i̶s̶ o̶w̶n̶ w̶e̶l̶l̶, b̶u̶t̶ h̶i̶s̶ r̶e̶f̶u̶s̶a̶l̶ t̶o̶ e̶v̶e̶r̶ s̶h̶o̶w̶ i̶t̶ made K̶i̶l̶l̶e̶r̶ d̶o̶u̶b̶t̶ h̶i̶m̶ t̶o̶ a̶n̶ e̶x̶t̶e̶n̶t̶. H̶e̶ d̶i̶d̶n̶'t̶ w̶a̶n̶t̶ t̶o̶ b̶e̶ t̶h̶e̶ c̶a̶u̶s̶e̶ o̶f̶ t̶h̶e̶ o̶t̶h̶e̶r̶'s̶ e̶n̶d̶, n̶o̶t̶ l̶i̶k̶e̶ a̶n̶y̶o̶n̶e̶ e̶l̶s̶e̶.
H̶e̶ w̶a̶s̶ d̶i̶f̶f̶e̶r̶e̶n̶t̶.
They were supposed to be safe.
Months of planning. Countless trials and tricks, effort beyond what Killer ever expected a person to invest into saving him had finally resulted in his freedom.
His complete freedom.
The acceptance of it was a hard path to walk, but he never felt so loved.
If he ever doubted Colour’s dedication to helping him, he could no longer bring himself to after that. He owed the other everything, and for once it didn’t feel shameful. The strength he doubted before had been proven in front of him, a topic of conversation for weeks to follow. A̶t̶ l̶e̶a̶s̶t̶ n̶o̶w̶ h̶e̶ k̶n̶e̶w̶ i̶f̶ h̶e̶ w̶e̶r̶e̶ t̶o̶ l̶o̶s̶e̶ c̶o̶n̶t̶r̶o̶l̶, C̶o̶l̶o̶u̶r̶ i̶s̶ c̶a̶p̶a̶b̶l̶e̶ o̶f̶ g̶e̶t̶t̶i̶n̶g̶ r̶i̶d̶ o̶f̶ h̶i̶m̶.
Acknowledging his feelings was quite the wreck in and of itself. He could not go to Colour to ask, the man being the very subject of those feelings, but he had little else to go.
Denial only got him so far, Killer knew this feeling well.
It was love again, wasn’t it?
Maybe he was given a chance at being a person again?
..
And yet.
As his knees scraped against the ground, covering him in enough dust to the point it looked like it could have been his own mixing with the blood, Killer wondered if he was the laughingstock of every deity under the goddamn sun.
(If there were any, he knew they despised him. After all, a jester of the likes of him would never see the heaven they reside in. Yet, they had it in them to rip away the closest thing to one he will ever lay his eyes upon.)
After all of that effort.
All the work they put in.
Killer had finally gotten better. They finally had a chance, it was so close to being worth it.
Colour healed him, put him back together.
The very man who kept him in one piece, held him like he was the most fragile thing in the multiverse with such gentleness, was the one Killer found himself clinging onto.
He was colder than he should ever be.
Colour hated the cold.
Killer refused to believe the scene in front of him was real, truly, it felt like another one of his realistic night terrors.
Colour would never die on him like this.
And yet the limp weight in his hands told him otherwise.
This was a scene he was long familiar with, why did it hurt so much?
He knew better than to get attached, why did this hurt so much?
Colour was too good for him. He was never meant to be roped into this situation, he never deserved to be tangled in this mess. He was a good person, the best person Killer had ever had the honor of knowing.
If his suffering meant getting to experience the other’s warmth and comfort, then maybe it wasn’t all pointless.
..The missing fraction in the other’s head had gotten bigger. Instead of taking up the space of one of his eyes, it had teetered to them both.
The colours Killer loved seeing so much had gone dull, extinguished by his anguish.
He didn’t know what to do.
Killer’s eyes stung as his vision blurred, he pulled the other’s lifeless body as close to his as possible.
Perhaps he was crazy, wishing to hear a beat, feel a pulse, while holding the other.
Killer’s arms ached, he couldn’t feel the rise and fall of his chest anymore either.
He was gone.
The dust was his, and Killer would never get to see him again.
In his state, Killer failed to notice the figure approaching him. Towering over his hunched form was another he had found himself drawn to.
While it was not in the same speed, let alone situation, he always found Cross quite the interesting man.
The newbie to their little group, a clueless man who lost his world, trapped in a body with the ghost of a child who nearly killed them all. H̶o̶w̶ f̶a̶m̶i̶l̶i̶a̶r̶.
He was a funny little thing, easy to mess with and even easier to get reactions out of. Quite entertaining when Killer had nothing better to do with his days.
Killer was the first to notice the way Nightmare toyed with Cross. All too familiar, praise and mockery blended into sentences that would make one question their sanity. The man did not lie, but that didn’t mean he was honest either. A fact he never hid and more often than not, used against everyone who fell into his grip.
He tried to warn the monochrome one before, but his comments elicited no response. Killer didn’t bother to question it too much until the other approached him on his own once.
He couldn’t remember what happened that day.
His head hurt.
Cross stopped when his head lifted.
Their eyes had not met, Killer facing the same direction in front of him. Despite his inability to see what the other was holding, he could make a good guess on what was going on at the very least.
“Killer?”
The teary one’s head snapped in his direction before turning back to whatever was keeping him occupied. Cross didn’t have a chance to examine his expression, but that single glance was enough to tell him all he needed.
Only one person could get that reaction out of Killer, and judging by the dust, he was gone.
Killer’s whispers were inaudible, though he could make out a why.
Cross does not speak, as it is not his place to answer. The one being questioned is long gone, he will not return to answer no matter how much they may want it.
Suddenly, his voice spikes.
“Real nice of you to join us, what, the newbie wanted to feel good? Or is it that you’re glad someone else feels the way you did losin’ all of ‘em?”
His world.
Biting back a remark, Cross kept his mouth shut. Killer was the farthest from stable he'd been in a long time. This was a habit the other had, according to what Dust had told him. In a vulnerable position all Killer knew was to kick and scream, pushing people away until he could lash out and break himself enough to not feel anymore.
The fact he was still unharmed standing as close as he did was a miracle all on its own. Killer's body tensed as footsteps approached him again, his hands shaking more in tandem as he gripped onto the torn jacket in front of them like it would bring the man who held his heart back to them.
It would not, the stillness under his hands hurt more.
Colour was never this still, he hated feeling stuck.
He was in pain and Cross is the only one he has left.
“I can see you holding your emotions back from here, you can grieve if you wish to. Loss is unbearably” He began, trying to offer any comfort he could.
“‘Grief’? Am I allowed to feel that?” Killer’s voice had only sounded this empty on two other occasions, Cross shuddered mentally at the memory.
“What do you mean”
“After what I’ve done to all the others y’know? I shouldn’t even be capable of feeling this it’s not— what would make me worthy of it?”
“Killer—”
“Am I allowed to do such a thing? Mourn the loss of somethin’?”
Cross sighed.
Killer’s grip on the coat tightened, at this point his hands were probably bleeding through the fabric.
The fact Colour did not dust as quickly as any other monsters was not really helping their predicament, Killer could not bring himself to look at his face.
The pedestal Killer placed him on was crumbling just like his body, to say Cross could stand watching it was a lie.
They had spoken, become friends once upon a time.
Nothing that mattered now, he was gone.
Gone just like everyone else Cross had ever valued.
“That’s what he’d want you to do? Say something along the lines of how you don’t earn the right to feel sad”
In all seriousness Cross was pulling that entirely out of nowhere. He had no idea what Colour would have said in a situation like this, he had a way with words neither of them ever quite got to.
He snapped out of his thoughts when Killer let out a small giggle, likely at his words. The small smile on Cross’s face dropped when that laughter quickly turned into sobs.
Killer’s hand found itself covering his mouth immediately, trying to conceal any sound that came out of it.
He would not be weak like this.
He shook like a leaf in the wind, more fragile than he ever looked before.
This was not Killer before him, it was not the apathetic murderer he had heard so much about.
It was a boy his age broken by circumstance, one who lost his world the moment he got to have it.
His hope was torn out of his hands the moment he felt comfortable enough to dare and imagine a better existence.
Cross could not find the words to comfort him.
H̶e̶ w̶o̶u̶l̶d̶ n̶e̶v̶e̶r̶ k̶n̶o̶w̶ h̶o̶w̶ t̶o̶ c̶o̶m̶f̶o̶r̶t̶ h̶i̶m̶s̶e̶l̶f̶ a̶f̶t̶e̶r̶ a̶l̶l̶, s̶o̶ w̶h̶y̶ w̶o̶u̶l̶d̶ h̶e̶ b̶e̶ a̶b̶l̶e̶ t̶o̶ c̶o̶m̶f̶o̶r̶t̶ s̶o̶m̶e̶o̶n̶e̶ s̶o̶ s̶i̶m̶i̶l̶a̶r̶?̶
Seating himself next to the other, he gently pulled Killer’s hand aside, gripping it just tightly enough to keep it in place.
Killer didn’t look him in the face, but he didn’t need to.
The man basically launched himself into the taller’s embrace, all the walls Cross saw him put up crumbling in record speed as cries choked their way out of him.
Grief, confusion, sadness, betrayal, hurt, all hitting him at once.
The emotional baggage he carried was never light, but it would never change.
The one who could have made it do so was never coming back.
Killer didn’t even get to say goodbye.
He would never be coming back.
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morgue-ratt · 1 year ago
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Fear Itself
a (somewhat belated) birthday gift for @darklylucid
Jonathan Crane x reader // 1.6k
You've been selected as Dr Crane's latest guinea pig! Yay!
tw// syringes, experiments, bondage, fear toxin, nsfw, this is my first time writing for Dr Crane,
THE scratching of his pencil has permeated into your dreams, now you were not free of him even in sleep. Dr Crane is always immersed in his work, always writing something, the pencil always scratching. You don’t know how long you’ve been here, or even where here is. You maybe had some idea at first but that had been weeks ago, now the only thing your conscious mind had to cling to was him. Dr Crane, the Scarecrow.  
He is working on something big and for it, his chemical weapons must be sharpened to a horrifying edge. Only the best for the Bat. The colors of the toxin vary from orange to yellow to green, the doses change. Sometimes the injections go into your arm, neck or leg. Sometimes, he fits a face mask over your mouth and nose and just sits back as you’re forced to breathe in the gaseous state of uncut terror. The duration changes, it varies from a few minutes to long hours screaming your vocal cords raw. No matter what, the good doctor seems content to sit back and watch. The only thing that doesn’t change is you. His unwilling assistant.  
Your body is covered in needle pricks and track marks. Your cheeks shine with dried tears that Crane hasn’t bothered to wipe away. One of his formulas had made you hallucinate things crawling under your skin, leading you to scratch your arms until you bled and then some. Another had filled you with blind panic and you had kicked Crane so hard in the chest he had deemed it necessary to wrestle you into a strait jacket. Now, as he strips away your sanity with each round of treatment, you can only lean against the wall of the Scarecrow’s makeshift lab.  
“Did you hear me?” Your head lolls to the side and you try to hide your face in your shoulder. He’s standing above you now, towering over you. “You’re awake,” He says. He has to tell you these things, otherwise you’d have no way of knowing. The syringe in his left hand catches the low light. Orange this time. The last one was green. The one before that... you can’t remember.  
The good doctor kneels in front of you. He takes your jaw in his hand so he can look at you, stare directly into your eyes and though you know it’s purely for diagnostic purposes, you don’t like it. “You are awake,” He repeats. Crane moves the syringe closer, and you pull away from his grip so fast you hit your head on the wall behind you. He lets out a sigh; “None of that,” He threads lithe fingers through your hair, gently scraping your scalp, and pulls your head to the side. You cry out as the needle pricks your neck. “There we go, nice and easy,” He says, his voice completely devoid of all emotion.  
Your heart begins to accelerate. This part stays the same. Your vision is going dark around the edges, you twist in the strait jacket; trying to escape the dread crashing around you. What will you see? Monsters? A family member? Will disembodied laughter fill your head? The walls close in? Or will it just be blackness, blinding you until he deems it time to administer the antidote? You start to hyperventilate.  
Crane lets go of your hair and leans back, watching you closely. His face begins to contort, twisting into something somehow even more vile. In your mind’s eye, you see his face stitched into burlap, a horrible creation of the doctor and the Scarecrow. His mouth is somehow both stitches and far too many teeth. You turn away and the horrible face is still there, a monstrous patchwork with eyes gleaming orange no matter where you look. Your blood is rushing in your ears, you barely hear it when he asks; “What do you see?” 
You shake your head.  
“What do you see?” The voice is horrible, it’s like its sending glass through your veins, it comes from everywhere. Crane reaches for your face, and you cringe, pushing yourself into the wall behind you. It’s ike you’re in a kaleidoscope, his hands are everywhere, reaching for you. He takes your face again and the need to scream grows in your chest like fire. “Tell me,” 
“No... nothing,” You say.  
He waves his hand in front of your face, and you flinch. “Tell me,” 
The distorted image of him is almost pulsating in beat with your heart. You can’t focus on anything except the fact you don’t want him to touch you. You barely hear your own voice through your own thundering pulse; “Scarecrow,” 
You can tell that he’s smiling, the mess of burlap and skin spreads in such a way that indicates his pleasure in this answer. “Scarecrow? Are you afraid of the Scarecrow?” He touches you, bringing his scarred hand to cup your cheek and you let out a short scream as though his touch burns you. His laughter shakes your bones. You haven’t heard him laugh since you’ve been here. You bury your face in your shoulder as the laughter echoes in your head. Crane runs his hand through your hair, his touch is gentle. Soft.  
A shudder runs through your body all the same.  
If he has been testing you all this time, tonight you finally have the right answer; gone is the apathetic doctor who gives you your medicine and watches with detached curiosity; now Crane is leaning in close, enjoying the way you flinch and relishing when a fresh wave of tears stream down your cheeks. It’s all for him, after all. He brushes the hair out of your eyes so he can better see your face contorted in terror, he holds you in place so he can enjoy every micro expression with that horrible grin. These almost sweet gestures are so at odds with the hot, all- consuming dread racing through your veins just as the toxin does.  
 Crane takes every excuse to touch you just to see you flinch and cry out in protest, you can’t do much else but even if you weren’t restrained you don’t know if you’d have it in you to do anything but cower. This toxin was designed to take down people much braver than you. You are no Batman.  
You feel his fingers ghost against the column of your throat and you jerk back, toppling over and falling to the floor. Your head is swimming, and you feel Crane lean over you, positioning himself on top of you. Your fear... and knowing you’re afraid of him. It’s addicting. He holds you still with one hand while his other goes for the throat, checking your pulse with his middle and forefinger. “Look at you,” His voice has taken on a purring quality and your drug addled mind makes sure to compensate, the thing above you has a mouth full of blood stained canines and deadly sharp claws like an animal, playing with his prey before the final strike. Your fear is crashing around you as Crane leans forward, pinning your body with his own. He’s trying to get as close to your eyes as possible, he’s all you see.  
You have stopped screaming, opting instead to cry and twist in the jacket, the straps digging in sharply into soft flesh. You’re convinced you’re being flayed as the rough canvas rubs your skin raw. Your breath catches in your throat as the strap between your legs goes a little higher. Crane’s grin spreads across his face as he takes account of this reaction. As you continue to struggle, you do nothing but push yourself to the line between horror and neediness. Arousal is arousal and you’re having trouble distinguishing right now.  
“Oh dear,” Crane chides. He’s all you can see; your vision has been narrowed to a pinprick. “Is someone getting their lines crossed?” You feel his hand pushing the strap further into your sex and you can’t help but moan as you grind yourself into it. “Do you want more?” 
Yes. No. More what? More teasing? More fear? More pain? It’s like your mind is breaking. Panic spikes in your chest, wetness pools between your legs. It feels good, you want to be anywhere else. “More...” You are more aware of your lips moving than the fact you are speaking. The hand disappears from the apex of your legs, and you complain; “No...” 
Crane takes care as he unbuckles the strap going through your legs. He’s amused, he can tell his toxin had had... a rare effect on you. “My, my,” You don’t have it in you to be ashamed. His fear toxin had reduced you to your base instincts. You somehow feel disconnected from your body while also being painfully aware that he isn’t touching you. You don’t even think as you spread your legs slightly. Your rational mind is eclipsed but when this is over, you’ll tell yourself it was the toxin that was making you act like this.  
You sigh when his hand returns, you watch him with lidded eyes. It’s hard to believe the thing before you even resembled a human being. Instead, there is a demonic face that looks like something Mary Shelley would come up with; stitches and teeth and eyes glowing orange like the fires of Hell. You don’t care. His thin fingers are making you moan.  
It’s hard to say how long you were lying on the floor with the good doctor. The entire time you feel like you’re on the edge of something while your heart beats madly in your chest and your blood rushes in your ears. Time ebbs and flows, it feels like it takes hours but you’re close and you couldn’t have lasted that long.  
You finally reach the crest, and you arch your back, chasing his fingers as you go over. The pleasure has taken over the horror, at least for now, but you still scream. Crane’s laugh surrounds you, eating through your flesh to your bones like maggots.
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bullet-prooflove · 1 year ago
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Ophelia!Series - Part Four:  PSYOPS - Charlie 1 x Reader
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Tagging: @crazy4chickennuggets @kmc1989 @withakindheartx
Ophelia!Series:
Part One: Casino Royale - Charlie runs into his ex for the first time since she disappeared at an underground casino game.
Part Two: Taken - Charlie recieves news that you've been taken.
Part Three: Ohana - Charlie goe to Joe to get help.
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When Charlie gets boots on the ground in Mexico, he’s confident you’re still alive. Flores Rodrigo arrived back in the country an hour before Charlie touched down, he’d barely have time to fuck his favourite whore before he got around to torturing you. Charlie hopes to get to you first.
His contacts tell him that they have an American woman stowed away in a storage container near the compound, it doesn’t take a genius to work out that it’s you.
He’s heard about what goes on in those storage containers, the PSYOPS shit. Music or sounds blasted at full volume until it felt like your ears were bleeding, the same song on repeat over and over and over again until it felt like you were losing your mind.
With physical pain you could anticipate it, you know that at some point it’ll dull, end even. With this it’s relentless, a method of breaking down the mental barriers until you’re clinging to your sanity.
It was used in Iraq as an interrogation tactic, it takes four days to break a prisoner.
The sound that Rodrigo has chosen for you…
It’s the sound of a baby crying, there’s a special kind of cruelty in that because you lost a baby the year before you disappeared on Charlie. You lost his baby. He guesses Flores must have purchased your medical records, took note of it.
It nauseates Charlie.
It drives him crazy after only two minutes, hearing that noise, for you it’s been hours. It doesn’t take him long to dispatch the men guarding you, Rodrigo is overconfident due to his deal with the US government, he thinks that no one’s coming for you. He puts a bullet in the stereo because that fucking noise…
He can’t stand it.
When he opens the door to the storage unit it’s worse than he imagined. His heart stops beating in his chest because for a second, he thinks you’re dead, your body hangs limp from a pair of zip ties threaded through a metal strut in the ceiling. The heat is overwhelming, it scorches his skin as he stands in the doorway his heart pounding. The left side of your face is covered in dirt and blood, your skin sallow and your lips cracked. His gaze strays to your chest, you’re breathing but barely. He can hear the faint rasp over the rush of blood in his own ears.
He tries to be gentle when he cuts you down, his arm looped around your waist as your knees buckle and you collapse against him. You’re weak, dehydrated, barely clinging to consciousness as he drags you outside of the sweltering hotbox. He’s careful as he lowers you to the ground, propping you up against the outside of the container before he removes the canteen of water from his rucksack and presses it to your lips.
“Come on beautiful.” He whispers as he tilts your head back. “Take a sip for me.”
It takes a second for you to comprehend but then you follow his instruction, gulping from the canteen greedily.
“Easy.” He advises “Just a little at a time.”
You push his arm away indicating you’ve had enough to drink before your eyes flicker open and meet his.
It’s the most beautiful fucking sight Charlie has ever seen.
“I’ve got you.” He assures you, his thumb chasing away the tear that leaks down your cheek. “You’re safe, I’ve got you.”
Love Charlie 1? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.
Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee
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l3nnyw1thencr0w · 6 months ago
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I just want to write smth bru, all the character inside this draft is my ocs, no betareader no anything, pray for me🙏
It is extremely hard to distinguish between a remarkable clothmaker and a maniac, the line between them are rather thin. Francis knows that—because she is one of the above.
The clock keeps ticking, sunlight can barely shine through the windows, leaving little to no light inside the room. Thread and cloths laying everywhere, strings connecting to each other in a messy, awkward way and if you squint close enough, you could see Francis’ last sanity hiding somewhere between those lines. Even with the sound of shoe clacking on the ground growing louder every second, Francis doesn’t seem to notice.
“Francis dear, maybe it’s time for a break, really. It has been 5 hours since we talked.”
Voice ranging through the room, the voice wasn’t unfamiliar, it was, but that is a problem to Francis. Cause that god forsaken voice and tone could only be from Harper, a charming lady underneath but it’s covered by a massive ego that made her look hideous in Francis’ eyes right now. The clothmaker only lets out a sigh, her eyes don’t even dart to Harper for a second. She doesn’t have a reason to. Though, even with the sign of uninterested and clear annoyance, Harper makes no move to back down, she doesn’t want to. She move around the place, touching the cloth and dresses Francis has made. Fingers rubbing against the fabric, thinking about all the ideas that the clothmaker said. Though, her thoughts were cut short but Francis pulling the fabric away.
“We did talk, thats what matters anyways.”
“You said i should choked myself with my stupid and ugly brick-like tail. Don’t you think it’s a tad bit mean?”
“Better than nothing.”
Harper lets out a huff and there was a moment of peaceful silence that Francis gets to enjoy before she hears a snobbish rich voice again. This time however, Harper is standing right next to her, arms crossed, looking like a child, just waiting for something to happen.
“i think i deserve an apology.”
Francis audibly chokes on air as she turn back to Harper, her eyes slightly wide. The reaction makes Harper rolls her eyes annoyingly . She is aware that her clothmaker would be dying on the spot laughing if it weren’t for the fact that Francis is clinging onto Harper’s money to live. Usually, Harper wouldn’t batch an eye, why would she? it’s just someone wishing death upon her—no big deal. But it has been happening for the last 2 weeks.
“sorry for hurting your sensitive feelings.”
Francis says casually as she hold a few cloths in her hands, sewing it together. Harper’s eyes narrowed slightly, trying to remember all the fights they have before that 2 weeks of Francis tormenting Harper’s ego and mental health. There was one about ovens, fabrics being stolen, the bedroom pillows being too hard, headache, moods but none of them are really that important, they could have all of those fights in one day and they will probably kiss each other goodnight and share the same blanket without any problem that same day. Well, there is one that Harper hasn’t mentioned.
“are you sad about the toucan painting in our living room got dirty?”
Harper asks, waiting for a few seconds looking at Francis, who was sewing, suddenly stops and turns to Harper, putting all the cloths away.
“you did that in purpose! No one flings their pudding in a toucan painting so precisely that it only hits the eye!”
Francis raised her voice as Harper groans. And there she was, the only one being criticised for acting dramatic when her clothmaker get to hates her for a whole 2 weeks. Harper hates the way the toucan always looks at them when she is trying to kiss Francis. And at night when Harper was drunk, she could felt the toucan staring at her so maniacally. Its both scary and annoying to deal with. But Francis just has to love the stupid painting so much. So Harper thought pretending that it was an accident would be the perfect solution—she never thinks there would be a day where her little accident looks too perfect and lead her to her own demise.
“Well maybe the toucan should stops being all weird if it doesn’t want its eyes to be blinded by pudding!”
Francis wasn’t surprised by the sudden confession albeit a bit surprised by the loud voice. Harper did lower her voice when she noticed Francis moving away a bit. The clothmaker wasn’t over her precious toucan painting but laying in bed with her back toward Harper for weeks have been boring.
“could’ve moved the painting away.”
Francis says annoyingly, looking at Harper with narrowed eyes and a frown. Really, Harper doesn’t understand why Francis likes the painting so much. But nonetheless, Francis likes it.
“I could paint you a new one, with its eyes closed.”
Harper says, slowly moving her hand to cups Francis’ cheek before pulling her lips to kiss her forehead, and hold her close after a full 2 weeks of getting absolutely nothing. Francis takes a moment to soak in all the affection Harper is giving her and will give her after this. The clothmaker moves her hands, gently placing them to Harper’s waist and pull herself in for a small fleeting lips kiss.
“it wont be in the living room anymore, will it?”
The question was left unanswered but a few days later, there was a new painting of a toucan resting in the hallway. Francis can only imagined what Harper looked when she have to get a cup of water in the middle of the night when saw this.
Francis wonders sometime if her job is driving her crazy or it’s the noblewoman she is working for
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the-rogue-mockingjay · 1 year ago
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I'm like halfway through Noveria with my new shep rn, after that it's just Virmire left (friggin YIKES), and what it has taught me is that Kassandra, miss goody-two-shoes following the rules Alliance postergirl, is in fact hanging on to her sanity by a thread. She is hinged but BARELY. She actually has so much bright, burning rage and contempt inside her at all times, and the only reason she's still a perfect Paragon is because nothing has made her snap yet (and she's clinging to those hinges for dear life).
She's spent this whole game so far trying to convince Garrus that The Lawful Way is the Right Way, so it's gonna be really funny if she goes off the rails in ME2
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apparently my screenshots from Port Hanshan are. MIA???
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devils-musings · 3 months ago
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I just got into fountain pens properly in the past few months (I had been given one as a gift about 10 years ago but was precious about it for Reasons and didn't really use it). With my new pen I got a bunch of ink samples to pick my "workhorse"'signature ink and was immediately smitten with Noodlers Zhivago only to learn like a day later that this is not a company I'd like to give any money ever.
So now, just weeks into a hobby, I'm on an all-consuming quest to find an equivalent ink and I sound like a veteran hobbyist barely clinging to my last thread of sanity when I go on and on about the barely perceptible green of a nearly-black ink being Too Yellow or Too Gray or Just Not Right.
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Ngl i prefer the 2016 version purple on the right.
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soulbarewithme · 3 months ago
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PSYC 1215 : PERSONAL CHANGE PROJECT
##SoulBareWithMe
Week 1: Dear Diary
Dear Diary,
Today, I shattered.
I questioned everything—my sanity, my worth, even God. I wanted my mother. I wanted to curl into her arms, bury my face in her warmth, and cry like I did when I was a child, when the world was big and I was small, and everything could be fixed with a whisper and a hug. But I’m not a child anymore, and nothing makes sense.
A few months ago, my marriage ended. Three months later, my job was ripped away—termination without cause. Just like that. As if I were disposable. As if the years I gave meant nothing. And now, all I see are patterns, flashing like warning signs. Am I the problem? Am I the common thread in my own unraveling? Everyone can’t be wrong while I’m right. That’s not how life works. So if they’re right… what does that make me?
And I have a million questions.
Fear is whispering, What are you going to do with the kids? I can already hear my ex saying, See? She can’t even keep a job. Shame is sinking its claws into me, dragging me down into the darkness where I’ve hidden so many times before. I want to unravel everything, piece by piece, but I’m afraid of what I’ll find. Afraid that if I start, I won’t be able to stop. That everything I’ve buried will come rushing back like a flood, drowning me in truths I’m not ready to face.
My mind wants the easy way out—to numb myself, to cry, to throw one hell of a pity party. That’s familiar. That’s safe. But, there’s another part of me, a small and unfamiliar part, that is… hopeful. It’s quiet, almost fragile, but it’s there. A strange kind of peace, a sense that maybe—just maybe—there’s something on the other side of this pain.
And yet, the chaos calls to me too. The thrill, the mess, the destruction. It’s what I know, what I’ve always known. One side of me longs for the calm, the possibility of healing. The other clings to the storm, because at least in the storm, I know who I am.
And then there’s F.....
I lost my brother to alcoholism two years ago. F.... was my confidante, my safe space. When I went home, he was the one I spent the most time with. Drinking with him was our thing. We would go out and drink like there was no tomorrow. To me, it was just fun—just two siblings bonding over drinks, laughing into the night. That was on the surface. But underneath it all, I was crying for help, and I didn’t even know it.
I didn’t understand alcoholism until I lost him.
I walked into an AA meeting, not for myself, but looking for answers—looking for someone to explain why losing him hurt in a way nothing else ever had. I had numbed myself with drinks, tiptoeing into the dark just to sneak another sip. It would start with one, then another, and another, until I passed out. And somewhere deep inside, I knew—I didn’t want to live like that.
After a few meetings, it hit me. I was an alcoholic just like my brother was. And if I wanted to stay sober, I had to do the work, the willingness was there, but the biggest question was “how”.
I knew I had to face my demons, one painful step at a time but the question still remained ”how, how do I do the work?”
But before I lose myself completely, let me introduce myself.
My name is M....., and I am an alcoholic. I have numbed, avoided, and drowned myself in illusions of control. But today, I am done. Today, I stand at the edge of something
. I don’t know who I am without my perfectionism, without my shame, without the weight I’ve carried for so long. But I am ready to find out.
And the only way forward is through.
So join me in my healing journey. Soul-bare with me. I will be journaling every other day, peeling back the layers, exposing the wounds, and sitting with the discomfort.
As we go deeper into this unraveling, self-discovery journey, we will touch on the other parts of healing—the tangled mess of complex trauma, the wounds I’ve ignored for too long. We will use the 12 steps. We will talk to Susan, my therapist, read books and heal together. We will face the dark corners of my mind, the places I’ve been too afraid to go.
Today, let’s start with shame—the quiet poison that has shaped so much of who I am.
Because I refuse to stay here.
I refuse to stay broken
Week 2: Unraveling the Threads of Complex Trauma
In my pursuit of better mental health, I’ve laced up my running shoes once again, determined that this time will be different. Jogging has always felt like a reset button—a chance to clear my mind, to breathe, to start fresh. But somehow, life always intervenes, pulling me back into old habits. Will I finally break the cycle? Or is this just another fleeting attempt? I guess we’re about to find out.
It was during one of these early morning runs, when the world was still quiet and my thoughts were louder than ever, that I stumbled upon the work of Tim Fletcher. His words cut through the fog in my mind, introducing me to something I had never considered before: "complex trauma". I had always thought of mental health in terms of anxiety, depression, ADHD—labels I had heard, symptoms I could recognize. But this? This was different. Complex trauma wasn’t just an event; it was a pattern, a way of being, a silent architect shaping my thoughts, fears, and choices.
Fletcher’s explanations unraveled something inside me, forcing me to question the narrative I had always believed about myself. What if the struggles I faced—the self-sabotage, the fear of stability, the relentless search for chaos—weren’t just personality quirks? What if they were wounds I had never acknowledged? And what if healing meant stepping into the very pain I had spent my life outrunning?
That morning, as the sun began to rise and my feet pounded against the pavement, I knew one thing for certain—I couldn’t ignore this any longer.
Complex trauma refers to exposure to multiple, often interrelated traumatic events, typically of an interpersonal nature, occurring over an extended period. Such trauma can profoundly disrupt an individual's development and well-being . This understanding led me to explore my internal landscape and seek healing.​
Reflecting on my upbringing, I had always perceived it as positive. I grew up in a family of five—my parents, two brothers, a sister, and myself—in a home we considered beautiful, with parents respected in our community. Guided by the African philosophy of Ubuntu, which emphasizes communal interconnectedness, we believed in the mantra, "umuntu ngumuntu ngabantu"—a person is a person through other people. Yet, this personal change journey has led me to question aspects of my own existence.​
Delving into complex trauma, I realized that traumatic experiences aren't solely defined by overtly catastrophic events.
Even the smallest, most recurring moments can leave deep scars. My father’s panic attacks—episodes we never fully understood as children—etched themselves into my memory in ways I never realized until now. My father, a kind and loving man, had raised himself after being abandoned by both sides of his family. But no amount of strength could shield him from the silent battles he fought.
I remember the sleepless nights, lying awake, convinced he was dying after just one or two attacks. I remember the overwhelming fear that gripped me, the way I held my breath, waiting for the next episode to strike. I remember wanting so desperately to protect him, to make it stop, to somehow take the weight off his shoulders—even as a child. Without realizing it, I had stepped into a role no child should ever have to play. I became the silent guardian, the unspoken caretaker, the one who braced herself for the worst before it even happened.
And so, I lived in a constant state of anticipation—always watching, always waiting, always afraid....
Similarly, my mother was left by her mother at 18 months and was raised by my grandfather, who had multiple partners. These unresolved traumas shaped their parenting.
This isn’t about blame, nor is it an attempt to escape responsibility. My parents did a phenomenal job raising us—I’ve always proudly said that I come from love, a love that knows no bounds. But even within that love, certain experiences left imprints, shaping me in ways I never fully understood.
Psychologist Ivan Pavlov’s theory of classical conditioning explains how repeated experiences can shape our emotional and behavioral responses. Just as Pavlov’s dogs learned to associate a bell with food, I unknowingly learned to associate fear with certain moments in my childhood. The unpredictability of my father’s panic attacks conditioned me to anticipate crisis, to brace for impact even when nothing was wrong. Over time, this heightened vigilance became second nature—an automatic response to life itself.
I’m not recounting these experiences to rewrite history or dwell in the past. I’m shedding light on the small, seemingly insignificant moments that, repeated enough times, shape who we become. Recognizing this conditioning is the first step in breaking free from it. Research indicates that unhealed trauma can be transmitted across generations, affecting descendants' mental and emotional well-being.
Understanding this intergenerational transmission has provided me with an opportunity to forgive and heal. Addressing and confronting these inherited traumas can potentially break the cycle, fostering healing for future generations. Engaging in this process has left me feeling lighter, recognizing that untangling this intricate web is central to my personal transformation.
Fletcher, T. (n.d.). 60 Characteristics of Complex Trauma. Tim Fletcher Co. Retrieved March 29, 2025, from https://www.timfletcher.ca/60-characteristics
Week 3: The Epiphany of Self-Understanding
So here I am, back on Susan’s couch—my therapist, my safe space, the place where I unravel piece by piece. This week? Lets talk Self understanding... A heavy, lingering weight I can’t seem to shake. But before we dive into that, let me celebrate a small win: Two weeks of jogging, four pounds down. And let me tell you—girl, I feel good.
There’s something about movement, about feeling my body grow stronger, that reminds me I’m still here, still fighting. So, in the spirit of taking back control, I’ve decided to level up—vitamins and supplements are officially in the mix. Why not, right? If I’m rebuilding, I might as well go all in. Let’s see where this road takes me.
Anywhoo....There’s a saying that you cannot heal what you don’t understand, and you cannot love what you don’t know. That realization hit me like a tidal wave. Suddenly, my struggles with self-love, my choices in partners, the recurring patterns in my work life, and even my lifestyle started making sense. This—this is what I needed to see.
But let’s not romanticize this moment. Awareness does not equal ease. Understanding the roots of my struggles doesn’t instantly erase them. It’s a full-circle moment, but it’s also a painful one. I have trouble committing—not just in relationships, but in every area of my life. A persistent fear looms over me, whispering that something will inevitably go wrong. Chaos feels safer than stability because, despite the picture-perfect family I grew up in, I was conditioned to expect instability. The fear of being "too happy" consumes me, as if happiness is nothing but a prelude to an impending crash.
This fear leads to self-sabotage. It’s easier to remain in a constant state of disappointment than to climb toward hope, only to be let down. I live in a cycle of anxiety paralysis, always bracing for the inevitable downfall. The anticipation, the agony—it fuels me. Trauma has rewired my brain, making survival feel more natural than peace. Research supports this, showing that individuals with unresolved trauma often develop hypervigilance and a heightened stress response, leading to self-destructive behaviors (van der Kolk, 2014).
Perhaps the most profound realization is how deeply I mask my emotions. No one ever sees me unravel. I never leave the house without looking put together, no matter how broken I feel inside. This, too, is conditioning. In our family, we were taught to show up, to maintain the façade. No one outside our home ever knew about my father’s struggles or my mother’s hardships. Their pain was unspoken, locked away. I had to ask in hushed conversations to piece their pasts together.
Hearing their stories shatters me, yet it also brings a sense of relief. I now understand that trauma, when left unprocessed, doesn’t just fade—it lingers, embeds itself in families, and transfers to the next generation (Yehuda & Lehrner, 2018). But I refuse to let this cycle continue. Therapy has given me the space to unravel, to acknowledge the pain, and most importantly, to let it go. This is where the healing begins—not just for me, but for future generations.
Susan and I mapped out my tools for the week—gentle reminders that healing isn’t about perfection, but about showing up. Be kind to the little M who carried too much, too soon. Speak gently. Journal freely. Rest without guilt. Do something kind for myself and extend that kindness outward. Create a safe space, whatever that looks like. Maybe it’s a quiet moment, a deep breath, or finally saying no without explanation.
But here’s the thing about healing—it doesn’t wait for permission. It sneaks up on you in the silence, in the moments between deep breaths and racing thoughts. And just when you think you’ve got it all figured out—bam—something cracks open. A memory. A realization. A truth you weren’t ready for.
And just like that, I’m forced to confront something I didn’t see coming.
References
van der Kolk, B. A. (2014). The Body Keeps the Score: Brain, Mind, and Body in the Healing of Trauma. Viking.
Yehuda, R., & Lehrner, A. (2018). Intergenerational transmission of trauma effects: Putative role of epigenetic mechanisms. World Psychiatry, 17(3), 243-257. https://doi.org/10.1002/wps.2056840
Week 4: Confronting Relapse and Fear
This week has been particularly challenging, as I find myself at what feels like rock bottom. The weight of fear has been overwhelming, gripping me for days. I relapsed—I drank, convincing myself that I needed it. I even used marijuana, seeking an escape from the emotional turmoil I was experiencing.
The immediate regret was suffocating. I woke up the next morning feeling lost, as though I had thrown away two and a half years of sobriety in a moment of weakness. The pull to remain in this place of pain, to dwell in self-destruction, was strong. I even found myself wondering, Where is my two-year sobriety chip? as if finding it would somehow restore my lost time.
Personal transformation is far more difficult than I anticipated. Dr. D did not warn me that this journey would be as grueling as a difficult workout—akin to an intense leg day at the gym, except this time, the strain is in my mind. My thoughts feel heavy, difficult to process, and impossible to escape.
This morning at 8:30 a.m., K..... called. I considered lying, pretending that everything was fine, but instead, I broke down in tears. One truth about change is that it is not linear. Recovery is not a straight path but a series of ups and downs, moments of strength followed by setbacks. According to Marlatt and Donovan (2005), relapse is not a sign of failure but rather a common and expected challenge in the process of behavioral change. They emphasize that self-compassion and the ability to re-engage with recovery efforts are critical in overcoming substance use disorders.
I am grateful that I reached out to my sponsor today. Attending a meeting reminded me why I started this journey. Sitting in a room with my support group, listening to the collective wisdom of women who have walked this path before me, reaffirmed my commitment to recovery.
One key takeaway from today’s meeting was the importance of honesty, a principle embedded in Step Four of the Alcoholics Anonymous (AA) program. AA literature emphasizes that meaningful change cannot occur without rigorous self-honesty (Alcoholics Anonymous, 2001). Lying to myself—minimizing my struggles or pretending that I have everything under control—only delays progress. Facing the truth, even when it is painful, is the only way forward.
Despite this setback, I am choosing to move forward. Recovery is not about never falling—it is about getting back up every time I do.
References
Alcoholics Anonymous. (2001). Alcoholics Anonymous: The big book (4th ed.). Alcoholics Anonymous World Services.
Marlatt, G. A., & Donovan, D. M. (2005). Relapse prevention: Maintenance strategies in the treatment of addictive behaviors. Guilford Press.
Week 5 :Dealing with Shame: Unlearning the Unseen Chains
I thought confronting my shame would be easy—just name it, face it, and move on. Simple, right? But this past week proved me wrong. Shame isn’t loud; it doesn’t announce itself with sirens. It creeps in, quiet and insidious, disguising itself as self-doubt, regret, and self-criticism. It lingers in the seemingly insignificant moments, whispering, You should have known better. You should have done better.
Shame was there when I mispronounced a word and spent the rest of the day mentally replaying it, cringing at the sound of my own voice. It was there when I remembered something I said in a meeting a month ago—something no one else likely remembers, yet here I am, crawling in my skin over it. And shame was with me at a restaurant, where I sat frozen, unable to decide what to order, embarrassed at my own indecisiveness. How could something so small leave me feeling so inadequate?
Tim Fletcher (n.d.) describes shame as a learned belief rather than an intrinsic flaw. It isn’t something we’re born with—it’s something we are conditioned into. Society, our upbringing, and even our own inner voice shape it, reinforcing the idea that we are not enough. Dr. Brené Brown (2006) expands on this, explaining that shame thrives in secrecy and silence, feeding on our fears of disconnection and rejection. The more we let it sit in the dark, the stronger it becomes.
So, I did something radical. I went back to my diary and slashed through the pages where shame lived. With each stroke of my pen, I refused to let these moments define me. I needed to remind myself—I am more than my mistakes. I don’t have to carry this weight anymore.
But confronting shame isn’t just about symbolic gestures. It’s in the small, deliberate choices we make every day. I reached out for help. I rescheduled my therapy session. I went for a jog. And this week, that’s enough.
Because healing isn’t about grand gestures. It’s about showing up, even when shame tells you to disappear. It’s about choosing self-compassion over self-punishment.
And maybe, just maybe, I am learning how to do that.
References:
Brown, B. (2006). Shame resilience theory: A grounded theory study on women and shame. Families in Society: The Journal of Contemporary Social Services, 87(1), 43-52.
Fletcher, T. (n.d.). Understanding shame and trauma. [Video]. YouTube.
Week 6: Embracing the Chaos
Here we are, Week 6, and let me tell you—it’s been a ride. We've laced up those running shoes, even when life threw every excuse at us. We jogged through the tears. We ran with the smiles. We took those vitamins like our future depended on it (and maybe it does). And damn it, we are smiling.
I gave my apartment a makeover—an oasis, a sanctuary, even if my bank account is giving me the side-eye. But honestly? It feels worth it. This space, my space, is where I’m reclaiming peace and purpose. School is rolling on—slow, steady, but it’s moving. Progress is progress.
We’re still separated, still riding the waves of change, but here's the thing: the understanding of myself is clearer now, more than ever. It's like a light inside me that’s been waiting to shine—shining so bright, like a diamond in the rough.
We’re loving ourselves through it all. The babies? They’re thriving. March is here, and it’s giving me new hope, new energy.
Nothing more, nothing less— we love it here, boo.
Week Seven: Unraveling Layers
Another week, another therapy session. And let me tell you, Susan is impressed with my progress. Hell, I’m impressed with my progress too. For the first time in a long while, I feel like I’m finally moving in the right direction. I’ve crossed things off my to-do list that I’ve been procrastinating on for months. I showed up for myself. I showed up for those weekly AA meetings—the ones I promised would be non-negotiables—and I'm keeping my word. This week, I took the plunge into Step 4: the step of forgiveness, honesty, and accountability. Talk about heavy lifting.
But it's not just about AA. I’m diving deep into my own inner world, cracking open books that are slowly unraveling me in the best way. Your Pocket Therapist by Dr. Annie Zimmermann is my latest companion, and it’s shaking me up. I’m working through my attachment style—something I never knew I needed to confront. I’m realizing that this whole separation process? It’s about more than just broken promises or misunderstandings. It’s about me. It's about my patterns.
Here’s where the truth comes crashing in: I was married to an avoidant partner, and I? I’m the anxious attachment type. And where did that come from? Childhood. The very thing I’ve been running from—complex trauma. It’s been hiding in plain sight, and it’s time I look at it head-on.
It’s not easy, this process of confronting the past. I’ve been avoiding the hard stuff for so long, letting fear and shame keep me trapped in old patterns. But now, here I am, deciding that enough is enough. I’m taking responsibility. I’m taking accountability for my actions, my needs, my desires that I’ve ignored for far too long. And I’m starting to believe that breaking free from this vicious cycle is possible.
It’s not just about being “better,” it’s about being whole. I’m working through exercises that are uncomfortable and painful, ones that will force me to challenge everything I thought I knew about myself. And you know what? I’m ready for it. I feel this is going to be a long journey, but each day I’m peeling back another layer, and that, my friend, is worth it.
The storm is still here, but I’m no longer letting it drown me. I’m learning how to weather it, one step at a time.
I might not be able to finish this one with you, as it's taking a toll on me, but I’ve started. And for the first time in a long time, I’m starting to believe that I can finish.
References
Zimmermann, A. (n.d.). Your Pocket Therapist.
Fletcher, T. (n.d.). Understanding complex trauma and attachment styles. [YouTube]. Retrieved from [https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xyz]
Week 8: We ate ....Breaking the Chains
Week 8 is here, and let me tell you, it ate hahahahaha! This journey has been nothing short of a whirlwind, a mixture of struggle, growth, heartbreak, and transformation. I am grateful—so deeply grateful—to Dr. Dastur for suggesting this project. I knew it wouldn’t be easy, but I could never have imagined how tough yet beautiful it would be. It's like climbing a mountain that feels impossible at times, but with each step, I discover strength I didn’t know I had.
One thing I’ve learned along this road is a truth that has stayed with me: you can be the love you seek, as Dr. Nicole Lepera so beautifully says. Healing doesn’t come from waiting for someone or something to fix you. It comes from within. It’s about choosing yourself, choosing to heal, and choosing to walk through the fire. The truth is, healing is not a destination—it’s a way of living, a way of being, and, honestly, it’s a whole lifestyle change.
And let me tell you, healing isn’t easy. But it’s worth it. There’s a saying in my language, "Kure kwegava ndokusina mutsubvu," which translates to "Far from the berry tree, there are no thorns." It’s a simple yet powerful reminder that the closer we get to the things that are truly valuable, the more challenges we face. Just like the berry tree rewards us with sweet fruit, but only after enduring the thorns that guard it. Life, in all its glory, is messy, but there is always beauty beneath the chaos.
I’m realizing now that these thorns are not something to avoid—they are part of the process. Each scar, each painful moment is helping me peel back the layers, revealing a new version of myself. It’s hard to accept that the hardest lessons are often the most important, but it’s the truth. I’ve learned that pain, when faced head-on, transforms into strength.
And, oh, what a transformation this has been. I’ve learned to love myself in ways I didn’t even know were possible. Loving yourself isn’t just about the good days—it’s about showing up for yourself even when you don’t feel worthy. I’ve had days when I’ve looked in the mirror, and all I could see was the mess, the chaos, the unresolved wounds. But I’m learning to love the mess. Because, after all, it’s part of me. It’s who I’ve been and who I’m becoming.
One powerful lesson I’ve embraced this week is something my sponsor from AA shared with me. She talked about “sacred contracts”—the idea that before we came into this life, we made agreements with others and with the situations we would face. These are contracts to help us learn, grow, and heal. In a way, every person who enters our lives—every struggle we face—has a purpose. And in accepting that purpose, we find peace. Caroline Myss, in her work, refers to these as sacred contracts that help us evolve into the person we’re meant to be. My sponsor’s words really hit home for me this week. There’s no mistake in the pain, no error in the struggle—it’s all part of the plan.
I know this might sound a little woo-woo, but I believe it. I’ve had to confront some painful truths, some buried parts of myself that I wasn’t ready to face. But I’m doing it. I’m stepping into the discomfort, and in doing so, I’m shedding old skin. The chains are breaking. Slowly, piece by piece. This isn’t a straight line; it’s a winding road. And every step, even the ones where I falter, counts.
This week, I also reflected deeply on the relationship I had with my ex. It hurts to admit it, but we were both playing out patterns we learned in childhood. My anxious attachment, his avoidant tendencies—it was a toxic cycle. I was desperate for closeness, for validation, while he was running from it, building walls. Neither of us could see that we were just repeating the same dance, over and over again. But now I see. And understanding this has been the key to releasing the resentment and blaming. No one is to blame. It’s just the way things were. And now, it’s time to heal from it.
My journey also includes the simple things—like jogging. I’m still not as consistent as I’d like to be, but you know what? I’m showing up. And that, in itself, is something to be proud of. It’s not perfect, but it’s progress. It’s the act of trying, of pushing through, even when the odds seem stacked against you. I’m learning to show up for myself, even on the tough days.
This week has been full of ups and downs, but there’s one thing I’ve learned that has completely shifted my perspective: I don’t have to be perfect. I just need to keep going. Every time I show up, I get a little closer to where I’m supposed to be. Even when I stumble, even when I fall—I get up, dust myself off, and keep moving forward. And that’s enough. That’s all that matters.
The road to healing is long. There are days I feel like giving up, days I want to throw in the towel. But in those moments, I remind myself of the bigger picture. I am healing. And that’s all I need to know right now.
I’m not there yet, but I’m closer than I was last week. And that’s the win. That’s my victory. For today, that’s enough.
This is for my ancestors. Lala ngonxolo... Adios.
References
Lepera, N. (n.d.). How to heal from trauma and reclaim your power.
Myss, C. (n.d.). Sacred contracts: Awakening your divine potential. HarperCollins.
Zimmermann, A. (n.d.). Your Pocket Therapist.
Fletcher, T. (n.d.). Understanding complex trauma and attachment styles. [YouTube]. Retrieved from [https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xyz]
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kimbearablykute · 4 months ago
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My life has been a huge $#17$70®^^ ever since January 19th and I'm barely clinging to my last thread of sanity. If you're the praying type, bombard heaven for me?
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mccdreamys-writes · 1 year ago
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smiles for miles – 21. the other side of the line
did i fall out of line when i called you? - Gracie Abrams, Mess It Up
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S E P T E M B E R   2 3 R D   2 0 1 1
Beneath the imposing facade of the precinct, I paced back and forth, my heart's rhythm echoing the urgency of my repeated calls into the void of my silent phone. "Pick up! Pick up! Pick up!" Each desperate syllable reverberated through the stillness of the village, a testament to the weight of my anxiety and the depth of my desperation. Ever since the line fell silent, I had been ensnared in a relentless cycle of dialing and redialing Maile's number, clinging to a fragile thread of hope that threatened to unravel with each unanswered call.
In the midst of the chaos that consumed me, every spare moment was consumed by the singular mission of reaching her, of hearing the sound of her voice once more, of ensuring her safety in the face of the unknown. Each unanswered ring felt like a blow to the gut, driving me deeper into a pit of anxious unease where my thoughts spiraled out of control, painting vivid and terrifying scenarios that haunted my every waking moment.
"Alex," a voice broke through the cacophony of my thoughts, and I turned to find Reid standing behind me, his concern etched into the furrow of his brow and the lines of his face. "Are you okay?"
Summoning a strained smile, I made the effort to reassure him, though beneath the facade of composure, doubts and fears gnawed at me. "Uh, yeah, I'm fine," I muttered, but the hollow echo of my words rang loudly in my own ears, a stark reminder of the lies I told myself.
The realization crashed over me like a tidal wave, its weight threatening to drown me. My feeble attempt at deception was as transparent as glass, its flaws glaringly obvious to any who cared to look beneath the surface. I couldn't help but wonder if a profiler, with their keen insight and razor-sharp intuition, would have effortlessly seen through the facade, dissecting the intricacies of my falsehood with surgical precision, leaving me exposed and vulnerable in the harsh light of truth.
"What's going on?" His voice sliced through the oppressive silence, a sharp interruption that tore me away from the tumultuous storm brewing within my mind. His gaze bore into me with a penetrating intensity, as if he could see through the facade I desperately tried to maintain and delve into the depths of my soul.
A weary sigh escaped me, the weight of my concerns pressing down upon me like a suffocating blanket. "When we were on the plane," I began, my words stumbling over the chaotic rush of emotions that threatened to overwhelm me, "Maile called. But then... someone entered her room, and the call abruptly ended." The memory of that pivotal moment loomed large in my mind, each detail etched with a sense of foreboding that sent a chill coursing down my spine.
"I've been trying to reach her ever since," I confessed, the admission heavy with unspoken fears and uncertainties that gnawed at the edges of my sanity. "But..." My voice trailed off into a pained silence, the weight of the unspoken anxieties that hung between us suffocating in its intensity.
A bitter taste filled my mouth as I forced out the next words, grappling with the conflicting desires that waged war within me. "I know it's probably nothing," I acknowledged, though the nagging doubt that lingered at the back of my mind refused to be silenced. "And logically, I should let it go. She's an adult, perfectly capable of taking care of herself." The words felt hollow, a feeble attempt to convince both myself and the one who stood before me of their truth.
"But..." The word hung in the air like a heavy anchor, pregnant with the weight of all that remained unspoken between us. "But I just got her back," I finally admitted, the raw vulnerability of the confession laid bare for all to see. After years of separation and longing, the thought of losing her again was a specter too terrible to contemplate, threatening to engulf me in a sea of despair.
Despite the logical part of my mind urging me to stay calm, my heart refused to obey, its frantic beats echoing the urgency of my fears. The image of Maile, vulnerable and alone, haunted my thoughts, igniting a primal instinct to protect her at all costs. Yet, amidst the chaos of my emotions, a flicker of hope still burned bright, a tiny beacon in the darkness that whispered of the possibility of her safety and return.
His question lingered in the air, heavy with implications and laden with the weight of potential consequences. "Do you want me to ask Garcia to hack the cameras in the hospital?" His tone carried a gravity that underscored the seriousness of our predicament, hinting at the desperate measures we might need to take to unravel the mystery before us.
Despite the seriousness of his inquiry, a chuckle bubbled up from deep within me at the audacity of the suggestion. The mental image of Garcia, with her unmatched expertise in all things tech-related, effortlessly breaching the hospital's security system flashed before my eyes. "No," I replied, shaking my head with a wry smile, "it's alright. Let's just go inside and witness Hotch and Rossi weave their investigative magic. I have every confidence they'll have this perpetrator pinned down in record time."
The prospect of watching my esteemed colleagues in action, their determination and skill on full display, offered a glimmer of hope amidst the chaos of our current situation. "And afterward," I continued, my voice tinged with unwavering determination, "we'll locate the missing boys and ensure their safe return home by day's end." The thought of reuniting the children with their families, of bringing closure to the harrowing ordeal, fueled my resolve with newfound purpose.
He nodded in understanding, then gestured for us to follow as he led the way inside. The precinct hummed with activity as we navigated its bustling corridors, the air thick with anticipation and tension, each step bringing us closer to the heart of the investigation.
Watching Hotch and Rossi at work always filled me with admiration. Their presence commanded attention, radiating authority and setting the tone for the serious task ahead. Approaching the interrogation room, I felt a surge of anticipation, eager to witness their expert techniques in action once again.
Our instincts, sharpened through relentless investigation and intuition, proved right; the man we captured was indeed the elusive kidnapper and ruthless killer we tirelessly pursued. The weight of this revelation settled upon us like a heavy cloak, reminding us of the dark realities we faced. Despite the grim discovery, a sense of grim satisfaction lingered, knowing our pursuit of justice hadn't been futile.
With the perpetrator in custody, our focus shifted to rescuing the innocent lives he held captive. Following faint clues, we tracked down a secluded cabin by the tranquil lake. Approaching it, anticipation and trepidation mixed, the urgency of our mission weighing heavily on us.
Inside the dim cabin, a surge of emotions overwhelmed us. There, bound but alive, were the three missing boys whose faces haunted us. Relief flooded through us, washing away doubts and fears. In that moment of triumph, hope blossomed anew.
After reuniting the children with their tearful parents, we wrapped up our business at the precinct. Reports were filed, statements given, and final arrangements made with urgency and purpose. Boarding the plane home, a sense of closure settled over us, mingled with bone-deep exhaustion.
The aircraft's wheels made contact with the runway at Quantico Airport in the dead of night, the clock ticking past 2 AM. Yet, the lateness of the hour hardly registered in my mind. My thoughts were singularly focused: I needed to see Maile. The idea of visiting her surged through me with urgency and determination, pushing aside any concern for the late hour.
I felt a profound sense of gratitude for the decision to transfer Maile to the local hospital in Quantico. Though made hastily, driven by a desperate need for her to receive the best care, stepping off the plane into the cool night air affirmed it was the right choice.
Despite the exhaustion threatening to drag me down after a long and taxing journey, a surge of energy fueled me. I propelled myself forward toward the hospital with almost feverish determination. Each step brought me closer to Maile, closer to seeing her face, hearing her voice, and finding solace in knowing she was safe.
As I navigated the quiet streets of Quantico, darkness surrounded me like a heavy cloak, but I pressed on, unwavering. The thought of Maile awaiting me at the hospital spurred me onward, infusing me with purpose and resolve that drowned out any doubts or fears.
Finally, I reached the hospital, its imposing presence looming like a beacon of hope in the darkness. With quickened steps, I entered the building, my heart racing with anticipation.
Navigating the complex network of corridors within the hospital, I eventually found myself standing outside Maile's room, a mixture of relief and apprehension coursing through me. However, as I drew closer, the sound of a voice I recognized stirred confusion within me. It wasn't Maile's voice.
"Dad?" I uttered in surprise, my voice betraying my bewilderment as I entered the room.
To my amazement, my father stood up, a warm smile lighting up his face as he embraced me tightly. "You're back," he said, his voice carrying a hint of emotion.
Baffled by his unexpected presence, I couldn't help but ask, "What are you doing here?"
In response, he gestured towards Maile, who sat amidst a nest of pillows I had arranged for her comfort. Seeing her weakened state filled me with a whirlwind of conflicting feelings.
"I felt compelled to visit your friend," my father explained, his gaze shifting to Maile with a mix of gratitude and concern.
Confusion swirled within me like a storm, threatening to engulf my senses as I tried to make sense of the scene before me. My father and Maile, sitting together with an unexpected bond, seemed like strangers in a familiar setting, their newfound connection a puzzling anomaly in our shared history.
I wracked my brain, trying to recall any moment where they had even acknowledged each other's presence, but the memory slipped through my fingers like sand. Yet, there they sat, chatting away as if the invisible barrier that once separated them had never existed.
"She's quite funny," my father remarked out of the blue, his words hanging in the air with a surreal quality. "I understand why you're so fond of her."
I responded with a hesitant nod, my mind racing to comprehend the sudden turn of events. How could I reconcile this newfound closeness between them, this unexpected connection that seemed to have blossomed in my absence?
Glancing at his watch, a faint crease formed between his brows, silently signaling the passage of time slipping away. "I reckon it's time I head back to the hotel for some well-deserved rest," he announced, his voice carrying the weight of exhaustion from our shared efforts.
He turned to Maile, offering a reassuring smile, a promise to return evident in his eyes. "I'll swing by to see you the day after tomorrow before I take off," he promised, his words resonating with duty and solidarity in our mission.
"Got it, Captain," Maile replied warmly, waving him off with a silent acknowledgment of the bond that bound us in our pursuit of justice.
Before leaving, he turned to me once more, a wordless farewell speaking volumes of our camaraderie and mutual respect. With one final embrace, he bid me goodbye, marking the close of yet another chapter in our ongoing journey of challenges and victories.
"How was the case?" Maile's voice, soft but laced with concern, pierced through the fog of my thoughts like a ray of light cutting through the darkness. Startled, I turned to meet her gaze, grateful for the distraction she offered from the tumult of emotions swirling within me. Yet, as she posed her question, a floodgate of pent-up frustration and fear burst open within me, washing away any semblance of calm I had left.
Instead of a simple reply, a torrent of words poured forth from my lips, an outpouring of emotion I couldn't contain. "You... You can't do that again," I began, my voice quivering with a blend of anger and relief. "I was going insane all day. I called you countless times, and you didn't pick up. Not once! I feared the worst. I almost considered reaching out to Garcia, begging her to hack into the surveillance cameras just to catch a glimpse of you, to reassure myself that you were okay." Each word carried the heavy burden of the fear and uncertainty that gripped me in her absence.
With a groggy hand, she reached out for her phone lying on the nightstand, its faint glow offering the only light in the dim room. As she scrolled through the notifications, her brows furrowed in confusion, but soon, recognition dawned on her, followed by a pang of guilt that shadowed her features.
Looking over at me, she attempted a sheepish smile, as if trying to downplay the seriousness of her actions. "Oops?" she offered tentatively, the word hanging in the air like a fragile apology.
"Oops?" I repeated incredulously, my voice tinged with a mix of frustration and disbelief. "Yeah, oops! That's exactly it! What were you thinking, hanging up like that and leaving me in the dark?"
"I'm sorry, Alex. Truly," she murmured softly, genuine remorse coloring her tone as she met my gaze with earnest sincerity. "I didn't realize you'd be so worried about me."
Her words, laden with regret, lingered in the air like a delicate offering, a fragile attempt to mend the rift that had formed between us. Yet, despite her apology, I struggled to calm the storm of emotions raging within me. Each syllable she spoke seemed to dredge up the fear and uncertainty that had gripped me while she was gone.
A single tear traced a silent path down my cheek, a silent testament to the turmoil within. I reached up to brush it away, a feeble attempt to hide the depth of my vulnerability. I hadn't planned on crying, hadn't anticipated the flood of emotions that overwhelmed me, but in that moment of honesty, my carefully constructed facade crumbled.
"It's not just about worrying, Maile," I murmured, my voice choked with emotion. "It's about feeling like I'm teetering on the edge of a precipice, watching everything I cherish hang in the balance. It's about the terror of losing you, again. I can't bear that. I can't lose you like that again."
As she shifted over to the left side of the bed, a silent invitation hovered in the air, tempting me to join her on the opposite side. The gesture evoked memories of simpler days, of childhood sleepovers filled with giggles and innocent bonding. But this moment felt different. This time, a new kind of excitement coursed through me, a yearning that thrummed beneath the surface of my every thought.
While I approached and settled beside her, each step closing the gap between us, I marveled at the evolution of our friendship over the years. Once, we had shared secrets and aspirations, but now, there was a palpable tension crackling in the air, an unspoken acknowledgment of the feelings simmering just beneath the surface.
She extended her arms toward me, silently inviting me to find comfort in her embrace. I hesitated, feeling the weight of uncertainty bearing down on me like a heavy burden. But her words, gentle yet tinged with playful humor, broke through the tension like a ray of sunshine piercing through dark clouds. "Don't worry, I won't bite," she quipped, her voice a soothing antidote to the inner turmoil I was experiencing.
With a chuckle, I allowed myself to be enveloped by her embrace, the warmth of her touch wrapping around me like a protective shield. In that moment, as I leaned into her, I was overcome by a profound realization that reverberated within the depths of my being: I was deeply, irrevocably in love with Maile Crane.
A mischievous grin played across her lips, a silent nod to the playful banter that had always characterized our interactions. "At least not yet," she added, her voice carrying a teasing tone.
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