#toxic relationship /

[brownetry]

June Never Ends

Pairing : han taesan x f! reader

Warning : drug addiction, emotional dependency, toxic relationship dynamics, self-harm, relapse themes, heavy angst, smut, trauma, co-dependency, blood, overdose (mentioned), psychological manipulation, mentions of violence, recovery themes.

The rehab centre reeked of peppermint and broken promises.

You stared at the pale green walls, tracing every crack like a map back to him.

Ten days clean. Ten long days. And yet your body still twitched at night, screaming for something—no, someone—it couldn’t have.

You weren’t stupid. You knew why you kept dreaming about his hands. Not because of the drugs. Not really. It was what came after—the high, the crash, the arms that held you through it. Taesan didn’t just sell poison. He sold warmth. He sold safety. In the cruellest, most fucked-up way, he became the only home you knew.

You never told anyone that.

They all thought he ruined you.

But you knew the truth.

He loved you. Just not the way normal people did.

You met him under a flickering neon sign behind a club you weren’t even old enough to be in. He looked like a sin wrapped in silk—rings on his fingers, smile lazy and sharp. When he spoke, it was slow, intoxicating, like every word had a drop of honey.

He didn’t pressure you.

He didn’t need to.

You were already falling before the drugs ever touched your tongue.

You sat in the garden behind the rehab building, legs tucked under you, hands trembling even though the weather wasn’t cold.

You could still taste him in the back of your throat.

And as if summoned by your sickness—

“Yo.”

Your head snapped up.

There he was.

Taesan.

Leaning against the fence like he belonged there, like you hadn’t spent the last ten days detoxing him out of your bloodstream.

He looked unfairly good. Hoodie slung over his sharp frame, silver chain glinting in the dull sun, jaw sharper than the last time you saw him.

“Shouldn’t be here,” you whispered.

He smirked. “You missed me.”

Your throat closed.

You did miss him. God, it hurt how much.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you repeated, louder this time.

“I brought something,” he said softly. “Not what you think.”

Your body betrayed you—heart leaping in false hope.

He saw it. Of course he did. He always noticed.

“No drugs,” he murmured. “Just… peach tea. Thought you’d want something that doesn’t taste like guilt.”

You stared at the bottle in his hand. Your favourite brand. Still cold.

He crouched next to you, holding it out.

“I shouldn’t take things from you.”

“Doesn’t mean you won’t.”

He was right.

You took it.

And when your fingers brushed his, something in your chest cracked.

You didn’t tell the counsellors he came.

You should’ve.

But you didn’t.

Because you didn’t want them to make him stop.

That night, he waited outside your window.

You opened it before he knocked.

“Creep,” you whispered.

His smirk curled. “You let the creep in, though.”

You sat on the edge of the window, knees up. He stood below, leaning against the wall like this was a routine.

“I shouldn’t talk to you,” you said.

“You always say that,” he replied. “Then you do.”

Silence.

Then you said the one thing you weren’t supposed to,

“I miss you.”

His eyes softened. Just a flicker.

“Come outside.”

You shouldn’t have.

But you did.

The parking lot was cold. He handed you a hoodie you knew wasn’t yours, but smelled like him.

Taesan lit a cigarette, then held it out.

You hesitated.

“No drugs,” he promised. “Just nicotine and poor life choices.”

You took it.

The first drag burned.

“Why are you here?” you asked.

“I wanted to see you.”

“Bullshit.”

He shrugged. “Alright. I needed to see you.”

There it was again.

That soft ache.

You looked at him under the pale moonlight and saw it—the exhaustion under his eyes, the way he kept clenching his jaw like he was trying to swallow something down.

“You’re not high,” you said.

He gave you a small smile. “Didn’t feel right.”

“You clean?”

He looked at you, dead-on. “As clean as you are.”

Your heart twisted.

Ten days. He’d gone ten days too.

“Why?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper.

He looked away. “Didn’t want to come back to you with blood in my eyes.”

You didn’t sleep that night.

You kept replaying the way his fingers brushed yours when he gave you the tea, the way his voice cracked when he said “needed.”

And when the night nurse checked your room, you were already sliding the hoodie over your shoulders again.

Sneaking out.

Like always.

He was waiting in the car.

Music low. Engine purring.

The moment you opened the door, he looked at you like a man dying of thirst.

“You really came,” he murmured.

You slid in. “Just for a drive.”

But you both knew it was a lie.

The road was empty, the city asleep.

He drove with one hand on the wheel, the other twitching like he was itching for something—your hand, a hit, you couldn’t tell.

“Didn’t think I’d see you again,” he said after a while.

You stayed silent.

“I thought I’d lost you,” he added.

You looked at him.

“I thought you left me.”

He pulled over abruptly, parking under a broken streetlight. The silence that followed was suffocating.

“I did leave,” you said softly. “Because I had to.”

“Yeah?” His voice cracked. “So why are you here now?”

You didn’t answer.

He turned to you. His eyes were red—not from drugs, but from holding back tears.

“You still love me?”

You couldn’t lie.

“I never stopped.”

His kiss tasted like ash and regret.

But you let him kiss you anyway.

Because love like this doesn’t come wrapped in bows.

It comes with scars, with poison, with shaking hands and whispered apologies.

It comes with relapse.

And right now, relapse looked a lot like Taesan pulling you onto his lap and holding you like he never wanted to let go again.

The next morning felt like a bruise.

Your body remembered his touch before your mind did.

When you opened your eyes, you were in his apartment—his bed, his air, his everything.

Same apartment you swore you’d never return to. The same sheets you once overdosed in.

Taesan was still asleep next to you, hand wrapped tight around your wrist. Like he thought you might vanish again.

You studied his face in the early light. The gentle slope of his nose. The way his lashes brushed his cheekbones. The tiny scar on his bottom lip from when someone tried to rob him and you begged him not to retaliate.

He didn’t listen.

He never listened. Except when it came to you.

Always you.

You slipped out of bed quietly, pacing barefoot on cold wooden floors. The ache behind your ribs had nothing to do with withdrawal this time. It was guilt.

You were supposed to be recovering.

Not crawling back into the arms of the man who broke you just to glue you back together.

But it was like your bones knew him. Your blood still carried him. Your cells whispered his name every time you tried to clean them out.

“Where’re you going?”

His voice was sleep-rough, hoarse.

You turned. He sat up slowly, blanket sliding off, eyes puffy and raw from too many dreams.

“I shouldn’t be here,” you murmured.

He blinked. “Yeah. But you are.”

You swallowed.

“I want to leave.”

His jaw clenched. “No, you don’t.”

“Yes. I do.”

“No, you think you do. But if you really did, you wouldn’t have stayed the night. You wouldn’t be in my shirt right now.” His voice cracked. “You wouldn’t have let me hold you like that if you were gone for real.”

You looked down. You were wearing his shirt. It still smelled like his cologne.

He stood, crossed the room, slowly—like approaching a scared animal. His hands went to your face.

“Tell me you didn’t feel anything last night.”

You couldn’t.

He leaned in, nose brushing yours, voice barely a whisper.

“You’re still mine.”

You were trembling.

And then his lips touched yours—and it was over.

You kissed like the world was ending. Like this was the last time. Like love and pain came from the same bottle, and you were both drinking deep.

When his hands slid under your shirt—his shirt—you didn’t stop him.

Because it wasn’t just about the sex. It was about the need. The ache in your chest. The hunger that no rehab, no tea, no counsellor could touch.

Taesan touched it. Ruined it. Worshipped it.

“You want me to stop?”

You shook your head.

“You sure?”

“Please,” you whispered. “Don’t stop. Just… don’t stop.”

Clothes hit the floor one by one. His mouth was everywhere—slow, reverent, desperate.

He tasted you like salvation. Like you were the drug now. His tongue dragged over your skin like he could absorb you through his mouth. The way he groaned when you pulled his hair told you—this wasn’t just lust.

It was grief. Worship. Addiction.

You whimpered his name when he slid between your legs, tongue hot and slow, fingers curling inside you like they belonged.

“Taesan—”

“Say it again.”

“Taesan, I—”

“You missed this, didn’t you?”

You were crying now, just a little. Because it was too much.

“You missed me.”

He kept going until your back arched, thighs shaking, until you were sobbing into his shoulder and clinging to him like he was your last chance.

You came undone with his name on your lips.

And when you looked at him, his eyes were glassy.

Like it hurt him too.

Like maybe he was addicted to you just as much.

Later, when the room was quiet again, you lay tangled in sheets and shame.

“I shouldn’t have come here,” you whispered.

Taesan didn’t look at you. Just lit a cigarette and stared at the ceiling.

“I know.”

You closed your eyes.

“I’m going back tomorrow. To the centre.”

He was silent for a while.

“I’ll drive you.”

The next morning.

He didn’t talk much.

Just held your hand the whole way, thumb tracing lazy circles against your skin like he was memorizing it again.

When you reached the centre, he parked but didn’t get out.

You sat in silence for a while.

Then he finally looked at you.

“I’m not good for you,” he said.

You blinked back tears. “I know.”

“I’m gonna try anyway.”

Your chest cracked.

“Why?”

His lips twisted into something between a smile and a grimace.

“Because loving you hurts less than living without you.”

You didn’t talk much after you went back.

Rehab was colder the second time. Not literally—the blankets were the same, the tea tasted the same. But the way people looked at you had shifted. Like they knew.

That you’d left. That you’d gone back to him. That you let him touch you, fuck you, kiss you.

Like they could see his fingerprints still burned into your skin.

And maybe they could.

Because no matter how many times you scrubbed your hands, they still trembled.

Day Four.

You hadn’t heard from him. He hadn’t texted. Called. Shown up.

Your chest ached in a new way.

You told yourself it was withdrawal.

But withdrawal didn’t feel like heartbreak.

Day Six.

You woke up shaking.

Heart pounding, skin sweating, mouth dry.

You didn’t know if it was a nightmare or just your body craving him.

You curled into yourself and sobbed. Quiet, ugly cries that you buried in your pillow like secrets.

You missed him.

You missed him like a drug.

You missed the poison more than the cure.

Day Eight.

The knock on the counsellor’s door came mid-session.

“Visitor for you,” someone said.

Your heart dropped.

Couldn’t be. No way.

You stepped into the lobby—and there he was.

Taesan.

Slumped in a plastic chair, hoodie soaked in rain, hair messy, eyes red.

You blinked.

And that’s when you saw the blood on his knuckles.

“What the fuck happened to you?” you hissed, dragging him outside.

He didn’t speak at first. Just lit a cigarette with shaking hands.

“Are you okay?” you whispered.

He laughed. Bitter. Hollow. “That’s a stupid question.”

You stepped closer.

“Taesan.”

His eyes met yours—and it broke you.

Because you saw it.

The spiral.

He hadn’t slept. He hadn’t eaten. He hadn’t used—not yet. But he was teetering. Dangerous edge. One push away.

“I almost did,” he said.

“What?”

He flicked the cigarette away.

“I almost used.”

Your stomach dropped.

“But I didn’t,” he added. “I didn’t, because I remembered your face. The way you looked at me when I dropped you off. Like I was worth something.”

You reached for his hand. He flinched.

“Let me see,” you whispered.

He let you take his fist. The skin was torn open. Fresh and raw.

“Bar fight?” you asked gently.

He shook his head. “Wall.”

You blinked.

“Your wall?”

He nodded.

“You punched your wall?”

“I just—” His voice cracked. “I didn’t know what to do. I needed to feel something.”

Your chest throbbed.

“You can’t keep doing this,” you whispered. “I can’t be the reason you fall apart.”

“You’re not,” he snapped. “You’re the only reason I’m still here.”

He stepped closer, gripping your arms.

“I know I’m fucked up. I know I’m poison. But you—” His voice dropped. “You made me want to be clean. Not just from the drugs. From all of it. From me.”

Tears stung your eyes.

“I’m not better,” you said. “I’m still sick, Tae. I still think about it. Every day.”

“I know,” he murmured. “That’s why we need each other.”

That night, he stayed outside your window again.

Didn’t sneak in.

Just sat there.

Like a ghost waiting to be forgiven.

One week later.

You got permission to leave for the weekend.

Only under supervision.

So you told the counsellor, your mom was picking you up.

You lied.

It was Taesan.

He picked you up in the same car. Same scent. Same old playlist.

But this time, neither of you reached for the other.

Just sat in silence. Comfortably broken.

His apartment hadn’t changed.

Except for the holes in the wall.

You stood in the middle of the living room while he watched you like you were a hallucination.

“Are you staying?” he asked.

You turned to him.

“Depends.”

“On?”

“You.”

That night was nothing like the first.

It was slow. Quiet. Full of whispered apologies between kisses.

You cried when he kissed your scars. He cried when you kissed his fists.

You pulled his hoodie over your bare body. He tucked his arms around you like you’d disappear if he didn’t.

“I don’t want to hurt you anymore,” he said against your skin.

“You will,” you whispered. “And I’ll hurt you too.”

He nodded.

“But we’ll try,” he said. “This time, we’ll try.”

He sold his last stash.

Gave you the money.

You didn’t ask what he wanted you to do with it.

You bought groceries. Paid rent. Cleaned the blood off the past.

You weren’t perfect. Still had nights where your bones screamed. He still woke up from nightmares shaking like a child.

But you held each other. Again. And again.

And one day, it didn’t hurt to breathe anymore.

One Year Later.

You sat on the rooftop, eating peach ice cream.

He sat beside you, fingers laced with yours, eyes watching the sky.

“Do you think we’re clean?” you asked.

He thought for a second.

“No,” he said. “But I think we’re healing.”

You leaned your head on his shoulder.

“Still addicted to me?”

“Always.”

Then he kissed you—soft, warm, whole.

Like you were the cure now.

And maybe, just maybe

You were.

© brownetry

[moonpigeonsohva]

I always thought you were stronger than anymore... and yet now you seem so weak.

[groovy-angel000]

I truly wish you nothing but healing and peace—I mean that from the bottom of my heart. No matter what happened, I hope you grow into someone who finds happiness and becomes better. But I also hope you carry the weight of what you did to me, because I didn’t deserve any of it. I hope, at the very least, it makes you reflect. Not out of spite, but because some actions should leave a mark.

[sprklekittee]

Shauna could not handle all that my GOD

[anotherlikeyou]

Therapy is expensive, toxic old men yaoi is free

[lolitaology]

[a-meh]

[jasethegooberton]

It’s rude to look through someone else’s stuff, Sonic.

[cyberiapinksosa333]

“wtf is wrong with you”

you mean like today or like in general?

[nobita-here]

[urprettylildoe]

𝐆𝐎𝐓 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐈𝐍 𝐀 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐋𝐎𝐂𝐊

...where you're a patient darling to your violent yandere!

        ♡

It had taken only one glance.

One glance at you for him to go absolutely feral — to drop you off at home with a clenched jaw and a rough, territorial kiss that scraped the kiss of your cheek, him grumbling in your ear about how you shouldn't wait for him at dinner because he's going to be late.

And he kept his promise. At midnight, there was a sound of keys jingling at the front door. A weary sigh escaped your lips as the spoon dropped with a clink! on the table. Pushing your chair back, you adjusted the robe on your shoulders and headed for the hallway.

The pitch-black, familiar silhouette of your husband stood in the doorway. It was one of those nights. At first, his habits scared you. Now, they no longer do; it's practically become routine. You rubbed a fist against your drooping eyes, a yawn slipping past your mouth before you could stop it, "darling?"

No reponse. You tilted your head and approached. Blood dripped onto the floor like a faucet. Your feet stayed rooted in place knowing that the blood wasn't his — he wouldn't allow it to be. Yet the most concerning thing, but not surprising, was the tears sparkling in his wobbly eyes. He shrunk back under your gaze, sniffling as his red hands gripped the fabric of his wet shirt.

You sighed, outstretching your arms as you braced yourself for the long night and saying: "come here"

And that's how you ended up draped underneath him on the couch, his face resting in the grove of his neck as his tears dampened your skin and the blood staining the fabric of your robe.

Sobbing, he whimpered pathetically, "m'so sorry, baby" he clung tighter and hid his pathetic expression away — lips bitten red and eyes puffy. "didn't mean to hic! upset you, promise."

You should probably push him away like any other normal person would do in this situation. You should. But how could you, when he looked like a kicked puppy? Your heart practically swelled, refusing to listen to your screaming instincts.

Then, an attempt at retaining your morals you once prided yourself on: "darling, you can't just hurt anyone who looks at me. It's- it's just not right!"

His breath hitched, before his cries grew louder and louder, "but you don't understand! he was looking at you. What if he tries to take you away from me?" the paranoid thoughts swarming his head like bees could be heard from the way he anxiously pressed his hands against your sides, or the little kisses of salvation he littered against your skin. "I love you. I love you so much that it hurts me, that i can't take it if you left me."

"Shh, shh, didn't I tell you before that i'm never leaving you?" Your hands smushed and lifted his cheeks up to meet your gaze. "that i'm yours and yours only, hm?"

You were so soft that he felt like a small speck of dust in your presence, that he was biting the skin under his nails at the thought of anyone so much looking at you, images of bashing their head so very present and insistent before in his head.

"So you're not leaving me??" He whimpered, trying a weak smile and leaning into your hand.

Another sigh. You tried so, so hard to be mad at him, but you just can't. Not when he keeps on pulling you back in, not when he looked like this, not when you don't know what'd he do if you try to leave. "No, i'm not leaving you." A pause, one that maked him falter. "But you promised me last time that you would stop doing this."

his pout deepened and leaned in closer to your jaw, opting to place gentle kisses in the spot that made you weak in knees. He cooed, "then I promise this time, that i won't do it again. Okay?" His big glassy eyes, shy but determined, stared into your soul.

You let your body sink back into the cushions, nodding as you closed your eyes and let him worship your body for the rest of the night for you to eventually, and inevitably, forgive him. But the both of you knew that he would break his promise again, and you would be waiting with open arms at the door.

And each and every time, you'd tell yourself that you'll finally break the cycle, but you'd never find the heart to.

"Okay"

[inhogf]

Lee Byung Hun, your teacher.

more of teacher byung hun · contains: teacher x student, huge age gap: reader is in school, byung hun in mid 50s. smut, dry humping.

byung hun was never the type to want someone so young, no, never— that was until you came into the picture. the little glances he'd share with you in his classroom, your perfect body all dolled up in skimpy clothing just for him, he could tell you do it for him, how desperate you were for his attention. his eyes would be fixated on the gentle slopes of your waist, the curves of your ass and the plush of your thighs. he just wanted to devour you whole. keep you all to himself.

and you weren't oblivious to that. you would always feel his gaze lingering on your figure a bit longer than usual, heat pooling down your core as you squeezed your thighs together in attempts to find something to grind onto. he made you such a mess.

he wanted to keep things professional; keep his distance. but the way you'd look up at him with those fuck me eyes had him running into the staff bathroom stalls, unable to handle any more of the ache growing between his legs, beads of precum spilling out of his uncontrollably swollen tip before he even got to take his boxers off. he needed you. needed you to take his load out into. but he knew he couldn't make his move; poor little byung hun knows he'd get in so much trouble if he tried messing with you.

and he doesn't care.

because right now you were straddling his lap and the growing bulge you thought you were supposed to ignore, as he tutored you after keeping you back when school had ended. the school halls were empty, save for the faint echoes of laughter drifting in from outside. the room was locked, he made sure of that. he doesn't anyone walking in and seeing what he does to his pretty girl.

“such a dumb girl, hm?“ he'd make a remark, pointing to the big red C on your test papers. and all you could do was nod calculus was never your strong suit— but you were beginning to feel like mr. byung hun gave you a C just to keep you back in his classroom.

your breath hitched as he laid a big heavy hand on your thigh, the other held a pen fixing the mistakes on your test paper. you craned your neck back to look at him, faces so close you were practically breathing each other's faces in. he had a dumb smirk plastered on his face— one so subtle you weren't sure if he knew what he was doing right now. if he knew you, his student, was on his fuckin’ lap right now. what a whore.

he tilted his head, removing his hand from your thigh to take off his glasses before setting them on the desk, and clasping his hand on your thigh back again. this time, he'd rub small circles and grab small chunks of meat occasionally. poor you, you didn't even know what to do at that point— but you wanted it. you were down right pathetic for him.

without warning, he'd buck his hips up into the softness of your ass, prevailing in rubbing the growing boner just into the right spot. your breathing got faster, as you bit your now-bleeding bottom lip once again. you were—

“grind.“

and holy fuck. you were absolutely leaking after that. you were so, so, desperate, you started drawing circles into his lap with your hips without giving it much thought. he'd shut his eyes close, nipping at your neck as his free hand reaches around and clamps the base of your throat and pulls it back slightly; all whilst you two were going back and forth, taking turns grinding on each other.

and byung hun was so effing cute, he creamed his boxers before you guys could properly even start. you can't be mad at him, after all, he was your beloved teacher.

cc @inhogf dont steal

[grendel-menz]

A navigation of some adult relationships

[ditzdoll]

hold me down and show me how strong you are >_<

[lolitaology]

He said, ‘Behave yourself,’ with that smirk of his, and all I could think was, ‘Make me.’ Preferably over your knee, if we’re being honest.