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afinaal · 2 months ago

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I SAW BLIND! INHO AND HAD TO SCURRY IN HERE TO DROP SOME THOUGHTS. (content warning for vips being vips)

- After the rebellion, the VIPs decide to make an example of Inho— not just for his failure, but for the defiance they sensed beneath his silence. They call him in one last time, furious, triumphant, already drunk on the violence they intend. To keep him pliant, they lace his drink with a heavy dose of a paralytic sedative. It’s not mercy. It’s preparation. They want him quiet, open, unable to resist as they take turns brutalising him. But they miscalculate. The overdose ravages his system, It destroys his optic nerves. He will never see again.

- That’s how Gihun and Junho find him— crumpled on the cold floor of a suite that reeks of alcohol, sweat, and disinfectant, its opulence soured into something obscene. Inho is naked, shaking, slick with blood that’s dried in streaks down his thighs. His fingers claw blindly at the marble, fumbling with growing panic as he tries to orient himself in the dark that will never lift. He’s wailing— hoarse, broken sounds, raw from hours of screaming. His knees are bruised black-blue, his lips split. Finger-shaped marks bloom like shadows across his ribs and hips, and there’s tearing that makes even looking at him unbearable. He doesn’t know they’re there at first. He doesn’t hear them. His ruined body jerks when Junho says his name, and for a moment, he tries to crawl away— blind, wild, his arms trembling beneath him, his voice a high, animal whimper: “Don’t—please, I can’t—”

- Inho doesn’t stop crying. Not when Junho wraps his arms around him, not when Gihun lifts him with shaking hands, not when they carry him through the halls like something precious and already broken. His sobs are breathless and continuous, wrung from somewhere deep and unrelenting— not just pain, but disorientation, terror, the blackness behind his eyes a suffocating, endless thing. He flinches at every voice, every touch, unsure if it means more harm. He cries as they dress him in layers of clean clothes on the boat— Junho’s men had given up jackets, shirts, anything soft enough to cover the damage with some kind of dignity. He cries during the drive, curled in Gihun’s lap like a child, keening quietly into his stomach. And he’s still crying when they carry him into the motel, when they lower him onto Gihun’s bed— gently, reverently — while Gihun, pale and furious, calls his private doctor with hands that won’t stop trembling.

- The doctor arrives quickly, quiet and efficient, but even he can’t hide the shake in his hands when he sees Inho’s condition. Inho won’t stop thrashing— every sound, every shift of fabric sends him spiraling again, begging in broken fragments, choking on sobs too deep to contain. The doctor murmurs something about trauma-induced hysteria, then injects a sedative into Inho’s arm. His body slackens gradually, the panic still flickering beneath his eyelids as his breathing evens out. When the doctor shines a light into his eyes — once, twice— the pupils don’t react. There’s only the dull, unseeing gloss of pupils that no longer respond. “He’s blind,” the doctor confirms, voice tight. “The damage is permanent.”

- Junho crumples. His knees give out beneath him, and he turns away from the bed as if the sight of his brother—so still, so broken—might rip him in half. He presses a fist to his mouth, desperate to stay quiet, but the sob bursts free, raw and loud and helpless. It doesn’t stop. It pours out of him in heaving waves, the sound of grief that has nowhere to go. He weeps for Inho’s eyes, dark and empty, for the way the doctor said “permanent” like it was a sentence. He weeps for the blood they found on his thighs, the bruises blooming across his hips like cruel fingerprints, for the sound he made when they touched him, like an animal caught in a trap. He weeps for all the nights he spent hating him — blaming him, cursing him— never once imagining that beneath the mask, his hyung was slowly being hollowed out. He weeps because he wasn’t there. Because no one was. Because Inho had been reaching out in the dark, begging, and no one came.

- Gihun slides down the wall like a man struck, his face a ruin of tears and disbelief. He stares at Inho, barely breathing, as if trying to understand how the man he once fought— once despised —had become this: a trembling husk in borrowed clothes, mouth slack with sedation, lashes clumped with tears. He remembers the things he’d said to him. The rage. The contempt. And still, nothing could have warranted this. Not even the Games. Not even the mask. No one deserves to be destroyed like this— used, discarded, left blind and broken in a room that smelled of money and sex. Not Inho. Not even him. Not like this.

- Weeks pass and they learn quickly that Inho cannot be allowed to wake up alone. The darkness of sleep blends too easily into the darkness of blindness, and when he stirs without the warmth of another body beside him, he doesn’t know if he’s awake or still trapped in some endless nightmare. He calls out at first, uncertain, then louder, frantic, until he’s screaming, sobbing, clutching at the air like he’s trying to tear reality open just to prove he still exists. He begs for someone— anyone —to tell him where he is, what’s happening, whether he’s real. Whether they’re real. It shatters them every time. After the third episode, Junho refuses to leave his side at night. Gi-hun takes the mornings. One of them is always there, holding his hand, resting a palm on his chest, murmuring softly as he wakes. You’re here. You’re safe. We’ve got you. It’s the only way he comes back now— gently, trembling, clinging to the sound of a familiar voice like it’s a rope pulling him out of the abyss.

- They discover how much he needs touch one morning when Inho wakes on the edge of panic, breath already catching, hands fumbling blindly for something—someone—to hold on to. Junho leans close, murmuring his name, and Inho’s hands rise shakily, hovering in the space between them until Junho gently takes them and guides them to his face. Inho exhales the moment his fingers make contact. It’s like something inside him settles. He traces slowly, reverently— the slope of Junho’s cheekbone, the soft skin beneath his eyes, the curve of his lips. As if learning him by touch alone. As if confirming that he’s real. From then on, it becomes instinct. Gihun crouches beside him when he wakes and offers his face without a word, letting Inho’s fingers explore the furrows in his brow, the line of his jaw, the warmth of his breath. They both let him linger, let him map them out again and again— not out of pity, but out of quiet, aching love. Sometimes he touches their faces like he’s afraid they’ll vanish. Sometimes his thumbs tremble against their cheeks. But he always relaxes when he’s done, shoulders lowering, breath evening out, grounding in the closeness of skin and heat and bone. In the dark, it’s not voices or names that anchor him. It’s this— the quiet intimacy of touch, and the faces he can no longer see, but now knows by heart.

- The blindness terrifies Inho in ways he can’t always articulate. For someone who spent a decade dissociated from his own body— treating it like a tool, a shell, something to weaponise or endure— being forced to live within it again, completely dependent on touch, feels like a slow kind of drowning. He hates how fragile he feels. Hates how he has to grope along walls like a child, how Junho gently redirects his steps with a hand on his elbow, how Gihun quietly moves obstacles out of his path before he can trip. Sometimes he snaps, voice sharp and cold, yanking his arm away when Junho steadies him at the stairs, or swatting Gihun’s hands when he tries to help him button his shirt. The shame comes quickly after— raw and immediate. He turns his face away, goes quiet, his hands clenched in his lap like they’ve done something unforgivable. I don’t deserve this, he wants to say. After everything I’ve done, I should be alone. He never says it aloud. But they hear it anyway, in the way Inho winces when they’re kind to him. In the way he apologises without words, in bowed heads and trembling fingers.

- And still, through all of it, they are endlessly kind to him— not with pity, but with a quiet, unwavering love reshapes the world around him. When they move into the new apartment— small, warm, full of sunlight he can no longer see—they begin building it around him, gently, silently, with hands that never falter. Gihun walks the rooms with his eyes closed, feeling for the places the dark might catch him. He makes a list of every danger, sharp corners, narrow passages, low edges and Junho follows behind, kneeling on the floor to wrap soft padding around table legs and doorframes, covering each cruel angle in thick cloth and rubber until the space becomes safe. Nothing in the apartment is allowed to hurt him.

-They never speak of it like a favour. Inho realises on the first night, when they take him by the hands— one on each side— and guide him slowly through each room. Gihun walks ahead, clearing the way. Junho moves beside him, lifting his hands to rest on familiar shapes: the curve of the sofa, the smooth handle of the wardrobe, the padded edge of the table. “Here,” he says softly, “this is where the tea goes.” Gihun touches his wrist. “This is the drawer with your clothes.” Their voices are low, warm, close enough that Inho can feel their breath on his skin. Every object becomes a promise. Every touch says: You are not alone in this.

-His and Gihun’s first time is not sudden, nor easy. It comes slowly, after weeks of touches that ask nothing, after nights spent breathing beside one another in the dark. For Inho, the moment is terrifying— not just because of the ghosts the VIPs left in his skin, but because he cannot see Gihun. Cannot read his face. Cannot flinch before a touch changes. His body has been a battlefield for so long he no longer knows how to give it without fear. But Gihun is patient. He doesn’t rush. He whispers everything before he does it— “I’m touching your chest now.” “This is my mouth.” “Tell me to stop, and I will.” His voice becomes a guide, a tether in the dark, grounding Inho in presence and choice.

Gihun reaches for his hand and brings it gently to his face. “It’s me,” he murmurs, warm and steady. “Feel me.” Inho traces him slowly: brow, cheek, mouth— grounding himself in the shape of someone who has never hurt him. His palm rests against Gihun’s cheek, soft and trembling, as Gihun kisses the inside of his wrist. Then, keeping Inho’s hand on his face, he takes the other and guides it down between them, letting his fingers wrap around the thick, hard heat of him.

“This is where I am,” he whispers, voice rough with restraint. “You guide me. I won’t move unless you want me to.” With one hand cupping Gihun’s face and the other helping him in, Inho breathes through the stretch, overwhelmed but present. Gihun goes slow— unbearably slow— murmuring against his skin, “You’re doing so well… you’re safe… I’m right here.” Inho clings to him, not just to endure it, but to choose it. And when they’re finally joined, still and shaking, Gihun presses their foreheads together and says, “You’re mine. No one will ever hurt you again.”

(sorry for leaving this long of an essay, i got carried away)

JUDE!!!!!! I’m telling you I had to pause mid-read because I was literally crying. Like… the way you describe his fear, his confusion and despair is so so so good!! 😭

Him not knowing what’s going on or if he’s safe. Or when he’s lying on the floor before Junho and Gihun show up, alone and hurt and literally in the dark. 😭 But also how kind Junho and Gihun are being to him? MY HEART 😭 Them making sure Inho is safe in their new apartment. And how soft Gihun’s being when he and Inho get intimate?

This is *chef’s kiss* cinema

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afinaal · 2 years ago

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the show must go on | buggy

synopsis: When he captured the crew that has stolen from him, Buggy expected a lot of things. His precious map, his ship back, maybe even some berries. Buggy for sure didn't expect to be allured by your scared eyes.

warnings: smut. bondage. groping. spiting. edging. oral sex. penetration. tw: use of 'prettygirl'. same female!reader oc from nami (you can read as the stories being conected or not, your choice bae).

The chains were too heavy for you to break free. They had your ankles glued to the wooden chair' legs, arms tied behind it. The more you struggle, the more your muscles ache and your wrists burn. Your eyes sting with forming tears, and the lights in the mirror in front of you made your vision blur.

It all happened so fast. The poisoned mist, a caused fainting, the opening act of that terrified circus. Nami running away. She left you and the others, but you were truly sad that they catch her. You thought she would be able to escape. You wanted that to happen.

After that, Buggy's crew were even faster.

Zoro was imprisoned in what looked like a storage room. Nami was dragged there too. Pirates found ropes, probably to torture Luffy somehow. You tried to run, but you knew it wouldn't work out. You ended up locked on a old dressing room with a pirate watching over you.

The only thing you could do was to remain silent and keep on looking at yourself in the mirror. Until Luffy screamed.

Cold sweat spread across your skin, but soon Luffy's adorable laugh relieved you. What was amazing for you was a reason for your watcher to ran towards the main stage.

And all you needed was to be alone for a moment.

You bet money that Zoro is strong enough to break out of the chains in your place. You can almost hear the iron shattering. And Nami is stealth, you know for sure that she has something with her to break free from anywhere. But you also have something they don't: a screwdriver.

You still can't believe how his crew didn't check your pockets.

That's not the first time you hear about Buggy. He's a wanted pirate, known by his sadism and a delusion that you still not sure if it's an act or not. He clearly have no respect for the people living on this island, or your crew, not even his crew for that matter.

You guess he assumed you didn't represent any threat. And he was absolutely right. You can't put on a fight with him. You're not a swordsman, a trained thief, someone that ate a devil's fruit. But if you break free and manage to help your crew, than all those things won't fucking matter.

It was difficult to handle the screwdriver with your back turned, without seeing what you were doing and with your hands still tied, but that didn't stop you. Luffy would rather die than surrender, which means someone needs to save his ass.

With the incessant clicks of metal against metal, you imagined the ways Buggy would torture him. And then he would go after Zoro. Nami. You. How would he tear you apart? In which ways would he break your soul?

Steps startled you. In a second you hid the screwdriver and pretented that your chains weren't lighter than before. You looked back at the mirror, the lights momentarily blinding you, and put your head to work.

With your watcher back, you won't be able to free yourself. But maybe you can persuade him. Lure him into helping. That you can do.

You thought he would do like before: sit in one of the armchairs and act like you weren't there. Instead, you felt hands on your shoulders. You shivered, but they tightened your skin and stopped you from squirming any further.

Did he noticed what you're trying to do? Maybe there is a mirror you can't see, something that let him observe everything you did. You held the screwdriver stronger. He's right behind you, it can't be that difficult to hurt him.

"Poor thing. This wasn't how you expected your day to end, was it? Tied up, alone in a strange place, helpless." You foght the burning in your eyes and tried to focus your vision. Even though you struggled to see, you knew who was behind you. You recognized the voice the moment he opened his mouth. "Not at all my intention. Althought every show gets better with a damsel in distress."

You grind your teeth. Not just kidnapping and immobilizing you, Buggy also wanted to humiliate you? You'll show him where he can put all those poisoned words. "Oh, wasn't that your intention? That was quite clear the moment you ordered them to tie me to where I am."

Buggy squeezed your shoulders again, but this time it felt more like a massage than an act of control. He pout, softening his eyes. "But can you blame me? Your gang stole something from me."

In another situation, that touch would be comforting. Welcomed. But tied to that chair, not even the most beautiful words would be able to have any effect on your body. "But you weren't the one who stole the map, were you?"

Buggy leaned in, his face beside yours. Now you could see him perfectly. The condescending smile, the accusing eyes, the unstoppable mocking tone. His skin was so warm. "And I will get it back", he whispered against your ears, ignoring your question. "So why don't you help me, sweetie?"

"You can get fucked", you snapped. You turned your face, looking at him straight on instead of using the mirror. You gave him a sneer. "I'm not saying anything."

"Geez", Buggy smiled back. Or maybe he didn't. It was difficult to say with all the makeup on his face. He touched your cheeks, you tried to turn your face away from him but he held you by the chin. "Guess your time alone has left you in a bad mood."

He squeezed your face, his nails scratching your skin. Buggy continued to act as if nothing unusual was happening. Maybe for him that was commonplace. "I saw the things you created. All spread out on the ship your little friend stole from me. That means they're mine, right?"

Your struggle in the chair, but he held you in place. An animalistic sound escaped your lips, unintelligible because of Buggy and the anger you felt at the mere mention of losing your inventions.

"Losing all your instruments, your tools, the progress reports," Buggy said this as if he was reading the ride list at an amusement park. "And the inventions, of course."

In a display of strength and agility, Buggy easily turned your seat. Now facing him head on, his face so close to yours, you held your breath. "Or you could join my crew."

You spat on his face. "I'd rather die than be one of your freaks."

It was a risky choice. A move that could go very wrong. But you needed to make sure Buggy wouldn't notice the sound of your hands going back to work on the chains.

He wiped his face with his thumb, snorting at you. Then came silence. Just his eyes staring into yours, your hands working, your heart beating loudly against your ears.

Buggy leaned over, his face inches from yours. You could almost feel his nose against yours. "There are certain things you don't do with a host. Things that cannot be ignored."

He grabbed your hair, his fingers brushing your scalp, and squeezed. You were forced to look up, your neck burning. "Now open your mouth. Lick it clean."

"Fuck you", was your answer.

Buggy tugged on your hair, you felt your scalp burning, and he stuck his wet fingers in your mouth. He didn't wait for you to open up, he just made them cross your lips and press your tongue down.

You could have bitten his fingers. Struggled somehow. Instead, you remained still. If you were a great liar you would have believed it was out of fear of Buggy. Or because it was better to focus on the chains than on beating him in any way. But you weren't, so truth has become visible and palpable in you.

The long fingers in your mouth, the digits sinking against your tongue, his cold skin. And his lack of care, of delicacy, made you feel so full. You salivated against Buggy's fingers.

You liked it, and it surprised you more than anyone else.

But not only visible in your sharp gaze, and palpable in your wet mouth, the truth also became audible. When Buggy tried to take his fingers out of your mouth, a moan escaped with it.

So maybe Buggy was more surprised than you. And its been a long time since he last got surprised.

"Oh," Buggy licked his lips. He let go of your hair, your neck finally relieving. Buggy bent down, sitting on his heels and looking at you from his height. Now he got a smile on his face. You're pretty fucking sure he has one. "I see it now."

He slid his dry hand over your cheek, caressing it with an affection that surprised you. You almost lean on his touch. Almost.

His hand slid from your cheek to your waist. Buggy squeezed you, almost tighter than the chains you're trying to free yourself from. But his touch didn't bother you. It didn't make you feel trapped.

Buggy was that nightmare that occupied the minds of anyone who ever heard of his exploits. But there, crouched in front of you, you didn't think about any of that. You didn't think about anything at all.

"Pretty face, sharp mind. I won't get any answer out of you," Buggy whispered. His nails scratched your knees, moving up your thighs in an excruciatingly slow motion. Buggy stopped at the hem of your skirt, and played with the fabric. "So tell me, inventor, do you want to have a good time?"

"You kidnapped me,” you replied. "Arrested my friends. Tortured one of them."

"He didn't even cry", Buggy's nails lightly scratched the back of your knee. He threw the hat away, you heard the sound of something else falling. "And the past is the past."

You swallowed hard. "I can't do this."

"I will be your dirty secret", Buggy kissed your knee. The kiss went further on your skin, giving you goosebumps. "C'mon, pretty girl. You really gonna say no? I'm on my knees."

"You're not on your knees."

Without hesitation, Buggy knelt in front of him. He squeezed your waist, mischievous eyes staring into yours. "Say you don't want this."

At some point the truth would escape you. "Be quick", Buggy was sure he saw flames behind your eyes. "I still have to escape from here."

“Ah, pretty girl,” Buggy chuckled against your thighs. His laughter seemed to go through his body. "You won't escape me."

It wasn't a threat. For you, it landed as some kind of promise.

"Just wait and see", you promised him back.

Buggy lift your skirt, revealing you to him. He glared at you, almost making you shy away. Of course you couldn't move, but it still made you want to. His gaze rose to your eyes, and this time the smile was more natural. Almost a hidden line in all that red makeup.

Slowly, looking you in the eyes, Buggy licked from your entrance to the top of your pussy. Buggy seemed to be someone who was insatiable, but his calmness made you shiver.

It made you feel like this was going to take longer than you imagined. It made you feel like Buggy was going to devour you until there was nothing left.

And so he did. Buggy calmly played with you, got to know your body, found every nerve and got lost in them. You could feel yourself melting against his face. Turning into this brainless creature because of his touch.

When he got tired of torturing your lips, Buggy focused on your soaked entrance. He stuck his tongue into you, finding every nerve, and fucked you with it. You felt yourself grinding against his face, his nose pressing against your clit just the right way.

And when you were about to reach your peak, he pulled away.

"Do I need to wait more?" Buggy mocked you. You grunted, making Buggy laugh. "Anytime now you gonna magically break free?"

You lost count of how many times Buggy repeated this. He would take you to the gates of heaven only to bring you back to earth. It was torturous. Intoxicating. But one thing you can't say: that it didn't give you the time you needed.

Buggy pulled away, leaving bites on his thigh. "How much longer will I need to wait?"

At your limit, you didn't even bother to tell you. You just let go of the chains that previously held you, making Buggy's eyes widen, and pushed him with your feet. He fell onto his back, his face terrifyingly staring as you moved, his body propped up on his elbows. "How did you-"

You threw yourself at him, pulling his pants down. Buggy squirmed in your hands, feeling your fingers pressing against his cock. "Magic", you answered him.

Buggy would believe on anything you said to him if you kept on touching him like that.

Soaking wet, your pussy didn't need anything else to accommodate his cock. You felt it stretching you, making you feel so full, and heard Buggy's wit comments turning into desperate whimpers. He was just as sensitive as you. Just as needy as you.

Leaning on Buggy, your hands against his chest supporting you, you bounced on his cock.

And you didn't have the same patience as him. That wet sound, that impure and malicious sound, echoed through the dressing room. Their moans, Buggy's still surprised whispers, filled the entire room. For a moment you thought the whole world would be able to hear you.

To hear how good it was to be torn apart by Buggy.

But as Buggy said, he would be your dirty secret. A nasty memory about something you shouldn't have wanted so bad, but that you did it anyway. Buggy would be someone you shouldn't have been with, but fuck you would do it again if you ever have the chance.

And when you reached your so desired orgasm, when Buggy felt compressed by you warm wall and cum inside you, Buggy was the person you left whimpering on the floor so you could help your crew.

Little did you knew you carried a part of him with you.

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