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It starts as a whisper. But by the time the room feels too small, it’s a roar.
That crawling, itching feeling that demands a physical outlet. Your thoughts spiral, looping too fast to even grab a hold of. Your hands move before your brain can even register it.
Nails press into your palms, then shift to your forearms. You’re looking for a grounded feeling, but you’re finding it in the wrong places.
You don’t notice Wukong approach.
You don’t hear the door or the soft thud of footsteps on the rug. What you do notice is a sudden, radiating heat, gently catching your wrists mid-motion.
“Hey, hey,” he says softly. It's designed to pull you out of your head and into the room. “I’ve got you.”
Your breath stutters. Instinct kicks in, and it makes you want to bolt, to hide the evidence of the struggle, to finish the impulse. “Let go— I just—”
“Nope.” It’s the firmest word he’s said all day. Not mean, just immovable. “You don’t need to hurt to feel real. And you don’t need to go through this alone.”
He doesn’t force your hands down. Instead, he shifts position, sitting so close that your knees are locked against his thighs. He’s creating a physical perimeter for you to feel safe. His thumbs begin to move in slow, rhythmic circles over your pulse points.
“You’re here,” he says. “I see you. Now stay with me.”
The urge fights back. It’s like electricity, buzzing through your fingertips, making them twitch and ache. Your fingers twitch, desperate for some sort of release, for something to make the pressure stop.
Wukong notices immediately.
“Okay,” he murmurs, golden eyes scanning. “Plan B.”
He guides your hands into the heavy, gold-threaded fabric of his sleeves. The material is cool, but thick, bunched up in your fists. “You can squeeze this. As hard as you want. Rip it if you need to—these things regenerate anyway.”
You clench your fists, your nails digging into the expensive cloth instead of your own skin. It’s not the same, but the resistance of the fabric gives the energy somewhere else to go.
Wukong relaxes a fraction when he feels the tension in your arms start to peak, and then plateau.
“There we go,” he whispers, his breath ruffling your hair. “That’s it. You’re doing great. I know it doesn’t feel like it, but you are.”
“..I hate my brain,” you mumble, your voice thick and tired. The "high" of the panic is leaving, replaced by a crushing exhaustion. “It feels like a cage...”
He nods, completely understanding. “Yeah... Brains are jerks.” Then, quieter: “But feelings? They’re just like weather. This is a thunderstorm. It’s loud, it’s scary, and it feels like the end of the world, but it’s just passing through.”
He shifts closer, his tail flicking behind him before it snakes around your waist. His shoulder presses firmly against yours, warm, solid, reassuring. One arm wraps around your back, palm resting between your shoulder blades, warm and steady. He begins to breathe, deep, exaggerated breaths.
“Breathe with me,” he says. “Steal my rhythm.”
In. Out. Slow. Measured.
You copy him. At first it’s shaky. Then, it steadies.
As the "itch" finally fades into a dull ache, Wukong doesn't jump up and leave. He knows the "after-drop" is just when the shame creeps in.
“You still with me?” he asks, his voice barely a whisper.
You nod gently against his chest, finally letting your forehead rest on his shoulder. You’re drained, your muscles feeling like lead.
“Good.” He reaches over, grabbing a glass of water that he must have brought in with him. Holding it to your lips. “Now, drink up. You need to hydrate.”
He waits until you’ve taken a few sips before he speaks again, his tone shifting to something more protective.
“I won’t let you hurt yourself,” he says quietly. “Next time the buzzing starts, before it gets to the itching, you come find me. I don’t care if I’m napping or fighting a demon. You’re my priority. Deal?”
“…Deal.”
He goes quiet for a while. Humming a low, resonant note that vibrates through both of your chests. He then pulls you fully into his lap, his chin resting on your shoulder, his arms a fortress around you.
The room no longer feels like it’s closing in. It’s the same space as before, but now it’s anchored. Held together by the steady weight of him, and the slow rise and fall of his chest beneath your ear. The roar has passed. What’s left is the echo, distant and tired, like thunder rolling away over the horizon, leaving the air smelling of rain and relief.
You’re still breathing.
You're still held.
You're still loved.