#sequel to perfectly wrong | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

hungharrington · 1 year ago

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i feel it coming, babe

technically the sequel to a little less conversation this is yet another piece for girlies (gn) with bad sex experiences <3 remember sometimes it takes more than once to get it right honeys :D 12k words, fem!reader, MDNI THIS ENTIRE BLOG IS 18+

Okay so, you’ll admit, you might be beginning to get it.

A smidge. A pinch.

It’s just— well, how are you not supposed to understand it? How can you not get the thrill and fervour over sex when it’s with Steve and he looks like that. All golden tan skin and hazel eyes that look at you like he might eat you whole and— and he treats you like…

Like there was never anything wrong with you.

Even after that balmy afternoon spent in his sheets, with his mouth between your thighs, pulling noises out of you that you’d never even heard before, he’s been so perfectly so. Not pushy, yet still that lingering hunger you can see simmering beneath his skin, hidden in the flex of his fingers.

Part of you almost worries, a little niggle burrowed in the back of your mind, that it was all a fluke.

That nothing had really changed all that much between you— that the next time things start getting heated, the chemistry won’t be there. Or it’ll be weird and off, or you will be, and really, you were probably lucky to have that first time with Steve so good but you can’t expect that again.

But then… there is one difference at least, to combat all your swarming thoughts a fluke. The kisses.

When you think of Steve Harrington and his playboy past, you can’t say, of the words tossed around in the high school corridor, that clingy is something that comes to mind. Not that he had been described as anything other than charming… but you don’t mind pleasant surprise of coming to learn this about Steve.

It means kisses all the time.

On your hands, scattered across your knuckles, when he’s dropping you home from a date. Kisses pressed to your hair and forehead, when he’s scooching past you, when he’s saying hello and his hands are busy, when you sit between his legs on the sofa.

He kisses your shoulders, up along the curve of your neck just to see if it’ll still make you laugh a bit when he finds that ticklish spot beneath your ear. Adores sweeping back your hair to plant a kiss against your skin with the sweetest little ‘mwah!’ so quiet you don’t think you’re meant to hear it.

And your lips… you don’t think they’ve ever been so kiss-bitten in your life.

One night with Steve can leave them blooming with colour, all the blood beneath them rushing with pleasure as he kisses your mouth soft — sometimes hard, sometimes sweet, always maddeningly.

He greets you with a kiss always, one hand curled gently around your chin to tilt it up perfectly. And always after, a grin spreads across his face, brown eyes crinkling and pink lips barely restrained his joy.

“Hi, sweetheart.” He’ll always says, or some variation.

Which, yeah, that’s new too. Sweetheart. You haven’t quite figured out how to not melt to a gloopy gooey mess when he says it just yet. It’s a damn good thing that your boyfriend is a gentleman and he politely doesn’t comment when you fluster, only gets the smallest hint of a smirk.

For all your past worries about not kissing him for fear of leading him on, you hadn’t realise quite how much you were depriving yourself of affection. Steve’s certainly turning you greedy— and he’s all too happy to sate your appetite for it.

Today, it’s drizzly. The colour of the sky is a bright ashen grey, enough to warrant a headache and inspire a day inside. In the distance, you can see the thunder clouds rolling in and bringing a blanket of shadow with them.

They reach overhead much quicker than you’re expecting and you’re barely a block out from Steve's house before the rain starts coming down.

Try as you might, raincoat tucked tight around you, you’re still a bit drenched by the time you make it to Steve’s doorstep. One freezing finger presses the door bell. A chime sounds inside.

You rub your hands together to try warm them as you wait, cringing at the whisk of wind that twirls your hair up and about. Your hands shoot up and you nervously flatten the wild strands back down— right as Steve opens the door.

He’s got a towel around his neck, one hand scrubbing it into his wet hair. Judging from his ruffled t-shirt — put on in a rush and exposing his tummy — he’s just got out the shower. He looks surprised but happy to see you.

“Sweetheart, hi-hoooooly shit,” He sticks his head out the door, eyes wide as he takes in the weather. His hair flicks as he turns back to you. “Did you walk the whole way from your house? In the rain?”

Your shoulders form a meek shrug. Before you can speak, his hands are on your shoulders, tugging you inside, across the doorway. He kicks it shut behind you.

“Christ, honey, what’d you do that for?” His hands fret a little bit, rubbing at your shoulders. He gently picks a piece of hair that’s stuck to your cheek, placing it behind your ear.

“I mean,” You start, a little confused. Your hands tighten on your overnight bag, wringing the handle tightly. He knew you were coming over, right? “I thought we— on the phone, we made a plan?”

Steve breathes a soft laugh. “Yeah, we’ve got plans. But I would’ve come got you instead of making you walk through the rain. C’mon, what ��kind of boyfriend do you think I am?”

His use of the word boyfriend still makes you glow. You smile, nope, you grin all cheesy — and it doesn’t help at all when Steve’s hands trail down your jacket to hold your own. He wiggles the handles of your bag out from your frozen fingers and drops it behind him gently. His hands dart back to cover yours.

“Dear god, I think you’re about two minutes from losing a finger.” His eyebrows have scrunched together in worry. He brings your hands up to his face, cupped in his own, and blows hot air on them. It tickles but you can’t stop smiling.

He pulls them back, rubbing his thumbs over your icy fingers and peers down at them. Your heart coos at his concern.

“What’s the verdict doctor?” You jest, making your voice all breathy and dramatic. “Am I gonna make it?”

Steve frowns harder at your hands, his face serious when he tilts it back up to face you. “I’m afraid we’re gonna have to amputate.”

You gasp dramatically.

Steve grins. He runs over your hands once more, one of his fingers creeping up your wrist, trying to find a ticklish spot. You squeal a little, trying to pull back but he holds your hands firm in his own. He continues his serious voice.

“Ma’am, I’m sorry but it’s your whole arm. We’re gonna have to chop it right off.”

His fingers are half way up your sleeve, making it bunch up and you’re laughing so much it’s warming you up much faster than him blowing on your hands. You push his hand away playfully and Steve relents, putting his hands up in surrender.

“Okay, okay, you got me.” He grins. “I’m not a real doctor.”

You laugh again, reaching up to tuck back your hair that’s fallen forward in your squirming. “Uh huh, a real doofus is what you are.”

Steve rolls his eyes endearingly, his hands reaching out to snag your waist this time. He tugs you closer. Your feet stumble and when you press against his chest, you’re delighted to find he’s very, very warm. You're definitely soaking his shirt a bit with your coat but if Steve cares, he doesn't say.

“Just realised I didn’t properly say hello,” He murmurs, a little quieter than before.

And when one of his hands moves up and curls beneath your jaw, holding your chin gently, you know what’s coming. If you weren’t already holding your breath in anticipation, he probably would’ve stolen it with his kiss.

His plush lips are soft and with a loving little hum, he kisses you.

All the lights around you look a little dewey and heart-shaped when Steve pulls back — though it may be just your own lovey-dovey eyes. You sigh without meaning to, all honeyed and sweet, and Steve softens immeasurably at the sound.

“Okay,” He shifts his hands back down to your hands, rubbing them lightly. “I’m not kidding, even your lips feel frozen. D’ya wanna take a quick shower just to warm up?”

Something about you flushes at his suggestion— a runaway thought about getting in his shower, it getting steamier and steamier, especially with Steve slipping in to join you halfway. You clear your throat to push away the thought and focus.

Your hair is wetter than you’d expected, sticking to your neck in cold tendrils. A shiver zips down your spine. All your scandalous thoughts aside, it sounds like a pretty good idea.

“Yeah,” you nod gingerly. “Yeah, okay, it wouldn’t mind the warm up.”

Steve steps back, bending down to scoop up your bag deftly. He holds it for you as you unbutton your coat as quick as you can with your frozen fingers, shivering in relief as you shed the drenched layer. Droplets of rain spray in the rustle. Your coat finds a home on a peg beside the door.

It’s comforting how easy it is to follow Steve up the stairs, drinking in his cosy attire from behind— gone are his usual tight fitting jeans. Instead, he’s donned what you guess is his pyjamas; a plain ringer tee and red, plaid, and long flannelette pants. His feet are warmed by fluffy socks that have reindeer prancing about the fabric. A flash of his tan ankle makes you stumble for a moment.

Steve trades your overnight bag, with a smile and a promise to keep it safe, for a pillowy white towel, soft as ever. He leads you into the bathroom off his bedroom, depositing your bag on his bed along the way.

His fingers find the switch for the heated towel rail and while you fold the towel over it neatly, heart humming in content at being taken care of, Steve starts the shower. He sticks one hand in, holding it under the spray and grimacing at the cold— until the chill slips away beneath the steamy hot water.

“Alright,” Steve says, pulling his hand back. He gives it a little shake, droplets splattering on the tiles. “All ready for my best girl.“

He gives a cheesy and charismatic smile as he wipes his hand dry and if you were brave enough, you might give him a little thank you kiss for it. You aren’t just yet — but when he moves to slip by you, you halt him with a soft hand on his torso.

“Thank you.” you say, quieter than you intend. You push on the balls of your feet and plant a quick peck onto his cheek.

Pink blooms beneath where your lips touch. Steve looks like he melts a bit, lashes fluttering as he sucks in a sharp inhale. Turns out neither of you are getting any closer to getting used to the affection. It’s sweet to know it goes both ways.

“I’m gonna—“ Steve breathes, his hand drifting up, his index finger pointed out to the door. “I’ll be nearby if you need anything. Or if you fall. Just like, uh, yell- or scream. Or— you know what, you’ve taken a shower before.”

He stumbles out towards the exit, pulling two awkward thumbs-up over his shoulders. The door swings shut behind him, closing with a quiet click.

Your clothes pool to the ground, a trail leading towards the shower as you move with haste. Though you’re sure the Harrington's won’t notice, you don’t want to waste the hot water.

The heat soothes you— swathes of relief washing down your body, picking up every piece of ice in your skin and sending it swirling down the drain. It doesn’t take too long to get back to warm and toasty.

Still, when your eye catches on it, you can’t resist. Steve has a body wash that smells heavenly. You pick it up, flick back the cap, and take a whiff — just to check it’s the one that’s been infiltrating your very dreams. Steve, even on a daily basis, manages to smell so good it drives you close to delirium.

You’re more than happy to steal it for yourself today. You take another sniff of the bottle in your grasp, just to inhale it with a sigh. The sweater he let you borrow the other week has the exact same smell; a musky perfumed scent, with a hint of bergamot.

You dollop some in your hand and lather it all over. Properly cleansed and throughly warmed up, you let the final suds whirlpool down the drain before shutting the tap off and stepping out. The fluffy porcelain coloured towel is toasty in your hands as you pluck it off the rail. A sigh in appreciation comes out as you dry off, twisting it around yourself.

It’s as you stand there, refreshed and smelling of Steve, in just a towel, do you realise you’ve forgotten to bring in clothes to change into.

On his bed, Steve sits idle — because what else is Steve supposed to do when you’re in his shower? When you’re naked in his shower. Naked in his shower and probably using his soap and lathering it up down your body and on your boobs and— oh my god, soapy boobs and—

Steve’s pulls himself from his thoughts with a rapid shake of his head, just in time for the bathroom door to rattle open and your shining face to peek through.

You look a little flushed, maybe from the heat, or from the lack of clothing. Steve can see your bare shoulder, his eyes tracking a drop as it rolls down your collarbone. None of this helps his runaway thoughts.

He stands up without thought. Then he realises how strange he might look, like a dog standing to attention.

“Feeling boober?” Steve says, like an idiot. Heat floods his face as he realises his flub. “BETTER! Are you feeling better?”

He’s thankful that you at least laugh, a pretty sound that you tuck behind your hand. You have the nerve to wiggle your eyebrows at him, a far cry from the confidence he’s come to expect from you in the past. Steve can’t deny— he adores it.

“What are you thinking about?”

“God,” Steve groans. He shoves his face into his hands and turns around, his back to you. His words are muffled over his shoulder. “Don’t even ask me that right now.”

Another laugh titters out of you. Steve can’t resist peering over his shoulder. The steam curls out through the gap of the door, leaving dew on your skin. You look ethereal, like a dewy angel from a dream.

“Alright,” you relent playfully. You’re fighting a smile and losing, badly. Steve yearns. “Can you please pass me my bag?”

This next time the door opens again and you step out, there’s less tantalising skin to tease Steve and his wandering mind. There’s still a flash of wet skin, the curve between your shoulder and neck. Steve wants to lick it, kiss it, devour it til the skin beneath is riddled with the bruises of a lover.

For a moment, you’re simply admired — Steve’s eyes on you, adoring and soft, as you creep out the bathroom like you don’t want to make too much noise.

You notice in your absence Steve has cajoled a little tray table into his room, tucked up at the foot of his bed. Atop it sits a chunky television, antennae sticking up in perfectly straight lines. The ones at home on yours are slightly warped from all the readjusting.

“Hey,” Steve says. He’s on the bed this time, and while he doesn’t get up this time, he sits up straighter as you emerge from the bathroom. You put your bag down, abandoning it by the door and try to quell your nerves.

Steve, unless he’s somehow obtained x-ray vision and hadn’t told you, can’t see the nice matching set you’ve got beneath your comfy clothes.

He won’t see it— unless this night goes where you think it might, where you hope it might, but even still, the thought manages to make you fluster.

“Hi.” You say back, voice closer to a whisper.

The bed sinks beneath your weight as you climb on to situate yourself beside Steve. He’s all soft corners and crinkled eyes, his arm raised up in an instant for you to tuck yourself under. Even warmer in his arms, your heart delights when he gives you a little squeeze.

“Alright, movie time!” The television at the foot of the bed pulls Steve away from you. He unwinds his arm enough to crawl down the bed. The grey ringer shirt he has one slips forward a bit and at your angle, you can catch more than a sliver of his tan tummy.

Without thinking, your thighs press together tightly as heat flares between them. You can trace the alluring wiry trail of hair with your eyes until it disappears into his pyjama pants, continuing out of sight. A part of your wants.

You want to see where it goes, want to curl your fingers into his waistband and work it downwards, you want find out if the moles go all the way down his thighs like you hope they do.

Hunger sinks its teeth into your skin; a hunger you’ve been getting more and more familiar with.

“Okay, pervert,” Steve’s cheeky remark shakes you from your thoughts and you start to stammer. He’s clearly caught you staring. “Can’t say I blame you for ogling—“

“I was not—“

“— because I have been told before that I have a very distracting and attractive behind.”

You sputter and despite your best efforts, a little laugh splutters through as well because well, yeah, he’s not wrong — but your brain is stuck on repeat with something else entirely.

Tummy, tummy, tummy, the hair on his tummy, the hair leading down into his pants.

“Yeah, uh huh, okay, Harrington,” You slump back against the pillows with a dramatic sigh, clearly teasing. “If you say so.”

The television flickers to life right as Steve lunges back towards you with all the energy of a labrador puppy. He squishes down onto you so quickly that you actually squeal in surprise.

“Oh, I’m back to just Harrington now?” He pouts, squeezing even closer to you. You’re laughing, flattened beneath him in a way that you can’t even wiggle your arms out. He’s draped across you dramatically. You trust him completely.

“It’s your name, isn’t it?”

“I thought my name was,” He leans closer and kisses your neck. “Boyfriend. Or baby. Orrrrrr,”

He kisses up your neck and onto your cheek. His hazel eyes are bright, crinkled in his grin so much that his lashes kiss in the corner. He kisses your nose. “Handsome.”

“Mmmhm,” you revel in the never-ending affection, glowing from the inside with happiness. You wiggle your arms to make Steve push himself up, just enough to free them from being smothered against your chest. Free to roam, your hands find the sides of his face.

“What about…” You begin. Steve watches you closely, evidently gleeful from the touchiness of your hands. He pushes into your palm, turning to kiss it fast. “My snookums.”

You exaggerate the word, your voice going all sugary to butter it up. You watch as emotions ripple across Steve’s face— the twitch in his nose as he tries not to outright frown at you. How polite he is.

It’s only as he catches the grin spreading across your face, wicked and just loving watching him squirm at the terrible pet-name, does he catch on to your jest. A sigh of relief and a chuckle whooshes out of him at once.

“Oh, thank God you’re joking.” He drops all his weight into your waiting hands, grinning when you let his face flops forward into your chest. His words are completely muffled as he speaks into your chest. “That could’ve been serious grounds for a breakup.”

You huff a laugh and nudge him up best you can. “Yeah, alright, drama queen. Your movie is starting.”

Steve’s head pops up, his head twisting back towards the television like he had forgotten about its existence until you had mentioned it.

“Oh true,” He says. He pushes up off you to sit himself up, shuffling back so instead you can lean on him. Re-situating his arms around you, Steve hums absentmindedly as he throws a leg over you, tangling it with yours. Thoroughly intertwined, you both sink back into the pillows.

The credits roll up and off the screen, the first five minutes of the film whisked away while you and Steve were settling down. Now, the opening scene begins, the grainy picture on the screen buzzing as it plays the VHS.

You get approximately two minutes of silence, your and Steve’s heads turned towards the television, until distraction kicks in.

You do your best to ignore it as his head turns towards you, your eyes still focused on the screen, but all your attention runs to Steve. He nudges a little closer to you, his nose pressing into your temple and right as you realise he’s smelling you, he says—

“Did you use my body wash?”

You freeze.

“I— was I not supposed to?” Your voice comes out a bit weaker than intended.

Steve lets out a soft noise, somewhere between a sigh and a groan, only worrying you further. He starts to shift around a bit, retracting his leg back an inch, his nose no longer nudging close along your temple; all actions that contrast his assuring words.

“No, no, no, it’s fine, you’re fine—“ Despite his words, he shifts again. His hips shuffle backward, one of his hands moving down subtlety as he can to fuss with his pyjama pants.

It takes about two more seconds for you to get it — clued in by Steve’s suddenly scarlet cheeks and his embarrassed expression.

Your mouth drops open a bit unwittingly.

“Are you—“

“Yes.” Steve grates out. He abandons fixing the growing tent in his pants to cover his face with his hands, rolling slightly away from you. You can feel the heat of his embarrassment radiating off him. His words are slightly muffled from behind his palms.

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean— I didn’t even realise that was something that got me going until, like, right this second.”

It’s adorable that he’s so flustered and that he’s apologising. You’ve never had that happen before. You’ve never had someone so conscious of how it might seem— never someone like Steve who doesn’t seem to come with any expectations.

A thread of relief jolts through you. It reaffirms what you already know; anything you want to do will be done on your terms.

And with his eyes covered up, if you glance down at his pants for good hard look…. well, that’s between you and the universe.

“Steve,” your fingers curl around one of his wrists, tugging it gently. You try to coax his face out of hiding, your smile somewhere between giggly and endeared. “It’s— it’s okay, really, you don’t have to apologise. I— I mean, I’m honestly flattered.”

Steve deflates a bit, torn between relief and his still persistent concern. He had made a committed plan that he wouldn’t make any moves until you initiated it first and yet, here he was, like every other male in Hawkins. Popping a boner the moment you settle down to innocently cuddle. God, he’s the worst!

A pout forms on his lips. He wishes he could rewind the last 2 minutes and spend the whole movie holding his breath.

“What is it about the body wash?”

Your question takes him by surprise, given the way his other hand drops off from covering his face. He blinks up at you, cheeks still with a hint of cherry red.

“I- I dunno.” He admits. “Like I said I didn’t even realise that…”

Steve’s cheeks flush with colour again. He clears his throat. “That would have that effect on me.”

Something within you preens, a fire stoked by his honest admission; a zing shooting down your spine because you don’t think you will ever get used to hearing how Steve wants you.

“Well,” you begin, the word more timid than you hoped it would be. You clear your throat and cast a glance at the television, feigning casualness. “If I was the cause…”

You let your hand come up, brushing across his warm tummy. Look up at him through your lashes, hoping, praying it looks sexier than you’re feeling— which is somewhere between flustered and foolish.

Still, Steve’s throat bobs. You watch his eyes dart down to your lingering hand, an inch or so above his waistband.

“Maybe, I can be the remedy.”

A tiny groan scrapes out of Steve’s throat, like he would love nothing more. Even so, he pins you with a sincere look, hazel eyes burning into yours.

“You don’t have to do that.” He assures you. “I mean—“ He coughs awkwardly. “It will go away, uh, in time.”

“I’m aware how it works, Steve.”

“Oh, are you?” Steve jokes— laughing when you wallop him in the chest. He grabs your hand, stopping your assault mid-motion with a cheeky smile. “Okay! Okay, I deserved that.”

He releases your hand and you let it fall onto his chest. Nerves prickle beneath your skin but with them is something new, something you’ve only gained since your time with Steve; anticipation.

Steeling your anxiety, you let your hand trail down his chest slowly— enough time that he could halt you before you embarrassed yourself. But he doesn’t. Steve watches you closely, his chest rising and falling a bit harder as your hand nears his waistband.

This time, you don’t stop. You let your fingers brush over the tented fabric hesitantly, torn between wanting to watch your hand or to see his face. As confidently as you can, you palm across his bulge— feeling the heat of his hard length thickening up under your hand.

Steve groans lowly.

You look up at him as you rub him softly, taking in his large pupils and pink lips. He’s watching you too, his eyes darting between your face and the hand on his cock.

“Is this okay?” You check. The movie crackles on in the background, idle noise. Steve nods quickly, a curl of his hair falling down onto his forehead.

“Yeah,” He says, voice breathier than it was a minute ago. You try out a harder rub, beginning to feel out the shape of his cock, and you curl your fingers around it. Steve groans again, a little bit louder, his eyelashes fluttering.

Still, he composes himself enough to ask, “Is this okay for you?”

“Hmmm,” you draw out the noise, the smile on your face giving away your faux-thinking. You squeeze him again, right as you murmur, “Maybe make that noise again and I’ll see.”

But any noise he makes is captured in your mouth as he surges forward, one of his hands curling up under your jaw. His fingers slide into your hair and his lips are sweet and soft, hungry for more against your own.

You can’t help but melt under his kisses, body relaxing into the sheets as you let yourself be kissed breathlessly. A warmth pools deep within your chest, drooling down into your stomach. Anticipations sinks in. Your thighs rub together.

Losing the nerve and the focus, your hand slips up to cup at Steve’s hip— but if he cares, he doesn’t show it. Instead, he takes it as a cue to press forward, leaning his weight onto on his elbows to hold his weight as he shifts up, his lips never leaving yours.

It’s one smooth motion, the way he slips a leg between your own, his body held up and hovering above yours. He kisses, slow and languid. You ache. Your lips haven’t ever been so kissed before.

It isn’t until his thigh shifts up and presses just right do you notice it properly — unable to swallow your shallow gasp, lips halting against Steve’s as a bolt of pleasure blooms deep in your gut. Your eyelashes flutter, a shadow of embarrassment threatening your cheeks.

“S’okay?” Steve whispers, not relenting any of his closeness. His lips brush yours.

You nod gently, a quiet hum sounding in your throat. You’re not entirely sure you can form words right now. Not when it feels like your heartbeat is everywhere — when you can feel the heat between your legs, the tightness of your nipples as they peak, the undeniable thrum of lust building within you.

And certainly not when you can feel Steve, his hardness pressed up against your thigh, his pupils bigger than usual. They’re ringed in that hazel you love— a colour that might be your new favourite ever.

Fuck, you’re in deep. What an incredibly sappy thought to have while you’re getting hot and bothered. Did Steve think that way about you too? Think about the colour of your eyes while he kissed your mouth?

“I…” You finally find your voice and Steve pulls back a couple inches so he can see you properly. His eyes dart over your face adoringly, his lips rosy red from all the kisses and quirked into a smile. He looks at you as if you’re everything.

“I want to…” You say, unable to find the words to finish your sentence. Embarrassment winds up inside you, ready to spring free but Steve seems uncaring at your hesitance.

“You wanna what?”

He kisses the corner of your mouth with a hum. Endlessly patient. Somehow your stomach churns a little faster at that. Nerves stand up on their end, a thousand uneasy prickles over your body.

“I want to.” You say this time, firmer. “Do more.”

It still sounds too mousy coming out and you see a flicker of something on Steve’s face.

“If you do, I mean.” You add on quickly. “I want to if you do.”

Steve huffs a quiet laugh, like the idea of checking in with him was a bit absurd. His gaze roams over your face slowly, taking his fine time just looking at you. He looks as though he doesn’t quite know what to say.

He lands on, “You don’t seem sure.”

Your heart flip-flops at the wrinkle between his eyebrows, his concern evident. He fixes you with a serious, sincere look.

You nod, your hair scrunching up against the pillow as you do. “I am. I just…”

You sink your teeth into your bottom lip and worry it, thinking of how to put this. You’ve said it before, you’ve told him how it was in the past, how you hadn’t enjoyed it and yet…

Feeling too squirmish under Steve’s intense stare, you avert your eyes to look at the ceiling and swallow the knot in your throat.

Your voice comes out a whisper. “I want to try but I’m not sure— I just I can’t promise that I’ll- that y’know, I—”

Eyes crushing closed, you try to seize your bubbling anxiety before it seizes you. This is Steve. You trust him wholly. Just a moment ago you were thinking about how much you like him and—

“Hey,” Steve murmurs lowly, nudging his nose into yours. Your eyes open. He smiles softly when he says, “I have no interest in doing something you don’t enjoy.”

The protest flounders up inside you before you can stop it. “But—“

“So,” He cuts you off pointedly. “If we give it a go and you don’t like it, that’s okay. We can just figure out what you do enjoy, okay?“

For a long moment, you just stare up at him.

“Yeah? So we can just try and if it… If I…” You flounder for words, sounding like you think it must be too good to be true. You stare up at the ceiling as you try to verbalise the biggest hurdle, the final niggling worry.

You peer back up at Steve’s face. “You… you wouldn’t be disappointed if we started but then I wanted to stop?”

Some emotion shutters across Steve’s face, a flash of devastation. You mistake it for annoyance.

An unwelcome hitch suddenly twists in your stomach. “I'm sorry, I know that you— we already- last time, we talked about this and I should know—“

“Stop it,” Steve interrupts with a soft shake of his head. “Stop doing that, it’s fine to feel unsure or- or to not know what you like. It takes time and experience to figure what you do like.”

His hand shifts up, brushing the hair back from your forehead. He leaves it there, the warmth of his hand a comfort. His fingers curl lightly into your hair.

“That’s all I wanna do,” He breathes softly, his lips tugging up at the corners. He looks unbearably earnest, his brown eyes shining. “Just wanna do what you like. Wanna figure out what you like.”

He leans down and kisses your cheek. Then your jaw. Then that soft sensitive spot under your ear. You squirm but this time for all the right reasons.

“Y’want me to do that?” He murmurs.

You’re breathing a little heavier and when Steve nips at your earlobe sparingly, just a love bite and a flash of teeth, your breath catches loudly. Desire surges through you, hot and straight between your legs.

It takes another moment to remember he’s asked you a question.

“Yeah…” you breathe. You wanna nod but you don’t want him to stop what he’s doing. Your throat bobs as you swallow. “I wanna do that. Wanna— wanna learn what you like too.”

Steve hums, a pleased sound, and he kisses languidly at your neck. His lips, soft and plush, scrape against your skin in a way that gathers heat low in your gut. Your hips tilt forward an inch, moving against his thigh almost imperceptibly.

“Yeah?”

The way he says it, the way the word rolls out of his mouth, all husky and low, makes your nipples peak.

“We get to learn together, hm?” He kisses your neck again. The soft press of his tongue and the gentle scrape of his teeth have you gripping the sheets, almost white knuckled.

Suddenly, you can’t stand to not be touching him. Your hands fly from the sheets, fingers curling around his midriff, feeling at the warm skin. His t-shirt is warmed by him. You slip your hands beneath it as he bites where your shoulder meets your neck, soft enough to make you sigh.

Your hand finds skin. Finally, finally, you get your hands on that damned happy trail that’s been all but haunting your daydreams for the past months.

As Steve kisses down your neck, you trace the line of hair with your finger slowly. Your thumb strokes the coarse hair all the way down to his waistband, gentle and hungry all at once— trying to commit it all to memory. Unwittingly, Steve shivers at the motion.

“Fuck,” his breath shudders against your neck. He tucks his face in closer, fighting the urge to press his body up against yours and grind. You feel the twitch in his hips anyway. “You drive me crazy.”

“Me too,” you gasp when he pulls off your neck, blowing cool air across the heated skin he’s been dedicating himself to. You wonder if a bruise will come up, beautiful and kiss-bitten. You clench a little at the thought, the heat between your thighs only increasing.

A mark from him— a mark of a lover.

You want to give one to him too. Managing to remember you can do things with your hands, other than just pawing at his back, you shift them up to curl into his hair. Tugging gently, you coax his face up enough so you can nose alone the length of his neck.

Steve’s panting and you can hear his breath catch when you start planting kiss after kiss on his skin— dragging your bottom lip across those glorious moles you adore so much.

Without meaning to, you press him back and Steve lets himself roll back onto the mattress, his hands tugging you closer. You take the invitation and struggle for a moment to get up over his hips, one leg too tangled in the blanket on the bed.

“My leg,” you laugh weakly, having to retract a hand from his hair to free it. When you do, you settle down, straddling his hips, and try not to lose your confidence. Still, you can’t help apologising. “Sorry.”

Steve peers up at you lovingly, frowning a little when you apologise. “What? No, it’s fine.”

He shifts one hand and grabs the loose blanket beside you and then hefts it up, throwing it as far as he can off the bed with a grunt. It lands somewhere behind you with a soft noise.

“Blanket’s fault.” He says, brown eyes back on you. “Freaking cockblock. I got rid of him, babe, don’t worry.”

You snort a little, leaning down to kiss his perfect lips.

“My hero.” You murmur sarcastically against them.

“Ooh, say that again, baby,” Steve moans exaggeratedly, throwing his head back onto the pillow dramatic, his eyes screwed shit.

You laugh, unknowingly relaxing a little further into him. You swat at his chest.

“Steve.”

“Oh!” He moans again, all girlish and fake, and twists his head in the other direction. “I love it when you say my name like I’m an idiot!”

You gasp, but it’s still hidden in your laughter as you hit his chest again, for a different reason this time.

“Don’t say that!” You say genuinely. “I don’t think you’re an idiot.”

Steve drops the act, his eyes creasing open to shine up at you. He’s glowing beneath you, cheeks a bit flushed and grinning like he’s a little bit in love with you. You think he might be.

“No, you don’t.” He agrees. He soothes his hands up and down your sides. “Only idiot is that idiot who let you think there was anything wrong with you.”

“Ugh,” you scoff. “Please don’t bring him up ever again— least of all when we’re in bed.”

Steve squeezes your sides gently and smiles up at you like he hasn’t heard a word you’ve said. “Noted.”

And then you kiss him.

For a couple of minutes it’s this easy, lazy making out that you love. Though, it’s like there’s a furnace turning up beneath you both, the intensity getting more feverish with every kiss. When Steve finally pulls back from you, panting, he looks as flustered as you feel.

“Can I take these off?”

His fingers are curled into the waistband of your pyjama pants. You nod before you can overthink it, letting him shimmy them down your thighs and settling yourself down on the comforter. Steve sits up a bit beside you, to tug them down your legs and off your ankles.

Steve’s focus is on his hands but your gaze is stuck on his face— and you watch as he tosses your pants behind him carelessly. His eyes fix on your cunt, hidden away behind your lacy panties.

“Woah,” he murmurs softly, eyes flicking up to meet yours. He leans down on his elbows, one arm on either side of your hips and pings the elastic on the cutest lingerie you own. “These are very pretty.”

He sounds like he means it, his voice tinged with lust. It gives you a moment of confidence.

“Yeah?” You ask. You slide your hands up, pushing your shirt up gingerly as you to reveal the matching bra to him.

Even from your distance, you can see how Steve’s pupils dilate, blowing way out. “You like them?”

Steve let’s out a pained noise as his head flops over, his nose pressed into your hipbone. One of his hands reaches down between his legs, adjusting himself in his pants.

He looks back up at you, hair a bit mussed, and pouts.

“That’s not fair! That’s so not fair. Did you plan this? Blindside me by wearing my body wash and then surprise me with matching lingerie?”

The way he says it, all faux accusatory, makes you grin. He sits up long enough to tug his own shirt off, discarding it behind him, and crawls up the bed to kiss you. You catch a glint of the single chain he wears around his neck before he's kissing you.

“You—” Kiss. “look—” Kiss. “so—” Kiss. “fuckin’—” Kiss. “hot.”

He pulls back, taking a moment to just gaze at you before he leans back further, scuttling down the sheets til he’s paused between above your legs.

Something within you flares hotly at the memory of the last time he was in the position. You feel a warm pulse in your cunt, a trickle of slick coating your panties. Your hips shift an inch— half nerves, half anticipation.

Steve kisses you over your panties, like last time, the first chaste and on your clit. The next is a little lower, a little slower, his lips parting further and his tongue pressing languidly against your core. You squirm, breathing a little heavier.

His hands grips gently at your hips, moving up to smooth over your thighs. He lets his fingers slip forward, the tips of them pressing lightly into your inner thighs. He pulls them further apart and ruins you a bit when he kisses sweet along the skin of your thigh.

“I’m pretty sure we could just do this every time and I’d be happy,” Steve says, but it’s paired a chuckle fringed with nerves.

He looks up at you and you realise it is a bit of nervousness— like he’s worried you might find it embarrassing just how much he likes it.

Your blood hums in response, warmer, all of it rushing down your body. You don’t know quite what to say to that, so you say, “Yeah?”

Steve smiles, that flash of nervousness already gone or cleverly hidden. He gives your thighs a gentle squeeze with his large hands and rubs his cheek up against one of them.

“Are you kidding me? I think I’d do anything you wanted just to hear those noises you made again.”

Your lips part slightly in surprise. He’s always so startlingly honest and forward with his feelings but, somehow, it still manages takes you by surprise— that he’s not at all shy about how much he likes you.

Scrambling for an appropriately sexy response, you come up blank and instead decide to press your thighs together. Between them, Steve’s cheeks squish forward, his lips forming an absurdly funny pout.

“Hey!” He exclaims.

It comes out a little muffled with his face squidged up and the mixture of both his face and voice makes you laugh. You release him, legs falling apart, feeling the breath of his laugh again your skin.

“Kidding, you can warm my ears anytime you want, honey,” He’s still grinning up at you when he says it. Part of you know he’s being completely serious.

Your gut burns low. You resist the urge to squirm, feeling the heat chase down to your cunt. It’s hard to relax when he manages to make you feel so keyed up.

“Stop getting distracted.” You jest.

“You stop getting distracted,” He jibes back, but his focus drifts back down, his eyes darkening with a fiery lust.

He rubs the skin of your thighs again, soothingly, and lets one hand creep forward til his knuckles are brushing up against the edge of your panties. His thumb presses forward, into the wet spot you’ve soaked through.

Even so, he still asks, “How we doin’? Still feeling good?”

You nod quickly, then think verbal confirmation is probably far better. “Yeah, still good.”

Realising you’re staring up at the ceiling, hard, you flick your eyes down between your legs. Even if it doesn’t feel particularly sexy, you still have to say it. “Thank you for checking.”

“Of course,” Steve says. He pinches the elastic of your panties lightly, his eyebrows raising in question. “Gonna take these off, yeah? Then you let me know if you don’t like anything I’m doing.”

Despite your history, a huge part of you wants to say yeah, fat chance of that because yeah, you’re beginning to wonder if your boyfriend has some genuinely magical fingers. And a magical mouth. And wait, does that mean his co—

The thought gets ripped away as you feel your panties get tugged downwards and you quickly lift your hips to help. Though he’s seen you bare before, it’s impossible to stop the flush that rolls through your body, hot and tinged with embarrassment. You want to close your legs but Steve between them prevents that from happening.

“Here,” Steve hums, reaching a hand up to scoop up your own from the bedsheets.

He gives it a quick kiss on the palm and then moves it up to land in his hair. “You let me know how m’doing, okay?”

Your fingers curl into his brunette locks automatically and grip tightly when he leans in, his hot tongue dipping between your folds. Pleasure drips into your body as he begins to lick softly, his skilled tongue finding your bundle of nerves quickly and twisting around it.

Heat builds. You close your eyes and let yourself enjoy it, soft pants escaping your lips as Steve kisses and suckles where you’re most sensitive, til there’s a moan lacing every breath.

Fuck, he’s so good at this. How is he so good at this?

One of his hands on your thighs starts to knead gently as the other one slides forward, til his thumb is rested at your slicked entrance. He hasn’t stopped sucking on your clit but your sudden sharp inhale catches his attention.

“Sorry,” you say instinctively.

“It’s fine,” Steve soothes, his thumb circling around your soaked hole, which clenches in response.

He kisses your thigh. Desire burns you up from within, your fingers twisting a little tighter in his hair, giving away your nerves.

“We’re just figuring out what you like, yeah?” He muses, his words half comfort, half lust.

You nod but don’t speak, trying to trust him enough to let his words calm you. Steve gives you a moment to breathe before he resumes the work with his mouth, his hot mouth suckling at your clit once again.

He waits until you’re back to those quiet, shy lusty little noises before he tries again, prodding softly at your entrance in warning before he gently sinks his finger in. You gasp again, hands tightening in his hair — as something molten hot shoots right up your spine.

“Steve,” you cry out his name. It feels... good, which feels like a fucking miracle in itself. He begins to fuck the finger in and out slowly, still lapping at your clit. A heat that you’ve only felt once before starts to nip at your skin, bleeding into each nerve.

Your panting grows heavier and without meaning to, you clench down around him, desperate for a little more.

“See, you like that one, huh?” Steve mumbles against you, his dark eyes flashing up to take in your face contorted in pleasure. His cock thickens unbearably in his pants, too confined. You nod, hair scrunching up against the pillow.

“Yea—yes,” You say, feeling your hips rock down an inch. You want more of that.

Steve obliges, more than willingly, adding another finger. It slides in with little resistance. It’s hotter than anything else to get to see you like this, pliant and horny, rocking your hips against his mouth.

To get to make you like this— sucking on your cute little clit and fucking his fingers in, hearing the adorable squelch of your wetness. You’re so turned on it makes his brain melt a bit, the way you’re leaking all over his fingers. Steve’s cock throbs desperately— but he wants to make sure you’re stretched out enough to take him. If you want that, that is.

He eases one more finger in, keeping a careful watch on your face to see how you take it. You keen beautifully, back arching slightly as he curls his fingers and begins to stretch you out.

You pant deliriously, these tiny whimpers beginning to slip out your throat. Steve wishes he could see your face, the cute scrunch of your brows as you moan— but happily settles for latching his lips back onto your cunt.

Three fingers feel even better than two, you find, as you grip the sheets tightly— you’re throbbing but in this torturous way, balancing on the edge of too much and not enough. There’s a hint of pain lingering at the back, but not enough to distract you from the pleasure.

It takes you by surprise then, when the pleasure suddenly tapers off, your eyes creasing up open and head popping up. You realise Steve is slowly stopping, his slick fingers slipping out of you as he sits back up a bit.

“Why’d you stop?” You say without thinking.

Flushing, you quickly follow it up. “Every— everything okay?”

God, you sound wiped. Your chest is still heaving and your clit twitches, missing the stimulation of your boyfriend’s mouth. The air smells honeyed and perfumed with sex.

“You tell me,” Steve murmurs sweetly, his lips grazing the inside of your knee in an almost kiss. “You said you wanted to do more. Is this enough more?”

Your heart nearly bursts in the pure consideration. God, he’s so fucking nice to you. So unbothered to take things your pace, so attuned to making you feel good. You know that you could happily do this more for the rest of the night.

But it’s not what you had in mind — and the longer you wait, the more you’re beginning to crave getting Steve to a similar state you’re in. Moaning, flushed in the face, his hands buried in your hair.

“We can do more,” You say, your voice dropping back into that shy whisper.

Steve watches you closely, his hand still absentmindedly rubbing at your thigh dotingly.

You clear your throat and speak a little louder. “I wanna do more.”

“Yeah?” Steve says, his grin growing. He huffs and shakes his head a little, dropping your gaze.

“I mean, believe me, even if we just—“ He gestures vaguely between your thighs. “— did this all night? Night well spent.”

You know he means it, especially with his hungry gaze that dips back down, his tongue slipping out to lick his bottom lip briefly.

You press up onto one elbow and reach out one hand, hooking your finger over the one single chain he wears. There’s a ring looped on it, the one you gave him as a promise, and just the sight of it makes you glow inside.

You tug the chain forward lightly and him with it, Steve shifting up the bed til you’re nearly face to face, his frame hovering above you. The beds dips beneath his hands as they crawl up to either side of your waist, his intense eyes locking onto your face. He might be holding his breath.

Swallowing, you move up and press your lips to his in a slow, soft kiss. It turns deeper, hotter, heavier. You swipe your tongue into his mouth and Steve lets out a pitiful noise in response, pressing his mouth against yours desperately.

Drawing back with a little gasp, you open your eyes and repeat your earlier sentiment, “I want to do more.”

Steve watches you, his exhale shaking slightly. You dot a kiss on his cheek quick, pulling back to meet his eyes.

“I want to do more with you.”

A kiss on his other cheek, just as fast. Pink blooms beneath where your lips touch.

“I want to do more, right now.”

Steve smiles splits into a grin, his eyes shining as he chuckles, the sound doused in fondness. “Okay, okay, I got the message,” He murmurs.

Pushing back to sit on his heels, he turns and rummages around in his bedside table for a moment. You lay back on the pillows and try catch your breath, knowing it’s only a matter of time before it’s stolen once more.

When Steve pulls back, there’s a row of condoms in one hand and a bottle of lube in the other. He tears off one of the condoms and throws the rest of them behind him without thought.

You can’t help but tilt your head up, neck straining a bit, not wanting to look away for a moment as Steve raises onto his knees and pushes his boxers down. His cock kicks up, released from its confines with a soft slap against his happy trail.

Unwittingly, your mouth waters a bit.

And look, you’ve seen a dick before, okay? It’s pretty hard to sleep with someone and not see one, unless you have your eyes closed the entire time.

But Steve’s cock is… pretty.

Pink and aching, the head of it slick with a bit of pre-cum— that you realise he’s gotten from being worked up whilst eating you out. You gush a little at the dizzying thought.

You want to touch it — or put it in your mouth so you can drool over it, can suck on it, can feel the heady weight of it on your tongue. Or, as you realise what the ache of your cunt means, you really, really want him to fuck you with it.

Instinct drives your thighs apart, beckoning him between them. Steve’s eyes darken as he notes the motion, moving a bit more hastily to tear the condom packet open. He rolls it down his length, quick and precise.

“Okay,” Steve breathes, reaching out for the lube and drizzling a generous amount into his palm. He keeps the bottle within reach as he slicks it over his heavy cock, a beautiful groan pushing out his throat as he does.

“Okay,” He says again, a little breathier than before. Shuffling forward, Steve lines himself up with your core gently before halting. His eyes dart up to your face.

“You let me know if there’s anything you don’t like or you wanna stop.”

You nod, his ardent care only serving to fuel your lust. You’ll coo over it in the afterglow— right now you want to be around him, want to feel him pulsing inside you, want to feel full where you’re suddenly feeling so, so empty.

Steve shifts forward, beginning to sink into you with a low groan of pleasure.

The first few seconds are bliss — Steve’s done his job well at warming you up and something hungry awakens with a burst of pleasure as you take the first few inches.

Then, something a little more uncomfortable joins the mix.

You try not to squirm, disappointment inflating as your pleasure is robbed by the twinges of pain. It’s not unbearable but you’re enjoying yourself less. Steve moves in another inch and then discomfort abruptly becomes pain.

You inhale sharply, teeth gritted together, and Steve stops moving in an instant.

“Woah, y’okay?”

You nod, even as your eyes slip shut. Half of this is a mental game, you know that—you’ll never loosen up if you don’t try to relax.

“Yeah,” you say quietly, voice a bit tight. “Just— just gimme a minute.”

Steve murmurs a quiet sure but after a moment he says, “Wait, lemme—“ and moves forward so he’s hovering above you instead of sitting back, your faces much closer now. The jostling doesn’t help but having Steve closer does.

He keeps his hips as still as he can and kisses your cheek. You don’t open your eyes just yet, willing yourself desperately to relax, to enjoy it. You take a deep breath.

“We can stop,” Steve whispers.

You shake your head. Creasing your eyes open, you move your hands up so you can twine them around Steve’s neck in almost a hug. Steve leans down and kisses your cheek again, then steals a kiss from your lips.

“I wanna—“ You gasp, frustration mounting at how the pain doesn’t seem to be subsiding. You sound miserable as you cling to him closer. “I want this to work.”

“It’s okay if it doesn’t,” Steve responds, his arm shifting up so he can trace his thumb over your cheekbone.

The movement moves his hips forward another inch, pain spiking so severely that you wince aloud, your face pinched in discomfort. That’s all it takes for Steve to shift back, easing out of you gently. You’re devastated at the relief that follows.

“Okay, I’m not doing that if it hurts you—“

“It wasn’t,” You lie fruitlessly. You know Steve heard your wince—but maybe if you lie, you can trick your body.

Hands coming up to cover your face, you scrunch your eyes up, annoyed at how they sting with tears so quickly. Your voice is all wobbly when you say, “I’m sorry. I'm sorry, I really want this to work, Steve.”

Steve aches at your words, moving in to tug at your hands. His voice is soft, sweet.

“Hey, hey, I know that, sweetheart.”

You don’t let him in, hands still shielding your face. He kisses your knuckles instead, his thumbs swiping up and down your wrists comfortingly.

He waits a moment before he continues, voice buttery soft, “I know you want this. It’s not your fault if your body only likes it some ways and not others. You can’t control that and I know that.”

You take one deep breath and it shudders as you inhale, sounding far too teary for Steve’s liking. He tugs at your wrists again, relieved when you let him pull them away tentatively. You aren’t crying but you look damn near close.

“What’s got you so upset, huh?” Steve coos, nuzzling in close, his nose brushing against yours.

He releases your wrists to cup your face, tender and soft, his brows knit together in his concern. “You know I don’t mind- I told you that I don’t care what we do, just that you’re enjoying it.”

You take another shaky inhale, a little more stable than the last. Steve can feel how you move to press back against him, nuzzling him back. You take another moment before you reply.

“I just-“ You start, voice still tight. “It’s so stupid. I wanted it— I wanted to enjoy it. And that doesn’t even seem to matter to my body. It doesn’t even change how it feels and that sucks. Like I can’t control this part of me.”

Steve listens dutifully, waiting til you finish and your eyes find him.

“Well,” He starts, averting his eyes somewhat sheepishly. “Take everything I say with a grain of salt, okay? But… your body doesn’t hurt just to mess with you, right?”

He waits a moment for your tentative nod. “Right. So, it’s not for nothing. It’s trying to tell you something and- and ignoring that isn’t having control. You have to listen and work with your body — it’s your partner in all this.”

“I thought you were my partner,” you whisper, the small smile on your lips giving away your joke. Steve faux rolls his eyes and kisses the tip of your nose.

“I’m your other partner.” He smiles. Then sighs, casting his gaze above your head for a moment before meeting your eyes again. “Am I making any sense?”

Wiggling one hand up, you place it on his cheek tenderly and begin to whisper. “You’re making a lot of sense actually.”

Steve sighs, leaning his face into the palm of your hand with a huff. “Well, that’s a relief.”

For a minute, there’s only quiet. Your emotions come down from their swell and you take the time to admire the beautiful boy above you, who seems to be doing just the same to you.

After a moment of time, you clear your throat and say, “Can we try again?”

Steve seems to think on it for a moment before he nods, turning to kiss your palm.

“This is gonna make me sound like a total guy,” He says, words muffled against your hand. His brown eyes flash up to yours, darting between them. “But maybe we should try from the back. Like, different angle and all.”

You snort, unable to hold it in because it does sound like such a guy thing to say. Even so, you give a little nod, eager to try something else. You don’t even want to acknowledge the mounting dread around disappointing Steve — even with all his assurances, you can’t help but feel as though this has been one gigantic let down.

As Steve shifts back, you become suddenly aware of the lubed up slick spot on your thigh where Steve's cock was resting and scrunch your nose with a laugh. Peering down, you drag a finger through the wetness left on it.

“Ew,” you laugh.

“Ew?” Steve echoes incredulously. “Alright, that’s it.” His sits up and back, his hands darting down lightning fast, manoeuvring you all of sudden. He hooks his hands under your hips and lifts, twisting so you’re suddenly splayed on your front.

You’re giggling all the while, drunk on the feeling of your boyfriend’s hands as they trail up your sides. The hair of his tanned scrapes against your back as he leans in, mouthing along your shoulder towards your neck.

You find your knees and prop yourself up on them, lifting your hips off the sheets of Steve’s bed. At the angle he’s draped himself over you, it’s a perfect line up of his cock with your cunt, the head of it teasing your entrance when you push back.

You're relieved that your emotional moment hadn't killed the mood altogether. That same hot, pulsating want from before tears through you and Steve takes a stuttering breath, the slightest moan in his throat. You feel his forehead press against your shoulder blade, as though he’s trying to compose himself.

“You-“ He says, the word catching in his throat. As if unable to help himself, his hips grind forward, pushing his aching cock between your slick folds. You make pitiful, keening noises in response, a thread of pleasure run through the two of you.

“You ready?” Steve asks shakily. He relents some of his closeness to grab the lube, giving another generous drizzle into his palm to slather over himself.

“Please,” you whisper, pushing yourself back an inch.

This time when Steve pushes himself in, the bliss stretches out, lasting more than just the first couple seconds. You make a high, breathy sigh of a noise and your head drops forward.

Steve pauses, his breathing on the ragged side, and checks in. “Still feeling okay?”

You nod feverishly, a whine building up in your throat that threatens to escape if Steve doesn’t move. Or maybe if he does move. You can’t tell — can’t tell anything other than how good it feels to have him inside you, hot and throbbing.

“Yes,” you manage to gasp out. “Yeah, keeping going, please,”

Steve grunts, complying in an instant, sinking his cock further in. Something inside you tightens up again— but it’s not nearly as noticeable as last time. Still, Steve recognises it and he slows for a moment.

“I’m okay,” you assure breathily, face nearly pressed into the bed. You need him to keep moving.

And he does; his cock sinks in another inch right as his hand creeps around your hip, searching for something blindly. You barely get one moment of confusion before his calloused fingers drag through the slick on your cunt and move up, pushing against your clit purposefully.

You moan, loud and high. The friction of your clit is enough to make your thighs spread a little wider and your hips move back before you even realise what you’re doing, almost the rest of Steve’s cock sinking inside you. It feels good but something else pinches up inside you.

Steve moans, muffling the sound into your skin as he hides his face in your neck.

You pant, suddenly dreading how you can feel the prick of pain on the fringes of your pleasure if Steve stretches you too far. "Don't- n-not too much," You warn gently, the words all breathy, still swathed in your pleasure. "I—uh— fuck, I don't think I can take it all."

You feel Steve's nod against the back of your neck, accompanied by a low hum in his throat.

“Y-yeah, okay,” He stammers. His hips roll forward and he follows your word, not quite pushing all the way in. "F-Fuck."

His breath is hot on your neck and the sudden urge for his kiss is nearly overwhelming. Even not facing him, the way Steve drapes himself around you, gentle even with how he grinds his hips into yours, feels intimate. Your cunt gives a soft squelch.

“Oh fuck,” Steve gasps, stilling completely — the feeling of you wrapped around him is enough to nearly push him to the edge. He screws his eyes closed and whimpers, trying to keep himself together.

“Y’okay?” You whisper breathily after a couple of moments, forehead pressed into the sheets. Your hips move just a little bit, shifting in a little circle so his cock slides out an inch, his fingertips grazing across your clit again.

“I—ngh-“ Another whine slips out from his throat at your movement and Steve’s hand slips back, gripping your hip tightly. “Jesus Christ. Y-Yeah I’m good, just trying not to— fuck- end this too quickly.”

He moves a bit, readjusting him arms to hold weight up a little easier.

“But you’re really wet and, like, really warm,” He grunts, almost accusingly. “And I really like you, so,”

You can’t help it — a little laugh titters out of you, one of pure delight because Steve is sincere about his feelings. The laugh only serves to make Steve groan louder.

“Shit,” He gasps, his forehead pressing into your shoulder. “You can’t laugh right now, it’s so not helping.”

“Sorry,” you laugh again, a little more apologetic this time.

Then, after a moment of gathered bravery, you say, “I don’t think I like this position. I can’t see your face.”

Steve makes a pained noise from behind you, a breathy and sharp inhale, and suddenly his grip on your hip is twice as tight.

“I’m gonna need you to stop talking. Please.” He grits out, voice sounding tight and barely restraining the moan in it. “I’m trying really hard here but you’re making this impossible.”

Steve shifts on his elbow again, bicep bulging as he lowers himself to one side. His hips press into your backside, sinking himself further into your wet heat, as he settles his weight down onto the mattress. The springs make a noise in protest.

You’re still closely intertwined, Steve pressed up against you, still throbbing within you, but now it’s more like… you’re spooning.

You settle down too, forcing out an exhale to let yourself melt back into Steve’s chest.

He lets out a soft groan again but the new position means he can bury his face in your neck properly— and when you turn your head right, he seizes the chance for a kiss.

He kisses sweet and slow to begin with, plush lips nipping at yours as if you’re not already in the throes of sex. Like he kisses you hello. His nose nudges against yours and he shimmies an arm beneath you on the bed. It curls itself around your stomach and Steve uses it to bring you even closer.

“Is this better?” He whispers. He nudges his hips for a bit, giving a gentle thrust. Something warm flares at the pit of your belly, hungry for more. “Still okay?”

You nod, a whimper escaping your throat as you steal another kiss from his lips. “Yes,” You whisper, lips scraping against his, hardly believing it. “Feels— feels good, baby,”

Steve finally gives in to his moan, a beautiful noise that sends heat rushing between your thighs. He begins to move more, building a gentle rhythm as he fucks into you, sensual and adoring all in one.

Time drips away. You feel much warmer now, pressed up against Steve’s chest, with his kisses all around. One of his hands stays dutifully between your legs, pushing around your bundle of nerves and pulling weak, soft noises from you. The other, you cling to, your fingers twisted as best they can with his.

Pleasure wraps the pair of you up til a soft glow of sex and love settles over the both of you. Steve murmurs doting words, an endless stream of encouragement pouring from his mouth as he nibbles at the shell of your ear.

Still feelin’ good? Yeah, you are. Just listen to you- sounding so pretty wrapped around my cock.

Fuck, your pussy makes the cutest noises. So wet f’me, isn’t she? God, you drive me crazy.

You’re taking me so well, yeah? Being so fuckin’ good f’me- letting me know how you feel. M’so lucky - fuckin’ love— love this with you.

You don’t even realise when every gasp out your mouth has turned into a moan, each breath building and mounting. Your chest heaves and Steve’s motions go from lazy to focused. His hips slow a little but his fingers over your clit speed up, dancing across the nerves perfectly.

You clutch desperately at the arm he has wrapped around your waist, your head thrown back to rest on his shoulders with your eyes screwed shut. Your hole clenches wildly as you hurtle towards your orgasm— and go right over the edge without warning.

You make this cute little gasping noise, high pitched and wrapped in a pretty sigh, and Steve doesn't think he's ever heard something so sensual, so pretty. His blood seems to thrum in response, pleasure turning the coil in his gut tighter and tighter.

Euphoria melts into your body and you sag into it with a drawn out soft moan, turning your face to search for Steve’s in an instant. One of your hands darts up, sloppily reaching for the back of his neck, suddenly starved of a kiss.

You find his lips right as Steve finds his peak— his handsome face screwing up as he all but whines into your mouth. You capture it, some heavy, open mouthed kiss of desperation shared between you.

Pleasure flows over you, hot and heavy, fuelled by the frantic grinds of Steve’s hips into yours as he whimpers into your mouth. Even though some part of you feels vulgar, another, louder, part of you feels like you've taken part in something sacred. Steve's fierce kiss certain feels akin to something holy.

After a minute, the euphoria fades. You settle back into your body, feeling the scratch of the cotton sheets beneath you, the sweat of Steve’s chest on your back, the slightly discomfort in between your thighs.

Steve can feel it, the moment you tense back up, some unwelcome twinge of pain in your gut. He’s shuffling back and pulling out before you even have to ask.

Without his chest to lean on, you roll backward naturally and flop onto your back, still panting lightly. Steve shifts up to hover above you.

“You good?” He asks, that same breathlessness in his voice. He smiles handsomely, his hair a little limper than usual, flopping over his forehead. He looks gorgeous. “You did great.”

That almost makes you laugh, the sincere praise so like one might give to a sports team post-game, but Steve seals it with a kiss to your forehead. Your laugh turns into a sheepish but giddy grin. “I’m gonna take the condom off, I’ll be right back.”

He disappears from your line of sight for a minute or two and you can hear him rustling around in his room.

Without any distractions, you suddenly remember the film you’d put on in the beginning, still running at the end of the bed— the final credits are just starting to roll. The streetlights glow a little brighter in the evening dark through the curtains.

You huff out a breath and your smile comes without even trying. In fact, if Steve hadn’t come back when he did, you’re sure you would’ve started giggle to yourself madly, cocooned in your own contentedness. That same awed, gleeful smile just like the first time round.

“You look like a dope, smiling like that, you know that?”

Steve’s wearing a pair of boxers, green plaid, and he’s got a fresh, warm wash-cloth in his hands.

"I didn't know that," You muse playfully.

“Hey,” He changes tone to less playful, kneeling on the bed. You notice the change of clothes in his other hand when he throws them onto the duvet beside him. “M’just gonna clean you up a bit, that okay?”

You’re sure there’s a pinch of embarrassment in you somewhere but, still blissed from your orgasm, you can’t manage to find it. Steve is quick and precise, the warm cloth wiping up any excess sticky fluids. He kisses the inside of your knee when he’s done.

“All done,” He murmurs, climbing back off the bed in the direction of the bathroom, switching off the television as he does. He gestures to the clothes at the foot of the bed as he walks. “Y’can wear these if you want.”

Finally feeling less flattened, you shift up to lean on your elbows. He’s grabbed you a pair of his boxers, the matching blue pair to his green, and one of his old Hawkins swim-team shirts. You slip into both quickly, your heart going a bit fuzzy with how soft the shirt is.

Then you crawl beneath the covers, blood still rushing far faster than usual and a satisfied tiredness beginning to sink into your body. You can't help but thinking it all over — Steve's mouth between your legs, the feel of him sinking into you, the ecstasy of falling apart in his arms.

Part of you hadn't wanted to acknowledge that, well, it fucking worked this time and you enjoyed it. A niggly fear about jinxing it. Like if you pointed it out, it would incite the likelihood of your body turning on you once more. Robbing you of pleasure and experience in equal measure.

But when Steve comes bounding back to the bed, dragging back the covers to join you beneath them, you speak first.

"So, that didn't suck." You say excitedly, biting back your grin as Steve settles down beside you.

Together, you share one pillow as he scooches in closer. His hands reach out, searching for you amongst the sheets. When he finds your hips, he uses them to drag you closer to him, a halfhearted cuddle.

He lets out a puff of air against the pillow, a light snort. "I mean, hopefully it didn't just not suck."

If you had more energy, you might give him a playful shove because you know he knows what you mean. He'd seen the whole display of nervous emotions attached to sex all the way leading up to it.

Instead, heart feeling awfully gooey in your chest, you seize the opportunity to press in closer to him. Your head tucks beneath his chin, your lips barely grazing his throat.

"It was really good." You whisper, lashes fluttering as your eyes fight to stay open. Steve's warm on a good day. He's hot as a furnace with all the blood that's pumping around still. Perfect for snuggling up with.

"Yeah?" He sounds delightfully pleased, but not the smug kind. He sounds happy that you enjoyed it.

Then he whispers, "Told you it wasn't you."

His big palm sweeps up your back soothingly.

He's right. You've never been so glad to be on the receiving end of an I told you so before.

Cuddling in closer, you wriggle one hand out from beneath the covers, not bothering to pull back or open your eyes when you murmur, "Just had sex high-five?"

You can feel Steve's laugh as it rumbles through his throat. It's an inside joke now, it seems.

"Hell yeah." He wiggles one hand free and slaps it against yours, probably a little harder than necessary. You laugh too, the sound a mixture of joy and sleep.

And yeah, okay, you might get it now. The whole big fuss around sex that everyone seems to make—but maybe you don't entirely agree with them.

There was something more in the... trust. In knowing that Steve wouldn't have cared which way it happened, as long as you were both enjoying it. In the intimacy shared, even before you had ever slept together. In the waiting. In the wanting—for both yourself and for Steve.

There's some grandeur discovery you've uncovered, you're sure of it, about the mystery and craze around sex. You just keep losing the string of thoughts to your slumber which drifts ever closer.

Oh well. You can always put it all together in the morning when you're not so tempted by sleep and bundled up in the arms of a boy who you love. For now, you drift off, fulfilled and content.

tags below! (seven months later...)

@roanniom @madaboutjoe @huang-the-geek @pootcullen @superskittles

@hales-who-loves-to-reid @spear-bearing-bi-witch @daisiesandinvasives @season4steve @thelauraborealis

@mmmunson @everythinghasafacee @katethetank @sorry--for-the-mess @matterdontminduntildone

@blowing-mikey @astoryreader @mulletmcghee @sugarcoatedstarkey @pullhisteeth

(these are just the ppl in the tags that mentioned wanting to be tagged! if i know u follow me and are a regular, i didn't bother tagging u cos i know you'll see it hehehe <3)

#steve harrington x reader #steve harrington #steve x reader #steve harrington smut #steve harrington x reader smut #jay writes #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x you smut #steve x reader smut #all my chatter goes after the tags now cos did u guys know that after twenty tags apparently they just dont count tags???#lawd knows im not wasting my first twenny on my rambling #i have MUCH to say about this piece #but mainly im so glad its fookin FINISHED #i can literally see the line breaks in the fic where i stopped and left it for a month #i know the fandom be quiet between seasons but hopefully people be down for some #good ol super into each other figuring it out sex <3 #again - this is entirely indulgent tehe !#but i know there's lot of peeps out there with similar experiences and i hope this resonates for them #mwah!#enough jabbering !

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a-mint-bear · 1 year ago

Text

Your One and Only

Male Yandere x Reader

He begged you to make him yours, but when he feels his status as your one and only is threatened, he wants a reminder.

Sequel to "Make Me Yours"

Next Jacob story "Taking Care of Him"

[content warning: slightly pretty suggestive stuff near the end]

His name was Jacob.

It was a bit of a funny situation, learning his name only after he'd become your... boyfriend? Lover? You really didn't know what labels to use in this situation, or how any of this was "supposed" to work. But you were enjoying your time together, despite the... odd and intense way the relationship began.

Jacob wanted to move in with you pretty much right off the bat, but it was all a bit too much to jump right into. You would be lying if you said it wasn't tempting...

He really was a near-perfect fit for you.

He was super domestic. He loved cooking for you and all his dishes were amazing. He was a bit of a neat freak, so sometimes when you took your eyes off him, he tidied up your place without you asking. Not that you left it super messy, but he seemed like perfect househusband material.

In public, he was super assertive. He stood up for you and protected you from average jerks and actual threats when you were out together. He took charge and it made you feel oddly loved. Like you were the most important thing in his life.

In private, he was still that man on his knees in the park. He was dedicated, completely and utterly yours... He loved to wear that collar when the two of you were alone, although you had to beg him not to wear it out in public. The thought of it did give you a thrill, though you'd never admit it to him. But because of all that, he started wearing more thick turtleneck sweaters.

Well, for that, and for... other reasons. You were embarrassed of how much he liked to show off your... handiwork.

He was very clingy, and he got jealous really easily, but it wasn't really a dealbreaker for you. You liked the feeling it gave you of being wanted, appreciated, even loved. It made you a tiny bit uncomfortable sometimes due to how new the relationship was, Jacob was very intense with his feelings, but with every day together it got easier to appreciate the weird new relationship you were in.

He was attentive, he loved spoiling you and getting you little things when you were having a bad day. Or a good day. Even a completely neutral day. You actually had to tell him to tone it down a little, as much as you liked it, because your place was small and you didn't have a ton of extra space. His compromise was to start getting you food and snacks more often instead, and it worked out just perfectly.

When a bouquet of a dozen roses got delivered to your office, you got a good razzing from your coworkers but you ignored them. There was no note or card, but it wasn't a stretch to think it was from Jacob. He'd sent other things to your job before, like lunch when you planned to eat out someplace or your favorite coffee order when you had an early morning. It was nice of him, you thought to yourself with a dumb smile on your face.

When you got home, you sent him a quick text.

You watched the typing ellipses appear and disappear, then reappear only to blink out of existence and then, nothing.

He'd never dropped off like that before, but you didn't think much of it. It wasn't until he showed up to your place not even ten minutes later that you started to wonder if something was up.

You opened the door for him. It wasn't uncommon for him to come over pretty much every other day (after you'd talked him down from every day) so you were happy to see him. But he had a weird look on his face.

Before you could ask him what was up, you followed his line of sight to the bouquet in a vase on the kitchen windowsill.

You ask him what's wrong, and his eyes snapped back to yours, like he was jolted out of his thoughts.

"Nothing, I... I'm just happy that you... like them."

The smile seemed a tiny bit strained, but he was back to his usual puppy dog demeanor in no time. He was extra attentive, ordering your favorite takeout, but getting it delivered instead of running out to get it or letting you go get it. He clung to you all night, but it was nice, in a way.

You were rinsing the dishes real quick before you continued binging the series you'd been watching together lately. But when you were drying your hands, Jacob came up behind you and wrapped his arms around you, burying his face in the crook of your neck.

You laughed, asking him if he was feeling better, but he just pulled you in closer. You could feel his collar pressing into your neck. His breath was hot, tickling your neck as he mumbled his words of devotion against your skin.

"You're so... perfect." He nuzzled into your neck. "I'm so lucky you let me in... that you let me be yours. Just... I promise I'll be good... I just want to be yours. Please, don't... Don't look at anyone else."

This wasn't his usual lovesick talk. You turned in his grasp to hold his face in your hands. You smiled, telling him that he was yours. He melted, leaning into your touch like he needed it more than everything... Needed you more than anything.

"I'm yours... " he repeated it to himself like a mantra, like it was grounding him to that moment. He needed the reassurance that day, for some reason, but you didn't think much of it.

That same excitement, that overwhelming need to control him, to claim him... it was still just as intoxicating as the day he "proposed". You don't think you could ever get tired of it.

. . .

Jacob had stayed the night, and you'd fallen asleep in his arms. You don't know how long you'd been lying there together before you could just feel that you were half-awake, but too tired to even open your eyes. You just nuzzled into his chest as you tried to drift off again.

You could feel him gently working his fingers into your hair, it felt like heaven, and it got a happy little sigh out of you.

"I've wanted this for so long..." he whispered into the calm of your dark bedroom. He must've thought you were sound asleep. "If someone thinks they can take you away from me..."

He kissed the top of your head, lingering for a moment to breathe you in.

"...I'll rip their fucking throat out."

You felt... startled? Confused? But it all felt so fuzzy, like the edge of a dream you could barely hold on to. He said it so calmly, like it was just another sweet nothing whispered in your ear. A promise to you he would make sure to keep.

You slipped back into a dreamless sleep, unsure of what was real.

. . .

Jacob made the two of you breakfast, just like every time he stayed the night. But the whole time you ate he was unusually quiet, his gaze flicking over to the vase of roses on the kitchen windowsill.

You could tell this was getting to him, for some reason. Maybe it was best to just get rid of the bouquet and ask him what he was so worked up about.

When he was washing the dishes, you went to get up from your chair and grab them, wanting to at least put them in another room while the two of you had a talk. But you didn't get the chance.

His hand shot out and grabbed your wrist, but he wasn't looking at you. He was staring at the flowers with a burning hate you'd never seen a man have for a plant. His grip got tighter until you hissed behind your teeth, trying to wrench your arm away.

He snapped out of whatever the hell that was, fussing over you.

"Sorry! I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to- I-I just..."

This was getting weird and more than a little... off. You told him it was getting late into the morning, didn't he need to get to work soon?

That sent him spiraling.

"No no no... please don't send me away..." he whispered. Before you could ask him what was wrong, he grabbed your shoulders.

"I'm sorry... I'm still your good boy! Please!" His eyes were wide, almost teary as fell to his knees at your feet, his hands in yours. "Please just... look at me! Only me! I can't..."

You asked him what he was talking about, trying to calm him down. It wasn't working.

"You thought those were from me..." He was practically shaking now, but he almost seemed... angry? You blanked for a second at his words, the meaning behind them not sticking long enough to upset him further. "I mean, roses? Really?? You think I don't know your favorite flower? That I'd give you that garbage?? No, no... I know you so much better than that."

It was true that there were flowers you liked more than roses, but you didn't hate them. But if Jacob didn't send you the flowers, who did?

"Someone wants you... they wanna take you away from me... I just got to be yours! I can't... I can't-"

With a shaky sigh, barely holding himself together, he laid his head on your legs.

"I can't lose you... Don't throw me away..."

Nudging your knees apart, he planted soft, tender kisses trailing up your inner thigh. The drastic swing of competing emotions left you more than a little flustered. A hand on top of his head, you were trying to decide whether to push him off to talk this through or tell him to keep going.

"They can't make you feel good, not like I can... I want to show you my love... my devotion..."

Without warning, you felt the dull, throbbing sting of a bite. You yelped, grabbing him by his hair and yanking him back. But all that did was wind him up more, a strangled, needy moan tearing from his throat. His face was a blushing mess, tongue out playfully like his mind was all but fading.

"Hurt me, p-punish me..." he grinned, looking straight into your eyes. "Make me forget everything else but you..."

You yanked him up by his collar and pushed him to the floor, straddling him. The ideas of wanting to fluster him and wanting to get back at him for his little stunt clashing away in your head. You chose good compromise of biting him back, marking up his shoulder as he gasped, letting out excited little "yes"s under his breath.

"Y-yes, fuck yes... mark me up..." He was practically panting now, he was so worked up you could swear you could hear his heartbeat, or maybe it was yours. He tried to sit up, to get closer. "Show everyone I belong to you..."

You shoved him back flat to the floor again, holding him in place with a hand pressed to his chest. The both of you knew he was strong enough to get free with no problem, but he knew that if he did, you'd stop. You kissed him just under his jawline, so tantalizingly close, you knew it was torture for him.

"Please please please..." he whined, sounding so wonderfully needy and desperate. "Kiss me. I'm your good boy. Make me need you so much I can't think straight."

You told him that he wasn't off the hook yet, and he couldn't help but feel so wanted, so loved. He really was yours, and you could do anything you wanted to him.

"Teach me I belong to you, sweetheart." he bit his lip, pushing his luck and grinding his hips up into you. "Fucking ruin me..."

. . .

Jacob clocked into work late that day, but he was more than happy to join his virtual meeting with a shirt cut lower than his usual turtlenecks, showing off his new marks to the coworkers. He pretended he didn't realize any of them were visible. He wanted them to see. What was the point of you marking him up if he couldn't show it off from time to time? Just enough to chase off anyone dumb enough to think about trying to flirt with him.

He still didn't know who'd sent you those goddamn roses, but he had calmed down, for now. He didn't want to do anything to make you hate him. Whoever it was, they were safe for another day.

-----------------------------------------------

i hope y'all like this one, i don't think i'll be bold enough to post anything more graphic than that anytime soon, lol

Jacob is his name, being your good boy is his favorite game 🩵

im in the (very slow) process of moving so my brain has been fried between packing, apartment hunting and a few days of video games until 3 am to help pass the time. i have one speed for hobbies lol

can you tell that my adhd meds are out of stock? now im writing to pass the time and it feels a lot more productive than Fallout 4 into the wee hours

i think i will post a poll soon so yous guys can vote for the next story i write. but my inbox is always open for suggestions too. tho you should see the notes in my phone, its like 11 different ideas lol

#y'all love yur subby yanderes #yandere #male yandere x y/n #male yandere oc #yandere boy #yandere male #male yandere x reader #male yandere #subby yandere #Jacob #yandere imagines #yandere x reader #minty writing

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gremlingottoosilly · 1 year ago

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Slasher!König crashing a small Halloween party. Reader starts flirting with him, thinking he’s just dressed in a costume as another party goer. Even when he starts saying ominous words, she thinks he’s trying to keep up his act with some weird role play. Reader also has a big mask/fictional slasher kink. The music also drowned out the screams of her friends, making her unaware that she’s probably the last one standing.

Party is lame. Decor is cringey, costumes are lazy. The only movie the host brought is the latest Screams, and you kinda hate the sequels past the third. No streaming services either - you brew in boredom, drinking too much for one person. Not like you give a fuck, obviously. Honestly, you are one of few people who actually thought about their costume. You and some other guy. Wears a GhostFace mask - basic. His body isn't. Tall, broad, muscular in a way that stretches his black compression shirt. Some tactical harnesses across his pecks, makes you want to tug on it and see if it would be useful while riding him. Oh shit. You're definitely drunk. You plop on the side of the couch, your buzzed drain ignoring how quiet party suddenly got. Probably half of the part is already gone - you wouldn't blame them. Music is too loud, the weird horror mix with added screams makes you want to puke, and the only thing still keeping you around is snacks and this guy sitting on the couch. You try to appear nonchalant, scrolling on your phone. Checking out other, much more fun, parties. With your side vision, you can see the guy leaning towards you, shamelessly looking at your phone screen. Bad boy. "You should pay more attention to your surroundings." He says, in his perfectly hot voice. You ignore the threat, instead opting to graze your knee over his. He grunts under that heavy mask of his. Smells weird - like metal and booze combined. You think you have already started getting hallucinations from drinking too much. "Or what, big guy?" He places a hand on your hip, playing with the hem of your shorts. You're not usually like this, but you're bored and lonely. You spread your legs, thinking about condoms you had in your bag - just in case. Smile as his fingers linger even further, closer to your mound. He knows what he wants, at least. And his hands are nice. "You mind end up in a horror story" You laugh, pressing your body closer to him. Gets on his lap, grind your ass against his erection. Smile when he grabs your waist and settles you down, a hand already getting in your panties. Asks you quietly for confirmation and you get him a condom from your bag. Grind your hips over his cock again. Smile. You push yourself up, looking around the room. Something is wrong - you can't quite point out what, but you squint and... Konig slips his cock in your welcoming pussy. You stare at the body of the party host, head severed and laying just behind the couch. You blink. "Going to keep you, Schatzen. Don't worry, ja?" You really should have paid attention to your surroundings.

#cod #konig x reader #konig #cod x reader #yandere konig #yandere cod #slasher!konig #slasher

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mossangelll · 6 months ago

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please please please! is there a part 2 of "bath time" of yandere!jinx? that was so good, like, real good... i felt butterflies in my stomach. i hope you consider writing a second part because i feel like i'm going insane. i need her so much:(

thank you for your service! your writing is so good. i hope your pillow is cold in both ways♡

"please, don't stop writing about her..." i beg as i kneel weakly in front of you.

so you’re the reason my pillow has been nice and cold recently…ty 😌

a/n: so fun to write! this jinx is very delusional and doesn’t even know what the word ‘boundary’ means lmao but i was also a bit stressed writing this bcs i never planned for there to be a sequel but there was a lot of interest. idk if they want to be tagged but ty to the person in my dms who inspired me to write pt2! what i’m trying to say is idk if it’ll live up to expectations but i hope you like!! also, i won’t stop writing for jinx or arcane for a while ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡

bed time 🛏️💤 - sequel to bath time

cw: yandere behaviour, unhealthy relationship, drugging, dubcon, noncon, nsfw - mdni 18+ only

Something was wrong with Jinx, you didn’t know what exactly but you could tell the moment she guided you to your seat in the makeshift dining room room, hands jittery and pink eyes darting everywhere but your face.

She bit her chapped lips as she watched each forkful you took of the dinner she painstakingly prepared, perfectly in time with every one of your own hesitant bites. You tried your best to hide your discomfort but god! She didn’t even try and pretend to eat her own food - so much so that her fork was scraping against the plate, making you wince with each screech of metal hitting ceramic.

The silence, offset by the incessant skrr of her scraping, was unnerving; usually, you had a hard time keeping track of all the topics she hurled at you at the dinner table, about an outside world you were long since disconnected from. Honestly, it felt like she did it on purpose, to get a rise out of you so she finally had a valid excuse to punish you, not like she needed one. You were experienced in how “hands on” she could be when putting you in your place and you shuddered at the thought.

You were just about to take your last bite, or maybe ask her about her day to clear the air - you didn’t know, your head was starting to fill with static and your fork wavered between the plate and your mouth before she beat you to the punch.

She sprang up from her chair with so much fervour it fell at her feet as she skipped over to where you were sat to wrap her arms around your shoulders and nuzzle into your neck.

What was up with her? Your fork was still hovering in mid-air and you raised an eyebrow, one she thankfully couldn’t see, at her antics. Sure, Jinx was…eccentric to say the least but this? This was strange even for someone like her.

“How ya feeling toots? M’hoping you liked dinner, put a looooot of effort into it, y’know. Just for you.”

Her muffled voice sounded sickeningly sweet and airy against the delicate skin of your neck causing you to bristle at the feeling. The arms around you tightened and her breathing sharpened; if you were anyone else, you wouldn’t have seen through her almost imperceptible tells but she’s had you for a while and being able reading Jinx like a book comes with the unwanted territory.

You forced yourself to relax and scoop the now cold food into your mouth as you audibly hummed your satisfaction to appease her ever-changing moods. There. This should calm her down.

“I’m good, thanks Jinx. The food is so delici-”

You couldn’t even finish your sentence as your hold on the cutlery suddenly weakened. You couldn’t even react as you watched, or rather heard seeing as your vision was fading in and out with each passing moment, your fork clatter to the ground. The noise was dulled down by whatever was wrong with you.

Your head was all stuffed up, like it was crammed to the brim with dozens of fluffy cotton balls. You tried to shake the feeling away but instead came down with a horrific case of vertigo that left your brain reeling and your eyes clenched shut. The corrugated sheet walls, covered in Jinx’s colourful, tell-tale graffiti and copious doodles of the two of you, seemed to close in on you as your world quickly began to spin. A shaky hand darted out to grip Jinx’s forearm in search of some form of stability, uncaring of who exactly you had to rely on in order to achieve it.

Jinx finally straightened up, still keeping you in her tight grasp, and one of her hands slipped to touch your forehead, tutting at what she found.

“You’re burning up toots, gotta get you to lie down.”

Hot. So fucking hot.

You hadn’t even realised until she’d pointed it out but she was right. Too preoccupied in the midst of your delirium to notice you felt so incredibly hot and the sensation had spread from the top of your head to each of your extremities; not a single inch of your body was spared from the onslaught of pure heat setting you ablaze from the inside out.

Jinx scooped up your limp body in her arms, she was more athletic than she seemed from years of carrying heavy explosives but it never failed to surprise you, and carried you over to the bed you shared. The fairy lights strung across the small room were so blurry they melted into a mess of light and the polaroid pictures she took of you, back before you knew of her existence and she was just a stalker, made you feel as though you were in some awful, twisted nightmare.

Perhaps you were coming down with a sudden fever and you would have to lie there and let her care for you, although begrudgingly. You expected her to run off in search of medicine, this was concerning even to you and she had freaked out over much less, but instead she lay down next to you, her hands going from caressing your hot face to exploring the dips and curves of your body.

Her hand was cool as it came down to rest on your thigh, seemingly penetrating through the layers you had put on and somehow branding your still-flaming skin. The hand not on your thigh inspected your face, prodding here and there and opening your drooping eyelids to inspect something.

The look of pure panic and anxiety you expected to be on her face was confusingly absent, replaced with an oddly lustful expression. Her cheeks were ruddy, her lips parted and shiny from where she kept wetting them with her tongue and her eyes…her eyes startled you. Jinx’s pupils were blown out and only a slight ring of pink was visible, your heart began to race as you realised something very bad and completely out of your control was unfolding.

“Huh,” your captor huffed out, face dangerously close to yours, “He sure did up the dosage…maybe a little too much…” Jinx’s voice trailed off but you could just about make out what she muttered under her breath. You found that you didn’t care enough to figure out what exactly she meant, the delirious state you were in decided that for you.

“Angel, you really don’t understand what you do to me, do ya?” her voice came out powder- soft like the snow you used to jump in and make snow angels in when you were younger. But you didn’t know if she was whispering or if your hearing really was that messed up.

Her blue flyaways tickled the side of your face as she bent down to give a tentative kiss to your neck. Then, she peeled off each layer of clothing stuck to your body with such an ease that it made you question if she’s done this to you before.

“J-Jinx? What’re you doing?” Your voice came out slurred and no matter how badly you wanted to push her away and run, your body simply refused to listen to the devastated wails of your brain. Right now, all you wanted was to reject her smothering hold but you lacked the energy to actually do anything substantial, even clenching your fist seemed to drain you even further.

She dismissed your worried question with a less than pleased shhh and placed several more gentle pecks down the column of your throat and as much as it pained you to admit, it felt good. More than good actually - it was orgasmic. Each touch of her lips she gave you seemed to douse the raging flames for a moment before reigniting them, causing them to burn brighter than they did before and you couldn’t help but keen and writhe at the utter torture you were going through.

She perked up at the strangled noise that forced its way out of you, eyes narrowing in mischief and her lips curling up into a cruel smile.

“I knew you’d like that!” You decided then and there you hated how decisive she sounded, as if she had your body and soul mapped out on the palm of her hand, as if she knew you better than you knew yourself. Her lips then kissed a trail from your neck to your navel, stopping to nibble and lick at the ticklish skin there and giggling at your minute squirms, “It got me thinking, toots, after our bath time - what else can little ol’ me get away with?” She whispered the last part against your soft skin, voice lost to your flesh and mind.

Before you can start to decode what exactly she meant, she gives your stomach a final kiss before yanking down the final layer separating you from what she do badly yearned for. And maybe what you now yearned for too.

You can barely hold your head up to watch her movements, instead settling for tilting your head to the side but even that had you feeling like a shimmer-sick addict.

“P-please…” your weak voice warbled out and clearly Jinx had taken pity on you. Fuck, you didn’t even know what you were begging for but you knew that you couldn’t go on like this for any longer.

She nodded sympathetically, eyes wide and blown out as she reached out to cradle your heavy head, proving that she didn’t really feel bad for you; that you knew even in this addled state of yours. Her lips met yours and her tongue darted out to bite at your bottom lip, her way of asking for entry. Her tongue in your mouth placated the almost painful arousal you felt, with Jinx fighting for dominance when you weren’t even putting up a fight, happy enough to sit there and take whatever she gives you.

Your vision was hazy but you could see and feel the string of saliva connecting you both - hell, Jinx looked just as fucked up as you felt. The impish Jinx you were accustomed to was gone and all that was left in her wake was a woman who would stop at nothing to keep you with her.

Your arms felt like lead and you couldn’t even reach out to smooth your sweaty hand against your captor’s arm. You just wanted assurance this was real, that you weren’t dreaming this up, that she would help you get better no matter what it cost you.

“It’s a shame you’re like this, would’ve been nice to feel your hands on me.” She lamented with a pout but she was quick to dismiss the thought as she looked down at your body, all pretty and sweet and worked up just for her. The wetness between your thighs seemed to shimmer at her, as if it was proof that all her patience was finally manifesting in her dream come true. She wiggled out of her tight pants and top, she didn’t want to waste what you lovingly presented to her on a silver platter, and made more of a show of slipping out of her underwear before getting to business.

Her lithe form oh so slowly slithered down the mattress until she was directly facing you soaking wet pussy. You didn’t have the time nor faculty to close your legs from her invasive gaze before she dove in head-first, slurping at the liquid ambrosia dripping from you.

You let out a shocked gasp, the only thing you can manage despite needing to let out a guttural, full body moan, not expecting her to do anything so soon. She continued in that manner, licking long stripes up your cunt and swirling her tongue around your clit until you were nothing but a useless puddle beneath her.

You felt your vision waver and everything faded to black as the static in your mind only grew stronger - and that’s when your orgasm hit you like a freight train. And yet, the fiery longing within you only stopped for a mere second before returning in its full glory, making you more desperate than you were before and you still had no idea what caused this.

The feeling was too much and you passed out as Jinx was still eating you out but when you came to she was now fingering you, wrist tense and three fingers pistoning in and out of you with rapid determination.

Out again.

Back again; she had one of your nipples in her mouth, rolling it against her tongue, as he caressed your sensitive clit, doing the same to herself.

Out again.

Back again; she was kissing the skin at your thighs and leaving bruising hickies that stained the upper half of your legs and although you knew you should be mad, protest, do anything, you just moaned in abject pleasure. She looked up from where she was stamping her ownership to see you staring and couldn’t help but slowly smile, before saying in her husky voice, “Gonna fuck you so good you’ll never think about leaving me ever again. Just stay awake long enough for it, y’hear?”

Out again.

You woke up again, unsure of how long it had been since you last passed out, and this time her scrawny arms were manoeuvring the dead weight of your body, guiding your hips to slot just underneath hers so she could take up all the work of visciously grinding against you. With each drag of her hip against yours, your clits bumped together and you groaned as loudly as your tired vocal cords could manage.

She leaned forwards, still grinding against you as the slick squelches echoed in the room, and grasped both of your tits in her hands. Her nails dug into the softness of your chest before fondling the crescent marks she left behind and twisting at your sore nipples, causing you to yelp and her to darkly chuckle.

You moaned once the pain ebbed away and found yourself mesmerised looking at Jinx’s face; the low light in the room cast deep shadows across her face and only seemed to accentuate the feral look in her eyes, the sensual way she bit her lip as she looked on at you - you needed more.

“Fuck, toots, don’t want this to ever end. You’re so good for me.” Jinx moaned out as one hand retreated in order to play with her own chest. Her head was flung back and you watched, entranced, when her long braids fell to the floor and at the same time, the pale expanse of her throat was exposed to you. How badly you wanted to sink your teeth in and bite.

It was odd to see Jinx so vulnerable in front of you and it only confused your addled mind further but instead you were made to focus on the carnal desires flowing through your veins and igniting your blood.

You didn’t know how it was possible to orgasm again after already having so many prior to this, but once again you felt that burning pressure build up inside of you like getting a jolt from an exposed live wire. It bubbled up in the tips of your toes and shot up your spine, your weak body overwhelmed by the rapture Jinx had caused within you. Clearly she wasn’t unaffected by your display as her own high pitched moans and grunts reached your eyes and the grinding of her hips sped up so you both could ride out your highs together, hand in hand.

You couldn’t stop the falling tears as the torment from the past few hours finally died down at last and you could close your eyes for the last time that night and rest.

Once Jinx’s own orgasm slowly faded away into residual jolts of pleasure and then nothingness, she disentangled her trembling legs from yours and spooned your sleeping body, covering up your naked bodies with the blanket all whilst panting out of exhaustion.

“Nighty night, sweets.” Jinx waited until your breathing finally started to equalise, not that it was really necessary; you were so drugged out you probably wouldn’t remember this tomorrow, never mind wake up.

Then, she turned away and fumbled around in the crate next to the bed she used for storage and located the vial, smooth and cool and safe in her hands. Sure, she was upset your first time the way she intended it to happen was stolen from her, she could blame Singed and his inability to do things in moderation, but still she could sleep at night knowing she got to share such a special moment with you.

masterlist

#jinx x reader #yandere jinx x reader #yandere jinx #jinx #arcane #arcane fanfic #yandere #arcane x reader #arcane jinx #toxic jinx #toxic jinx x reader #request

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oaksgrove · 7 months ago

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Oak’s Masterlist ──.✦

No rush here. Take your time, the stories aren’t going anywhere.

— fics.ᐟ

Call of Duty:

Task Force 141

Lieutenant‘s Sanctuary - platonic!141 x Reader

Family Comes First - platonic!141 x Reader

Eternal Bonds - platonic!141 x child!reader

The Best-Kept Secret - platonic!141 x married!Reader

The Code-Breaker - platonic!141 x Reader

Simon “Ghost” Riley

Wrong Graves, Right Heart - Simon x Reader

Wrong Graves, Right Heart (part 2) - Simon x Reader

A Life Left Behind - Simon x ex!reader, John Price x Reader

Partner’s Curse - Ghost x Jinxed!Reader

The Perfect Match - Book Store Owner!Simon x Reader

The Neighbour Next Door - Neighbour!Simon x Reader

John Price

A Life Left Behind - Simon x ex!reader, John Price x Reader

A Captain for Christmas - John Price x Reader

Winning Them Over - John Price x Younger!Reader

The one you call - John Price x Reader

Captain’s New Year (‘A Captain for Christmas’ sequel) - John Price x Reader

The Captain and the Captain; Mission Parameters: Undefined - John Price x Reader

The Captain and the Captain; Operation Matchmaker - John Price x Reader

Charmed by Two - John Price x singlemom!Reader

Playing for Keeps - RugbyCaptain!John Price x Reader

Lazy Sunday Mornings - Retired!John Price x Reader

More Than Temporary - John Price x Introvert!Reader (V-Day Special!)

Fixer-Upper - John Price x Reader

Midnight Cravings - John Price x Pregnant!Reader

Strict Schedules, Except... - John Price x Reader

The Little Things - John Price x Reader

Say a Little Prayer - John Price x Jazz Singer!Reader

Don’t Be an Idiot, John. - John Price x Reader

Steady as Ever - John Price x Autistic!Reader

Kyle “Gaz” Garrick

The sweet side of bravery - Gaz x paediatrician!reader

The sweet side of Bravery (part 2) - Gaz x paediatrician!reader

Slow Burn - Gaz x Reader +18!

Still With You - Gaz x Deaf!Reader

Open Door Policy - Gaz x Wife!Reader

Johnny “Soap” Mctavish

Lego Legends: Moving Day Shenanigans - Soap x Reader

König

Welcoming Gift - König x Reader

Waiting for a Miracle - König x Reader

Unexpected Reaction - König x Reader

A Quiet Place - König x GN!Reader

Just The Two Of You - König x Wife!Reader

Keegan

A Place to Call Home - Keegan x Reader

Camouflage Gone Wrong - dad!Keegan x mom!Reader

Alex Keller

Perfectly Imperfect - Alex Keller x Insecure!Reader

Sebastian Krueger

The Weight of Perfection - Sebastian Krueger x Reader

Nikto

Where Loneliness Ends - Nikto x Wife!Reader

Nikolai

Soft Spot - Nikolai x Reader

Gary “Roach” Sanderson

Hungover Surprise - Gary x Reader

Alejandro Vargas

Too Late - Alejandro Vargas x Reader

Rodolfo “Rudy” Parra

Tiempo Perdido - Rodolfo Parra x Reader

Phineas and Ferb:

Montgomery “Monty” Monogram

Undercover Nurse - Monty Monogram x Reader

Major Francis Monogram

Romantic Vacation - Francis Monogram x Reader

The Arcana

Muriel

Roots - Muriel x Pregnant!Reader

Forest’s Lullaby - Muriel x Apprentice!Reader

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ask-rick-j-lotf · 13 days ago

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today we hold very very sad very very unexpected totally devistating funeral of evil confession blog. wow. death of the century. how awesome. not to say i cried though. crybabies applaud. mourn over death of blog. wow. such cool reality tv show. sniffing wiping tears with 100 dollar and no f###s to give on my hand.

some say and question: "why do you host funeral for something you do not like". simple. some do it purely for the love of the game. just like evil confession blog here. if it truly is social experiment then it is horrible on its job. social experiment... more like social torture and embarrassment. it is perfect sequel to already stupid brief "drama" of googling what is exactly definition of gooner and tell people they need to get j#b.

but who are we judge contributions they made? they make fandom much more honest you see! that what they are here for. well. were. they are gone. not that we care LMAOOOOOO.

now let see what contribution they make. let me pick one randomly on bowl. hmmm. oh! here is one: "anyone who hates on ralph will die and go to hell" ... ok. let pick another one! "jack should have gotten pregnant with ralph’s baby." ... oh! thats not... "i hate ocs they should DIE and GO TO HELL because they FLOOD my perfectly aesthetic dashboard and i HATE whimsy WAHH WAHH WAHH"... okay then! let switch to different one. maybe that good too! "everyone is a pedophile." ok what.

ok! so we now see it is horrible! well. that is what mod is trying to say. or mods. some say "b-b-b-bb-but they offer good take too! why not show that too!" sure. there is. still horrible! "but what if they autistic and you are ABLEIST!!! WAAHHH WAHH WAHH CANCEL!! I HATE FANDOM!! WAHHH" half of fandom is autistic stupid. you are piss poor excuse of ragebait. and so does straight lotf fan. and this blog we are 'morning'. well more like celebrating death but we pretending to be sad so shhh. (serious tho i better ragebait than you)

but that what they want right? they so morally superior because they always think of delete blog before. they know they do wrong and they acknowledge so they must be cool people and we should forget what they do before! in words: "We are all human and this was simply a way to imitate the book as a metaphor." as the very pages of the thing you are 'imitating': f### you. you did piss poor job at it. you want to live what it feel like to be in island?? LIVE IN MY SHOES. I DARE YOU. COWARD.

now for weeks everyone speculate on who is behind blog. even your grandma. even your mom who i made love to. i say.. what if it not one mod? what if it multi admin? what if i say its TWO mod? how do i know? well a little bird called narrative epiphany told me so.. and i know exactly who. BUT. i wont say. why? because i like vagueposting instead. i like to threat with style. i not here to help you solve your mistery. i here to be condescending and cynical and be VERY cryptic and symbolic. just like book! because what is better than to be exactly what gilliam wolding write me to do: be a very petty allegory. and he would absolutely hate all of you. like what kids say: it is all just a theory! you know exactly who i am talking to. ;)

now i announce: lotf-fandom-evil-confessions. 20 days. of lord of the flies fandom tumblr. passed away on june 29 2025. shout out to weird fish lady for accidentally being catalyst of blog death. rest in pepperoni. we will not miss you. my only wish is that i wished you died much faster.

this post is sponsored by ricks remaining sanity. buy now for $2.30 on sale for 69% clearance! comes with bonus existential crisis. only while supplies last.

#lotf #lotf oc #rick j lotf #ask blog #lord of the flies #lotf fandom #sorry i can not add banana mobile. try my best to add other decor though. i like this one.

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betty-fran · 14 days ago

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Being in the process of watching post-TOS films right now, and having rather mixed feelings about it, there is something that probably surprises me the most about all of this. We talk a lot about AOS Kirk and even SNW Kirk (which Paramount tries to show us as the canon young Kirk) as being non-TOS-canon, very different readings of Kirk as a character, but we never really talk about the fact that Film!Kirk is an equally non-TOS-canon reading of the character.

ETA: this is going to be a very long post that I wanted to finish earlier, but my latest meltdown obviously didn't let me finish anything I had planned this week.

[there will be a bit of film criticism now, you can skip that right away and move on to criticizing Kirk's characterization… this really sounds bad, but don't get me wrong, I like post-TOS films, but they're so damn different and I want to talk about it]

The post-TOS films certainly lose all the noir and theatricality of TOS, all its épater la bourgeoisie, this legacy of old cinema (TOS, strangely enough, is completely a child of the golden age of Hollywod, and is much closer to "Casablanca" than to "Star Wars") by completely projecting itself into science fiction (which, to be honest, was the last thing TOS did at all, like they flew in space, of course, but it was such an obviously special transcendent type of space, where you would rather meet Socrates than Xenomorph) and outright militarism.

Perhaps the most shocking moment in "The Motion Picture", and my personal point of no return in the sequels, was one of the opening scenes in the Enterprise's transporter room. The ship wasn't ready to leave yet, and the transporter wasn't working properly, but two crew members were sent out of the Starfleet transporter room, and they… just died in the process (why?). This wasn't negligence on the part of the ship or the crew; it was clearly blatant negligence on the part of Starfleet, and it was presented so quickly and dryly as if it were a fairly routine situation for everyone. They were a little upset, shook their heads, and went off to more pressing matters. It was an absolutely unnecessary scene for the plot (the only thing it affects is the appearance of a vacant science officer position on the ship, which, like, could’ve been vacant anyway? these scene is generally never mentioned again, you could just not add it at all), meaningless and cruel in its absurdity, which perfectly highlights the changes in the approach to the display of violence between the 60s and 80s.

[Enterprise transporter room] RAND: Do you read me Starfleet? Override us. Pull them back! STARFLEET [OC]: Unable to receive their pattern, Enterprise. KIRK: Give it to me. Starfleet, boost your matter gain, we need more signal! ...More signal! SCOTT: We're losing their pattern. RAND: Oh, no! They're forming! WOMAN: (a scream) SONAK: (a moan) KIRK: Starfleet, do you have them? STARFLEET [OC]: Enterprise, ...what we got back didn't live long, ...fortunately. KIRK: Starfleet, ...Kirk. Please ...express my condolences to their families. Commander Sonak's can be reached through the Vulcan Embassy. There was nothing you could have done, Rand. It wasn't your fault.

All of these things were the result, in political and cultural changes, the growth of noticeable gloom in science fiction, and mostly changes that the film industry experienced after the 1960s (the rapid development of technology, the expansion of the audience, and the attempt to move away from the theatrical relic of the past to spectacular films) and in the sequels this is felt not only in the script, which emphasizes dynamic scenes and is much more simplified in literary terms, but also in the acting, which is already much more static and tied to the camera (the acting is one of the reasons why TMP is so difficult to watch, apart from the frankly weak direction and editing, and despite the pretty good [still very Roddenberry-esque with all this love is a touch but not a touch] plot, which is quite funny, because the fact that this is happening against the background of the character of Ilia, who really plays a non-human /a body/ that uses a computer, doesn’tt improve the situation in any way, because none of the actors look noticeably more alive than her, and the only glimpse of emotion in the entire film is the scenes between K/S, which is of course very sweet, but…).

First of all, this concerns Shatner, who is actually a very good theatrical actor (and criticism of his performance in TOS is completely incomprehensible to me). Where he is absolutely alive, natural, and sincere in the noir, theatrical TOS, he is exhausted, stiff, and (I'll be honest) repulsively arrogant in the films’ blockbusterness and their efforts to be dramatic. I partly attribute this to the fact that, like me, he is completely unsuited to dark hair and it turns our lives into a Nietzschean abyss, but more likely the combination of his ego and inability to realize himself played a bad joke on him, and he lost something real, really important in the pursuit of attention. But that's why the K/S interaction scenes in the films (and all the Kirk scenes that involve Spock in any way) are so surprising to me, because they're the only scenes where Shatner suddenly sheds all of his ego, arrogance, and discontent, becoming again... sweet, alive, and natural in his acting, and sincere in his absolute admiration and warm love for the one important person in Kirk's life, and it's such a contrast to his acting at other times that I'm just, I don't know, Bill, what are you doing? He just sees Spock, and bang, he becomes a completely different person. In any case, Shatner's changes and internal conflicts have their impact on the character's formation and perception in the films, but they are only part of the bigger picture.

[end of films criticism, let's move on]

"The Motion Picture", our ground zero in Kirk drift, generally sets this emphasized masculine tone in Kirk's portrayal from the very beginning, clearly departing from both his gender-ambivalence and his noir femme fatale, and becoming quite constrained even in his nature of utopian humanism. In my conversation with my sister, I joked that it was quite funny that they were trying to convince us that TOS Kirk, who had survived genocide (famine, mass murder, psychological/physical abuse, and clearly read SA) at 13, and then went through a mass massacre on a ship he served in his 20s, for which he blamed himself, had become this in a few years of paperwork. The midlife crisis had apparently erased even his traumatic experiences. I generally understand the idea they were trying to show - a real captain who is tired on solid ground and more than anything in the world wants to return to space, and even more - to his ship, the only place where he was truly happy + (this is of course not so obvious, but it's damn visible in Shatner's acting and in subsequent K/S scenes) this existing gap between him and Spock is a tangible trauma and Spock's absence in his life breaks him to pieces. But, even with this idea of growing up/(literally) returning from heaven to earth, Kirk's behavior in TMP frankly doesn't align well with his characterization in TOS.

We see several consecutive scenes of his conflict with Decker, the acting captain of the Enterprise, whom he removes from his post by order of Starfleet, and although Decker himself is a rather static character, in whose development not much effort was put, in all these scenes, he is clearly... right.

KIRK: I'm taking over the center seat, Will. DECKER: You're what? KIRK: I'm replacing you as Captain of the Enterprise. You'll stay on as Executive Officer. Temporary grade reduction to Commander. DECKER: You personally, are assuming command? KIRK: Yeah. DECKER: May I ask? Why? KIRK: My experience, five years out there dealing with unknowns like this, my familiarity with the Enterprise, this crew. DECKER: Admiral, this is an almost totally new Enterprise. You don't know her a tenth as well as I do. KIRK: That's why you're staying aboard. I'm sorry, DECKER: No, Admiral. I don't think you are, not one damn bit. I remember when you recommended me for this command. You told me how envious you were, and how much you hoped you'd find a way to get a starship command again. Well, it looks like you found a way.

KIRK: All right, explanation? Why was my phaser order countermanded? DECKER: Sir, the Enterprise redesign increases phaser power by channelling it through the main engines. When they went into anti-matter imbalance, the phasers were automatically cut off. KIRK: Then you acted properly, of course. DECKER: Thank you, sir. ...I'm sorry if I embarrassed you. KIRK: You saved the ship. DECKER: I'm aware of that, sir. KIRK: Stop ...competing with me, Decker! DECKER: Permission to speak freely, sir? KIRK: Granted. DECKER: Sir, you haven't logged a single star hour in two and a half years. That, plus your unfamiliarity with the ship's redesign, in my opinion, sir, seriously jeopardises this mission.

We are also given an emphasis on how Kirk puts pressure on his crew:

KIRK: Programming ready? DECKER: Programme set for standard warp entry, Captain, ...but I still recommend further simulation study. KIRK: Mister Decker, every minute brings that object closer to Earth! Engineering! Stand by for warp drive. SCOTT (on intercom): We need further warp simulation on the flow sensors. KIRK: Engineer, we need warp speed now! McCOY: Jim, you're pushing. Your people know their jobs.

It's not that he's never done it before, but there's a literally physically palpable difference in how and when it happened in TOS and how it happens in TMP, and how truly unjustified (apart from wanting to seem significant and controlling again) Kirk's behavior in TMP is.

He also, not particularly justified, takes a risk by allowing that weird electric thing onto the bridge, which leads to further tragic events.

KIRK: Mister Decker? DECKER: I advise caution, Captain, we can't withstand another attack. KIRK: That thing is twenty hours away from Earth. We know nothing about it yet. DECKER: That's precisely the point. We don't know it will do. Moving into that Cloud, at this time, is an unwarranted gamble. KIRK: How do you define 'unwarranted'? DECKER: You asked my opinion, sir. ... DECKER: Ilia! ...Ilia! (the probe with Ilia disappears) DECKER: This is how I define unwarranted!

In fact, this whole Kirk vs Decker situation is an obvious paraphrase of "The Doomsday Machine", where the same Kirk vs Decker conflict is played out (god, it's not even funny), but with the roles reversed. Kirk now finds himself in the role of an older, more experienced man, but it’s his self-confidence, obsession with an idea, fear of being rejected, and his apparent conflict as an authority figure against the younger and more brilliant captain (ok, it's not about TMP Decker, but you get the idea) that prevents him from being truly flexible and leads to abuse of power. Of course, TMP Kirk handles this situation better than TOS Decker (but he was also not in a state of traumatic shock after the death of his team at the time of the events).

I understand what they meant by this (ok, again), but it's such a blatant misreading of TOS Kirk as a character that I'm starting to think that even AOS Kirk at some points was read much closer to TOS Kirk (maybe not really, but even in the face of the obvious opposition between the two, AOS Kirk got his clearly existing psychological trauma/unhealthy coping patterns and (coincidentally, this was definitely not planned in the heteronormativity of the reboot) his sexual ambivalence) than Film!Kirk. Now I understand much better where this concept of the Golden Boy of Starfleet, the lucky guy who easily gets out of any situation, a kind of exemplary good young man who has had no real difficulties in life, or terrible PTSD or anything shameful, disgusting, dirty, that you want to forget, in his past, came from. The 2009 film (thank's aos) gave new life to this, clearly emphasizing the key difference between AOS/TOS Kirk - the presence of parental support (although it's not like Kirk's parents were ever actually mentioned in TOS, which makes this concept pretty meaningless in light of TOS):

KIRK: Wait. Where you came from, did I know my father? SPOCK PRIME: Yes. You often spoke of him as being your inspiration for joining Starfleet. He proudly lived to see you become Captain of the Enterprise.

And of course, there's that important line between Kirk and David in TWOK, which is obviously easy to read as "the loss of Spock has become such an all-encompassing and overwhelming grief for Kirk that nothing can compare to it" (the films unexpectedly turned out to be even more romantic than the series, which is partly exacerbated by the fact that they lose TOS in the plot and K/S becomes just the only palpably real thing on which it’s based at all), but it actually works very strangely with the TOS Kirk’s death experience, by crossing out the very existence of this:

DAVID: Lieutenant Saavik was right. You never have faced a death. KIRK: No, not like this. I haven't faced death. I've cheated death. I tricked my way out of death ...and patted myself on the back for my ingenuity. ...I know nothing.

I patted myself on the back for my ingenuity. I honestly think about these words in the context of Kirk's words in Obsession /No man achieves Starfleet command without relying on intuition, but have I made a rational decision? Am I letting the horrors of the past distort my judgment of the present?/ and it somehow doesn't fit together at all. How can a man who has lived for over 10 years with a constant paranoid sense of guilt for the deaths of about 200 people through his own mistake consider a survival experience as cheating death and commendable ingenuity? And of course, another obvious thing that doesn't fit together is his Tarsus IV experience. Even if we imagine that somehow Kirk managed to escape a truly horrific experience and that he could’ve saved his own life through trickery and ingenuity, this absolutely contradicts his characterization in TOS. He was a child (at that borderline age when traumatic experience is particularly merciless in its memories), he saw four thousand people die, he experienced a terrible famine (which is hinted at repeatedly in TOS), violence, and experiences of violation of personal physical/psychological space (which is hinted at even more in TOS). "The Conscience of the King" is a beautiful episode in its complexity, which actually gives us enough to understand how fundamentally traumatic these events are, and how much they have influenced Kirk's increasingly (humanistic) worldview:

KIRK: What were you twenty years ago? KARIDIAN: Younger, Captain. Much younger. KIRK: So was I. But I remember. Let's see if you do. Read this into that communicator on the wall. It will be recorded and compared to a piece of Kodos' voice film we have in our files... ... KARIDIAN: (reading) The revolution is successful, but survival depends on drastic measures. Your continued existence represents a threat to the well-being of society. (stops looking at the paper) Your lives means slow death to the more valued members of the colony. Therefore I have no alternative but to sentence you to death. Your execution is so ordered. Signed, Kodos, governor of Tarsus Four. KIRK: I remember the words. I wrote them down. You said them like you knew them. You hardly glanced at the paper. KARIDIAN: I learn my parts very quickly. KIRK: Are you sure? Are you sure you didn't act this role out in front of a captive audience whom you blasted out of existence without mercy? … KARIDIAN: Or is. Kodos made a decision of life and death. Some had to die that others might live. You're a man of decision, Captain. You ought to understand that. KIRK: All I understand is that four thousand people were needlessly butchered.

It honestly surprises me how a character who was written as someone who had more than one experience of mass slaughter, which he witnessed at a young age, suddenly begins to be interpreted as someone who never really encountered death, but only trickery and ingenuity avoided it. TOS Kirk is obviously a player, an actor, a pirate, and a seductress, a person who is really capable of using all available methods to survive/to save others, but all of these actions of TOS Kirk are, and this is actually well written and consistently shown to us, the result of the fact that he has really faced death, and is very well aware of what it is. This is not empty /I don’t believe in no-win scenarios/ this is a clear awareness of what price you have to pay to survive things like genocide. A person who pays that price, who goes through something like that, will never say that they have ingeniously escaped death or that they are lucky.

This reminded me of a very stupid conversation I had with my coworker about Dostoevsky, he's obviously one of my least favorite writers, and talking about him on a special level means just ruin the day, but in this conversation we touched on the topic that Dostoevsky was supposed to be executed, but at the last moment, literally before the shooting, he was pardoned, such an inhumanly cruel experience that forever broke his psyche and affected all his subsequent work, to which my coworker just said, "Exactly, he's such a lucky guy.” I thought for a long time about what to answer him, and I realized that it wasn't like I really had the words for it. Some experiences are the exact opposite of winning a lottery ticket, and living with the memories of them can be more unbearable than death itself, sometimes the price of survival is too high, but even if you get through it, it stays with you forever, and TOS actually talks a lot about these things, but it was hardly something that was really thought about in the 80s.

Spock's death would undoubtedly be the most terrifying and personally difficult experience in TOS Kirk's life, but it wouldn't be the first. It wouldn't be that first terrifying shattering, first shock of a great loss, but it would be the last straw, that point in the chain of all these endless losses and loneliness and pain, after which there would hardly be anything else. It would read much closer to the quiet absolute doom of Yanagihara's "A Little Life" ending than to what we see in TWOK. And while this scene is particularly touching for understanding the K/S relationship, it would have had much more meaning if this confession /No, not like this/ had occurred against the backdrop of Kirk's already existing horrific death experience, the reminder of which is a constant line in TOS, rather than against the backdrop of completely erasing this experience from the plot, reducing it to a simple /I cheated death because I don't believe in no-win scenarios/ simplifying both Kirk as a character and Spock's true significance in his life.

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shaunamilfman · 26 days ago

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wicked and weary [1]

pairing: Jackie Taylor x Shauna Shipman x f!reader Summary: You and your girlfriends were survivors. At least, that's how the story goes. You weren't eager to correct them. Two years after the murders in Wiskayok, the three of you have built a life together at college, free from all the horrors of the past. At least, you thought you were. Note: minors dni. warning for graphic descriptions of violence and probably smut in the series in general. sequel to the ghost you dressed up as. literally unreadable without them lmaoo. Masterlist

Jackie groans as your alarm goes off, slapping wildly in its general direction but only managing to catch you on the side of the head. It somehow never fails to wake Jackie up when it wasn’t set for her classes. Otherwise, she could sleep through the apocalypse. She was always such a morning person in high school, but that hadn’t lasted long after graduation. It was true what they said: college 8 AM was not high school 8 AM. Jackie had learned that lesson the hard way her freshman year. You can’t say she doesn’t learn now that she avoids them like the plague. You weren’t so lucky.

You hiss in pain, though it honestly didn’t hurt that much, as you reach over Shauna to turn it off yourself. Your motivation for crying out anyway is entirely selfish, even in your half-asleep state. Jackie gasps the moment she connects the dots—your head, her hand, your cry of pain—rolling over in your arms in a mess of blanket as she presses her palm apologetically against the side of your forehead.

While you appreciate the effort, it mostly just serves to put pressure on your sore skin. You keep that to yourself, happy to accept Jackie scooting close to press a kiss against your forehead. She hooks one bare leg loosely over yours to draw herself closer, careful not to nudge Shauna too hard as she does. She couldn’t go around hitting both of her girlfriends on the same day, after all. There are limits, even if Jackie pretends she can’t see them.

“I’m sorry, baby,” Jackie murmurs as she peppers kisses across your forehead, still so affectionate even barely conscious.

Shauna was warm against your back, her limp arm resting heavily over your side. She always slept like that when you had to get up before her so that you couldn’t avoid waking her up on your way out. You always have to peel her off of you before you can take a shower, a necessary evil with how hot she made you at night. You wake up sweaty more often than not.

It was devious of her, truly, but you had to let her get that in when she could. It’s not like she has many options to express that anymore these days.

You try to seem unaffected by it if only to draw more kisses, but you can’t keep the dopey grin from your face for long. Jackie has that effect on everyone; even you can only resist it for so long. There has to be some kind of built-up immunity. Shauna’s at least partially an example of that, but it hasn’t seemed to become any less effective over the years as far as you were concerned.

“Baby is right,” Shauna murmurs against the back of your neck, her voice low and teasing and thick with sleep. The sound of it makes you shiver, especially with her being close enough that you can feel her breath brushing against her skin as she speaks. Jackie gives you a commiserating look. “Milking it, much?”

You snort, caught between laughter and embarrassment at being caught so easily. Maybe it wasn’t your most thought-out plan, but a girl could only think so much before 9 AM. You were working with what you had, and it was going perfectly fine before she stepped in.

Jackie presses twin kisses against your flushed cheeks as she murmurs in your ear, “Jealous.”

“Damn, Shauna,” you say, shifting to face her. Jackie grumbles as you do so, reluctantly cuddling up against your back as she props herself up on her arm to watch the two of you better. “Wake up on the wrong side of the bed already?”

You can see Shauna’s exhaustion on her face as she blinks those brown eyes sleepily, that hazy, half-awake glow that makes you want to grab her cheeks and squeeze them together. She would definitely bite you for it, but that’s not necessarily a bad thing. Not when it comes to her, at least. It would make quite the interesting wake-up call if you weren’t already on the verge of running late to start getting ready.

The sleep lines across her face certainly don’t help with the urge. She’s so cute. A terrifying murderer capable of extreme violence, but so cute. Shauna might don the mask again if she heard you say that, though.

Shauna scoffs quietly, pinching at the skin of your hip lazily as she presses her face more firmly into your shoulder. “Just for that, I’m not letting you go to class.”

Jackie hums in agreement, reaching over your shoulder to pat Shauna on the arm. “She always has the best ideas.”

“I’m sure it has nothing to do with who’s in my class.”

Their ensuing silence speaks volumes. No jokes, no teasing words, nothing. It was like you just shouted in a quiet room.

You sigh. “You promised you wouldn’t be weird—”

“We’re not weird,” Shauna cuts in, immediately over-defensive.

At the same time, Jackie asks with feigned nonchalance, “Who’s being weird?”

“Melissa, again?” You ask, rolling your eyes. If they weren’t pressed up so firmly against you on either side, you would’ve gotten up and left just to avoid the same damn conversation for the third time this week. “You can’t just hate her because she has a, and I quote, punchable face.”

“That’s a little much,” Jackie admits with a nod. Shauna huffs irritably as she holds tighter to your hip.

“Though,” she continues thoughtfully, “That hat of hers is a little much. It’s offensive. A crime to the eyes.”

“You two are so normal.”

“She picked your notebook up when you dropped it,” Shauna accuses.

“She laughed at your joke. It wasn’t even funny. That’s my job,” Jackie adds darkly before adding, “Our job. Sorry, Shauna.”

“Too bad. The two of you made friends, so now I get one too. You only have yourselves to blame.”

“Jackie made a friend first. With Lottie of all people,” Shauna grumbles.

“Lottie’s nice,” Jackie defends, though her heart isn’t all the way in it.

You think she might give her up in a heartbeat if you agree to never talk to anyone else ever again—you can’t say you aren’t tempted—but that was just how she was. Your first few years of high school, you didn’t think anyone existed in Jackie Taylor’s world but Shauna Shipman. That was still mostly true, but you somehow found yourself as another exception. Even now you aren’t entirely sure what it was about you that drew them to you in the first place, but you aren’t one to question a good thing.

Maybe a few of your friends got murdered in the process, but you weren’t really all that fond of them in the long run. Most friendships end after high school anyway, right? Still, you might go ahead and skip the reunion. Not that you’ve really been planning on attending anyway. Half the school suspecting you of murdering your fellow classmates for a good part of your senior year can make those “remember when” moments a touch awkward.

Even after Travis and Jeff were all but found guilty on account of both of them being dead—a murder-suicide that only the three of you knew wasn’t quite what happened—there was still the occasional conspiracy theorist who thought you had something to do with it. Crazy, right?

You couldn’t blame them.

“As long as she’s nice,” you say teasingly, shrugging Jackie’s arm off your shoulder as you start to wiggle your way out of their grasps.

“She never thought you killed people,” Jackie points out, taking a chance to cop a feel before she lets you go.

“She did kill those people,” Shauna says wryly.

You squirm away from her hand with a quiet laugh, nearly climbing over Shauna as you stumble out of your bed. It wasn’t quite your bed—in the sense that it wasn’t the one assigned to you. That was shoved off in the corner above your desk. Jackie had a brainstorm, her words, your first day in the dorm and pushed her and Shauna’s twin beds together. It practically doubled the amount of space you used to share on Shauna’s twin bed at home. You can’t deny that you enjoy not having to worry about waking up on the floor in the morning.

Jackie always made you move them back apart whenever it was time for the dorm to be inspected, insisting that she didn’t want to give anyone any ideas about what was happening in here. Pointing out that she didn’t seem to mind giving anyone any ideas when Lottie had playfully flirted with you two semesters before hadn’t done you any favors. In fact, it had just led to you lugging the twin across the room by yourself while she sat on her bed and crossed her arms until you were done.

Truthfully, you didn’t much see the point of the whole thing. The fact that your lofted bed over your desk was covered in boxes—a mix of Jackie’s many winter clothes, books Shauna insisted she needed, and the collection of things you couldn’t find a place for—didn’t seem to support that heterosexual lifestyle she was trying to portray to the RA anyway.

You’ve learned to pick your battles over the years.

Just like how, when you hear the two of them bickering on the bed behind you, you mind your business as you quietly creep out of the room to go take a shower before class. You wouldn’t have it any other way, really.

…

“God,” Melissa says, walking half a step too fast to keep up with you. She was far too chipper for someone who just walked out of a double-block lecture, but that was Melissa for you. She’s the only person you’ve ever met who could stand to rival Jackie in that regard.

It’s just enough to be noticeable, but not enough for you to think much of it. You would slow down enough for her to keep step with you easier, but not today. Not when the promise of being sandwiched between your girlfriends at your usual lunch table eating fries stolen off of Shauna’s plate is so close at hand.

“She’s such a hardass,” Melissa continues, glancing over at you when you don’t immediately respond.

You hum distractedly, looking around to see if either of them has decided to meet you outside of class. It’s only when you’re sure they’re just going to meet you there that you finally give Melissa your full attention.

“Did she knock you off a bunch of points for your essay again?” You ask. The thought was a little irritating, considering you took time out of your busy schedule—your usual making out with Jackie before she had to leave for class time—to help her look over what the professor had marked her off for last time. It was a fairly easy elective, one that you added just to save time to study for your harder classes, but Melissa was really seeming to struggle with it. She certainly needed your help with enough stuff, at least.

“Yes!” Melissa says, bouncing on the balls of her feet as she walks. She pauses to adjust her hat as a gust of wind catches the brim of it and nearly knocks it off her head before jogging to catch up with you again. “Something about the structure or something. I don’t know. Will you go over it later with me?”

“It’s an easy enough class,” you say more to yourself than anyone else, wincing as the words actually come out of your mouth. That sounded a little too much like Shauna for your taste.

“Easy for you,” Melissa says. It would be easy enough for the words to come out bitterly, as deserved as it would be, but they were anything but. The words were light, almost admiring. It was entirely too sweet, like a compliment you didn’t ask for. You aren’t sure you’re entirely comfortable with it.

“But will you?”

“Melissa,” you sigh, giving up as she pouts over at you. God knows you fell victim to that enough. “Yeah, sure. But you’re buying me lunch.”

Melissa cheers, bumping your shoulder with hers like you just agreed to go to prom with her. She doesn’t seem to notice the step you take in the other direction as you put a little more space between the two of you. That, or she just doesn’t comment on it. Sometimes you think she sees more than you give her credit for, then you watch her gasp in awe as someone walks a golden retriever across the street, and the thought dies before it can be fully formed.

She talks a lot more than she should, happy to fill up the silence on your end as you make the long walk to lunch. It was nice enough, and you didn’t entirely mind listening to her talk about her issues with Gen. If there’s one thing you’ve noticed about Melissa, it’s that she really talks with her hands. It draws a lot of attention from passersby, but no amount of dirty looks seems to get to her at all. Her best friend was the obvious choice for a roommate, but sometimes living together was an entirely different thing. It certainly was for them, at least.

You and your girlfriends had fallen into step without much issue before you’d even begun to unpack, but you’d practically lived together as much as your parents had allowed in high school anyway.

Melissa reminds you a bit of Jackie in a weird way. Jackie was all sharp edges and cherry lip gloss, her prettiest dress on with a knife held just behind her back. Melissa’s… nice. She’s soft where Jackie is steel. Chatty, but not in that effortlessly charming way that Jackie was. Chatty in a way that could get annoying. Every now and then you’ll catch a familiar glimpse of your girlfriend in the purse of Melissa’s lips or the way she tilts her head. It wasn’t a direct comparison; no one could compare to Jackie in any way that matters.

But it was still a thought in the back of your mind sometimes. You know that if you ever voiced it aloud, it would end with Melissa’s head being separated from her body, but you can’t help the thought.

It was probably why you started hanging out with her in the first place. That, and refusing not to have a friend of your own when your girlfriends’ both did. It was Jackie’s fault, really, because Shauna only befriended Tai because she refuses to let Jackie have anything she doesn’t. Petty antics dressed as fair play. Maybe you could’ve ended the cycle, but you don’t date the two of them without matching their crazy at least a little bit.

Hell, you once murdered Jackie’s boyfriend. You justified it with him knowing too much, but you mostly just wanted to kill him for the sake of it.

Still, thinking of the two of them in the same sentence was not a good idea. Jackie doesn’t share well, and Shauna doesn’t share at all. You like the way they get so riled up by the mere mention of her name. It reminds you pleasantly of that girl you went out with in high school, the one who had made everything finally fall into place for the three of you.

By the time you head to your usual booth toward the back, free food in hand courtesy of Melissa, everyone else has already shown up. You slide into the obvious seat left for you, on the end next to Jackie, who always loved to sit in the middle. Melissa hesitates as she catches sight of your invited guest in her seat, who steadfastly pretends not to see Melissa staring at her as she twirls her finger around in her water cup.

Not to be run off by the likes of Misty Quigley, Melissa sits her food down on the table and walks off to drag a chair over with an obnoxiously loud screech as she sits down. The look she gives Misty is nasty enough that you raise an eyebrow in shock, unaware she was capable of such a thing. The look of sudden intrigue on Shauna’s face as she looks over tells you that she wasn’t aware of it either. Shauna’s eyes glance up and down Melissa’s body, suddenly reassessing her.

Misty doesn’t flinch at the look Melissa gives her. She barely even acknowledges it.

You don’t give it much thought as Jackie rests her head against your arm, looking up at you with an amused look as she subtly glances at Misty and then back again. It’s not that Jackie entirely minds her presence, but the girl has been all but stalking her around campus since they worked together on a group project last semester.

Shauna was almost hysterical over the whole thing, and you’ve had to calm her down from storming over to Misty’s dorm and slitting her throat more than once. You aren’t entirely sure that you’ll be up for stopping her the next time it happens. No one could stalk your girlfriends but you, after all.

You wrap your arm around Jackie’s waist without much thought, fingers curling beneath her shirt and squeezing her hip affectionately before you draw your hand back. Her breath hitches almost imperceptibly, a tiny sigh that barely manages to leave her lips for all that you can hear it. Jackie’s face is flushed as you pull back, which momentarily leaves you confused until you remember exactly which hip you grabbed: the one that bears the scars of your initials. It hadn’t been purposeful, but you’re sure some deep part of you reached for it instinctively. Casual. Territorial.

Jackie likes when you're possessive.

“In public?” Jackie murmurs beneath her breath.

Without missing a beat, you glance in Misty’s direction. She’s sitting too close and seems entirely too interested in what you’re whispering about. Then you look back to find Jackie smirking, an invitation even as she eyes you in clear warning.

The small smile Shauna’s been giving you since you sat down turns into an eye roll as you reach over to snag one of her fries. There were already quite a few missing, and you have a sneaking suspicion that it has more to do with Jackie than it does with Shauna. The smug grin on Jackie’s face as she watches you eat it all but confirms it.

“Buy your own fries,” Shauna says, holding her arm out to block her tray.

“Maybe I should wear my own clothes too,” you quip, tugging at the collar of Shauna’s oversized flannel draped over your shoulders.

Her eyes narrow warningly before she draws her hand back with a sigh, turning her ire on Tai as she snickers from the other side of the table. “What are you looking at?” Shauna snaps, which doesn’t stop the smug grin from growing larger on Tai’s face as she just shrugs her shoulders.

“Nothing,” Tai says, utterly unbothered by Shauna’s glare. You’re actually impressed by the whole thing. “You’ve just gotten so domestic.”

After the way you’ve seen her act with Van, you don’t think she has much room to talk, and her sudden and intense interest in her drink seems to indicate she thinks the same.

Then, Misty jumps in. Uninvited and just a beat too late.

“Did you get dressed in the dark?” Misty asks with a forced laugh. It’s jagged around the edges, like she’s been practicing it in the mirror and it doesn’t come out the way she’s rehearsed it. She fiddles with the arm of her glasses as the whole table turns to look over at her. “Y’know, just sometimes I put on clothes I didn’t mean to either…”

Jackie blinks in surprise, a look bordering on disbelief on her face until it smooths into something carefully neutral. Her lips twitch reflexively before stilling. Whether it was into a smile or a grimace, you can’t tell. Lottie takes a loud sip from her nearly empty drink, slowly rolling the glass and frowning at the jingling ice. The clink of it is too deliberate to be anything but a performance. Melissa just straight out snickers, pressing her hand up to her mouth in a delayed effort to hide it. There’s too much obvious glee in her eyes for it to be anything but.

Tai emits a short, dry, “Huh.” Somehow devoid of judgment and so full of it at the same time.

You feel Jackie’s hand suddenly grip your thigh, her thumb digging in hard enough your whole body freezes in place. It has the intended effect—a warning—while also serving to bring your attention entirely away from Misty to focus on not crying out in pain. That was a Shauna trick right there. Your girlfriends were teaming up against you.

In an added Jackie touch, she strokes her thumb apologetically over what you’re sure is a blooming bruise. It would be soft and loving if she wasn’t the one who put it there. Despite her being the guilty party, you still think it's soft and loving. They’ve broken you.

“Did you think that’s the same thing?” Shauna asks, unimpressed. She’s not one to be outdone. Jackie picked the wrong girlfriend to worry about in all the chaos. Shauna leans back in her seat, watching Misty with the same detached curiosity she gave your victims.

Misty’s smile falters as she glances around at the other girls, who all seem to be busy. Except for Lottie, who shrugs, and Jackie, who smiles at her encouragingly.

“Uh, yeah, Misty,” you agree, turning your attention down to your lunch. “Totally.”

It takes a concentrated effort on your part not to choke on a mouthful of your lunch as Jackie squeezes your thigh appreciatively. Now that you’re thinking about it, you could actually be nicer to Misty. There’s no sudden motivation for that, of course.

Misty opens her mouth again, presumably to dig the hole deeper, but Jackie beats her to it.

“God, I’ve got the worst test on Friday.”

“I wouldn’t worry about that,” Lottie interjects. It’s one of the first things she’s said the whole time you’ve been sitting here, and it’s terribly ominous. Not the words themselves—they were fairly normal—but there was something about the way that she said them. The absolute certainty on her face as she looks up from the packets of sugar she was stacking on the table.

“Why did that sound like a threat?” Melissa whispers, visibly shuddering as she stares at Lottie from across the table. She coughs as you elbow her in the side.

“You never want to worry about anything,” Jackie says, equally dismissive and playful.

Lottie just smiles across the table, watching you a moment too long before looking away again. No one seems to notice but you and Shauna, who sits up straighter in her seat.

The rest of lunch goes better than the start of it, which probably wasn’t that hard, all things considered. You like the group of girls you’ve acquired, but you think you would still rather it have just been the three of you. Jackie finally seems to take pity on you, mostly just Shauna and her tapping leg beneath the table, and announces that she needs to get to the library to study.

You slide out of the booth with nothing short of relief, Shauna stumbling after you like she hasn’t seen sunlight in days. Melissa starts to stand up to tell you goodbye, but a well-placed glare from Shauna has her slinking back into her seat. She doesn’t seem all that upset about the whole thing, at least.

“See you later…” Melissa says.

Jackie glances around, her eyebrows scrunching together as she scans the table. “Have you seen…”

Lottie holds up Jackie’s tote bag knowingly.

She grins, leaning down to give a still-seated Lottie a one-armed hug before she pulls it over her shoulder with a dramatic groan.

“Heavy?” Lottie asks, like she didn’t just hand it to Jackie effortlessly.

You share a glance with Shauna, who silently holds out one fist over her palm. Rock, paper, scissors. A silent countdown, paper to her scissors, before you pull away with a sigh. You never did seem to beat her. She cheats somehow—you just can’t prove it. Shauna was slippery like that.

“Need help, Jackie?”

Jackie shrugs it off her shoulder without a second thought as she holds it out in your direction. “Thanks, babe.” She nearly skips out of the room without bothering to look behind her as you follow behind.

…

“Baby!” Jackie shouts excitedly as she walks through the door, eyes widening when she catches sight of more of her girlfriends than she was expecting.

Or, maybe, it was the sight of Shauna sitting pretty in your lap, eyes half-lidded and face flushed with arousal. Her lips are pink and swollen from the effort she’s been expending as she works a line of kisses across your skin. She pulls back reluctantly, almost looking annoyed at Jackie’s interruption until her face softens into something more welcoming as she glances back over her shoulder. Jackie’s footsteps falter, and her face twists into something between awe and a flicker of jealousy that she wasn’t already a part of it.

Your fingers are still loosely curled in Shauna’s hair as you look over her shoulder at Jackie, both of your breathing ragged as she leaves your skin marked and wet with her spit. Both of you were far too interested in one another to notice anyone else until Jackie came stumbling in. Shauna’s shirt is long gone, something that draws Jackie’s attention long enough that you have to gently remind her to close the door behind her.

“Door, Jackie,” you prompt gently.

“Door, Jax,” Shauna repeats. Jackie didn’t seem to notice when you said it the first time. Now she nods slightly in understanding.

The two of you are still frozen with the odd feeling of being a teenager again. Like you got caught doing something that you shouldn’t have been doing. Shauna catches your eyes, shrugging slightly before leaning in to give you a parting kiss. It wasn’t nearly as chaste as that sort of thing should have been, but you were just as guilty of it as she was. You could never get enough of either of them.

Jackie steps in the room absently as she shuts the door, more out of a desire to do what you say than any real understanding of why she should. It takes her a moment, but she manages to shake herself out of it just in time to cross her arms over her chest.

“You started without me?” Jackie asks. She sounds heartbroken, but the both of you know that she’s mostly just playing. Mostly. If she had it her way, you wouldn’t even get a peck on the lips without her being able to see it.

“Just keeping the bed warm for you,” you tease, running your hand up the outside of Shauna’s thigh as you relax into the pillows. Shauna’s eyes fall down to watch as your thumb slowly presses against the place you know your initials lie, lovingly carved into her skin. She grabs at your shoulder pointedly, tracing her own.

Jackie clears her throat exaggeratedly as she stops at the side of the bed.

Your hands settle on Shauna’s hips, fingers flexing to trace across bare skin above the waistband of her jeans. They did excellent things for her thighs, so you really can’t be blamed for getting distracted again. Neither can Shauna be blamed for rolling her hips down against your lap.

She never did anything wrong, of course.

“Should’ve just waited for me,” Jackie complains lightly, tipping Shauna’s head back to kiss her. Never truly upset—just enough to get her some attention for herself.

Shauna moves easily, grabbing at Jackie’s belt loops as she tugs her into bed. You can hear the mattresses protesting beneath Jackie’s knees, a squeaky noise you’ve more than gotten used to over the last two years. You barely acknowledge the sound anymore, especially when you’re far too content to watch the two of them kiss. With a front row seat to the action, you wouldn’t care if the ceiling caved in. A squeaky bed was barely enough to register in your mind

Jackie pulls away just long enough to kiss you too, a hello just as much as it was renewing her claim on you. You pull one hand away from Shauna’s hips to cut Jackie’s chin, an action that earns you a huffed complaint from her direction. She kisses you like she missed you, flattering even knowing she couldn’t have possibly had a chance to.

“Mmm, wait,” Jackie murmurs against your lips, pulling away even as you try to chase after her. She doesn’t want to, you can tell, but there’s something holding her back. You don’t like the thought of that at all, and it’s obvious Shauna doesn’t either.

“Waited long enough,” Shauna insists, shifting in your lap. It’s clear that she at least is planning on reclaiming your attention if Jackie doesn’t want it. You can always count on Shauna to be horny, at least.

Jackie grins, slowly shaking her head as her expression becomes more serious. “Look,” she says, holding a newspaper up. It’s the campus paper, that trashy newspaper that the three of you mock more often than not. More rumor mill than hard-hitting journalism, the kind of thing that Shauna has called an insult to the written word.

There have been some really atrocious headlines in your time, but you can’t imagine what Jackie could deem funny enough to turn down a chance to get some. Even as you turn your head on the pillows to get a better look at it, you’re still half-expecting it to be some sex cult rumor involving the math department that you can laugh about while you work Jackie’s shirt up and over her shoulders.

Right there on the front page: a grainy photo of a blood-soaked shoe sticking out behind yellow tape. It takes you longer than it should to realize that the shoe is connected to an ankle, the body just out of view behind the corner of a building. It’s not a building you know well enough to recognize on sight, but you’re familiar enough with the architecture to realize that you must’ve passed it a few times on the way to one class or another.

Far more local than you’re comfortable with. You see why Jackie might be concerned with the whole thing, but why would she—

The mask.

The mask. The one that the three of you had once adorned. White. Long mouth frozen in a scream, one often mirrored by those whose last sight it made up. Black hood splayed out across the concrete. Those familiar, soulless holes staring out at you from the arches of the eyes.

It can’t be the masks. That, at least, would be impossible. You had burned all of them in high school, but that didn’t stop them from still selling them. It was just a stupid costume shop mask, one of the cheapest that Shauna could find when she and Jackie had first started the whole thing.

Above it all, the bolded headline practically screams at you: “Ghostface returns?”

Shauna goes absolutely still in your lap as her eyes trace the letters in disbelief, the playful rocking of her hips halting in the face of her shock. Her lips are parted, silently mouthing the words as if that would make them untrue. She leans forward suddenly, snatching the paper from Jackie’s hands with a roughness you’ve almost grown unfamiliar with.

“Who is it?” You ask, not bothering to try to get the paper out of Shauna’s hands.

“Shut up,” Shauna says, squeezing your side with her knees. “I’m trying to read.”

“I just don’t get how—”

“What did I say?” Shauna asks irritably, shifting the newspaper to one hand as she looks down at you.

You grin up at her, unperturbed. It shouldn’t be funny—someone here is trying to become you—but Shauna’s familiar moodiness breaks through any tension you felt. You barely give her order more than a thought as you go to say something else, only to be interrupted as Shauna shoves a pillow over your face. There’s not enough pressure to actually do anything, but the meaning behind it is obvious enough.

Shauna unfolds the newspaper again, the sound of paper moving against one another loud enough to draw your attention even with your lack of sight. Jackie lifts up the corner of the pillow, squinting down at you as she holds one finger over her lips playfully. You roll your eyes.

“This is—” Shauna says suddenly.

“Uh huh,” Jackie confirms.

“Did you—”

“Nuh-uh.”

Shauna pulls the pillow off your face, leaving you blinking rapidly at the sudden light returning to your eyes. “Did you kill him?” Shauna asks. She doesn’t sound upset, exactly, but there’s a look of jealousy on her face that makes you wish you had done it. Her eyes flick back to the photo again, like she’s genuinely annoyed she hadn’t thought to kill them first.

“No, Shauna. You still haven’t told me who died,” you say.

“One of Jackie’s professors,” Shauna says absently, going back to scanning the paper.

You eye Jackie suspiciously.

“I did not!” Jackie insists, slapping your shoulder in reproach.

She flops down on her back next to you, covering her face with her hands before peeking through her fingers.

“I believe you,” you say solemnly. “You never would have killed him so sloppily.”

Jackie snorts, her cheeks flushing beneath her hands at the sound. “Amateur hour,” she agrees. “Definitely wasn’t one of us. Not close enough to my birthday for a present.”

You must have feigned an appropriate amount of contriteness. Jackie’s head rests suddenly on your shoulders as she shifts up onto her side and throws an arm around you.

“Do you think that I pass automatically if my professor gets murdered?” Jackie questions in a conspiratorial whisper.

“No, Jax. You still have to write your essay,” Shauna says flatly without even looking in your direction.

“The system is rigged,” Jackie complains.

You consider it for a while as Shauna reads and rereads the paper above you. “Probably not,” you murmur, mirroring Jackie’s pout as you turn your head toward her.

Jackie leans forward to kiss your pout away. “Sucker,” she murmurs against your lips.

You should be more concerned about this, but you’re sure it’s probably just a one-off. Some college student on the verge of failing gets revenge on his professor, copying a series of fairly local murders. Open and shut case, really. You remember the kind of attention the murders got fairly well, considering. It seems simple enough that someone else had been a little too interested in the media coverage and decided to imitate it when they needed it.

“Maybe.”

“Definitely,” Shauna interjects, finally folding the newspaper up and tossing it in the vague direction of the floor.

Jackie, finally satisfied that the two of you aren’t overly concerned with the implications of the murder—or perhaps assuaged that you hadn’t gone out without her—gives Shauna an appreciative look as she relaxes next to you. She laces her fingers with yours as she leads your hand further up Shauna’s thigh.

Shauna’s breath hitches at the touch, tension seemingly forgotten as your fingers brush the seam of her jeans.

Right.

What murder?

#minors dni #yellowjackets x you #yellowjackets x reader #jackie taylor x reader #shauna shipman x reader

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taldigi · 6 months ago

Note

how do you feel about yu’s parents?? What do you think they’re like?

I think they're really interesting to explore- believe it or not. I've seen a lot of different interpretations of his parents, ranging from straight up negligent, to being abusive-- or just simply too busy. I've even seen interpretations where they're perfectly fine parents, and that the year abroad is an unusual circumstance.

The game itself, which is what I would consider primary canon (sequels being secondary and manga and anime being tertiary) never touches on it more than it needs to to justify Yu's presence in Inaba/being new. I think Yu's mother is briefly mentioned once or twice and they are said to have called Dojima once.

I made the observation (previously when theorizing about Ren's parents) that it's completely possible that during the downtime that you don't get to see between transition stages (where, theoretically, the main protagonists would do homework or take a shower or tend to other daily needs) it's totally possible that they call or interact with their parents.

All interpretations are possible, but I know Souji Seta's (the protagonist from the Manga) parents are always moving around- and lot of folks have taken this to heart- and yeah, I can see it and I too like this idea- even though it's worth considering the fact that the manga is mostly secondary to the games (and even the anime!) and it's not definite canon.

That being said, I definitely like the idea that they are a sort of echo of the conflict between Nanako and Dojima. Both suggest career oriented people that probably shouldn't have had a kid in the first place who prioritize their work over their family.. and that, in turn, leading to neglect- with Yu and Nanako both being self sufficient. mature for their ages, and complacent.

Behaviors Yu exhibits- like his ability to cook meals beyond what is expected of a teenage boy, becoming incredibly attached to Nanako (he is one wrong dialog choice away from killing someone over her!) and Inaba, the insatiable need to people please, his initial desire to push people away or ignore others, and his otherworldly emotional control and ability to not express himself.. -is stuff like that echos of a kid who's had to grow up way too fast and not cause any trouble and keep to himself.

So personally, I subscribe to that concept: Yu's a kid who's been raised to be seen, not heard- developing complexes and anxieties over being praised for being responsible and mature even though he's only barely meeting that expectation by the skin of his teeth. Nothing less that being perfect for the Narukamis, after all- there's no time to make friends or have many interests when time is better spent on studying.

So... the Narukamis are parents who fufill those concepts. Parents who withhold attention and praise because those are things reserved for truly impressive successes.. and when exemplary is the expected baseline, such rewards are never actually acted upon.

Yu does have a taste in cooking, though- and a selection of music he likes. He doodles in his notes and reads magazines- I feel it expresses that while his parents don't police his interests, it also means that they really care much about their son's interests... as long as they don't interfere with work (and, by extension- Yu's grades or behavior, as he can be considered an asset in said jobs)

Jobs that leave them busy more often than not, leaving Yu alone.. but he's mature for his age, so it's okay. He prolly does a fried egg and toast and then goes and sits in front of the TV to do his homework. Yu seeing this in Nanako... is a lot, and makes their relationship that much more sweet and aajhksdkjasf

His parent's cruelty is best decided on a story by story basis. The level of willfulness in their work (genuinely needed often vs choosing work over family for example) or the level of regret they express upon leaving-- informing many interesting stories.

so yeah thats my thoughts on that.

side tangent, thats why souyo's so nice tbh. Yu always has to be the inconquerable senpai, the perfect big brother, noble leader, and everyone's rock- only to have Yosuke waltz up , hang off of him like a drunk girlfriend, and go "yeah he's amazing, but he's also the world's weirdest man and he's my best friend about it."

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yeonmuse · 5 months ago

Note

EN-Drama Heeseung’s sequel please (it’d be great to have smut and angst, HE or BE anything is good 😊)

- I love you

ᥫ᭡ f!reader x Lee Heeseung ── 𝒢enre. Smut. fluff, Angst non idol enha. not proofread. Wc 4.2k feats. ot7 [reqs are open] ᝰ.ᐟ 𝓁ibrary

authors notes. I hope this is to your liking, I’ve been lacking the motivation to write lately so everything I have written as of late I’ve felt love it’s been lackluster. I’ve started and deleted this at least 4 times so I’m hoping this final draft will be worth the read.

IN WHICH an old crush makes their way back into Heeseungs life and old feelings start to spark

🔖 @jwonistic @bubblytaetae @pkjay @planetmarlowe @dreeki @butterflywonz @lillotus17 @squiishymeow @river-demon-slayer @sol3chu @right-person-wrong-time @riribelle

“I dont wanna be in love with another even in another life”

Heeseung had been the quiet type, he’d found delight in sitting alone or spending his time in the serenity of his own peace. Though many found him boring due to his silence and nonchalant attitude he had fit in quite perfectly with his friends. Six guys that he had known so long it felt as if he’d known them his entire life, it had been hard to picture times when they hadn’t been there. As much as Heeseung had loved being alone, they made his life all the more enjoyable.

Heeseung was quite the simple guy, so while many of the girls in school had found him attractive they’d also found him extremely boring. Soon enough rumors had gone around the entire school that not only was he boring in a general sense, but that he’d also been completely vanilla when it came to sleeping with him. Though Heeseung was unsure how the rumors had ever started, considering he’d never even been with any of the girls at school, or any girl for that matter. He shrugged it off as he would everything else, people were going to talk, people were going to assume things about him regardless of whether or not it was confirmed or denied by him.

That exact same aura seemed to trail Heeseung from his high school days, to university and onto his fully adult life. He often found himself thinking back to the days when things were far more simple, When he and the others had no worries and no responsibility.

Heeseung was quickly snapped out of his thoughts as he heard someone tapping at the glass of the studio. Though it may not have been where Heeseung had exactly seen himself after high school, his new job had been a start. He’d luckily scored a job at a radio station in the city and had been working it for nearly a year.

“You’ve got a call in the main office, seemed urgent?”

“Who was it?”

“Don’t know they just said that they were looking for you and seemed like it was something important. I'll take over until you’re back.” Heeseungs brows crease together as Sohee pats at his back, sending him off to answer the phone. It wasn’t like his friends to call when they knew he was at work. Though when Heeseung had answered the phone he was surprised to hear, not the voice of his friends, but an old acquaintance he and the others hadn’t heard from since the day they’d left to go overseas.

That was exactly why Heeseung found himself sitting at a big round table waiting for the others to arrive, the last time all of them had gathered together being valentine's day of last year, but since then they’d all kept in touch but had been tackling their own endeavors.

Heeseung hadn’t exactly been sure what to feel about seeing one person in particular after so long. The girl he’d found himself falling for long ago, the first girl that had captured his heart, but she had also been the one that got away.

She had come to him at a time it seemed that no one bothered to understand him. There had even been times where he felt even those closest to him wouldn’t understand the works of his mind like he’d wanted. Though she was the one that stayed, the one that listened to him even when he had nothing to say, she’d waited. One of the first in his life that weren’t his friends to actually stay and try and get closer, not because of his looks but because she was interested to know the world of his mind.

Though back then when he had finally thought he’d been getting closer to her, everything had seemed to fall apart, others had grown feelings for her and complications had arisen that had made him give up on pursuing her. Looking back on it though he found it quite ridiculous that the seven of them had gotten themself into such a mess but sometimes it made him laugh.

He had now seemed to be the odd man out other than Jay and Jungwon who chose to focus on their careers rather than relationships. Leaving only him who hadn’t eventually known where he wanted to go with his love life, he never approached anyone and his calm and aloof demeanor made others too anxious to approach him themselves.

Soon enough the others had joined him, all of them catching up with one another and reminiscing on old memories with one another. Remembering the times they’d all shared with one another before they’d gone their separate ways. The conversation had been full of laughs and smiles, though the atmosphere slightly shifted the moment she’d walked in.

“Eunjin”

The moment she’d entered the building it was like some form of magnetic attraction, his eyes had found her in an instant. Taking in how much she had changed in the five years that none of them had seen her, he thought he’d gotten over it but the moment his eyes had set on her he felt his heart beat again for the first time.

It was like in the movies when time would stop and cherry blossoms would come raining down on the protagonists. She was always beautiful, though the amount of growth and maturity level she’d possessed now was inevitably visible. The only thing that he could say hadn’t changed about her was her height, he was sure if he’d stood from his seat he’d still tower over her just as he had all that time ago.

Upon hearing her name spill from his lips the others turned until their eyes found her sauntering over to their table. The reason for them all having gathered there in the first place.

“It’s been a while.” There it was that sweet voice that had once been like music to his ears, it had all the memories and emotions he once felt for her flooding back in.

The night carried on smoothly, it was as if the group had missed no time with one another, each of them reliving moments in their life and the others listening and reminiscing as if they themselves had been with one another through every step. Heeseung found himself a little far too immersed whenever she’d speak. He’d wanted to know everything, everything she’d come to like, hate or be interested in within the last five years. He found that that spark she had once lit within him long ago was returning upon having her say there before him.

Eventually the gathering had slowly come to a halt as everyone had either gone home, or had other inquiries that kept them from staying longer, which meant that left Heeseung and Eunjin alone. Since the restaurant had neared closing time the two had decided to continue their conversation on a stroll through the city.

“You look good seung.” The first words to leave her mouth upon the two of them being left alone. His heart had been thumping so hard in his chest he’d sworn hee could hear it beating in his ears.

“Still as pretty as ever, haven't grown much.” He teases, earning a laugh from her that made his heart shake in his chest.

“It really is nice to see you again, all of you. I found all of the notes you’d all left for me and the old candy wrappers from all of those chocolates you’d brought to class to share.” She laughs, brushing her hair behind her ear as she pulls out an old folded piece of paper. Heeseung couldn’t deny that he recognized it, after all he’d written it himself.

“Ah right, the letters. Guess we all embarrassed ourselves at that time?” He chuckles, forcing honestly to hold back a wince at the absolute cringe worthy memory.

“I thought it was sweet, though it was a little overwhelming. I just thought I’d ever expected all seven of you to confess to one another. It did make things a little confusing.”

“I guess we just all thought we were doing the right thing, not being selfish.”

“If you all had known my feelings would that have changed anything?”

“What do you..mean?”

“If you all had known how I’d felt about each of you then would it have made a difference? Would you have confessed then?” As she stops and turns to look at him, her eyes scanning him curiously, he himself didn’t know what to say, it prompted him to take a moment and think.

“I can’t speak for others, but if I’d known your feelings…if you’d liked anyone else then things would have remained the same. Though if the feelings you had were for me then..I’d have not given up as easily as I had.”

“What about now?” Heeseung had completely frozen in place, her words having caused his body to completely shut down right where he stood.

“What if I told you now how I felt then?” Her eyes seemed to scan him for any sort of signs that she should speak no further, but he remained locked in place.

“If I had told you I liked you then would things have been different now? If I'd told you the moment we ran into one another outside of the nurses office then where would we be now?”

Heeseungs thoughts had been circling his brain like the sun and moon orbiting earth. Hearing something from her he’d thought he’d gotten past years ago. Though now hearing those words spilled from her lips it was as if he’d been reliving the emotions he once felt all over again.

“So you’re saying..”

“That i’d have chosen you Heeseung, if things had been different and only you had confessed..I’d have accepted your confession.”

“What about the others?”

“We were friends, just like I’d told you all last time we spoke. I’d never want to compromise the friendship each of you had with one another or myself. After each of you had given a letter I thought it was best I rejected all of you.”

“So all this time it was me?” She nods in response, leaving Heeseung somewhat dumbfounded by the revelation. Of course it was something he had pictured countless times but he’d never seen it actually happening.

Closing the space between the two of them she steps closer to him, her boba eyes staring straight into him.

“Though it’s 5 years late, is it too late to say that I like you Lee Heeseung? That you were the one that got away.”

As if it had been natural, his fingers reflexively tangled within her hair, pushing the loose strands from her face behind her ear.

“Mm 5 years is a long time but I’m sure we could work it out.” He responds playfully, making her laugh as she leans in to wrap her arms around his waist.

From that day on Heeseung had found himself smiling more. She's encouraged him to be the best version of himself that he could be. She was the reason he’d gone into work with a smile on his face every day. How could he not wake up with a smile when he’d get to wake up and see her beautiful face on his phone every morning. It had taken five years for him to take her on a proper date but it had been completely worth the wait, their first date leading to months of then being together. In his eyes it was all perfect, there was no way he could have known the secrets she’d been keeping from him. The true reason that she had gathered them all together, the real reason she had decided to finally confess all the things she’d once felt.

“Heeseung I need to pack for my flight tonight, I won’t get anything done if you don’t let go.”

Heeseung had been holding onto her waist, his face buried into her back as his other hand rested upon her hip.

“You could always just stay home, I’m sure that work could wait another day, they can’t open an exhibit without the artist.” Heeseung responds, his voice muffled against the nape of her neck as he speaks. Only pulling his face away momentarily as he scoops her up and carries her over to the bed

“As much as i’d love to stay and lie around with you I can’t push off this event Seung, I’m running out of time.”

“You say that as if they could open the place without you.” He responds hovering over her, his arms caging her in and trapping her against the bed, forcing her to give in and succumb to his temptations.

“I know they can’t, but I’ve been waiting for this moment, Heeseung, I can’t push this off further than saturday.” Heeseung responds with soft hums as he begins to press soft loving kisses against her exposed skin. His hand slipped past her crop top until it rested against the bare skin of her stomach.

She was already quite familiar with this tactic of his by now, he’d always found ways to distract her whether that be with his sweet kisses or something far more dirty and pornographic like shoving his fingers so deep into her cunt that she was a complete mess, agreeing to everything he’d said.

“Well if you’re going to go, I’ll make sure I’ll leave some art of my own since I can’t join you.”

That was all that needed to be said before he had his lips on her skin once more and she had her fingers tangled in his hair. As he peppered slow, loving kisses along her neck and chest she couldn’t help but feel true peace in that moment of being with him.

Heeseung completely worshiped the ground she walked on.

To him she was completely intoxicating, her scent, her voice, her body, her touch; All of it was like his drug. Bringing her hand to his lips he placed loving kisses from her wrist up to her shoulder, a gesture that made the butterflies in her stomach go frantic . He felt the way her body relaxed and temperature had risen at the contact and it went without saying he was satisfied with the reaction. A reaction he had earned from her countless times yet would never tire of it.

Soft hums spilled from his lips, as he began to undress her while adorning her beautiful skin with kisses. It wasn't until she felt his fingertip trail down the soft skin of her stomach that the urge to be entangled with him had become more urgent. As Heeseungs fingers slipped beneath her pajama bottoms and past her underwear her body shivers. She’d no time to register his actions because before she’d known he had already been rubbing circles around her clit. Heeseung was absolutely content with this moment, having earned soft moans from her, watching as her hand clasped onto his wrist.

The way her back arched and her nails dug into his soft skin. The combination of her moans and her soft skin against his tongue was enough to drive him mad. He had barely even touched her yet her body had already been so responsive. He knew it would only be a handful of seconds until his name would spill from her lips in that sweet melodic tone like always. Seconds later he slipped in two fingers, taking the time to stretch her out and feel her out before he began to thrust them in and out slowly. Her desperate whining for him to move them faster only causes him to slow them down, he was completely blinded by his desire to hear his baby from her lips once more. The way his name fell from her lips always sounded so sweet.

“Seung, baby please, please my love.'' She’d choke out, her words barely audible but it was good enough for him because no matter how she’d said it the sound of his name from her lips was something he always loved to hear. Slipping in yet another finger he watched the way her expressions changed as he thrust them into her with feverish haste. He wanted desperately to read her thoughts and know the desires that swam around her pretty head when he had her like this, but it seemed that at the moment nothing was there. She was completely consumed by the mere thought of him and all the things that he was now doing to her.

“So beautiful, everything about you is so fucking beautiful, your smile, your eyes, your hair your voice.” His hand roamed over her body, leaving a fiery feeling over every place he’d touched. A touch that always left her longing for more no matter how many times she felt it.

He on the other hand always found delight in the way she squirmed and her body convulsed when he continued to stretch her out and pump his fingers inside of her. His eyes caught her gaze as he stopped to remove his fingers and bring them to his lips.

Her boba eyes that were usually so cute and sweet, now full of devilish desires that’d make angels weep. As sweet as she’d tasted there was nothing sweeter than the sound of her begging and pleading for him to give her more. So this time rather than shove his fingers deep into her clit he finds himself scooping her legs up and going between her thighs. His eyes gazed up at her beautiful face as he left kisses and hickeys on her inner thighs before sinking his teeth into them. His action earned a small yelp from her before and a tug on his dark locks as her fingers grasped at his hair. He was taking his time with her this morning, he needed all the time in the world to worship her before she’d leave, to treat her body like a goddess that only he could touch.

Heeseungs eyes remained glued to her seconds after his lips met her clit, the lewd sounds that spilled from her mouth following his actions made him desperate to hear more. His tongue slithered past her folds and as her head fell back against the bed he thought he’d go crazy at the sight. The blissed out look on her face and the way she’d pulled at his hair. Every now and then pushing his face deeper between her thighs it made his hunger for her all the more insatiable.

''So pretty like this, my beautiful work of art, so fucking beautiful.'' While his tongue abused her clit, he slipped in two fingers, stretching her out and shoving his tongue further than before. He gave her no time to respond before he was attacking the heat between her legs as if he himself was desperate to touch her just as she was for him to touch her.

Her fingers tugged at his dark locks as his tongue played with your sensitive cunt. It was a feeling she had felt time and time again with him but each time it seemed to be all the more pleasurable. The way his tongue and lips attacked her clit so vigorously made her thighs tremble. Having sensed her body's attempts to lock his head between her thighs, Heeseung immediately forces them back down against the bed. Her moans like music to his ears, simply hearing the way she whines and cries out for him and him only. As if he had been watching a film his eyes locked onto her, admiring her expressions as her face contorted at the pleasure. The moment he felt you clench around his tongue and fingers he became well aware that you were reaching your breaking point.

"Go ahead baby let it out.'' he hums against her, his face still buried between her thighs and as she squirms beneath him. Then finally she came on his tongue he couldn't help but stare up at you proudly.

“That’s one.” Heeseung had given her nooo time to breathe before he’d been switching her positions preparing her for a near endless session with him before she’d need to rest and pack for her long night that awaited.

Heeseung traced circles on her bare skin as she rested against his chest. Having fallen asleep after their earlier escapades, she’d needed all the rest she could get before she had to get up and pack to catch her flight.

Heeseung couldn’t help but stare at her sleeping frame proudly. The girl he’d thought he let get away had come back to him, and was now all his.

The sun had been peeking through the curtains and Heeseung sighs remembering that he’d have to go without seeing his beautiful girl for three days. She’d only gone last night but it had already felt as if she had been gone a lifetime.

Forcing himself out of bed he made his way into the bathroom, readying himself for the day ahead, that he knew would drag on since he would be returning home and see wouldn’t be there.

His day had gone on normal, as per usual he’d enter the studio, starting off with simple beats and tracks he’d thrown together for his artists. Everything seemingly in place until his phone vibrates in his pocket and a smile lights up his face as he sees her name appear on the front screen. A smile that had gone as quick as it had come as he answered and heard another woman’s voice on the other line. It was as if life had completely slowed and his heart had stopped beating in his chest, surely what he was hearing was a joke, some sort of twisted, sick joke or ploy to get him to fly there and hold her in his arms. No matter how much he tried to spin it, how hard he tried to deny what he’d heard, it all became far too real the moment he’d stepped off a plane and into a New York City hospital.

Heeseung had felt numb the moment he’d entered the place. He couldn’t register that anything that had happened beyond the phone call, had even been real. He sat on the opposite side of the glass watching as they covered his girlfriend's body.

“Lee Heeseung?” Heeseungs eyes met the nurses, no life behind them after having just realized he’d never get to hold his girlfriend in his arms again beyond this point.

“I know this may not be the best time, but she left this for you. I’ll leave you alone to open it.” After placing a box into his hands the nurse had left him alone.

It was a small box, inside was a letter and a few other things tied together with a fuzzy white string. Up until now Heeseung had completely held it together, that was until he pulled the letter from the box and could no longer stop the tears from spilling from his eyes as he read.

Heeseung,

If you’re reading this then, it means I finally was able to open my heart to you. I’m not as good with letters as you and the others but, I want you to know that I love you. I love all of you but especially you. I’ve loved you since then too, since the day I found you sat in the classroom with the others and you accepted the candy I'd given you even though you absolutely hated sweets then. When i’d gathered you all that day it wasn’t simply because I wanted to see you all that day, I’ve known for some time now that I didn’t have much time. Though I didn't know when I knew eventually I’d go and that you all would never hear from me again. I simply wanted to see you all one last time. Though I found myself being far happier than I could have ever imagined with you. My heart is now so full of you I could hardly know my own. I know that this is selfish of me, allowing myself to love you and you to love me when I know that the outcome can only cause you pain, but I wanted the chance to love you before I’d never get to love again. I’m sorry to leave you in such a way but I let my selfishness get the best of me. I hope that you will continue to live in Heeseung, to live without me even though you’ve waited so long to have me as yours.

Paper clipped behind the letter was a ticket. A ticket in which Heeseung had hesitated to use for days to put to use. He had become so numb that nothing mattered and eventually he had completely forgotten about it until he had been helping his mom clear things from her old art studio.

Though the date on the ticket was long gone and had expired, he’d finally put it to use. Putting his grief aside he found himself standing outside of the building where she had just opened her exhibit. As he stepped inside every one of his emotions had come crashing down as he’d found himself not only surrounded by art, but art that had symbolized the love the two of them had shared in just those four months alone, for every art piece had tied to a memory of hers

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skzdarlings · 10 months ago

Text

bodyguard: the first guard | part six | chan/reader

masterlist.

(part one of the previous story.)

( read on AO3 )

A sequel to the Bodyguard. Miroh’s daughter is assigned a bodyguard of her own. The past is confronted when old friendships and new enemies are pushed to the brink.

pairing: bang chan/reader content info: the usual general content guide warnings for this stories including violence and abuse. explicit sexual content in this chapter: dom!chan, sub!reader, kinky play-fighting in a sexual scenario, hitting, smacking, chasing, pinned down, choking, taunting dirty talk, very rough play overall. content warnings: this chapter is very, very INTENSE on the violence front. graphic depictions of drowning, both voluntary and forced. explicit description of torture both physical and psychological, violence, fighting, drowning, choking, explosions.

chapter word count: 20,500 words.

enjoy <3

B E F O R E

Everything goes wrong.

Felix should have known better than to rely on the enemy. He is dependable in no regard except self preservation and even that only extends insofar as the most cowardly course of action.

It was supposed to be a fight. Felix did everything the way he was supposed to, everything according to plan, the way a proper soldier does. Felix always follows through. Felix always completes his mission.

He played both sides. He worked Miroh into a frenzy, suspicious of betrayals transpiring right under his nose in his own house. He made the enemy think he stood a chance attacking Miroh, that he could knock him right off the playing board and claim all his assets in one fell swoop.

Felix forgot the enemy was such a coward. He was supposed to storm in here with an army, the way that Miroh does. They were supposed to find Miroh’s regiment in chaos, everyone turned against each other thanks to his subterfuge and instigation.

Miroh and his daughter are at each other’s throats. The other soldiers take sides. What should be a unified front in a run-of-the-mill acquisition mission turns into a self-sabotage as Miroh’s own team starts fighting each other.

Miroh fights his daughter. Felix knows, despite everything, there is a part of her that still loves, fears, or respects her father. She doesn’t fight like she should.

Chris, however, does. When Miroh knocks his daughter down, Chris attacks him. Felix doesn’t worry because he knows Chris can win the fight and, besides, they are going to be rescued soon. At that moment, everything is going according to plan. Whether Miroh lives or dies is irrelevant. Whether Felix lives or dies is irrelevant. This is about Chris. And Miroh doesn’t stand a chance against Chris, not with the full force of his fury unleashed like this.

Miroh’s daughter just watches, stunned by how fast everything happened.

She looks around like she expects to find answers in this dilapidated warehouse. Her eyes land on Felix who has been standing to the side since the fight began. Her eyes narrow as she looks at him, really looks at him, seeing what no one else sees.

He swallows and braces his body for a fight. She is a mirror of him as she stands, taking the exact same fighting stance.

“You told him I botched the operation,” she says. “Why, Felix?”

“Because you did,” he answers simply.

“I thought you were friends with Chan,” she says. “Why would you compromise us like this?”

“Because I’m friends with Chan,” he answers with that same even steadiness, a calm that he absolutely does not feel inside. But he is good with faces, blinking with innocence. He tries to compel her to look away, to forget about him, that he is too young or too stupid or too innocent to really comprehend what’s happening.

She doesn’t fall for it. She sees right through the mask and glares at him.

He anticipates her swing, catching her punch when she hurls it at him. They scrape back and forth but they are perfectly, frustratingly, evenly matched.

“Why are you doing this?” she asks. “Felix, it didn’t have to be this way. I could’ve helped you. I’m on your side.”

“I can’t afford sides,” he says, shaking his head rapidly. “I need to get out of here. Chris needs to get out of here. If you care about him—”

“You don’t know the first thing about that,” she snaps.

She comes at him with even more fury. Felix fights but his attention splits, glancing back at Miroh and Chris. Miroh is calling for back-up on one of his devices, but he never stops fighting. Miroh is a soldier, first and foremost. Whatever else Felix thinks of him, that much is true and always has been. Miroh is not scared of fight. Miroh will jump right into the fray. Miroh will get his hands dirty.

The enemy is not like that.

It was supposed to be a fight. He was supposed to storm in here with a contingency and fight the only broken house of Miroh. In the chaos of that confrontation, Felix was going to escape with Chris.

But the enemy never shows his face. He plants a bomb. He detonates it at a distance.

The warehouse is blown to pieces. Half those fighting soldiers die on the spot and Felix is blasted backwards. It renders him unconsciousness, though he doesn’t know how long he’s out. Not long, he thinks, when he wakes to sunlight pouring in through a gap, ripped in the warehouse wall. It was almost dawn when the fight began. A new day is starting.

He pushes himself upright. He is covered in dust and gravel. He coughs and sputters, getting on his hands and knees and crawling through debris and rubble. He moves towards the light. When he does, he sees Miroh’s daughter. She is not far away, but she is trapped underneath something. Pieces of the wall blew forward and there is a concrete block laying across her body. She is alive somehow, tucked into a divot in the floorboards, but she is trapped.

Felix, panicked, frantic, guilty, looks around for Chan as he stumbles towards her.

He never reaches her. Someone grabs him by the shoulder and yanks him backwards. He sprawls onto his back. A shadow blocks the sunlight. It’s one of the enemy’s bodyguards.

“The boss says you did a good job,” the man says. More of the enemy’s men are infiltrating the place. They don’t fight or pay any attention to the bodies. They go right for the promised merchandise.

Felix still can’t see Chris. Miroh’s daughter is still trapped. Everyone else is dead.

“I – I—” Felix starts, but dust is cloying in his throat and he just ends up coughing. He is dizzy, his ears ringing horribly. The world shifts in a kaleidoscope of vomit-inducing colours as someone drags him to his feet.

“Come on,” the man says. “The boss wants to see you. He says he has a job.”

It is the last thing Felix hears before the sunlight is on his face, overwhelming him, and he passes out in the heat.

P R E S E N T D A Y

“Don’t kill him.”

Those are your first words to Chan. You know him by the way his body braces itself after the shock has worn off. Chan may not be the inhuman soldier you mistakenly believed, but he might be something even more dangerous. Where his raw emotions meet his long-engrained instincts and deadly capabilities, fatality will ensue.

You cannot afford that reaction. You are here to save Changbin. Changbin was taken because he defected, because he moved against Miroh, because he decided that you were more important than maintaining structure and keeping orders. Changbin turning, you changing, Miroh falling: it all started the night the enemy died. It all started because of something that began even longer ago.

This all started with Felix.

“I thought he was already dead,” Chan says. His voice sounds steady but you see the tension in his form. He is wracked with adrenaline.

“Me too,” you say.

“Oh, you’re talking?” Felix says, looking at you.

You suppose he saw the reports of your death. He must have been just as surprised to see you behind the mask. Lack of expectation made him blind to recognition.

This is likely why he has not recognized Chan yet. The fact Chan is still wearing the mask does not help, his face mostly covered, disguise foolproof to an unsuspecting witness - even despite the heated slash of his unmistakable eyes boring into Felix.

But It has been many years. And Felix thinks Chan is dead.

With that thought, you say, “I guess we’re both ghosts.”

Felix looks at Chan only briefly, seeing nothing but a soldier in a familiar uniform. He gives your regulation combat gear a similar once-over. His brow furrows as he scrutinizes you.

You almost forgot this kid had such a sweet face. Freckled and wide-eyed, you can see why so many people underestimated him time and time again.

Lee Felix is everything Miroh wanted to achieve with his program. Maybe it is not surprising that the collapse of two major antagonists circle back to him.

“What are you doing here?” you ask.

He meets your gaze.

“The same as you, I think.” He hesitates, then continues, “I’ve been following reports. When I saw what was happening, I looked for the closest base and just… I decided to help things along.”

Despite how innocently he explains himself, you do not question his capabilities. You will not make the same mistake as so many others and underestimate him. You know what Felix is capable of doing. His only flaw is too much time away from Miroh’s operation, thus a lack of understanding for its inner workings. He cannot do what you and Chan can do, but it is the closest anyone could come.

That is not your question.

“Why would you care?” you ask. Somehow, Felix escaped from everything. He might as well be a real ghost for all that his reappearance in this fight is incomprehensible.

“Because.” His defensiveness softens just a little as his mind goes somewhere else, far away from the violent chrome prison of Miroh. “Because,” he says, gentler, “I want to find a place to… to rest. To be home. And I can’t do that, knowing what’s still out there. I need to help fix it.” He looks you over again, but it is different than his earlier judgemental regard. Still scrutinizing, but thoughtful, as he tilts his head and really considers you. “What I helped make,” he says. “I don’t think I can go really home until I do something about it.”

In the space of a breath, Chan draws a handgun. He is so fast that you don’t even see where it was holstered.

“Why do you think you should have any of that?” Chan says, punctuating with a threatening downward push of the gun. “Give me one reason not to shoot you. Seriously. Just one.” By his venomous tone, it is obvious no reason will be good enough.

You put a hand on his shoulder. He tries to shrug it off but you hold firm.

“Hold your fire,” you say, maintaining your cool outwardly despite the panic inside.

During the exchange between you and Chan, Felix gets one hand free. He bites the tip of his glove and yanks it off with his teeth.

Chan is quick to react, seizing him by the wrist like he expects Felix to attack him with one hand. Chan is fixated with such a single-minded determination that he does not see what you see, what Felix was actually trying to show you.

A ring around his marriage finger, simple and unadorned.

After a suspended beat of silence, Chan looks down. He sees the ring too. Most of his face is covered but you see the flicker of pain in his eyes, something like a slash across his brow. He reels back as if a bomb detonated. Instinct puts the gun back into his palm, the barrel at his adversary, but it shakes just short of imperceptibly. You are not sure if the uncharacteristic tremor is inner conflict or pure rage.

“This is my one reason,” Felix says calmly. “This is my reason for everything.”

Even though you still don’t have all the answers, seeing that ring turns the world right-side up. Of course Felix turned on the enemy, not out of ambition or cruelty, but love. The thread of it runs through every action committed in the last few months, something you could not see despite its prevalence beneath the surface of your life. None of this is happening because of the rivalry of two greedy monsters and the chaos they sowed. It’s happening because of everything that somehow thrived in spite of it.

So much makes sense now, looking at him, at that ring. You think of the security footage being scrubbed after everyone died. Felix was always good with computers and he probably worked well with the enemy’s high tech systems – certainly well enough to wipe them entirely. It gave him time to run off with the other half of that wedding band. You suspect the enemy’s daughter wears the other ring.

Chan is staring at that ring like he wants to burn it, like he wants to cut the whole hand right off.

Tentative, testing, you ask, “Did you kill them?”

Felix ignores Chan. He looks at you, his brow furrowing with confusion.

“Who? Miroh’s agents?” he asks. “Most of them are already running off and—”

“Not them, not here, not tonight,” you say. “The enemy. His men. His daughter. Did you kill them to get away to do – whatever it is you’re doing?”

He swallows. Your suspicions are confirmed when you see the flicker of anxiety in his eyes. It is obvious to you that he is lying when he says, “Yes, I killed them. The enemy. His family. His men. They’re all dead.”

“Not all of them,” Chan says. His frustration returns and he digs the gun at Felix. “I’m looking at one.”

“Stop it,” you say sharply. “I need him to answer me.”

Felix is understandably stressed with an unknown hostile threatening him. He overlaps with you, snapping, “Seriously, mate, I’m co-operating, what more do you want?”

“I want to kill him,” Chan says with an exhale. Though he is looking at Felix, you feel like he is seeing so much more than the moment as it unfolds. The amount of emotion in his voice is uncharacteristic for him on a job. He is compromised by years of pent-up feelings, bursting inside him. “I want to blow his fucking brains across this warehouse,” Chan says, putting the barrel right in Felix’s face.

He is so fast and deliberate. You are worried he will act before you can even think to prevent it. Panicked instinct makes you blurt, “Chan! Stop it!”

At the same time, Felix grabs the gun and uses the element of surprise to overpower Chan, just enough to safely yank the gun to the side.

Either the shouting or the grabbing triggers Chan’s finger because the gun goes off. It fires directly at the ground and kicks back so violently that it skitters across the floor like an animal.

The piercing howl of the gun leaves a ringing silence in the aftermath.

The reverberation of Chan’s name seems deliver the fatal blow, landing with far more violence.

Felix is breathing hard, adrenaline coursing from the attempted shot. He stares at nothing particular, just catching his breath – chasing and catching, then stalling, stopping. He holds it.

He slowly turns his gaze onto Chan. He looks at him like he is seeing him for the first time, eyes meeting the dark line of anger that stare above the mask.

Felix’s entire face smooths out, softens, with recognition.

“Chris,” he says, not much louder than a breath, somehow as piercing as the gunshot.

Chan responds by choking him, a big gloved hand snapping out and seizing his neck, so fast and powerful it is a wonder he does not snap it on impact.

“Don’t say my name,” Chan says, “you backstabbing—”

You drop onto your knees, grabbing Chan by the arm. He doesn’t relent even a little. You know you can’t budge him with anything but words, so you say, “Chan. Stop. I’m serious. Please.”

With an exhale, Chan loosens his grip, just enough for Felix to cough.

Felix’s eyes are watery, his voice strained when he says, “Changbin told me you were dead. I thought the enemy—”

“The enemy?” Chan asks. “You mean your employer? Your ally? What enemy? Aren’t we your enemy, Felix?”

“No,” you answer firmly, interrupting a dazed Felix. “Miroh was his enemy,” you say. “Just like Miroh was our enemy. Now let him go.”

Chan clearly does not want to obey. Release comes in increments, just a slack of the hand before he finally huffs and withdraws. He swings back and stands. He does not look down again, staring forward like a soldier in formation.

Felix rolls onto his side in a wheezing fit. Chan must have hit him at a sensitive juncture – likely on purpose – because it takes him several gasping attempts to breathe again.

When his shoulders stop heaving, you grab him, not violently like Chan but nonetheless aggressive. It is enough to get his attention, his watery eyes turning up to you.

He looks so young. You and Chan are only a few years older. Do you look that young? You certainly don’t feel it, burdened with lifetimes, known and unknown.

Then again, his eyes seem to show a similar burden within. The band on his finger tells a story beyond what you know of the runaway soldier.

“You have questions,” you say. “So do I. Maybe together we can both finally get some answers.”

Felix looks over his shoulder. Chan does not look down to meet his eye. After a moment of staring without reciprocation, Felix nods curtly and looks at you.

Felix holds out his hand to shake. He winces in pain as he digs out his voice.

“Agreed.”

You need to get away from the facility. It has been undermined but not shutdown. You would not have targeted such a big base and you’re the true key to bringing down most of these operations. Your classification was high so you can navigate with ease despite the removal of your logins and security clearance. Chan’s classification was just as high if not higher, though very different. Together, there are results.

Your attacks are carefully and meticulously planned breakdowns, accounting for every bone in the finger of the hand throwing a punch. Felix’s attack was more like throwing an emotional swing at an adversary when their head is turned. It is something that seems like a good idea until the head swings back around.

You retreat.

The tension between Felix and Chan is palpable. You ran many jobs against the enemy and, even a distance, you knew Felix to retain a professional demeanour. Around Chan, he becomes a little kid again. You almost see your own reflection in Felix as you also become someone else around Chan.

That includes a streak of newfound empathy. You would usually disregard feelings, especially on a job, but that is not so easy anymore.

You stop Chan outside the car, gripping his bicep while Felix climbs in the backseat.

“You need to relax,” you say.

Chan has not removed the mask yet. You can only imagine the intensity of his expression without it. Even with half his face hidden, his expression is burning. That heat touches you, a twining flicker of a flame. It is brief but it scorches somewhere deep as he looks at you with all that fire.

The heat is doused with his ice cold voice. “Felix is the reason this happened,” he says.

You come back to yourself, blinking to clarity. You furrow your brow.

“What do you mean?” you ask.

“This. All of this,” he hisses. You can hear his heavy breathing muffled in the mask. “He sold you out to Miroh. He’s the reason—”

His voice cracks. A memory of him flickers through your mind, cast over him like a projection, those desperate eyes and that muted cry. You glance back at Felix who is waiting patiently in the car. His face is downturned, dark hair falling over his eyes. He twists the ring around and around his finger. When he looks up, that projection flickers over him too, an image of him in his teenage years, with round cheeks and shaggy hair, staring with the intensity of someone who has already seen too much. He does not look apologetic and he does not look happy; he is just there.

You blink back to the present, looking down at the dirt beneath your feet, feeling the nighttime breeze on your face.

Truthfully, this revelation does not come as a shock. Your deduction was made in the rolling tension, looking between them, recalling the timeline of events. Even if Felix was not outright responsible, you suspected he was implicated on some level. It is the only way to explain Chan’s strong feelings for his betrayal.

Maybe it should fill you with a similarly righteous fury, but it does not. Maybe it’s because you don’t know what you lost. Maybe it’s because you can only picture an indifference in Felix. Maybe it’s because of that ring on his finger, of everything that has happened recently. You are not suffering the same visceral hatred as Chan, lost in his past.

Now, Felix is alive, having escaped the clutches of the enemy, a man like Miroh, doing it for someone he cares about. Now, he has willingly returned to right his wrongs, whatever he perceives them to be.

Now, you cannot find it in your heart to hate him. So much of that is because of the complicated man in front of you. Chan has worked his way past your barriers in a few short days that feel like lifetimes. It has given you a heart to follow.

You wish things were easier, but wishing will not manifest another reality. You can only touch him like a person, one to one, heart to heart, hold his angry gaze until it softens just a bit, and say, “I know.”

He exhales. A lot of that anger tangles up with his grief.

“We were kids,” you continue before he can interject. “We all made difficult decisions in impossible circumstances that not even a reasonable adult could navigate. He wouldn’t have traded one enemy for another if it was truly self-serving.”

This still does not register with any significance to Chan. His eyes are slitted and angry.

“I don’t blame him for what happened,” you say in a firmer voice. “And I don’t blame you.”

That hits him and it hits him hard. His body braces and his eyes widen, jolting like he was electrocuted.

“If you can’t trust him,” you say, tone gentler, “then trust me.”

Chan does not answer, only exhales again, dramatically with a droop of his shoulders. He opens the passenger door and gets in. Felix stares at him but Chan stares ahead. The mask stays on.

You take a breath to steady yourself then take the driver’s seat. You set your destination further out of town, tucked away in some farmland you passed on your travels.

When you leave the district, Felix gets alert. His eyes are big in your rearview mirror as the highway lights flash golden over him. You recall last seeing him at a distance, his hair a golden blonde, returned now to a natural darkness. You think about how much you have changed in days and wonder how much he changed in years. It makes you sympathetic to those wide eyes and the anxious twisting of his ring.

“I don’t want to leave too far from town,” he says, meeting your gaze in the rearview mirror.

“You’ll go wherever we take you,” Chan says.

“I have to get home,” Felix replies.

“It’s dangerous to be running missions on your own,” you say before a fight begins. “Don’t you think?”

“I knew I could handle myself,” Felix says. “And they were just… they were right there. I couldn’t do nothing. Not when—” He looks at Chan and his voice drops even lower, like it hurts to speak. “You blame me,” Felix says. He sounds resigned already, like he expected this all along, that even as a ghost Chan would despise him. “I’m the reason they captured you,” Felix says. “Because I failed. All these years, I tried – I waited – I –“

“Don’t talk to me,” Chan says. “If it was up to me, you’d be dead.”

Felix just nods.

“So you’ve gone civilian for real?” you ask, steering the conversation. “You think that’s where you belong?”

It’s not an empty question. You do not have time to consider what will happen after you rescue Changbin and take down the operation, but a civilian life has not crossed your mind. Fighting back-to-back with Chan makes you feel like your life’s purpose is realized, especially now that it is in the employ of your own heart and not Miroh’s greed.�� You cannot fathom the life course that Felix, of all people, has chosen.

“I know exactly where I belong,” he says. “I belong with her.”

Chan turns his head, just a bit, clearly listening. It makes Felix speak even more earnestly, incapable of lying under that attention.

“When I – when I was kid,” Felix says. “I – I guess I sorta idolized anyone I could. I was – broken. I needed something whole to hold.”

Chan turns away and Felix looks down, down at his ring like it is telling a story to him.

“It wasn’t like that with her,” Felix says. “She, uh, she actually hated me.” He laughs, the sound of genuine humour piercing through the tension in the car like a lightning bolt. “She was, uh, she was – she was broken too, I guess. We were different, but… we were the same. I never made her an idol like that. She was – she was just a girl.” He looks out the dark window. His voice is a little lower. “It became love anyway,” he says. “I – I never wanted that before.” He looks towards Chan again, a more frantic edge returned to his voice as he says, “If I knew then, what I know now, about everything, about – about how to be a person, I – I would have done things differently.”

There is a long moment of silence. The car hums and the highway lights roll over and over.

Chan finally says, “It’s too late for that now.”

It is undoubtedly not the reply that Felix wants to hear, but it is a reply, and that is enough to make Felix release a held breath.

When you reach your destination, tucked away from the chaotic world, Chan promptly leaves. Felix steps out of the car but doesn’t follow, taking the hint as Chan stalks towards a distant treeline and melts into the darkness with a practiced ease.

Felix turns as you approach.

“What happened after I left?” he asks. He looks over his shoulder but Chan is either gone or impossible to see. “From the outside I couldn’t – I didn’t know – all I could do was – wait and—”

You let him stutter for a minute, to see what words will he find. You are surprised when he looks between you and the trees and makes a gesture.

“Are you and him…?” he asks.

Internally, you are surprised and it makes your heart skip. Externally, you maintain a stoic demeanour.

Blinking, you ask, “Why?”

That seems to answer the question without answering. Felix nods, a repeated bobbing of the head. He swallows before speaking again.

“I – I want to know that he’s okay,” he says.

That might fracture your stoic regard.

“Was it for him?” you ask.

“I thought I could save him,” he says, and laughs without humour. “I was stupid about it.”

“It’s not stupid to want to save a friend,” you say, that stoicism undoubtedly splintered. You sigh. “You just have to understand that Chan has been through something that we can’t really understand. I know Changbin told you he was dead. That wasn’t entirely wrong.”

“It was that bad?” Felix asks. He doesn’t wait for an answer, shaking his head. He runs his fingers through his hair, movements jittery and anxious. “Of course it was.” He is then struck with a flicker of awareness. He looks at you very directly, tilts his head at a questioning, curious angle. “Where is Changbin?” he asks, looking upset in a different way, marked with anger.

You recall the mission with Changbin and the enemy’s daughter. At the time, everything was an attempt to draw the enemy away from a rare offensive strike as he tried to move in on Miroh’s territory. You were behind the scenes of it, sending Changbin after the daughter, luring away the enemy and also luring Felix back to Miroh. It might have worked if Felix was not determined to rescue the girl. He slipped through Miroh’s fingers a second time.

At the time, you were confused like everyone else. Felix’s motivations were befuddling at the very best. No one knew why he left. Now you know he left for Chan, no doubt striking a dangerous deal with the enemy to rescue him, a foolish bargain that would have seen like a life preserver to a drowning little boy. You are certain that after a time, Felix would have been smart enough to realize it. So the only thing more perplexing than why he left, is why he stayed.

The ring on his finger answers that question.

“Does she know you’re out here?” you ask.

The question captures his full attention, forgetting his previous query. He stares back at you. He looks like a predatory creature with his hackles raised, bristled and stiff and alert.

“Yes,” he finally says. “She didn’t like it. But yes.”

“Smart girl,” you say. “Makes sense… considering who her father was.”

As fast as Chan pulled that gun, Felix is in your space, every inch on guard.

“Leave her alone,” he says, all that boyishness gone in a flash. Though you do not doubt his honesty in some ways, you know Felix is good with faces. Under his mask is a soldier, bodyguard, and now it seems lover, and you are not which will be more dangerous.

You raise your hand in surrender.

“You want to know what happened to Chris,” you say, placating. “Miroh took him. That man—” You also look towards the treeline, seeing nothing in the pitch. “That man is someone different now.”

Felix looks there too. You think the sadness in his face is genuine.

“What happened to the enemy?” you ask. The events of that night have haunted you. It is the reason you are here today. “Did you take him out on your own?”

“No,” Felix says, slowly facing you again. “No. It was no one important to the enemy.”

You stare at him with obvious disapproval for such a vague answer.

“It wasn’t an enemy,” he clarifies. “It was a friend. Her friend. He came back for her as soon as he could and he helped us get away. He was just a civilian. Not a soldier, not an enemy. He just did it for a friend.”

You fall silent as you recall the dream where a weight is lifted off your chest, where you can breathe after so long caged, of Changbin peering down at you with all that concern.

“Why’d you turn against your father?” Felix asks.

Heart thumping, you say, “For a friend.”

Some of the tension leaves him, his stiff posture slackening. His face is flush with recognition.

“You don’t know where Changbin is, do you?” he asks. “That’s why you’re out here.”

The heaviness of his tone makes you pause. You let yourself linger in a momentary what-if, if you learned all this sooner and did something to help all of you, but that thought leads nowhere helpful. It has happened. Like Felix, you cannot change the choices you made when you did not know better, when you were surviving in impossible circumstances. You are doing something now.

You let your honest emotion show when you say, “I think he was waiting.”

“For what?”

For me, you think. “For things to change,” you say. “And now they have.”

“Now they have,” Felix echoes.

You think you understand him. Not like Chan, not like Changbin. You look at Felix and see someone still struggling with himself, lost and grappling for answers. He is quiet under the immensity of the night sky, the range of feelings inside him just as vast.

“I’m looking for him,” you say. “All this – it’s because of him. He gave himself up to save me. I’m going to get him back. I’m going to bring an end to all of this. It will never happen to anyone again.”

Felix straightens, once more on guard, but he is not antagonistic. He is on your side of the fight and you believe he finally sees that.

“Do you know anything about him? Anything at all?” you ask. Felix got a better look at the military base before it went to ground. Maybe his perspective will offer some insight beyond what you gleaned from the research facilities. “I don’t know where my father put him,” you say. “But I know he’s out there. I know he’s still in Miroh’s web.”

“What makes you think he’s still alive?” Felix asks, brow furrowed.

“What made you think Chan was alive?” you retort.

“Okay,” Felix says, chastened. “I did release some prisoners at the base, but Changbin wasn’t there. I would’ve recognized him this time.” His earlier anger towards Changbin seems to dissipate. He regards you with eyes that look more than a little guilty. “I thought he died with the others, you know,” Felix says. “I didn’t – I thought this whole time—”

“Trust me,” you say, with a humourless laugh. “You don’t need to tell me about the past confusing you.”

Felix takes the empathy at face value, nodding. He idly adjusts a hip holster while talking, gaze elsewhere, moving through his recollection.

“I only really talked to one of the prisoners, yeah,” Felix says. “They were all in bad shape but he wasn’t thinking clearly. When I got them out, he thought I was there for him. He thought he was being sent back somewhere ‘worse.’”

“Worse?” you say, with a drop in your gut. You have firsthand knowledge of the kind of torture that Miroh is willing to enact on its allies, never mind its enemies, so you can only begin to imagine. It may lead you to Changbin after all, now that he is classified as a turned asset and enemy to Miroh. “Worse how?”

“I don’t really know,” Felix says. “He just said he didn’t wanna go back to the white room. It didn’t mean anything to me. Does it to you?”

It shouldn’t mean anything. White room is a vague description that could describe any plain interior at any site. It sounds like the empty ramblings of a traumatized prisoner, disjointed thoughts that could describe any facility on any base.

And yet –

When Felix says those words, in that context, that way, with all that uncertainty and pain in his eyes – you see a flash in the back of your mind. You let yourself drift towards it. It is not screaming cold like other memories, memories that send you hurtling through the dark. It’s quiet. Empty. You see an impossibly bright white room. There are no windows or doors, at least none that you can perceive. It’s the opposite of the Cell, of those tunnels, of that well. It’s not endless black. It’s a shock of white.

It’s nothing. How can nothing feel like something?

“Do you know it?” Felix asks.

You shake your head, the brightness dimming as the real world and the dark night settle around you.

“No,” you say. The little twinge behind your eyes starts to pound. “Maybe.”

There is a beat of silence between you, enough confessions made to the dark to satisfy for now. It has been a long night.

Felix sighs, his long exhale feathering the hair over his forehead. He turns to the trees, looks across the farmland, then up at the too big sky.

“He doesn’t want to see me,” Felix says.

There is a bone deep sadness to Felix, all in his eyes and the slump of his shoulders. And that is just what he is letting you see.

“It’s complicated,” you say in lieu of anything more comforting.

You understand that Chan blames Felix for what happened in the past. At the same time, you don’t think that is where Chan’s problem truly lies. You remember his words at the motel; not wishing you were someone else, but wishing he was. He can accept you have changed, but he cannot accept that he has too. Whether it was against his will, to survive, to keep you alive, he had to become someone else. It must make him as alien to himself as your elusive past is to you presently.

You have all made mistakes in desperation. And now Felix is here, the past gone, a ring on his finger and a future ahead. Chan does not have that. He wants to be the boy who did no wrong and protected everyone. But through his mistakes, your mistakes, Felix’s mistakes, he can’t be anymore. He hasn’t been for a long time.

Felix gets to go home because it’s ahead. Chan can’t do that because it’s behind him. Maybe he does hate Felix for the part he played, but you know he hates himself and his own circumstances more.

“Can you – can you –” Felix stammers. “Can you just – tell him please – that I’m sorry for how it went down.”

“He knows, Felix,” you say, believing it honestly. You have come to know Chan. You believe that beneath all the pain and resentment, he knows it all comes down to Miroh.

Felix nods. He lingers in that thought for a moment, casting his eyes towards the sky. His shoulders fall.

“This isn’t over yet, is it,” he says, more an observation than question.

“Not quite,” you say.

“If you—” Felix looks at you again, dark eyes earnest. “If you need help... Find me. Seriously. I want this to be over for good.”

You accept his proffered hand and shake. When you try to withdraw, he holds on.

“I’m sorry to you too,” he says. “I don’t know what happened after I left, but…”

You wish it was as easy as blaming Felix. If this was about one foolish boy and one childish mistake, then everything would be so easy to fix. But you know better. You squeeze his hand and nod, reflecting his emotions like a mirror.

“I know who my enemies are,” you say.

He nods and finally drops your hand. Another moment passes, the night breeze blowing between you, then Felix says it is time for him to go.

“I know where we are,” he says, looking across the deserted farmland. His eyes settle on some distant fields, sloping into a distant wood. He looks at you again and nods. “I think it’s for the best I get myself back. Good luck.”

He has only taken a few steps when you ask, “How will I find you again?”

He looks at you. For a second, there is a flicker of a friendly soul, life in his eyes as they crinkle with a smile.

“Hmm, if you are who I think you are,” he says, “you’ll figure it out.”

You take that as a confirmation of trust if nothing else, that he turns his back and walks away without fear you will pursue him with any reactive violence. When he has crossed over the border of the property, disappearing down a path, you turn the opposite way to where Chan vanished. With a sigh, you seek him out.

Of course the impossible man chose the absolute creepiest part of the property to sequester himself. It is difficult to see, even for you, as you pick up your feet to avoid tripping over spindly roots. You realize the overgrown trees are a former orchard, though the fruit is long since rotted, the thick branches bare.

“Chan,” you say, an edge to your voice. “Chan, he’s gone.”

Something cracks behind you. You turn, mouth open with a remark that flitters into breath because he isn’t there. Not even a moonlit silhouette interrupts the darkness.

You turn back around and almost jump right out of your skin. Chan is standing there, stanced like he has been waiting for hours. You thump him on the shoulder, cursing.

“Sorry,” he says, more automatic than sincere.

He is still wearing the mask, still braced with so much tension. You are standing close, close enough that if you were a target he would already have a hand around your neck. You think of the number of people over the years, subject to that exact moment; the number of times he would have stood there, just like this, appearing out of the shadows and striking.

You think of how he got there. You think of why he stayed.

“Are we going?” he asks, lifting an eyebrow. That exact expression was the first one he really gave you, the first hint he was more than Miroh’s soldier.

Maybe you have a heart now, or something like it, but it is still woefully inadequate when it comes to function. You do not know how to express the mess of feelings inside you. There is no instant healing for the years suffered between you, but you wish you could make him understand that you are not afraid, that you mean it when you say you choose this Bang Chan, not in spite of everything but because of it.

“He wanted to save you,” you say. Before he can form a retort, you continue, “I know you didn’t ask him to save you. You didn’t ask him to make any bargains. But he wanted to do it, not unlike what you did for me.”

“That’s different,” he says quickly. It sounds almost like a huff, like a punch in the gut.

“I know how it feels, to be both you and Felix,” you say. “To not like or understand yourself. Do you think I don’t understand? Do you think I’m scared of you in the mask?”

His shoulders lower and he looks at you, lifetimes of emotion in his eyes.

“I don’t think you’re scared of anything,” he says. “You never have been. That’s what terrifies me.”

“Chan—”

“I can’t lose you again,” he says, walking right up to you, an inch from your face, yet so propelled by adrenaline that he seems unaware of his own proximity and desperation. “I can’t,” he says. “Seeing Felix, it – it freaked me out, okay? It put me back there again. For years, I – I felt like if I could – if I could get back at him – for betraying my friendship – it would somehow undo it – it would be like it didn’t happen – I don’t—”

He seems to remember his mask all at once, abruptly reaching up to rip it off. His arm swings down to his side, mask loose in his fingers. The sudden reveal of his whole face makes your breath catch, as if you haven’t been staring at him for days, as if he hasn’t engrained himself in your consciousness like he never left.

You stare at each other, hardly any space between you. His voice is heavy, his shoulders slumped, like gravity is pulling him straight down past the earth, like it’s a fight just to stand there.

“I don’t want those things to have happened to us,” he finally says.

“I know,” you whisper back.

“I’m so scared of fucking this up,” he says, with a hiccup of a laugh, arms hanging limp in a helpless slouch. “So fucking scared something is going to happen. If not Felix, then – then anything – then—”

You place a hand on his chest, palm above his racing heart. His breath catches, adrenaline still coursing.

“Well.” You smirk and it feels more natural than a smile. It helps you dig your honest feelings out of your chest, buried so deep, sifting through your fingers like sand until you seize your beating heart and feel it come to life. “We might be a couple of disasters,” you say, “but we’re here, together, in spite of it all. We’ll figure it out eventually.”

You trail your hand down his chest, past his side, fingers loosely tracing the top of the mask. You hold his gaze the entire time.

“You found me once, didn’t you?” you say. “I trust you to do it again.”

“I didn’t,” he says, laughter walking the edge of a cry. “I should have. But you were the one who spoke to me in that van. You were the one who asked for help. You were the one that found me. I didn’t do anything but follow.”

“Is it too much to ask you to continue to do that?” you ask. “At least a little longer?”

He leans towards you, almost like he is falling, that gravitational pull leading straight to you.

“Always,” he says. “I go wherever you go, remember?”

He said that before, that first night when he comforted you. He says it now with a laugh, though it comes up like it pains him, an ache in his chest.

You think he might have sworn that promise a long time ago.

“I want you,” you say firmly. “Not the little boy you were, not just Miroh’s creation, but all of this, all of you. I want your anger and I want your fear. I want the only guard who could fight me in that ring. I want the only agent who was able to chase me down.” You hold his gaze even when the intensity makes you sweat, uncharacteristically nervous with a twist in your gut that is so much more than lust or camaraderie. “I need the only person I could have ever asked for help.”

He exhales through his nose, then smiles a weak smile.

“Are you sure?” he asks, shakes his head, laughs dryly. His exhale is shaky. “Because… honestly, baby…” The pet name rolls thoughtlessly off his tongue, natural in his honesty. He looks at you without any masks, eyes soft where they meet yours, jaw clenched with some baser instinct. “Because I – I’m really fucking angry.”

“Good,” you say. “So am I.”

You don’t think anyone has ever looked at you the way Chan does. Your father saw a soldier, your subordinates saw a commander, Felix saw a complicated ally, and Changbin saw a lost friend. When Chan looks at you, it feels like he sees all of you at once, every layer down to the bone, and that should be terrifying. That much exposure should make a soldier run for cover, layer on every piece of armour you can get your shaking hands on.

For some reason, he looks at you, and you just want to strip that armour off, piece by careful piece, and see what you will find in the reflection of his gaze.

You think he feels the same. It’s all you want, and it’s all so much, and you let yourself feel every tingling reverberation of that passion before you step away.

“Come on,” you say. “This fight is far from over.”

You anticipate his next move but your breath catches anyway.

Chan pulls you back, straight into his arms. The mask hits the ground with a clatter as he grabs you by the neck, a gloved hand cupped carefully around your jaw. He drags you into him and kisses you even more deeply than that last teasing kiss. This kiss does not merely say, I don’t want to be your friend. It does not merely say, I want to be more.

It says, I want to be everything.

And he hands everything over, and you take it, and you give everything back with your hand buried in his hair and your mouth open against his.

With a thousand more questions to ask and a mission to complete, but with information and honesty and hope – the fight ahead does not seem so daunting.

You look at Chan in the passenger seat. He is sprawled out, stripped down to a compression shirt that is far less bulky than the protective combat layers. It should make him appear smaller, but his presence continues to fill every space he occupies. Even where he does not literally touch, you feel him.

He idly turns the mask over in his hands. His eyes are ahead, over the dashboard, focussed on some distant point. He has sweat through some of his hair product so his dark hair falls to frame his face a little more. He pushes some of it back and you have to remind yourself to look at the road and not his hands, the corded veins when he flexes and moves his fingers, or his lips when he takes in a breath, or his thighs when he slouches and lets his knee fall against the console.

Failing your mission because of a car accident would be a little preposterous, so you clear your throat and look ahead. You feel him glance at you, but you refrain from looking back.

“Can I ask you something?” you ask, using the excuse of concentration to avoid eye contact.

“Yeah?”

“Promise to tell the truth?”

“You know I will,” he replies.

He knows the question will not be too serious. You agreed to discuss the mission parameters when settled at the new hotel. You explained that Felix gave you information but it needs dissection.

So he must expect the halfway teasing lilt when you ask, “Is there a part of you – even a small part –that feels, hmm, a little shallow satisfaction that you wound up with Miroh’s daughter on your side despite everything he tried?”

Your phrasing is a little convoluted but he sees right through it, brow quirking up.

“Uh-huh… Is that what you’re really asking me?” He looks dramatically contemplative as he throws your teasing back at you. “Or did you mean – Do I feel like I got back at the bad guy by fucking his little girl?”

“I’m not little,” is your flustered retort.

His laugh is a breathy snort. You feel him look at you again. When he does not elaborate, you surrender to your desire and glance his way.

His tongue is poking into his cheek, his eyes narrowed but not with frustration, just a combination of scrutiny and amusement at whatever he finds.

“What?” you ask.

“Nothing.” He sits back again, leans his head on the headrest, smirking to himself. “It’s just… that’s not the first you’ve asked me that question. Why are you asking me now?”

“Why did I ask you then?” you blurt. You are asking him now because you are trying to goad him into opening up on some of those darker or angrier feelings. Was it for a similar reason you asked before? It gives you a sudden tether to that past version of you, still a stranger, but maybe not so different.

“Then,” he says. He loses some of that jovial edge, looking a little more serious as he falls into recollection. He rubs the back of his neck.

“You can tell me,” you say when he lingers on his thought, words so clearly perched on the tip of his tongue. “Really.”

You are expecting any number of dramatics. You are not expecting him to giggle.

“You fell for me first,” he says.

“No, I didn’t,” you reply automatically. You have no idea if it is true or not, but you instinctively balk at the suggestion. Even though your intimacy with Chan feels so unique, no doubt propelled by that complicated history, you still only know yourself as someone pragmatic and distant. You cannot picture yourself at any age stumbling head-over-heels for some boy, even one with dimples like that.

“Ohh no, you definitely did,” he says. “Sorry, but you were allll over me—”

You thump him on the chest. It’s a good solid thwack in the middle of his giggles.

“Hey, hey!” he says. “You asked.”

“You’re lying.”

“Now, now, come on. I wouldn’t do that.”

“I regret asking.”

“It can’t be that hard to believe,” he says, tapping his chin with exaggerated pensiveness. “I thiiiink… and correct me if I’m wrong… but I’m preeetty sure it was you who came onto me this time around too…”

“That – I –” You laugh at your own stammer, so startled that you can’t help but break.

He giggles some more, a tittering heeheehee that seems very incongruous in his black uniform with a combat mask on his knee.

When the laughter softens, he sighs a little. He looks at that mask, absently runs his thumb along the frame.

“It was a fair question, at the time,” he says. “I think you knew how I felt. How at first it wasn’t – it wasn’t really serious for me. Not like that. I was a bit distracted with, you know, life sucking.”

“Fair enough,” you say, snorting in amusement at describing the child soldiership special-ops program as simply life sucking. Diluting the power and dramatics is oddly cathartic, the laughter leaving a pleasant warmth in your chest. It makes you brave enough to ask, “What changed?”

He looks at you, maybe gauging your wellbeing. You both know the reconfiguration reports warn that too much sudden recollection can trigger a breakdown. But there is a separation here, the girl in your past just a story on his tongue, even if you do like the way he says her name.

“Uh, actually, it was seeing you with Changbin,” he finally says. His posture gets defensive with his vulnerability, an arm slung across his chest. He idly scratches his shoulder while he talks. “You were friends. Really friends. I didn’t – I didn’t really know how you managed to be friends, to be honest. I never – I mean.”

He huffs like he is frustrated with his own inarticulateness. You wait, eyes on the road, taking some of the pressure off. He eventually sighs.

“The first program,” he says. “All those kids – I only knew them for a bit, then they were all gone. It was just me. Then they brought in the next group. I think a part of me was always waiting for the day something would happen to them too. How can you really learn to care about people if you know everyone is just gonna be taken away from you?”

He picks up the mask again. He looks at it while speaking.

“The other part of me wanted to care,” he says. “Really fucking badly. I don’t know what it was, though. The trauma, my reputation, something about me, but I—” He puts the mask down, looks out over the dashboard. “Even before I put this on, before I made that deal with Miroh – I didn’t really belong. People respected me, kinda, I guess, or were scared of me. Yeah, lots of people have been scared of me. And maybe it was actually easy to become that guy, maybe it was in me all the time. Because even back then, it was like I always separate from everyone else. I still am. It’s like – it’s like there’s just this glass wall around me. Sometimes there’d be moments, people, like with Felix for a while, where they’d look at me and I’d look right through it and forget it was there. Then the light would hit the glass and I’d remember I was different. Separate. Alone.”

He pauses but it doesn’t feel like he is waiting for an interjection. Truthfully, you don’t know what to say.

“You and Changbin,” he says, punctuating by smacking the mask against his thigh. “You guys were different, yeah. Didn’t matter what they tried to do you. You stuck together. You – you had it just as bad as me because you were Miroh’s daughter but you never let it – never let him – never let any of them tell you who you are. And I just remember one day, I was looking at you. Really looking. You were with Changbin and you were patching him up after a fight. You were both beat to hell and back but you were laughing together and I – I just thought—”

His voice gets softer, like the words are too fragile to speak.

“I thought,” he says, “I would give anything to have you look at me like that too.”

His words leave a stunned silence in their wake. He eventually tries to deflect the tension with a laugh, smiling at you, but with a smile that does not reach his eyes.

After the words have washed over you and after the jumbled mess of confusion that is your consciousness sifting through it, you say, “Glass coffin.”

“Excuse me?” he asks.

“Sorry.” You shake your head. “Just – that’s how I’ve felt. Buried alive in a glass coffin. Not myself, not who I was a month ago, not the girl I can’t remember. What you said made me think of it. I – I understand you. I’ve been—” Your breath catches unexpectedly. “I’ve been very alone for a long time. I – I don’t think I noticed, somehow. Not until Changbin was gone. Not until you were here.”

The car gets a little darker as you leave the highway, streams of endless light replaced with the occasional streetlamp. The darkness makes the honesty flow a little easier.

“Is that weird?” you ask, your own voice soft and unfamiliar to your ears. “For it to hurt more after it already happened?”

“I don’t think it’s weird,” he says. “Then again, I’m just as insane as you are.”

You almost choke on your laughter, so abrupt in the midst of seriousness. He laughs too.

“That’s true,” you tease. “Why the hell am I asking you?”

“Because you’re insane, remember?” He makes a tsk sound, shaking his head, all playful. “Wow, now she’s forgetting things that happened just a minute ago.”

“You’re awful,” you say, but laugh nonetheless.

“Seriously, though,” he says. “I get it. I get you.”

There is a beat of silence as the conversation settles around you. You breathe a little lighter.

Then Chan says, “Also, yeah, it is kinda hot to bang the boss’s daughter.”

“Bang Chan.” You smack his chest again, a little harder, but he just giggles like a naughty schoolboy and swats your hand away. “Seriously?” Your voice breaks as you try and fail to restrain laughter. “That comment? After all that?”

“Hey, don’t ask questions you don’t want answered, ya know?”

“Bang the boss’s daughter,” you grumble with faux-irritation. “You and Felix have that in common, you know.”

“Fucking you?! Jesus, what the hell did I miss when I walked away?” He looks at his bare wrist as if checking a watch. “You weren’t there long. He’s a bit quick off the mark, eh?”

You thump his stupid chest again while he chokes on his maniacal laughter.

“Going after the boss’s daughter,” you clarify.

That breaks some of his giggles, face twisting up with his surprise. His mouth opens and closes as he looks for words, mind going a mile a minute while he computes this revelation. He finally says, “Wait… what?”

“The ring on his finger?”

“Yeah but – the enemy’s daughter? Felix? And after giving me a hard time for going after you and oh my god, serves him fucking right, I really am going to kill that little—”

His threats sound a little more light-hearted, at least you think. It is tinged with some truthfulness, but at least it’s all out in the open this time.

“I’m trying to imagine that story,” you say, steering the conversation to the side. “I can’t imagine us in that scenario. I don’t think I would’ve been waltzing around with a mopey bodyguard in any world.”

“I wouldn’t be mopey.” He amends, “I wouldn’t be that mopey.” Then he thinks about it a moment longer, eyes on the road but mind farther away. “Yeah, you’re too much of a fighter,” he says. “I would’ve had my hands full trying to keep you on the sidelines.”

“You wouldn’t have stood a chance.”

You are teasing him but he does not retaliate. He nods with utmost seriousness.

“You’re right,” he says. “I mean, look at everything they did to you, and you still chose to be you. I think no matter what world we were in, you would find your way back into the fight, and I would follow you.”

You know he fully believes every word or he would not say it. You can’t find a decent answer. You doubt there is one.

“It kinda freaks me out,” you say. You strum your fingers because your hands are getting clammy on the wheel.

“Freaks you out?” Chan asks, looking at your hands then your face.

“I’ve always been very… restrained. At least as far as I can remember. I don’t let people in. With you—” You look at each other across the car. “It’s like I don’t have to try to let you in. You’re already there.” You look back at the road, releasing a shuddering breath. “It makes it easy to feel things I usually wouldn’t, or to do things I usually wouldn’t do.”

You think about that first clumsy kiss, how badly the need consumed you when you never cared about kissing before. You think about everything you are feeling right now, looking at him, sprawled in the passenger seat.

“I’m not used to trusting people this way,” you say.

He puts a hand on your knee. It is a comforting touch.

“It’s not quite a joke that I’m a little insane,” you continue. “I’m in pieces up there. I know that. I also know that when we’re together, it feels—”

You cut yourself off. There is no word to describe it.

“Yeah,” he says anyway. “It does. I know.”

The conversation reaches its soft conclusion just in time. You have reached your destination.

This city is a veritable concrete jungle. You can only go so far off the beaten path, so this place is more of a hotel than a motel. The building is configured in a towering horseshoe, wrapping around the small parking lot where you and Chan sit in a quiet car. You stare up at the building, most windows dark with the late hour. You have some time before dawn.

“Are you tired?” you ask.

His hand is still on your leg. You sit very straight when it moves, gliding inward, curving around your inner thigh. His gaze rests there until you look at him, then his eyes flick up to yours. He holds the eye contact as his pinky brushes the fly of your uniform pants.

“No,” he says. “I’m not tired. The opposite, really.”

“Still feel like a fight?” you ask, voice a little breathier.

“Maybe,” he says, dimple appearing with his smile. “What did you have in mind?”

You slam Chan onto his back in the middle of the training mat.

The hotel has a small gym, though it is closed after hours. The building has minimal security and no one on patrol. It is easy enough to rework the security camera so it plays a loop of a previous ten-minute interval, making the room look empty to anyone who deigns to double-check. It is on the underground level, below all the rooms, so it won’t wake anyone up.

Daylight is hours away. You have plenty of time to tire out that relentless adrenaline.

“Not bad,” Chan says, letting his head drop back. He laughs which is not the usual response from an opponent on their back. Of course, he is not a usual opponent and he never has been.

He pushes himself up on his elbows, grinning at you with far too much cheek. Teasingly patronizing, he says, “Ya get in a little more practice, buddy, and you’ll almost be as good as me.”

You shove him down again. He goes without a fight, just a little oof, giggling as he lands on his back again. You move from straddling his legs to hovering above his abdomen, knees planted on either side of him.

“You’re holding back,” you say.

“Yeah, ‘course I am,” he answers simply.

There is a little tussle between your hands as he tries to grab your waist and you shoo at him. He gets past in the end, gripping your hips and moving you like you are weightless. Even your clenching muscles do little to stop him, a startled breath spilling out of your lips as he moves you a little lower. Now his hips are between your thighs and it is easy for him to bring your body down while he rolls up.

You are in your compression shirts and bulky combat pants. It means his hands feel hot on your waist, the touch immediate through the thin material, but there is a substantial layer between your lower halves.

You still feel him, half-hard since you dragged him out of the car with a sparkle in your eye. You both know where this is heading, speaking in that silent conversation you mastered in just a few short days. He just needs to smile a particular smile and something inside you sparks.

You lean forward, planting your palms on the floor. It puts a slope in your spine, his hands feeling the curve of your hips as his playful gaze darkens, shadowed in the concentration of his brow. You bring yourself down just enough to touch, the material of your pants crinkling where you press together, but nonetheless feeling him against you as you slowly drag your body along his.

“What if…” you say, your gazes locked, “I don’t hold back?”

His eyes roam your face. He puts his tongue in his cheek, looking thoughtful with the quirk of his eyebrow. After a thoroughly studious moment, he meets your gaze again.

“You’d be at a disadvantage,” he says. “I’ve seen you fight without holding back. I know all your tricks.”

“What? In the ring?” you ask. “I wasn’t at full strength then.”

“No,” he says, voice a little lower. “Before that. We’ve fought before. I promise, you came at me with everything.”

You can tell from his face that the memory is not so pleasant. No, not at all. Yet he is very preoccupied with the pleasure around him right now, the tantalizing taste of it, your body in his hands, your face so close to his. You keep looking at his mouth and he keeps looking at yours.

“Everything,” you say. “I see.” Your brush your nose against his and it is so sickeningly sweet that it shocks him more than a smack. His eyes get wide and you get the upper hand, grabbing his wrists and pinning them beside his head. “And did I win that fight?” you ask.

His hips rear up. With a sharp buck, he moves you, gets his hands free. In a spin too fast to compute, and a flail of muscles you can’t hope to overpower, you end up on your back.

Chan pins you down, hips still between your thighs, both your wrists clasped in one of his hands. He pushes them above your head and holds them there, then he swoops down so his mouth floats just above yours.

“What do you think?” he asks.

“I think,” you say, remarkably coherent considering the proximity of his mouth, “that last time we truly fought, we probably didn’t have a choice.” You wrap your legs around his waist and he lets go of your wrists. You put your hands on his shoulders. “This time, we do. And this time—” You snap up, knocking heads, startling him. “I’m asking you not to hold back.”

In his surprised distraction, you roll out from under him then spring to your feet.

“This time, you have a choice,” you finish.

He turns onto his back, sitting with one knee curled up to his chest, the other leg stretched in front of him. It is a casual pose, looking to all the world like a normal young man for just a second as he sits and lounges and considers you.

Then he stands. He holds your gaze captive in his own, his eyes a slash of heated determination.

“You sure that’s what you want?” he asks.

“You know it is,” you say without hesitation. “How many times do I have to tell you?”

“All right,” he says, lip quirking into a half-smirk before he wipes his face to a stern neutrality. “Let’s fight.”

You circle each other, measuring, walking the perimeter of the square mat.

“Don’t underestimate me,” you taunt. “Believe me, bigger men have tried.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he says, shrugging one shoulder in a casual stretch. “I watched you shoot your daddy off a roof. It would be stupid to think like him, no?”

You are not expecting him to take the bait so unflinchingly. It makes your heart skip beats, adrenaline already spiking before the fight has even begun.

Chan still looks nonchalant, like he is waiting for a conversation rather than an altercation.

He is like you. A part of him is always braced for a fight. It’s never really over. You can’t control it.

You can control this. You can hand yourself over, willingly, safely, and for the first time he can let this scene play out the way he wants.

He strikes first, anticipating you are too smart to make the first move. His primary feints are predictable, the initial throws little more than empty threats. He is not holding back on defense, effortlessly dodging your retaliation, but his offense is still restrained.

You get him behind the knee. Your arms lock and you swing around, footwork frantic in its quick shuffle across the mat. You manage to get your hands around his neck as you sweep a leg out from under him. He barely stops his descent, twisted at an awkward angle.

“I told you,” you say, panting, your breath fluttering through his hair. “I’m not scared of you.”

“You should be,” he says.

He pulls himself out of the vulnerable position with a degree of strength that only the First Guard could possess. He turns you with a single-handed yank, then his whole arm is around your neck and your back is trapped against his front. He drops onto his knees and takes you with him, letting you struggle to no avail in his one-armed hold. His other hand comes up to your face with an almost tenderness, fingers brushing your forehead, knuckles sweeping your cheek.

“But I know you’re not,” he says. “You’re as crazy as me, right?”

He pushes forward, lays down with you pinned under him. His arm is still around your neck, bicep at your throat, his hips rocking into yours with blatant suggestion.

His lips brush your ear. It makes every part of you get tight with anticipation, even your eyes squeezing closed, your throat cloying, breath catching.

“You’re not like most people anymore,” he asks. “Daddy’s girl prefers a monster, doesn’t she?”

His free hand works its way between your body and the mat, tugging at your pants with more dexterity than his brute strength would suggest. He gets the waistband low on your hips, gets the zipper all the way down, and fits his hand inside.

Your hips buck instinctively, at first away, then giving into his palm when he grinds it against you through your underthings.

“Hmmph,” he says, a bit of a laugh, finding you wet through the fabric. “That was easy, huh?”

You do have a strategy, despite what he thinks, hoping to lure him into letting his guard down when he shifts focus.

Unfortunately, that is easier said than done. You are used to disregarding your body’s cries, but that is when it screams in pain. As it turns out, pleasure is harder to ignore.

When he touches you, even with a barrier in the way, it is like something primal speaks to something raw and needy inside you. You see stars, either from his grip, the tightly pinned position, or the way it doesn’t even matter there is fabric between you and his fingers because it is so wet that it feels like he is touching you directly – and it feels so good that you want to bury your face in the mat and forget about everything else.

“You’re not seriously trying to make me come,” you say, voice rough if not still taunting. “How is that a plan?”

“That’s not the plan,” he says, but he doesn’t stop rubbing torturous circles, doesn’t do anything when you shudder under him. “The plan is to fuck you, right here, right now.” He presses his hips into yours, makes sure you can feel the weight of his promise. “And I’m not stopping until all these little noises turn into you finally begging for my mercy.”

“Oh,” you gasp, thoughtlessly, not thinking straight on the cusp of an orgasm. “Fuck.”

“Say that one more time?” he says. “What do you want me to do?”

He kisses the back of your neck. It’s worth a thousand words.

“Fuck,” you say, though it comes out like a squeak. All that pleasure crests with his kiss, chaste and short as it is. You throb against his fingers, that aching desire lingering even after he takes his hand back.

You just barely seize control of your faculties when he lets go, leaving you sprawled facedown so he can kneel behind you. He has your pants worked partway down your backside when you manage to throw an elbow back. True to your words, you don’t hold back, winding him long enough to work yourself free.

You don’t get far. You are back on your feet for only seconds before he is on you. He lets you get a few jabs in, then his hand is around your throat and he is walking you backwards into the wall.

Even so, he holds up a hand, cupping your head so it doesn’t hit the wall with any force.

“You wanted to fight,” he says, keeping that grip on your throat as he turns you around, your palms and cheeks to the wall. He drops his other hand, working your pants the rest of the way down your thighs. “You lost,” he says. “Now be a good girl, bend over and take it. I know you can.”

It is hard to think when he starts fucking you. Your mind often drifted during sex, even good sex, thinking about the next act or even what you would be doing later. Despite your life being even more complicated now, you can’t think about anything else when he is inside you.

You can’t do anything about your mind, but your body is a different story, as it seems to open for him in a way you did not know was possible. You don’t think anyone else ever held your throat so right, ever kept such a secure hold, ever felt so good draped over you while finding somewhere inside you that made your whole body sing.

“Chan,” you whisper, voice already shot.

“Mm,” is his grunt of a reply.

His pants are unzipped, slung slow, but not as low as yours so the material is rough against your bare skin. You feel hot. I is a relief when his hands start to gather your tight shirt and lift.

You let him, though it means he pulls out for a second, getting his balance as you adjust.

You take the opportunity and get away, even though you are more than half-naked with your upper layers removed and your pants partially down. You yank them back up, panting as you cross the room.

He laughs, tugging up his own pants again. His tongue is basically hanging out of his mouth, but he is not short of breath. He runs his hands through his hair as he crosses the mat, every inch of him confident and determined.

“Where do you think you’re going?” he asks.

His swings are taunting, you realize, faking when he is going to grab you, making it impossible to tell when he will.

“You think you can get away that easy?” he asks.

It breaks the scene a little, or maybe makes it better, but you smile just a bit. It is genuine, but it doesn’t distract him for long. You get one good punch before he is dragging you both to the ground again. He puts you on your back with a breathless shove, straddles your waist and grips both your hands in one of his.

“Ah-uh-uh,” he says, grabbing your jaw with the other hand. It stops your squirming, his thumb circling your lips. He taps your cheek with the suggestion of a slap, just enough your heart kicks faster even while everything else gets softer. “That’s better,” he says. “Very good. I got you. Who needs a daddy like that when you got me?”

“Jesus,” you say, with a small helpless laugh. “I don’t think we have time to unpack all that.”

He laughs too. He halts himself by jabbing his tongue into his cheek while he shakes his head at you.

“Oh, I’m just getting started,” he says. It feels like his hands are everywhere, waking every nerve as he skims your waist and front. He cups the curve of your chest, tormenting you, far too swiftly pushing all your most sensitive buttons.

You are squirming again, bucking under him while he moves his mouth over you, lips and teeth and tongue, marking his path. He goes lower, then flips you in a quick manoeuvre, your clothes just as quickly lowered. His mouth is on you from behind, then his fingers, so much of his hand, up on knee behind you with his arm flexing in each downward thrust.

“You’re not even trying,” he says. “I’ll take it as a compliment.”

You make a sound, halfway between a grunt and a moan. Resisting him is not easy but it has nothing to do with his strength and everything to do with your resolve. You want his hands and mouth and everything else, want to lay there like that while he takes you apart and puts you back together again. You want to remove all your armour.

He gets you off with his hand, works you open so thoroughly that when he lets go, you are left clenching and trembling with need for more. He gets the rest of your clothes off, takes a second to remove his shirt. In that second, you get on shaking legs.

You already know you won’t get far. Even when you throw your head back, knocking into his, you expect him to recalibrate faster. He is behind you, shirtless and hot and hungry, his pants low, every muscle throbbing and aching with the same exertion as yours.

“Not so fast,” he says.

He turns you to face him and picks you up like it’s nothing. He lines you up with the precision of an unfaltering marksman and gets back inside you by bringing your body down onto his cock. The swiftness and ungiving strength is a surprise in itself, a yelp squeaking its way past your lips as he fucks you in his arms, in the air, using nothing else for support.

With no other leverage, you can only cling to him, just him, filling the space of this room with everything he is, filling all those empty places inside you and making you feel fully satisfied for the first time that you can remember.

He gets on his knees after a bit, not so much from tired muscles as sheer desire, wanting you in a better position so he can really fuck you. On your back then side then front, his arm across your shoulder blades as he holds you down and drives into you with all those pent-up feelings.

His hand is on the nape of your neck when he comes, not pressing or squeezing, just holding you there. He doesn’t hold back in the pursuit of pleasure, lets himself feel it all, makes a sound you want to always remember as he drapes himself over your back.

The world is quiet in the comedown, just the sound of heavy breathing. A little laughter when he kisses your neck.

You are not sure if your aches and pains are from the earlier confrontation or from that exchange, and that makes everything hurt less, subsumed in the memory of something better, those bad feelings strangled by the good.

You get back to the room and shower. You keep your hands off each other long enough to get clean, but no longer than that. When you are back in the bed, supposedly to sleep, he is back on top of you and you are pulling him into you. It’s different than downstairs, but also the same, you and him, whatever that means or will mean. He says your name while he fucks you, slower and so deliberate with every breath and bite and kiss.

He lets you roll him over, put him on his back, lets you sit on top of him and take control for precious moments. He doesn’t last long like that, staring up at you, bare face screwed up with pleasure and desire. His lips form the shape of your name even when he can’t find his voice anymore.

“Please,” he finally speaks again. You’re not sure what he’s really begging for, but you give him what you have and it must be enough for now.

He sits upright before he comes, wraps his arms all the way around you and holds you tight while rocking up into you.

“Please,” he says again, eyes closed, leaning his face into your hands when you run your fingers through his hair. He is already sweating again, his face hot under your hands. You hold the back of his neck, keep him pressed against you, his face against your shoulder.

“It’s okay,” you say on an exhale. “I got you.”

A shiver moves down his spine. He rears up hard, digs his fingers into you with a possessive need, and comes with your name on his lips.

It is tempting to sleep through the day, but every second of every minute is imperative. As each day passes, there are less hours until Changbin is potentially relocated or put through experimental testing far more grueling than what has so far been described. An overslept morning could be the difference between finding your friend or not.

Despite a lingering soreness – not all of it strictly unpleasant – you climb out of bed to dress for the day. Chan stirs when you do, like always, though he allows himself a moment of uncharacteristic lethargy. He groans when you open the curtains and the sunlight slashes across his sleepy, squinting eyes.

“Rise and shine,” you say. “We have a lot of reading to do.”

The heavy research element of strategizing is hardly ever glamourized the way a good right cross can be. That is probably fair. It is far less exciting to sit around a table for hours, a pot of coffee between you, skimming line after line.

“I want to go back over everything from before,” you say, to a bleary-eyed Chan who has only had a few sips of coffee and still looks like he has one foot in slumber. He really looks so different when scrubbed clean, face so soft and open. His curly hair is a bit of a mop, a messy tendril falling over his forehead as he leans down to look at some text. His flannel is buttoned askew and you have to resist reaching out and fixing it.

“Are we looking for something in particular?” he asks. “You said Felix mentioned a prisoner.”

“Mm,” you say, already diving into research. Some of it is physical paperwork that you pilfered but most of it is stored on your stolen tablets. You rifle through papers and scroll at the same time.

“And what is that?” he prompts. He shoves a coffee cup at you for good measure.

You sit straighter to take a sip.

“Right,” you say. “I just have this feeling in my gut. I’ve had it since last night. Really unsettled and uneasy. It doesn’t feel like general anxiety or anticipation, not like bracing for a fight. It feels like – it feels like it does when I remember things, small things, in confusing fragments.”

He straightens at that. You have not told him much about the dreams. He knows that you have nightmares, obviously, as he is the one tending to you when you inevitably wake from them. You have not spoken the details aloud, though. Some of those images are horrendous. Speaking them makes it tangible in a whole new horrifying way. To compound it, articulating the jumbled fragments conjured by your subconscious is a trying endeavour, to say the very fucking least.

“Just…” You take a breath, shake your head. “Just look for any mentions of a white room.”

“A white room?” he repeats. “That might be a little vague, don’t you think? Lots of labs and rooms are white and kinda sterile?”

You are not entirely sure if the picture in your head is a true memory or a fabrication, perhaps one exacerbated by some similar but buried recollection. You just know that picture is vivid, terrifyingly evocative. You can see it so clearly. That room is beyond sterile; it is washed completely white. It is a bone scraped clean. Not a scrap of humanity clings to the surface.

Your perspective revolves around the room. You are in the middle of it. No windows, no visible doors. No way in or out. It feels like absolutely nothing came before it, and nothing more could come after it. It is the opposite the Cell which was a pitch black torture room. Confined, endless in its depth. This is huge and blinding white brightness. It makes the dark feel like a comfort.

You slip so far into that white expanse, you forget where you are. For a second, you are there, like you never left. It’s all you see.

“Whoa, whoa—” Chan’s voice yanks you firmly back to reality.

You realize only then that you are tearing up, one lone tear escaping down your cheek. You have no idea why you would be crying. The pain does not come from somewhere you can pinpoint. It’s a hollow ache, like an echo of someone else’s pain.

Chan is poised to stand, tense where he sits across the table. He looks at you with justified concern.

You wipe your tear quickly, shake your head and take command of your body again. You sit straighter, shuffle some papers and clear your throat.

“The white room,” you say. “Or any white room that stands out as peculiar. Felix said a prisoner was there, presumably semi-recently because he was still shaken from it. He described it as worse – worse than the holding cell at the military base. It makes me think it could be something worth looking into. If it’s worse than the usual holding cells, and if it required so much clearance that neither of us have heard of it, then it might be somewhere that Miroh held higher risk enemy prisoners. Changbin fits that description.”

Chan releases a breath of his own.

“It’s a good enough lead for me,” he says. “Better than the big fat nothing otherwise.”

Though his words are confident, he still looks at you warily. You don’t completely blame him. You would be equally startled if he began crying for no seeming reason.

“It’s fine,” you say, as reassuringly as possible.

“You were crying,” he says, tone a bit dry.

“I just…” You shake your head. “I just don’t want to make this about me right this second. This is about Changbin. It has to be about him.”

“Okay, okay,” he says, putting his hands up in surrender. “White room. Research. Changbin. Got it.”

You get to work with minimal interruption after that, stopping only to get some food then continue.

Before, you were looking for descriptions that fit Seo Changbin specifically. Prisoner transport, asset delivery, any movement between bases and facilities. Now you are just looking for a room, anything that matches the description. From there, you analyze its recent activity to see if it fits the timeline.

One mention seems to fit the bill. The description of the white room is vague but the closest match so far. The recent incident also matches the story that Felix gave you. It describes a prisoner who was recently held, some low level gangster who ran jobs for Miroh but tried to sell information to some competitors and was subsequently brought to heel. Records show he was recently relocated. He was removed from the white room because a higher priority asset needed storing.

The timeline works. Changbin would be a priority above anything or anyone else, a unique soldier and the biggest danger to the operation. It makes sense he would be a held in a bunker so secret that not even two top clearance agents like you and Chan would know about it.

This went all the way up to Miroh.

“Definitely the best lead we’ve had in a while,” Chan says, scanning the document in front of him. “Explains why there’s no trace of him at the places that would usually make sense.”

“Yeah,” you say, an edge of frustration to your tone. “The only problem is where the fuck is this place.”

You can picture it in your mind, but it is just a blank room. It could be in any building in any city.

Even though you have tracked and traced every mention of this elusive room, its precise location has not been disclosed or even hinted in any document. Its vague existence is referenced here and there, and even then only in the most classified briefings. Wherever the intel is hiding, it’s even higher classification. The kind of thing that Miroh would have overseen personally, like the First Guard’s operations.

“This secret could’ve died with my father,” you say. You picture his broken body in a heap at the base of a building with his name on it. You picture Changbin in a similar heap and it makes your stomach turn.

“There’s people keeping these logs,” Chan reasons. “They’re clearly still working. If we can figure out who they are, then maybe—”

“And how long is that gonna take without my father’s clearance?” you ask, letting that frustration burst out of you. It feels like he is back, like he never really left, your father lurking around every corner and putting obstacles in your path. Every step forward, he yanks you back.

You thought you ran off his map but maybe you have been confined in a single room this entire time.

“We’re back to square one,” you say. “He is the only one who had all the answers.”

“It’s still a good start,” Chan says, trying to sound more comforting than argumentative.

“What if we don’t get the information in time?” you ask. “Or spend all this time chasing it and it isn’t even the right place? Or it is the right place but he isn’t in it at all. And then he gets moved anyway and—”

“Whoa, whoa,” Chan says for the second time today.

It has grown marginally easier to temper your most volatile emotions, corralling them like you would an animal. It is still uncomfortable, this out of control feeling, watching that animal ran rampant with no clue how to truly tame it for good. It is unpredictable at the best of times.

“All right,” Chan says.

He goes to the sink at the little kitchenette while you prop your aching head in your hand. He pours some water into a glass and brings it to you. He kneels down, pats your knee consolingly while handing you the water.

You take the glass, cool in your palm. Your waking thoughts and half-reminiscences float in a swirling vision in the blaring expanse of your mind.

You put the drink down.

You have been skirting the edges of one report. Since learning the reconfiguration was about you and not Chan, you have not really touched the files. In some ways, you hardly need to revise them, as the evocative images are still so clear. Some of that might be your own memories, peeling off the walls of your mind in broken scraps.

You have not returned to the file. Not until now.

You do what you should done when the instinct first struck. There is a connection between you and this room and there is no use denying it. Maybe you can use it for something good instead of just more hurt.

Chan looks at you with continued concern, still on one knee in front of you. You skim the reconfiguration report, looking for the description of a white room, ignoring everything else.

Unsurprisingly, you find it. It is such an innocuous description, noted in the footnotes. You would have skipped right past it when reading the first time. It is the kind of thing anyone would skip over if they were not looking for it.

It appears you were brought to the white room – which they call the downtime room – after the major reconfiguration tactics were administered. It was used as a resting place, or a holding cell, or something. Somewhere quiet and empty where you were left to rot, consciousness no doubt seeping out of your ears.

You would have already been out of your mind. The transport route would not have registered to you.

So you would be willing to bet they did not try to obfuscate or hide it from you. Not in that state.

“Maybe we do know someone,” you say, “who knows where the room is.”

You look down at Chan, his eyes still full of concern. It is shadowed with the crease of his brow, obvious confusion taking over his face.

“Who?” he asks.

Your heart is racing, and maybe breaking, because you don’t want to see that face filled with pain again.

“Me,” you say.

It takes a second to land. He blinks at you then shakes his head, smiles like he is laughing at himself for misunderstanding. He looks up at you, hopefully.

“What do you mean?” he asks. “You think you know where it is?”

“In a way,” you say. You glance at the text, finding it hard to hold his gaze. “They brought me there when it was over. According to the reconfiguration notes, I’ve been there a few times over the years, during the sessions where they, uh, fixed me again.”

You try to laugh but nothing is funny anymore. Chan slowly stands and your gaze lifts to him. He doesn’t look away from you for a second.

“I don’t really follow,” he says, but you think he does.

“I think it’s in my buried memories,” you clarify, once and for all. “If I can access them, maybe I can find out for sure. Maybe we can find the room. Maybe we can find Changbin.”

“Okaaay…” He finally turns away. He paces a little, crosses the kitchenette. He rakes his fingers through his messy hair. “Okay,” he says again, does a little jump and shakes out his limbs like he is warming himself up for something intense. He looks at you, finally. “Um, look, not that I don’t want you to get your memories back, I mean – sure. Great. You know? But, uh, how exactly do you intend to do that?”

That is the crux of it. That is why your stomach is turning over itself, your heart splitting. That is why Chan is looking at you like that, braced for the absolute worst even though you haven’t said any of it out loud.

“The report says that too much recollection at once can trigger a breakdown,” you start.

“Okay,” he interrupts. “Breakdowns are not good, though. You know that, right? Like, I don’t have to explain how you having a massive breakdown would be a very bad thing?”

“Maybe,” you say. “Maybe not.”

“M-maybe not?” he repeats, eyes wide. He comes back to the table and sits down. He grabs your hand that is loosely resting over the report. “Baby,” he says. “I told you before, hurting yourself won’t save him.”

“This is not the same thing,” you say, shaking your head. You let him squeeze your hand again, a silent pleading in that mute conversation you exchange with your eyes.

You try to smile. It still doesn’t come easily. You wonder if it ever really did.

“In my dreams, there’s a lot of cold water,” you say. “I feel like I’m lost in a current, getting thrown every which way. I see flashes of memories. They don’t feel like me anymore, but I’m in the middle of them, like if I just reach out my hand I can grab them and put them back inside me.”

You look at that cold glass of water. You extract your hand from Chan’s grip and gently wrap your fingers around the glass.

“I get them sometimes even when I’m not sleeping,” you continue. “I know it’s all in there. And I know it all started because of Changbin. He smashed through that glass, Chan, and now it’s all pouring out and taking me with it. I can’t just swim back and seal myself inside again. Maybe the way out is through.”

“What exactly do you want to do?” he asks.

“I want to put my mind back there,” you say. “I want to feel everything I have been running from. All the bad. All the anger. All the fear. I don’t know if it will work. Maybe nothing will happen and I won’t remember a thing. Maybe it will get worse and I’ll forget even more.” He winces at that, his shoulders dropping. You let go of the glass and touch him. “But there’s a difference this time,” you say. “I’m doing this by choice. I’m doing this with you. I trust you with everything that I am.”

“And what exactly,” he says even slower, “do you want me to do?”

“I can’t exactly drown myself,” you say.

He gets quickly to his feet and turns away, rubbing his face. You stand as well, your chair scraping across the hotel room floor.

“Drown,” Chan says, seemingly talking to the air because he doesn’t look at you. “Drown,” he repeats. “You want me to – you want me to drown you. Drown you?”

He spins around to face you, expression contorted with horror, hurt, and anger.

“How can you—” he says. “How can I—”

You step around the table and approach him slowly. He doesn’t balk or push you away, though he is breathing heavily. His skin is warm, even through his flannel when you lay a hand on his chest. You guide him a little closer.

“Like last night,” you say. “It’s different, Chan. It’s you. It’s me.”

“This is insane,” he says. “What if it doesn’t work, like you said? What if you get worse? What if—”

“I’m not leaving him behind,” you say. You picture Changbin on that roof, clasping your hand. That scarred palm is resting on Chan now. You turn it over and look at it, his eyes straying there too. “I don’t know what happened before,” you say. “I don’t know what will happen in the future. But right now, my friend is sitting somewhere and he thinks he’s alone. But he’s not. I’m not. You’re not.” Your voice gets shaky. Those tears come back, pouring from somewhere buried inside you, cold and rough as it comes out of you. “This is my choice,” you say. “I want to do this. I’m not scared.”

“I know,” he says. He releases a breath and drops forward. He wraps his arms around you and presses his forehead to yours. “That’s why you terrify me.”

You laugh through your tears, wrapping your arms around him too.

“I’m insane,” you say. “Might as well use it to our advantage.”

“You’re lucky I’m insane too,” he says.

He speaks with a lighter voice. When you withdraw, his face screws up with sadness and he pulls you back.

“Just – a little longer,” he says, cupping the back of your head and putting it on his shoulder. You can’t see his face like that and you think that’s the point, knowing he’s crying just by the way his chest rises and falls. “Just – just a second,” he says. “Please.”

Oh, maybe that was his pleading last night. Just a little longer.

“Okay,” you say. You hug him tightly. The back of his stolen shirt crinkles in your hands. You have nothing to your name, but you have each other, and you hold on tight for as long as you possibly can.

You get ice from the hotel machine, bucket after bucket dumped in the bathtub. Chan starts running cold water while you strip down to your underclothes and a t-shirt. You sit on the bed, listening to the water in the other room, closing your eyes and fighting to recall all those fragments. They are all sharp to the touch, jagged edges, truly like shattered glass. If you touch the memory at the wrong angle, it makes you bleed with an agonizing pain.

Your hands are already shaking. You put them between your knees, trying to steady to them. You look at the sunlight coming through the window. You remind yourself this is not like those dank, dark rooms. This is not Miroh. Everything has changed.

The water stops running. Chan appears in the main room again. He looks as wan and sick as you feel, but he nods resolutely, sharp as a salute.

“Ready when you are,” he says.

You stand and follow him into the bathroom. The tub is filled to the brim with ice cold water. It looks nothing like that dark and dirty well in the facility, but a chill moves down your spine nonetheless. You see that well, remember peering down in the darkness. It looked like it never ended. You can see the bottom of the tub through the ice.

Just like last night, you told Chan, reminding him of every chase and fight between you. You put yourself very literally in his hands, just like you are doing now. It was a recreation of real danger, just like now. But it was safe, and you were fine, just like now, just like you will be.

He drags the footstool from the chair in the main room, places it beside the tub. He sits there, one hand swirling around in the water to get used to it. You can see him shiver.

You stand over him, looking down at the water, at his hand moving around and around. He looks up at you.

“You don’t have to do this,” he says.

“I know,” you say. You reach down and touch the water too. It is so cold that it burns. You are built to withstand extremities, so this will not have the same lasting damage that it would on a regular person, but that doesn’t mean it won’t hurt the same way.

You straighten. Your fingers tingle, dripping cold.

“I’m going to try and fight you,” you remind him. “It’s just instinct. You have to keep me down there, take me right to the edge, as far as you possibly can, then bring me back up. You have the timer ready?”

He is going to push you to the limit, again and again, replicating the drowning torture in a hope it will tap into the part of your brain that correlates those memories with that feeling. He is to do it within a certain timeframe or until you pass out, whichever happens first. After that, you will take a few hours to recuperate. If it doesn’t work, you will try one more time later tonight. After that, you have to consider it a failure because he isn’t doing it a third time. You agreed.

He nods a bit too emphatically now, clearly wracked with nerves. He stripped down to a sleeveless shirt so you wouldn’t be grabbing the flannel sleeve when you inevitably start to fight back. It will be the body’s response to attempted drowning. It’s why you can’t do this to yourself. It’s why no one else could possibly do it to you, because you would overpower them.

Besides, there is no one you trust like Chan. You put a hand on his shoulder and remind him of that fact.

“I trust you,” you say. “Whatever happens—”

“Don’t say goodbye to me,” he says, his eyes lowered, gaze far away.

He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t have to. You are utterly rapt, looking down at him, at where he wanders deep into his thoughts. He pulls himself out eventually and lifts his head, gazes up at you.

“You said goodbye once before,” he says. “You’re not doing it again. You’re going to come back to me, okay? In – in any condition.” He sucks in several jagged breaths as he visibly tears up, words escaping on a gasping stutter. “I – I – I don’t care if you never get better, yeah?” he says. “I don’t care if we’re messy and dealing with this for the rest of our lives. Just come back to me, okay? Just – just promise you’ll come back.”

You pull him against you, let him bury his face against your middle while he breathes hard. He holds you for another long moment then composes himself, surfacing with a deep, heaving breath. He shakes his head then nods towards the tub.

“All right,” he says. “I got you. Always.”

“I know,” you say. You touch his face, tilt it up to look at you. “Thank you, Chan. Chris. Everyone you are. For everything you’ve done.”

“You know, you’re actually the only one who refused to call me Chris,” he says, laughing through his tears. “I think you just did it to annoy me.”

“I am pretty annoying,” you say, gesturing the tub.

“Definitely not the time for jokes,” he says, but laughs a little anyway.

You pat his cheek, give him one last watery smile, then you step into the tub.

Even that first descent is a mind-numbing shock. Inch by inch you submerse yourself, feeling like you are sinking into a tub filled with all those sharp, jagged edges of glass. You look down, panicking for half a second because the water is swirling red and pink. It makes no sense but you must be literally bleeding.

Then the image splinters and you realize you are not bleeding, not now. You are remembering a different motel tub – your blood swirling in a pool at your feet moments before Chan walked in and scooped you up, carrying you to safety.

He is still here now. He says your name. He says, “Easy. You’re okay. You’re safe, all right?”

You nod, closing your eyes. You listen to his voice. Maybe it is the sound, or maybe the physical pain, but a rush of tears are already rising to your eyes. They stab as ferociously, pouring down your face. It feels so hot compared to the water of the tub, almost like a stream of blood.

“It’s okay,” Chan is saying. “I’m going to grab you now, okay?”

You nod, eyes still screwed shut. His hand comes around your neck, just a gentle grip at first, letting you get used to it. You have felt that touch a few times now. It sends a familiar spark of heat shooting through you. You remember your name on his gasping lips, remember his mouth open on yours. You remember that dream of a kiss, warmer, hotter, more loving than anything you had ever encountered before. Your first real kiss. You see it for a moment, see him, younger, looking at you with hopeful anticipation as your eyes flutter open.

“Chan,” you say.

“It’s me,” he says, tightening his grip on your neck. “I got you. I’m right here. I’ll count you in, then it’s up to you. But I have you, all right? You’re safe.”

Your eyes are closed, but you still see him, young and smiling softly. His hand is on your face, warm where your tears fall.

“Three,” he says. “Two. One.”

It crashes over your head, a torrent of freezing water. You scream in the darkness, flailing desperately, but the well is narrow and you only succeed in bruising yourself when you try to splay your limbs out.

The darkness is not a void, not pure pitch, but cast with a pearly, luminescent sheen. It starts to swirl into a dizzying mess the longer you are down there. Then it starts to fade, true darkness creeping in at the corners.

You are yanked out abruptly. There is light, hot and sickly yellow, burning on your ice cold skin.

“Stop,” Chan is saying, crying, a blubbering mess that makes him sounds ten years younger. He is already young. He’s barely past eighteen. “Please,” he says. “This is my fault, don’t—”

You open your eyes to look at him. It feels like peeling skin off iced metal, your eyelids fighting every inch of the way. But you manage, barely, looking at him through the water dripping off your forehead.

He is prostrate on the floor, completely horizontal, a short chain around his neck clipped to a hook on the ground. He can’t even turn his head. He can only stare ahead at you, staring back at him.

There is something around your neck too. It keeps you in a strangled state even though you are out of the water. The vice tightens when you aren’t floating, so you don’t really get a proper breath of air. In fact, you’re not sure if it’s worse in or out of the water.

You don’t have much time to think about it, because you are plunged back in, the sound of his shouting disappearing in the blurring whirl of bubbling water.

You are yanked back out, and you are grown, in a hotel bathtub, gasping and clawing at the feeling around your neck. You get a breath, only just, then you are back underwater.

You see Chan again, grown, in that hotel gym last night. You feel him, hot and heavy, holding you tight against his body. You roll out from under him, jump to your feet. He laughs and smiles, you smile back, and you run at each other. You raise your fist to throw a punch you know he can deflect—

Except he doesn’t. The punch lands and it lands hard. He falls onto his back and there is no training mat to soften the impact. He smashes down onto a concrete floor and you just watch. There is a sickening crack, and it objectively grosses you out, watching him cry out in pain. But you don’t feel anything, do you? No. You just know you have to fight him. You just know he is everything that is causing you pain. You hate him, you hate him, you hate him. He’s the reason you’re here. He’s the reason everything feels like ice.

“Stop,” he says, pushing himself up despite the blood slipping down his face. It isn’t the first hit. You’ve already broken his nose. You’re not sure if his face is red because of you or because he won’t stop crying, as if this isn’t all his fault. “You don’t want to do this,” he says. “You don’t want to hurt me. You don’t, you can’t—”

You run at him again and he finally defends himself. He doesn’t attack, but he blocks shot after shot, letting you move around the fighting space. It looks like a cage, or a prison. Someone is watching on the other side.

“With a daddy like that—” Chan teases, and you laugh on the hotel mat.

You don’t land on a mat. You land on the floor when Chan sweeps too hard and knocks you down. He panics, immediately drops down beside you to check that you are all right. You slam your fist between his eyes.

“She’ll kill you if I ask,” your father says, circling the iron bars, watching Chan as he backs up like he is watching a wild animal. You might as well be, running on pure instinct, watching with predatory eyes as he backs right up to the bars.

Your father stands behind him.

“You will, won’t you?” Miroh asks you. “If I put you on a mission right now. You’d do exactly what I say. You’d even hurt him.”

“This isn’t you,” Chan says, ignoring him, looking at you, though nothing is gazing back. He says your name and it might as well be a made-up word for all that it is meaningless.

You’re Miroh’s daughter. Nothing else matters.

“I’d fight back if I were you,” Miroh says, patting Chan on the head before simply striding away. Over his shoulder, he says, “It’s you or her. The choice is yours.”

You run straight at Chan. His eyes get wide and he throws his hand out to stop you.

It catches you around the neck and you are drawn out of the water. Hot yellow lights, hotel gold, then back under again.

You are swinging back, throwing a punch, but you’re not fighting Chan. It’s someone in a mask, his face fully covered. You push and kick and punch, going around and around in circles, a perfect match like you were built exactly the same way by exactly the same person.

Felix takes off the mask and disappears over the balcony railing. You chase him and he swings back up, kicking off your mask. It clatters across the metal walkway. You tackle him and you both fall off the balcony edge.

You land on your back. Felix is on top of you, reeling back his arm. You dodge the punch, rolling out from under him. You are both younger, both in the black uniform of Miroh.

“Why are you doing this?” you ask. “Felix, it didn’t have to be this way. I could’ve helped you. I’m on your side.”

“I can’t afford sides,” he says, shaking his head rapidly. “I need to get out of here. Chris needs to get out of here. If you care about him—”

“You don’t know the first thing about that,” you snap.

Your emotions make you clumsy. Felix easily catches your flying fist and twists it around. Your whole body follows, then the ground is rushing up to meet you.

There is blackness all around you, whether your eyes are opened or closed. You jump when a hand reaches through the dark. You reach out too, trace your fingers over a familiar brow, down a cheek, his jaw, his neck.

“Chan?” you say.

“I’m here,” he says, wiping your tears, comforting you. “I’m always here. I’ve got you. It’s okay.”

Then his hand is gone. His face disappears. You swing your hand through the shadows and scream his name but he isn’t there anymore.

You’re completely alone in the darkness.

An earth-shattering eruption shudders all around you, blowing through the black with a burst of grey fog. When it settles, you are in a warehouse, the wooden ceiling partially obliterated from the explosion. You are trapped under rubble, only alive because you managed to fall in a slight dip so the concrete block across your body is not fully crushing you.

It will, though. You can’t breathe. Your chest is being compressed and you are dizzy, your ears ringing, and you can’t hope to budge the concrete block at this vantage. Even though you are stronger than other normal eighteen year olds, you are not fully superhuman. Maybe Chan could move it, but Chan is gone. Your father’s men grabbed him. That was the last thing you saw before the explosion.

Maybe he’s getting away, you think. Maybe they’re all getting away.

Even while dreaming it, you know it isn’t true. It was stupid to think you could take on your father. The inevitable reckoning found you. It’s all over. You didn’t save anyone. Not even yourself. You’re going to die like you lived, trapped under the rubble of your father’s fortune, all alone in quiet pain.

“Hey!”

You hear a voice at a distance. It only just barely pierces the ringing in your ears so you aren’t sure how close it really is.

“It’s me,” the voice says. “I’m coming!”

You can’t keep your eyes open. You can’t breathe like this and your body is getting colder and colder. You feel a presence even though you can’t see who it is, your eyes too heavy, the block on your chest heavier and heavier still.

“Wake up,” says the voice. “Hey, wake up. Please. Please wake up.”

It feels almost impossible, like pushing that weight off your chest, but you peel your eyes open slowly. There is dust in your eyes and in the air, the grey smoke of the explosion still puffing around you. Your eyes water to clear the worst of it.

Through the dust, smoke, and tears, you see Changbin, all his sharp, young features, swallowed up in his black uniform. The blast must have shot some debris his way because he’s bleeding, a thin streak of blood on his forehead, a line of red spilling down his cheek.

He ignores it completely, leaning down, tapping your cheek some more.

“It’s me,” he says. “Hold on. Keep your eyes open. Don’t go. I promise I’ll get you out.”

“Changbin,” you croak. You watch as he sits back, frantically measuring the concrete block with his darting eyes. When he grabs a corner, you rapidly shake your head. “Stop,” you say. “Stop, you can’t move it.”

“I can,” he says. He tries to laugh, somehow manages to joke at a time like this and says, “I’m the strongest and best looking one here, princess. Don’t insult me.”

“Changbin, it’s too heavy,” you say. The force of it is bearing down on you more and more, all your father’s greedy hopes shoving you further and further into the ground.

It’s going to kill you. It was always going to kill you.

But it doesn’t have to kill him.

“Changbin, go,” you say.

He is leaning against the block, lining up like he intends to shove the whole thing with his shoulder. His head whips down to look at you, his face twisted up with disgust.

“No,” he says firmly.

“Changbin,” you say just as firmly, because the block doesn’t budge. It was never going to budge. “Changbin, look.” You nod towards a light where the explosion ripped through the wall, where the enemy’s men came pouring in and ran right past you. “You can go,” you say. “For good. It’s a way out. They’ll just think you’re dead. They’ll leave you behind, that’s the rule, that’s what they do. You can get away. Just leave me. It’s fine. This is your only chance. Go. Go now.”

He pauses for a second. He looks over his shoulder at where Miroh’s men are still scrambling, then he looks towards that light. He knows you’re right. He knows that if he gets up now and runs, they won’t catch him. They’ll leave him for dead. He can get away once and for all.

He stares towards that light for a long moment. Then he looks down at you. He changes position, wraps an arm over the block and puts his weight against the side.

“No,” he says again. “I’m not leaving here without you.”

He pushes the block. It scrapes the ground, pushes you a little deeper. For a second, it hurts so much worse, then he gets his shoulder under it and takes the brunt of the weight. With another grunting heave, he straightens out and shoves it off you completely. It makes a horrible screeching sound as it moves across the floor, but you’re free.

You can breathe all at once, sucking in a huge lungful of air. Changbin leans over you, gathers you up into his arms and pulls you into a sitting position.

“You’re so stupid,” you say, choking on a sob. “I hate you.”

“I know,” he says, wiping the tears and dust off your face. “Love you too.”

“Stand back, soldier,” one of your father’s men appears, stepping out of the smoke like a monster. He multiplies, more of your father’s back-up arriving one by one. They circle you and Changbin.

You nod at your friend. There is no winning this fight. Not today. Not like this.

Relenting, Changbin steps back. One of the men grab him and push him to the side, redirecting him away. He is promptly forgotten in his supposed insignificance. The rest of them keep a circle around you.

Your father crosses through that circle. He looks down at you. You remember seeing emotion in his eyes, once, enough that he could be furious, enough that he could be hateful. Now there is nothing. He looks at you like he would look at a pebble in his shoe. Disappointing but mostly inconvenient.

“Take her,” he says.

Someone grabs you by the neck. You are pulled to your feet, faster, higher. You get a glimpse of Chan behind your father, face beaten bloody, limp body held up by another guard.

“Chan!” You try and move towards him but the grip on your neck tightens.

You can’t scream in the circle of that vice. Whatever sound you want to make disappears in the ice as you are plunged back under water. You open your eyes in the cold, look through the darkness until there is light, until everything is whiteness all around you. No windows, no doors. Beyond sterile. Cold. Empty. Nothing before or after.

Then you are pulled back up. You realize the white walls were the sides of the hotel bathtub. You suck in a desperate, shuddering gasp of a breath. It goes right down to the depth of your lungs, pulls you up from the inside out.

Chan says your name.

You open your eyes and see hotel bathtub faucet. Chan’s hands are on your arms rather than your neck as he hoists you out of the water. Like that first night, he bundles you in a towel. He says your name again, touches the side of your cold and clammy face.

It takes you a minute to find his face, his real face, living and warm and right now.

He stares down at you with his familiar dark eyes, breathing hard like he was the one exerting himself.

“You were right,” you say in a hoarse voice. Despite everything, a laugh bursts out of you. It hurts, it hurts like burning ice, but then it feels so much better.

“About what?” he asks.

“I did always call you Chan,” you say.

Then you collapse in his arms, your eyes closing. A torrent of memories come flooding back.

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