If I Didn't Already Know I Was A Jisung Stan This Would Have Made It As Clear As Day

If I didn't already know I was a Jisung stan this would have made it as clear as day

Bc why is this me🧍‍♀️

Jisung: I don’t have a train of thought I have seven trains on 4 tracks that narrowly avoid each other when the paths cross and all the conductors are screaming

*nyam* 🥺

prev tags are so real

Bulgari Serpenti 230628♡

Literally me rn!!!

I'm so scared for them ngl 😭😭✋

When Hyunjin finally dips he should take them + jisung with him

But also, kinda pervy for the dad to be spying on their room. Bc even if there wasn't anything going on won't they still need to dress and stuff?👀

part vii: bodyguard!felix x reader

masterlist.

PART I ; PART II ; PART III ; PART IV ; PART V ; PART VI ; PART VII ;

Your father hires an inconspicuous bodyguard to accompany you at school and supervise you at home. What seems like an innocuous change in routine eventually spirals into a forbidden romance that grows more passionate over the years.

pairing: lee felix/reader content info: smut. violence. parental abuse. situations of intense peril overall. forced proximity. enemies2lovers. angst with eventual happy ending. (chapter word count; 9600 words)

chapter warnings: beginnings of some kink exploration (dom/sub, mentions of discipline, breeding kink)

-

At one of your father’s dinner parties, a pompous idiot with too much to drink touches you.  It takes Felix seconds to rip that hand away, holding it in a painful clutch and threatening to snap his wrist if the man tries anything again.  Safe to say, he does not, and everyone else gives you a blissfully wide berth.    

You look at Felix on the ride back to the apartment.  The armed limo is huge and empty with just the two of you, the partition up for a modicum of privacy, but he is still quiet.   His head is on his fist as he stares out the tinted window.    It is not a particularly morose quietude; you suspect he is just tired because of the long day and late hour. 

You are tired too, your gaze dreamy and unfocussed as you look at him.  The security uniform tonight is a black dress shirt and black suit.  It makes him look severe, lean and dark, all high cheekbones and dark brows, his shock of blonde hair tied smoothly back.  

He looks very intimidating when he doesn’t smile, fitting a plethora of roles when it suits him.  This one stirs something deep in the core of you, something that makes you feel flushed and a little embarrassed. 

It seems like such a cliché, someone with your history getting turned on by a mean man with a meaner hand.  Your stubborn side is irrefutably against you even acknowledging such a desire, but the desire wins out anyway.  You and Felix know real violence better than anyone.  You know the power propelling your passion is not his deep voice snapping at that man, not his powerful stance or harsh action.  It was the way he looked at you after.  The way he so gently touched your side to comfort you, using that low voice not to threaten but console, asking so sincerely if you were all right and if you needed anything.  You know if you asked, he would have given you anything. 

Your father looks at Felix and sees an inhuman soldier.  Others look at him and see his masks, his roles, his duties.  You see all those things and more, his capacity for goodness among them.

Felix has taken beatings for you.  He has protected you with all his painfully won abilities.  He has trusted you with the darkest parts of himself, just as he seen the worst of your wounds.  You know he will always take care of those scars, and there is immense relief in trusting that way. 

You doze in your dreaminess, stirring when he gently shakes your shoulder at arrival.  You groan, more for show than actual displeasure.  He chuckles and squeezes your arm. 

“Sorry, sweetheart,” he murmurs.  “Gotta get to bed before you can sleep, yeah?” 

You blink your eyes open.  He is close, close enough to count each freckle.  You brush back a fallen strand of blonde hair, your gaze tracing it to the root.  He needs another touch-up.  You smile, thinking about the simple domestic routine that is helping him with his hair, a part of his body he can control and that he trusts you with completely.     

“C’mon,” he says again, as the driver opens the door.  “Let’s go.”

Felix steps out first, always assessing.  You follow when he offers his hand.  You both acknowledge the driver with the usual politeness then Felix escorts you into the building.  In the elevator, you rest your head on his shoulder and yawn.  He stands straight and stoic, aware of the cameras and surveillance.  You bumbling about in your tipsiness is normal but he should be indifferent to it. 

He takes your heels when you pass them to him, walking calmly while you sashay out of the elevator with a showy flourish.  You know it is killing him not to laugh until you are safe inside the apartment. 

“You’re a menace,” he says, tossing your shoes to the side.  You giggle and reach for him but he swerves and ignores your pout.  “Go to bed,” he says.  “I’m just gonna let your dad know we’re back.” 

The usual routine.  Phone call, security check, bed.  Sometimes he takes longer than necessary so you are asleep when he climbs into bed, but when you are awake he smiles despite himself. 

That smile dimples his cheeks tonight.  You are sitting at your vanity, wiping the last of your make-up when he walks into the bedroom.  He unknots his tie while swooping down, his mouth by your ear and your gazes meeting in the mirror. 

“You should be in bed,” he says.  His tone colours it so suggestively that he might as well have murmured something filthy. 

You feign indifference as you turn to him.  He straightens and you stand, your gazes locked in a challenging contest of wills.  You take the ends of his tie and tug him closer.  He is too coordinated to truly stumble so you know he does it for your benefit, looking charmed the whole time. 

“I need help, remember?”  You smile sweetly.  “You’ve been derelict in duty.” 

“Ah,” he says.  “Sorry to leave you waiting.” 

“You should be.” 

It seems long ago now that you were standing in your closet at the house, wishing you had an excuse for Felix to put his hands on you.  That was when you hoped for a circumstantial resolution, so you would not have to ask, so it would just happen. 

Things have changed.  He was with you when you bought this dress.  He was in this room when you stepped into it.  He zipped it because you asked, in on the same joke when you smiled at him through the mirror. 

Now you turn around and offer your back.  There were some tingles when he zipped you up, just like there were sparks when you tied his tie despite him knowing how, but having him undress you feels different.  A little shiver dances down your spine as he lowers the zipper, slower than he needs to, either tormenting you or bracing himself.   

He doesn’t need to slide the straps down your shoulders, nor help you step out of the dress, but he does.  He gathers it at your waist and sinks to his knees, letting you step out of the gown.  Then he drapes it over his arm and stands, pointedly not looking any lower than your neck. 

“Will that be all?” he asks, dryly, playing your little game. 

You lift an eyebrow and smirk.  He laughs, shaking his head. 

“Proper classes start next week, yeah?”  He leaves to hang your dress.  “You should try and get on a better sleep schedule.” 

“Ugh,” is your reply.  “You and your common sense.  I hate you.” 

He smirks, looking down at the dress as he slides it onto the hanger.  “I know,” he says. 

There is one more party before the summer ends.  You know there will be lots of socializing, the final summer bash an excruciatingly long event, so you take your time preparing.  You permit a little indulgence, lounging in a bubble bath while reading on your phone. 

You tend to mentally insert Felix into all the stories.  His understated dominance, deriving from a secure sense of competence, is far more tantalizing than some of the dramatically brusque characters, so you really have no choice but to think of your bodyguard as you slide your free hand under the water…

As if he knows you are about to be naughty, Felix knocks at the bathroom door. 

“Yes?” you ask, turning off your screen.  “What is it?”

“Uhh, is my jacket still in there?  I can’t find it.” 

“Yup.”

“All right.  Can you bring it when you’re done—”    

“You can come in,” you say.  You place your phone aside then sink into the water.  “I’m decent.” 

Felix opens the door only to immediately jump back a step.

“O-o-okaaay,” he says before laughing in disbelief.  He scrubs a hand over his face.  “Yeah, uhh, that was my fault.  I should have known better.” 

You giggle, blowing a few bubbles apart. 

“Don’t be a baby,” you say.  “You can’t see anything.”  That much is true as the bubbles blanket the water.  “Besides,” you say, smiling, “it’s nothing you haven’t seen before.” 

He sighs and looks at you sideways.  You raise a wet hand and wiggle your fingers. 

“Uh-huh,” he says, amused despite himself.   He sighs again, his voice breaking on the upward lilt, making you laugh.  He crosses the room, pointedly not looking in your direction and fetching his jacket off the counter.  

He is leaving when you call his name in a syrupy voice.  

“Yes?” he asks, his back to you.  He is in a white dress shirt but ripped jeans, his hair in a messy half-ponytail.  He is only halfway ready, halfway your father’s man, but all the way yours when you call him back to you. 

He tosses the jacket on the counter again.  He crosses his arms, looking at you with an expectant tip of the head. 

You lift a leg and rest your toes on the end of the tub.  His eyes flick down the length of bare skin before settling on your face, his expression seemingly unmoved despite the compulsion to look. 

You hum casually as you wave a razor. 

“Are you kidding,” he says, more of a statement than a question, already knowing the answer. 

“What?  You’re here to help me, aren’t you?” you ask, blinking innocently. 

“I’m here to, hmm, stop you from being killed and, ah, what did your father say again…”  He taps a finger on his chin while ambling towards the tub.  He smiles as if remembering, nodding with utmost seriousness.  “Yeah, that was it.  Use my, uhh, discretion?  To discipline you?” 

“Do you want to discipline me, Felix?” 

There is a moment of tense silence.  He takes the final step to the tub and perches himself on the edge.  He rolls up the sleeves of his shirt, carefully folding each crease up to his elbow.  You watch it, far more rapt than any person should be, looking at his forearms, his wrists, his hands, and wondering how you can be so attracted to even the most innocuous parts of him. 

“You know…” he says, without any teasing or irony, drawing your eyes up to his face.  “Sometimes I think… you know, I’ll be a monster my whole life no matter what I do.”  He takes the razor while you are distracted with forming an interjection.  He keeps speaking, lathering some soap on his fingertips.  “I don’t how you can ask me things like that, and somehow… just… make me feel like no matter what I’m doing, I’m still doing something, mmm, holy… and good.” 

You are good, you want to say.    

He clasps your ankle and rests it on his knee, then draws the razor along your calf, concentrated.  You are hyperaware of the kiss of metal, how easily he could hurt you, how he is so careful not to, even by accident.  He rinses the razor then starts again, eyes turned to his task while he speaks.   

“The way you look at me, ah,” he says, smiling and shaking his head.  “It almost scares me, yeah, just what I’d do if it was for you.”

“Well,” you say, letting your leg sink back into the water when he finishes.  “That’s because you’re a good bodyguard.”  It is the most you trust yourself to say.

“Am I?” he asks, with a tilt of the head. 

Your eyes meet for as long as you can bear to look at him, then you force yourself to shrug.

“You already know how I feel about you,” is what you say. 

He lets out a breath of a laugh, then stands and turns to leave.  You clear your throat loudly and he looks back at you.

“I have another leg,” you say dryly. 

He laughs and sits back down.

-

The party is a typical event.  Everyone blends together, a restless sea of noisy faces.  You do not take particular note of anyone. 

Until you see Hyunjin. 

He is across the room, sitting with his parents and a few other people.  It has only been a few months but his hair has grown, now touching his jaw.  He is handsome as ever but he is no longer faking happiness.  You relate to the look on his face, the open contempt as he regards a few characters at his table. 

He is helping himself to the complimentary wine, a blush on his cheeks from mild intoxication.  You watch him swing out of his seat and strut up to the bar, his father glaring behind him the whole time. 

Then his father spots you and you have to refrain from rolling your eyes.  You take a sip of your own drink, sighing as Hyunjin’s father crosses the room to whisper something to him.

Hyunjin looks your way.  Though there are many people between you, the fuss of the party fades away.  You see him, his slouch, how tired he looks, aged in just a few short months.  You want to ask him so many questions.  You hope he is okay, but he is here so that must be limited. 

Hyunjin looks at his father and shakes his head.  A quiet argument seems to brew between them, ending with Hyunjin storming off into the corridor.  You watch him retreat, debating whether or not you want to follow when your father says, “Don’t.”

You did not realize he had returned to the table.  He is sipping a coffee and watching you with obvious disapproval.

 “Don’t what?” you ask.  The question punches out of you very sharply.  The ordeal with Hyunjin reminds you of everything that followed with Jisung.  You cannot help the way your adrenaline kicks in, frightened and frantic. 

Your father is always happiest when he has an underling squirming.  He smiles into his coffee then slowly places it down.  He takes his time wiping his mouth, tossing the napkin on the floor after. 

“You’re not a child anymore,” he says.  “You don’t need a boy like that.” 

“I don’t want a boy like that,” you say.  “We’re still friends, though.” 

“You don’t need friends like that either,” he says.  “You’re better than this.” 

The absolute nerve of this man to act like he never liked Hyunjin, that your break-up was his plan all along, that your decision was actually his own.  To act like he is still in control.  

A part of you wants so badly to swing back with your own words, to tell him everything about you, about Felix, just to see the look on his face.  He’s not in control of your life, you are, and he can throw you into whatever situation he wants, but you will continue to make your own choices.  You have carved out your own happiness right under his nose.  You have done the impossible over and over and over again.   

You do not say anything, of course.  A few moments of gloating satisfaction is not worth the devastating outcome of such a revelation.  You just shake your head and clench your jaw, fixing your stare on nothing particular.  You count your breath to temper yourself. 

“I am pleased you agree with me on such an assertion,” your father says. 

He must know he is riling you up, but he gets to act calm and collected because he has no emotional investment in it.  Hyunjin was a means an end.  Jisung was nothing and no one.  Felix is a soldier.  He doesn’t care about Hyunjin’s artistic side, that he has a deeply sensitive nature.  He doesn’t care that Jisung is funny and brilliant and creative, that he brightens lives just by being there.  He doesn’t care that Felix has a hundred complicated layers, that he is good and goofy and kind, that he is sad and sorrowful and angry. 

He doesn’t care that you love them.  He cares that people play their part so he can play his, above them all where he is safe in his power.      

“I do what I have to,” you say through gritted teeth. 

“A valuable lesson for the Hwang boy if he wants to move up in the world,” your father says, otherwise dismissive as he looks at his watch.  The conversation is evidently starting to bore him.

That annoys you more than anything else.  Though you know better, your vexation propels you to blurt, “And what lesson was Jisung supposed to learn?” 

You regret it as soon as you say it.  You do not want to do anything that would ever endanger him again.  

Your fleeting panic is for nothing.  Your father is perplexed, looking at you like he thinks you may have finally gone insane. 

“Who?” he says. 

A twisted combination of fury and relief spins inside you like a hurricane.  Who.  Your best friend, an innocent civilian that he targeted and harassed, a good and kind boy who never wanted anything more than to love his friends and be loved in return.  One of the most heartbreaking separations of your life, a source of so much agony and anger.  It was only a few months ago.   

And your father says who. 

You are so stunned, you can only stare back at him, completely at a loss for words. 

Your father is standing, prepared to leave, when realization blooms on his face.

“Ah, right, the schoolboy,” he says.  Then he just laughs, like you told an absolutely hilarious joke.  He puts a hand on your shoulder and squeezes amiably.  “He learned not to aim higher than he’s worth,” your father says, laughing some more like he cracked a punchline too.  “Some people are destined to live and die as nothing.”

He walks away with a smile.  You stare into the distance, stone-faced. 

When the timing is less suspicious, you make your way over to Felix.  He is standing with the security team, armed and ready for action.  He unhooks his earpiece so he can hear when you whisper. 

“As soon as possible,” you say, “get me alone with Hyunjin.  And be as discreet, please.” 

It is obvious he was not expecting that.  He opens his mouth to say something then closes it again, looking confused.

“Please,” you say, then walk away so you do not arouse suspicion.  There is only so much conversation you would reasonably need to have with your bodyguard in the middle of a party. 

Felix pops his earpiece back in, frowning to himself as he resumes position.  You go to the bar for another drink, smiling at the appropriate guests, making small talk when prompted.   Hyunjin eventually returns to the room, so you and Felix make eye contact.  He straightens his jacket and moves across the room, blending in as security should.    

You wait by the balcony doors as Felix approaches Hyunjin.  At first, Hyunjin appears to be dismissing him, then he does a double-take and realizes it is Felix.  He looks confused but Felix departs as swiftly as he arrived.  He joins you by the balcony doors, following you outside. 

You wait, leaning on the balcony railing and looking over the hotel courtyard with unseeing eyes.  Your mind is faraway, already racing with questions, thoughts, concerns.  You told yourself you would never see Hyunjin or Jisung again, but that was before Hyunjin disappeared then reappeared.  You have a million things you want to know.  Did he try running?  Did he fail?  Will he try again? 

Then Hyunjin steps onto the balcony and you forget the tedium of words.  You hug him and he hugs you back, a tight but brief embrace.  You both laugh a little. 

You see Felix out of the corner of your eye.  He is lingering a few feet back like a bodyguard would, but he is staring like a jealous boyfriend until he remembers himself.  He clears his throat and stands straight, looking away. 

Hyunjin glances at him too, then looks at you with a raised eyebrow. 

“I’m guessing there’s… a story here…” he says. 

“You’re one to talk,” you say, thumping his arm.  “Where were you?  Was it…?”

Hyunjin glances at Felix who is stoic as can be.  Hyunjin clearly does not know what to make of him, so he errs on the side of the caution, speaking quietly. 

“Paris,” he says.  “My dad sent me to live with family for the summer.  It was supposed to be a punishment, sending me away from my friends, but I loved it.”   

You smile.  You have to commend Hyunjin’s ability to find happiness despite how his parents try to control him.  They tried to terrify him as a boy, chasing him into the shadows to hide, but it only took a few moments with Minho for him to lean back into sunlight.  It pours out of him now in cracks and fissures, punching holes in his grim exhaustion and bringing him to life before your eyes. 

“They watched me closely the whole time, though,” he says.  “They still are.  I’m just biding my time.  What about you?” 

“Honestly,” you say softly, “I’m just taking it one day at a time.”

“You’re not alone, though,” he says, nodding toward Felix. 

In the face of Hyunjin’s honesty, past and present, you cannot lie.  One glance towards Felix reveals all your thoughts.   

Hyunjin smiles and pats your arm. 

“That’s good, at least,” he says.  “When none of you showed up to the graduation parties, I was worried.  I phoned Jisung but he said he didn’t know where you were.”

“Jisung?” you say.  “He didn’t go to grad?” 

“No.” Hyunjin shakes his head.  “He said it didn’t matter.  I figured that’s because your dad wasn’t letting you go or something, and Jisung probably wouldn’t have fun without you.  I told him to hang out with me but, whatever, he was kinda stubborn.” 

“Oh.” 

“You didn’t know?” Hyunjin asks, brow furrowed.  “What happened after you left my house?” 

“A lot happened,” you say.  You do not where to start, the story exhausting.  “Basically some of my father’s enemies… well, let’s just say things got out of control and my dad got mad.  Jisung was kinda in the middle of things so… I can’t see him again.  For both our sakes.”   

“I’m sorry,” Hyunjin says.  “I know you guys were close.”

You want to deflect and joke, maybe point out that most people lose contact with friends after high school.  But you can’t do that.  Your first true friend will always be a part of you and you cannot pretend otherwise.  You don’t want to pretend otherwise.   

“Yeah,” is what you say.  “We were.  I just hope he’ll be happy out there.” 

Hyunjin wraps you up for another hug, speaking low, “I hope we all will.” 

You close your eyes and squeeze him back.  You are not sure when you will see him again, but you honestly hope it is never.  You hope he gets away.  You hope the light inside him bursts through its restraints, never to be obscured again. 

Hyunjin returns to the party first.  You watch him go, reflective.  Eventually you look at Felix, expecting to find him stoic and composed, but he is frowning. 

Flustered by all the drama, you forgot Felix gets a little jealous around Hyunjin.  He still does not know the exact nature of your relationship, only that you faked a romance.  Given the peculiarity of the situation, you cannot blame his marginal envy, especially because he is not impolite or aggressive about it.  He understands you are all in difficult circumstances. 

Considering those dramatic circumstances, petty jealousy is hilariously trivial.  Felix can take out two armed agents in less than ten seconds but he cannot stop frowning at a rival pretty boy. 

 You touch his cheek, lifting the corner of his mouth into a smile.  It drops the second you let go. 

“We’re just friends,” you say. 

“I didn’t say anything,” he says.

“Oh, good,” you say.  “Because for a second there my very professional bodyguard almost looked jealous.” 

Felix smiles one of his toothy, saccharine smiles, eyes crinkled with overnice mirth. 

“Oh, sweetheart,” he says.  “I already told you, he doesn’t have what it takes to handle you, yeah?” 

He says it so sweetly, but he says it while sliding his palm down the curve of your ass.  You jump when he squeezes you, then his hand appropriately returns to the middle of your back to escort you inside. 

It leaves you both sufficiently keyed up for the remainder of the party.  It does not take much these days.  A particularly thorough regard in a quiet room is enough to get you hot. 

You find it hard to look away from him.  In the limo, you inch your hand closer and closer to his lap, but he catches your fingers when they graze his thigh.  Inside the building, you pretend to be more intoxicated than you are, so he is forced to sweep you into a bridal hold and carry you to the elevators.  You drop your head on his shoulder, sighing with deep satisfaction.  Your breath flutters the collar of his shirt. 

“Menace,” Felix says affectionately. 

He takes his time doing the security check.  You resort to reading on your phone, inadvertently losing yourself in the erotic romance.  You slide a hand under the covers, cupping yourself through your underwear.   Other than a t-shirt, it is all you are wearing.

Felix returns, dressed in his t-shirt and boxers for sleep.  He sits on the bed but it takes him a second to notice your guilty face.  He pauses, looking at your phone then where your arm disappears under the covers. 

“Hello,” he says dryly.  “What are you doing?” 

You pass him the phone.  He lifts an eyebrow but takes it, sitting up against the headboard to read.  He does not smile or frown, nor does he laugh or reprimand you.  He reads, brow furrowed in concentration.  At one point he flicks his thumb over his bottom lip, then he flips some hair out of his eyes. 

Finally, he exhales and turns the screen off.     

“Felix,” you say after a moment of silence. “Can I touch myself, please?”

“You, uhh…” He clears his throat.  “You don’t need my, uhh, permission for that.” 

“I want to do it here.”  Your smirk softens to a shy smile when he looks at you.  You wet your lips, his eyes flicking there before meeting your gaze.  “And aren’t you in charge at all times?” you tease. 

He laughs, a sharp breath through his nose.  Amusement tickles across his face, dimples deepening with a barely restrained smile. 

“I, uhh, I don’t think anyone could really take charge of you.”  He laughs, then jokes, “But the politeness is a nice change, I guess.” 

“I can be polite,” you say, batting your eyelashes.  “And I can be good.  But not for just anyone.” 

He swallows.  You watch the surrendering shrug of his shoulders, the tension leaving his body.  He sighs and runs his fingers through his hair.   He does not look at you when he says, “Yeah.  Okay.” 

“Okay?”  You smirk again.  

Your prolonged teasing backfires when he looks at you without a trace of nervousness.  He tips his head and looks at you expectantly, with a lifted brow and stern set to his mouth. 

“Okay,” he says, voice rough.  “Touch yourself.” 

You are shy under the intensity of his gaze, feeling especially vulnerable as you are laying down and he is sitting up.  But it is that same intensity that encourages you.  This is your Felix in your shared bed, his wandering gaze the same loving caress as always.

You push the covers down.  His eyes follow your hands as they hook into your underwear to shimmy down your hips.  It’s seductive in theory, but it feels silly to pull back your legs and tug the fabric down.  If it looks ridiculous, it does not show on his face, utterly transfixed in its devotion. 

You touch yourself at the same time his hand falls into his lap.  You can see him taking shape beneath his boxers, his hand finding the curve of his dick through the material. 

You make a soft noise and his hand freezes, his dark eyes fixed between your legs then gradually sweeping up to your face. 

Your hand pauses too.   

There is no action and no sound between you for a long moment.  You really do feel like you can read his face, every little detail, but maybe you simply see your own desires reflected back to you, the same way you have seen your own fears and insecurities over the years. 

Right now, you see all that mutual yearning.  Imploring, begging, to cross this space between you.  You cannot find the words to ask.  He just breathes deeply. 

“Felix,” you finally say.   

In the end, it’s all you need to say.  He slides across the space between you. 

He lays along your side, propping his head in one hand and letting the other drift down your torso.  Your own hand jumps to your chest, resting just above your rapidly beating heart.  He looks into your face as you part your legs in invitation. 

The moment he touches you, you swear it obliterates all the pain you have ever felt, suffused completely in the pleasure of his hand.  When he last touched you so intimately, you were rushed, stealing whatever touches you could in that stolen moment.  Now he takes his time, feeling you, rubbing softly at your most tender places.  You are so wet that his fingers glide so easily, each press silky and soft as he fits his fingers inside you, as your body welcomes him.    

Your whole body feels taut, rearing under his hand and wanting so much more.  He speaks to you in a low voice, nonsense sweetness that leaves you flushed and sweaty.

You grasp the collar of his shirt, tugging with thoughtless desperation, and his hand slows down.  You whimper miserably, looking at him with your saddest eyes, wondering why he is stopping.  Then you realize you grabbed him with the hand that was between your legs.   

You remember the time he came with your fingers in his mouth, the taste of you touching his tongue.  It spurs you to touch his mouth now.  His lips part with a gasping breath, as if he is trying to remember how to breathe.  The tip of his tongue touches the tip of your finger, then his whole face scrunches up like he is bracing himself for a hit. 

He exhales, then moves. 

You push yourself up on your elbows, looking down with equal parts disbelief and exhilaration.  He hooks a hand under your thigh and moves you, guiding it over his shoulder as he lowers his face between your legs.  His breath touches you first, then the cup of his lips, then his tongue, feasting and eager. 

You want to throw back your head with pleasure, but you also don’t want to look away.  You watch him through slitted eyes, his mouth, his flushed cheeks, his tongue.  He tastes you like he is savouring each second, like this is a luxury to be indulged reverently, with broad strokes of his tongue and a hungry press to his lips.  His open-mouthed kiss is wet and thorough, and his moan is a rumbling vibration, your thighs twitching around his head from the effect of both. 

You say his name, and you say please, and you say a string of hazy supplications until you think you might cry.  You touch his head, fingers sinking into his hair and tugging, making him moan and making you come.  You hold him there as he takes you over, licking you until you are a trembling mess of aftershocks and sensitivity. 

You gasp and he finally lifts his face.  He gazes at you while he sits back on his heels.  You watch him wipe his mouth, thumb circling his lips. 

Your eyes go from his mouth down, down, down, begging.   “Please,” you say, in a rasping voice.   

“You, uhh…”  His voice is so rough that even when he clears his throat, it still comes out dark.  “You don’t—shouldn’t—”

“I want to,” you say, already shifting. 

“You, uhhh, ah, you—” 

It’s a half-hearted protestation if that, inarticulate and spoken at the same time he reaches for you.  His hand curls around the back of your head, gently guiding you closer.   He kneels upright and you sit lower, fumbling with his waistband.  You are not sure if you are excited or nervous or both, but you forget to be shy when you finally take him in your mouth. 

He starts swearing in multiple languages.  Feeling him unravel with pleasure ignites more fire in your core.  Inexpert though you must be, you know him, so you listen and respond.  You show him the same reverence, with a slow drag of your mouth, looking up while he is between your lips.  He makes a sound that comes from deep in his chest, running a hand through his hair as he curses again. 

You are helpless but to moan as well.  He warns when he is close, to which you hum in acknowledgement.  He curses yet again, forgetting all his restraint and rules of behaviour.  He cups your face, then that hard body with all its hidden power goes soft and sweet just for you.   You are a little messy swallowing, but he is so dazed that he does not notice anything for a good few seconds. 

“Wow,” he finally says while you sit back and wipe your lips.  You cannot help but giggle back at him.  “That was, uh.  Wow.” 

“Wow,” you repeat, your voice still ragged but teasing nonetheless.  “No lecture, no scolding, no warning… just wow.” 

He laughs and shakes his head.  “Would you even listen if I did?” he asks. 

You pretend to think about it, making him laugh again, then you grin with a hearty, “Nope!” 

He is still smiling when he takes you in his arms, when he puts you on your back, when he kisses across your thighs until his face is back where you want him. 

“Mmm, then I won’t waste my breath,” he says.

You are still giggling when he parts his lips, though it softens when he starts licking at you slowly.  He works you up again gradually on his tongue.  Somewhere along the way, you realize are still smiling.  You have been so afraid of so many touches for so long that it is a marvel on its own – that you like him touching you so much, that you like it enough to smile and laugh even at the height of pleasure. 

Maybe it is that thought, or just the overwhelming burst of sensation when he sucks on you, when he licks at you, when he presses his face so intimately and thoroughly between your legs that you come even harder the second time.  Maybe it is a part of this.  Maybe it is all of this. 

But tears escape from the corner of your eyes.  You find yourself gasping, a shuddery sound.  He is surfacing and wiping his mouth when he notices, then he is leaning over you, touching the side of your face, his face full of concern. 

“It’s okay,” you say. “It’s the good kind, I promise.”  It is easy to prove because you are laughing through those tears, a bubbly torrent of giggles that you cannot contain.     

There is still a crease in his brow, maybe a little confused, but he smiles back at you. 

“Well, I only like the good kind,” he says, wiping his thumb across your cheek. 

“Mm.”  You take his hand and kiss his palm.  He sighs like it is somehow more torturously pleasurable than anything else.  “You’re a good bodyguard,” you murmur.  “It’s never the bad kind if you’re around.”

His eyes close.  Though he cannot meet your gaze, he leans down and kisses your forehead. 

When he withdraws, you touch his jaw and guide him close.  He cups your head as your lips meet, the tangy shock on his tongue rippling through you.  You do not shy away, holding him close, kissing him until you are both sated and sleepy.  He lays his head on the soft curve of your chest and you run your fingers through his hair. 

You get dozy, your eyes closing, your fingers slowing.  He exhales. 

“Mmm,” his voice is sleepy, words meandering in their low murmur, “Wish I could say… wish you could hear… Maybe…mmm… maybe you can hear me anyway, yeah…  Whatever you’re dreaming about…  I’ll tell you there, ‘kay.  Just listen.  Sweetheart.  Yeah.  Sweetheart…”

Though his sleepy ramblings are a little nonsensical, the sentiment is heartfelt and easily understood.   

That quiet, dozy space between dreaming and waking is the only place you dare accept it so brazenly. 

-

Every time is supposed to be the last time, just like the first time was supposed to be the only time. 

You feel so alive and so safe whenever he touches you, even if you know it actually puts you in more danger.   But real world ramifications feel far away.  Some days you almost feel normal, studying and attending class, wandering around campus, sharing a bed in your quiet apartment. 

He still phones your father with reports, though there is little to cover anyway.  It is easy to disappear on that sprawling university campus, just another face among hundreds.  Your friendships are cordial and mostly superficial.  Felix does not need to lie as your routine genuinely revolves around class and studying, maybe some casual day trips in approved public locations. 

The only lie is the biggest lie, that Felix is the perfect inhuman soldier your father wants, and you are the begrudging child licking your wounds until the day you accept your place.  Your father is so wretchedly trapped in himself that you doubt he could see the truth even if someone outright told him. 

A few weeks pass.  The season changes into autumn.  Everything turns red and gold, and the blue sky is an ashy violet on the best of days. Even in the dying browns of nature, you feel more alive than ever. 

As constant as the seasonal cycle is the cycle of rest and nightmares.  It is difficult to gauge when all that pain and anxiety might interrupt the peace.   It comes and goes, like a restless creature begging for attention.  You are not sure it will ever be truly tamed. 

You wake early one morning to Felix sitting up in bed.  His hair is a wavy, unkempt mess, like he was tossing more than usual.  Daylight is little more than a mist in the darkness, laying over the room like a gauzy film, making everything feel very still.   

He sighs and looks down at you, jumping when he sees you are awake.  Usually he is much more alert.  This nightmare must have been severe to keep him so occupied. 

He settles, though he looks away from you. 

“Sleep,” he says.  “It’s early still.” 

“Will you sleep with me?” you ask. 

He nods, looking into the distance.  He does not fully lay down, slouching against the headboard, but he holds out his arm.  You nestle into his side and he wraps that arm around you.  

He feels far away despite his proximity, returning to you in little breaths and touches until he is stroking his fingers across your back.  You hum with pleasure and snuggle closer.  It makes him sigh. 

You want to stay awake to comfort him but the early hour bests you.  Suddenly you are waking again, this time to your morning alarm.  You are on his side of the bed but Felix is gone, though you can hear the shower running so you do not fret for long. 

You are more awake this time, as is the morning itself, the daylight more determined to brighten the room.  You sit up in bed and scroll through your phone, waking more surely and waiting for Felix to show.  He never takes too long in the shower, functional and swift about everything.  The water stops before long and you can hear him puttering around the sink.    

Usually, you would not pester him during any private time, but you are still concerned after his strange start to the morning.  You shuffle to the bathroom door where you gently knock. 

“Yeah?”  His voice sounds brighter and more alert.   Maybe the worst has passed.  Sometimes going about your routine is the best remedy. 

“Alarm went,” you say.  “Just need a shower too.  Can I come in?” 

“Uhhh, yeah, sure.” 

You step into the bathroom.  He is standing at the sink, wearing only a towel slung low around his hips.  He didn’t wash his hair but it is still damp in parts, exacerbating his already messy bedhead.  He brushes some of it back and smiles at you. 

You feel warm and flushed like a child with a crush, suddenly very affected by the casual domesticity of this scene.    

Your hesitation concerns him.  He cocks his head, brow furrowing.  “Y’okay?” he asks. 

“Yeah,” you say softly.  “Sorry.  You?” 

“Mhm,” he says.  

It seems preposterous that you should feel so flushed, as if you have not seen more of him and in more compromising positions.  It seems just as ridiculous that his eyes should linger the way they do, skimming your bare legs, up to where your long sweatshirt covers your thighs.  He has had his face there several times over the last few weeks, more than acquainted with the most intimate parts of your body.  Surely you should both be past gawking at each other like you have never seen any partial nudity. 

But he looks and you look back.  When he realizes he is staring, he draws himself away.  He fumbles with his toothbrush, then jams it in his mouth without toothpaste. 

You cannot help but smile.  This sort of tension, while torturous in its own right, is far preferable to the darker variety.

He looks at you through the mirror, not very subtly.   Your eyes meet and stay locked.  You grab the hem of your sweatshirt and lift it off, leaving you completely naked in a single sweep.  He takes the toothbrush out of his mouth.  His exhale shakes. 

He looks away and meets the gaze of his own reflection.  It makes him freeze in a way you recognize, the way you sometimes freeze.   Felix’s mind drifts easily, jumping from thought to thought, but this is the fastest you have seem him retreat.  

He does not look at you again, but he also does not leave.  He changes distraction tactics, reaching for his shaving cream instead.  

Taking the cue, you wrap a towel around yourself, the material tucked neatly under the arms so you are marginally modest.   You step up to the counter.  He meets your gaze through the mirror while he lathers shaving cream over his face. 

“Yes?” he says after a moment.   

You perch yourself up on the counter, just smiling and kicking your legs.  Felix jabs his tongue into his cheek to withhold his own smile.  He manages to reign himself in, clearing his throat.  He regards his reflection seriously as he evens out the shaving cream on his jaw.   

You reach out and flick a little, catching it on your fingertip.  You give it an inquisitive look. 

“Do you even grow that much facial hair?” you ask as he rummages through his things for his razor.

He laughs at the question and shakes his head. 

“Uhh, no, it’s splotchy and just… not sexy,” he says.  “Which is why I need to get rid of it.” 

“I see,” you say.  “I suppose I can’t have my bodyguard looking ‘not sexy’.  Tsk, tsk, the way people would talk.  I’d never be able to show my face at another luncheon.”

“Mmm, I’m sure that would be devastating to you,” he says dryly. 

Though he laughs along with your joke, a sombre air falls over him like a hush.  He finds his razor and rinses it, but he takes a little too long, his mind wandering away again. 

Your own giddiness fades.  Felix is prone to the same emotional whiplash as you, though he has always been better controlling it, but right now he is vacillating so quickly between glee and sorrow that you cannot keep up. 

You wonder if it was the nightmare, some dark thought still lingering in his waking mind.  It could be anything. You know Felix has many complicated feelings.  He is torn between his own personhood and the duty he has assigned himself, burdened by whatever treatise exists between him and your father.   What I get is a life worth more than mine, was all he told you.  You do not fully know what he meant; you just know how much it upset you to hear him describe his own life in such pithy terms.  

He has done a great deal to keep you safe as he can, often at his own expense.  He has grappled with his duty in relation to this.  Protect your life, protect another life.  He never says anything about protecting his own.  He does not expect his service to be returned.  He does not think it should be. 

“Can I?” you say when he lifts the razor to his face.  It makes him pause, looking from his reflection to you, clearly confused with the question.  When you nod to the razor in his hand, his brow furrows and he looks at it. 

“Uhh,” he says.  “I guess.  Sure.  Why do you—”

You take the razor and hook a leg around his waist, guiding him closer to you.  He comes slowly, almost warily, but his gaze softens when you touch his chin and tilt his head, your actions gentle.  He looks at you, not his reflection, his gaze thoughtful just as yours is attentive.  You are very careful, aware of how sensitive a face will be beneath the cut of a blade.  

He leans even closer while you work, drawn to your affection like a magnet.  He fits between your open legs, his hands bracketing your hips.  He is leaning close, his breath touching your skin, your hand and blade steady where you care for him. 

You wipe his face when all is said and done, smiling triumphantly up at him.   The smile he returns is practically glowing.  You cannot help but trace the line of his smooth jaw, all the way up into his hair where you flatten a few unruly strands of blonde. 

He makes a sweet noise, a low grunt of pleasure, tipping his head into your head.  You scratch at his scalp, down to his nape.  His shoulders loosen and he leans even closer to you. 

His eyes lift.  He catches his own reflection behind you and it makes him pause again.  You can’t possibly hate yourself that much, you think, morose. 

You sigh.  Holding the back of his neck, you pull his face closer.  His nose skims your throat, his cheek on your shoulder, and his gaze is forcibly drawn away from his reflection.  He exhales and you shiver.  His hand brushes your hip before settling on the counter again. 

“When I have nightmares, I like to be spoken to,” you say, the least pushy way of begging, talk to me about yours now. 

Given his breath of a laugh, he understands.  He makes another noise, one irrefutably guttural and suggestive, even though you are doing nothing to draw it out.  It makes you swallow, your fingers shaky in his hair. 

“It wasn’t a nightmare,” he says, voice so low and right by your ear.  It turns your insides molten. 

“Oh?” is the reply you manage.

“Mm.  The opposite, really.” 

“It seemed like a nightmare,” you say. 

“Only when I woke up,” he says, then pulls back.  “And it wasn’t real.”  His gaze goes from you to his reflection, then down at nothing.  His brow pinches.  “I should— Uhh.  I should go.  You should… shower.  I should…”

He says this, but he does not step away.   It makes it easy to trace a finger up the planes of his abdomen and chest, leading his gaze up and up just as surely. 

“Should,” you say.  “Stupid word.  Awful word.  Imagine if I did what I should.”

“I can’t,” he says, a smile tugging at his lips.  “Not for a second.”  The solemnness falls again, his gaze skittish.  “But I’m not you, yeah?  And I should go.” 

“Be me,” you say, pressing your knees into his hips to stop him from moving.  He could very easily pull away.  You know you are no match for him, physically.  But he lets himself be caught, as he lets no one catch him.   The world comes at him with violence and he combats it easily.   He only surrenders under the gentle sweep of your hand when you cup his jaw.  “Be me,” you say again.  “Don’t do what you should.  Felix.  Don’t think about what he wants.  What I want.  What any of them want.”  You slide your hand down his shoulder, his arm.  You touch the back of his hand.  “What do you want?” you ask.  “More than anything?”

You expect any number of replies, everything from a joke to deflection.  He just stares at you for a moment, a little panicked behind his eyes, his thoughts running quickly.  You worry you will have to catch him, to guide him back slowly and cautiously, but then he looks down.  Not away, but low. 

Then he unties your towel, parting it, revealing you slowly to his gaze.  He looks at you like he has never seen you, even though you stripped down just seconds ago. 

It leaves you warm and flustered, your fingers fluttering with the instinctive desire to cover yourself.  You do not, though you cannot help but breathe a little harder.  The cool mirror at your back has your nipples pebbling in the chill, especially with the towel gone. 

Your legs are open and he is already between them, keeping them them apart.  He looks down the whole length of you, wanting, hungry, then meets your gaze with an unmistakable plea.

You nod.  You wet your lips, a quick flick of your tongue, then his mouth is on yours and you are gasping against his lips.  You make a rough sound, throwing your arms around his neck and kissing him back.   The kiss is so good and deep, wasting no more time.  

It fully conquers your senses, so you are surprised when he suddenly tugs you closer.  It is a sharp tug, his hands on your hips, yanking you to the edge of the counter.   

“Felix,” you say, his reply little more than a grunt. 

Your hand collides with his, reaching for his towel.  You leave him to it, raising your fingers to your own lips to lick them.  You put those fingers between your legs, touching yourself, finding you are already so wet, not even needing help. 

His eyes never leave your fingers, and they continue to watch the gentle rub of your hand between your thighs.  His towel hits the ground, then his hand skims your thigh, joining your fingers at the centre.  His fingertips are calloused, his touch distinct from yours.  You drop your hand and lift your hips, rising under the now-practiced stroke of his fingers. 

When he slides two fingers inside you, he moans so dark and roughly, as if more of him was already inside you.  “So fucking soft,” he murmurs, breathing hard.  His mouth skims your cheek, a kiss on your jaw.

Then he sucks a hard kiss on your throat, possessive, wet and hot and mean.  You clench around his fingers, gasping. 

He licks over his bite, no doubt leaving a bruise.  You will have to cover it, but for a moment you let yourself imagine differently, wearing his mark where anyone could see, where everyone would know he is yours and you are his.  It makes you whimper, practically pulsing around his fingers, squeezing him in, wanting more. 

“Felix,” you say again, and it is much more of a whine this time. 

He answers with a kiss, warm on your lips, just as tenderly bruising.  His wet fingers slide along your thigh, his other hand does the same, then he hooks his hands under your knees to lift them a little higher.   You lean onto your palms, holding the position while he licks his palm and glides it over himself.  His hair is a mess again, but you are hardly composed, as out of breath when he finally presses the head of his dick against you.   

You are not even sure if you are saying his name or just moaning incoherently, noises pitifully wanting when he eases himself into you.  It is far slower than you want.  Yes, there is a burn, as it has been some time, but you want it, the good and the bad, the pain and the pleasure.  You wrap your legs around his waist and lock your ankles, pulling him into you so he sinks fully to hilt in a quick glide.  

His hand slaps up against the mirror, a hard thud, twin to his sharp exhale.  His eyes are heavy-lidded, his pink mouth open.  His tongue swipes at your upper lip, then he kisses you softly.  He moves his hips.   

You hold his sides, legs still tight around him.  Your position has him leaning over you, pressing weight into his hand on the mirror.  You stare up at him, his closed eyes and the stern, focussed set to his features.  When you make a sweet noise, he looks down at you through slitted eyes, then dives down to kiss you.  It is a little less hurried, his erratic thrusting slowing to a more steady cadence, one that has you gasping on every deep push. 

“Yeah,” you say, rasping. “Yeah, yes, please…”     

He makes a deep noise, then exhales.  “We should—” he starts. 

“No shoulds,” you bark back. 

He laughs, the sound filling you with even more warmth and pleasure.  You luxuriate in the feeling. 

“I was going to say, should be using protection or something,” he says.   

“S’fine,” you say, logic too hard to comprehend because he is still fucking you, and it makes words too complicated. 

“Not if I knock you up, it won’t be,” he says.  “You want that?” 

He asks it very dryly as the answer is obvious.  No, you do not want that.  It would blow up your lives astronomically.  Even if you were safe, you doubt you would want children right now. 

But the notion enters the same fantasy as the simple bite on your throat, a reality that only hazily resembles your own, where you let him come inside you and you let it change everything. 

So he asks, and you say nothing, but you squeeze him inside you, an entirely accidental clench. 

“Oh,” he says, and laughs again.  It is not that golden jingle, but a low chuckle.  “You do want that.” 

“Shut up,” you say, slapping his shoulder.  “Do not.”

“Mhm,” he says, with a few sharper thrusts that make your eyes close and mouth open.  “Okay, sweetheart,” he says.  It is playfully condescending and it makes you look at him with equally playful aggravation.  He smiles.  “What?” he asks. 

“You talk a lot for a guy who has fucked me twice but never once in a bed,” you say.  Then you drop the joking ire because the realization makes you laugh.  “Despite the fact we have been sharing a bed for literal years.” 

He tries to catch his unexpected laugh, resulting in a sputter that makes you giggle more. 

He slows his actions then has the audacity to slowly pull out. You whine, pouting up at him.  He touches your face and shushes you, kissing your temple, then cheek, then the sore little bite on your throat.  It placates you temporarily, long enough for him to scoop his hands under your body and lift you up.  You cling to him, kissing his freckled cheek while he carries you out of the bathroom and back into the bedroom.  There, he drops you on the bed with a soft bounce.  He pushes your legs open while he climbs up between them. 

“There,” he says.  “Bed.”  Then he leans down, hand between your bodies to put himself back inside you.  You are humming with satisfaction when he grabs your arms to put them around his neck again.  He kisses your cheek then below your ear.  His breath caresses your skin, then he whispers, “Hold on.” 

He clearly mistakes fuck me in a bed for fuck me into the mattress, because he very much proceeds to make up for all those years of sharing a bed without doing so. 

After, you are laying in his arms, a bit sticky and sweaty and gross and very out of breath, but the glow has returned to his face and you feel just as warm.   You take his hand and kiss his palm, then curl your fingers around his.  He squeezes your hand back, resting it over his still racing heart. 

The morning light has turned a sunnier yellow.  You are going to miss your class. 

You will deal with the consequences tomorrow.   

I think about this part every day.

part vi: bodyguard!felix x reader

masterlist.

PART I ; PART II ; PART III ; PART IV ; PART V ; PART VI ; PART VII ;

Your father hires an inconspicuous bodyguard to accompany you at school and supervise you at home. What seems like an innocuous change in routine eventually spirals into a forbidden romance that grows more passionate over the years.

pairing: lee felix/reader content info: smut. violence. parental abuse. situations of intense peril overall. forced proximity. enemies2lovers. angst with eventual happy ending. (chapter word count; 9500 words)

-

Graduation approaches.  There will be a ceremony in the afternoon then a dinner and dance, hosted in a hotel ballroom.  It is nothing so luxurious as your father’s soirees, but it is a milestone that should be filled with meaning and memory. 

You do not go. 

You close this chapter of your life while vowing to never forget a moment of it.  Jisung and Hyunjin both impacted your life for the better. Though you will not put them in danger by association, you hope they will find happiness.  They will both be better in the long run. 

You look at Felix and wish you could grant such a freedom to everyone. 

You let yourself mope for a few days and Felix does not intervene, only checking in now and again to see if you need anything.  You have not talked about what transpired between you, but that was to be expected even without any distractions. 

He extends comfort in a platonic sense at best, more professional than ever with how he hovers in your periphery, ensuring you are safe but never crossing a line.   He will embrace you when you have a nightmare, but he is much more stiff than he used to be.  He does not touch you with his gentle caresses, only holds you with a perfunctory grasp.  You think if this entire ordeal with Jisung had not happened, then he would have stopped altogether by now. 

The night of the graduation, you sleep restlessly and wake in an emotional fit.  You stare at Felix across the bed, your tumultuous emotions flickering between sadness, anger, and longing.   You don’t know what to do, and it isn’t fair, and you want him so badly. 

You dig your fist into the mattress and press your face into the pillow, fighting down a scream.  Your shuffling wakes Felix who whispers your name.  He moves closer then reaches the rest of the way, touching the back of your head. 

“Are you okay?” he asks. 

“No,” you say, muffled.  You thump your fist against the mattress.  “I hate you,” you say, because you don’t hate him at all.  He’s all you have left yet it does not suffice to say there is only Felix, because even if you had a world of options you would still want him.  He is singular in both charm and peculiarity.  You do not hate him, but the threshold of the opposite looms with a terrifying danger for you both.  What happened with Jisung would be miniscule in comparison to the consequences of this affair. 

You know that, and yet. 

You want to close this space for good.  You want to throw caution to the wind and indulge your most romantic desires.   You want him to want it too. 

“Do you hate me?” you ask, turning your face but not meeting his eye.  

“I—”  He clears his throat.  “I’m just… doing my job.  I can’t have feelings one way or, uhh, another.” 

“That’s not a no,” you say, lifting your gaze to his.  He is propped up on one arm, staring down at you, blonde hair in a dishevelled mess around his face.  His gaze drifts and you feel you are losing him.  “Felix…” you say, imploringly. 

“You have no idea,” he suddenly says, his tone almost vicious.  “No idea… what it does to me when you—when you—when you look… at me… like that.”  He falls onto his back and covers his face with both hands. 

He always looks so skinny in his baggy sleep shirts, all sharp lines jutting out of the fabric.  It completes his lie: the too-happy, naïve boy who is all smiles all the time, with nothing to see beyond the surface.  No one would guess what he is capable of doing.  Even you had not fully realized the breadth of his person until you witnessed it with your own eyes. 

His mind seems to be following a similar path because he says, “You saw me kill someone.”  He rubs his forehead like a migraine is settling there.  “You shouldn’t look at me like you do.  You shouldn’t—I don’t understand—how you’re not ever afraid—of him—of me—”

“I’m always afraid,” you whisper the admittance.  You continue to look at him even while he stares up at the ceiling, his arms crossed protectively over his chest.  “Just not of you,” you say. 

He closes his eyes.  He breathes out through his nose.   

“You’re supposed to be,” he says.  “That’s why I—that’s why I exist, yeah?  I was raised to be this… thing.  People are supposed to be afraid when they see who I am.  Even your father is scared of me.  And if he didn’t—if he didn’t have me on this—this fucking leash—” He sits upright, practically snarling as he speaks.  Only experience in tempering his emotions brings him back down to calm, simply glaring across the room through the dark. 

You wait to see if he will say more, your attention caught by what he let slip.  Even your father is afraid of him, despite having him lashed to a tether of some kind.  You want to know more, but you do not want to take what he does not willingly give, even though you know he will answer any question if you push.  He made that promise a long time ago.   

You are both almost nineteen.  You have spent a quarter of your lives together.  Those years, his present, and his future are all ensnared, and you cannot find it in yourself to forcibly rip his past away too.   

You sit upright as well.  He still does not look at you, gaze faraway.  You twist the blankets in your lap, itching to reach out and smooth back a messy strand of his hair. 

“You’re not just a thing to me,” you say.   

“I know,” he says softly, still looking to the side.  “Sometimes I wish I was just a thing.”  He tips his head, staring into the distance as if he can see a memory playing out in the dark.  “Sometimes I wish… it was that easy.  That I could… put it all somewhere.  Stop feeling.  Stop being.  That’s what I was supposed to be.  If I could—if I did—I wouldn’t be here at all.  But also…” 

He trails off and his mind drifts.  You tug at the blanket again. 

“But also?” you ask. 

His head turns to you, though his gaze is lowered, down to your fidgeting fingers. 

“But…also…” he says.  “I wouldn’t want that.  If I had never… been someone.  If I had never known…someone…” 

He meets your gaze now.  He has not looked at you with such direct intensity in days and it feels like basking in the sun after so much shadow.  Your expression must return a similar ardor because his lips part with a deep exhale, his body instinctively tipping towards yours like it so often does.  He maintains enough mental faculty not to fall all the way, holding himself back, only looking at your face.  He lingers on your mouth. 

“I understand,” you say, tingling with the effect of his gaze, tangible as a kiss. 

“Yeah?” he says, his voice rough. 

You feel a bit fuzzy, distracted with the energy between you.  You only loosely cling to your own train of thought but you manage to say, “Yes.  Making sense of the good in the bad.  Both shaping who you are.  The people you know… changing you for the better.”

“Jisung,” Felix says, ruminating on your words.  Then a flicker of displeasure creases his brow as a thought occurs to him.  “Hyunjin,” he says.  “They were both… part of your good.” 

“Yes,” you say, watching him pull away into his own mind. 

“You liked Hyunjin a lot,” Felix says, clearing his throat.  “I didn’t—I wasn’t sure—”

You roll your eyes even while a smile breaks onto your face.  There is something so charmingly childish about the clear jealously that is suddenly plaguing him.  It isn’t dangerous dramatics or dark pasts – just one boy glaring at the recollection of you dating another boy. 

You push the blankets off your lap and move so you are kneeling at his side.  He looks away but that is fine, because you tuck his hair behind his ear and lean in to whisper, “I didn’t like Hyunjin half as much as I hate you.” 

He clenches his jaw.  His shoulder twitches with a little shiver.  A smile tugs at his lips.   

“Oh,” he says.  “All right.” 

“All right,” you repeat in a mockingly deep voice.   “That’s his reply – all right.  This is why I hate you.”

“Mmm?”  He tips his head, smiling at you.  “Is it?”

You feel flushed.  You sit back again, poking at the covers.  “Among other things,” you say. 

He laughs but tries not to, the result a very low chuckle that he unsuccessfully tries to hide behind his hand.  You shove his shoulder.  He sways dramatically like it was a hard hit.  He is still chuckling when you lay back down, arms stubbornly crossed. 

He lays on his side and props his head in his hand.  There is space between you but you can touch his face with a simple stretch.  You trace your fingertips down his jaw and it smooths out his laughter, expression softer.  Your heart is thundering when you touch his lips, just a light touch.  It should be inconsequential when you consider what you have already done, but it feels substantial as anything else.  You wonder if this sensation will ever lessen.   

He takes your wrist and moves your hand, his breath fluttering over your fingertips.  He swallows hard. 

“I’m a bad person,” he says.  “I’m not supposed to care about being bad.  But I do.” 

“You’re not a bad person,” you say.  “Because of the things they make you do?  How can you say that?”  From the moment he walked into your life, Felix has done everything in his limited power to provide relief.  You did not always appreciate it, but it did not stop his efforts.   

“I am,” he says.  “I’m selfish.  I let myself forget… so many things… when you look at me.”  He lays down on his back, curling one arm under his head.  “You know, I’ve been trained to withstand torture,” he says, casually despite the ripple of horror that moves through you.  “But they didn’t prepare me for, uhh, you doing that… thing with your eyelashes, when you want something.  Or when you, you know, stick out your lip like this—”

He pouts and it makes you laugh despite everything. 

“I don’t do that,” is all you can say.   

“Sure,” he says, with a little smile and eye-roll.  “It’s more effective than a bullet.  That’s all I’m saying.” 

“Duly noted,” you say dryly.  “You know for such a well-trained whatever-you-are, you just made a pretty dumb mistake.”

“Oh?”   

You roll onto your front so the lengths of your bodies are pressing along the side.  You rest your chin in the cup of your hand and smile your most innocent smile. 

“Yes,” you say.  “It isn’t very smart to tell an enemy your weaknesses like that.”

“My enemy,” he says like the word amuses him, corners of his lips ticked up.  He moves quickly, leaning into your space so surely that you can feel his breath fan your lips.  “Is that what you are, then?  My job.  My enemy.”  He laughs the word, then whispers with a teasing smirk, “And my sweetheart.” 

“Sworn enemies,” you somehow manage without even a stutter.  You take his teasing further and say, “You can even tell my daddy.  That’s your job, isn’t it?”   

“That isn’t a joke,” he says, tone serious though his soft expression betrays him. 

“Who’s joking?” you say.  “We’re just two enemies, sharing a bed.  I hate you, and you—”

“Yes?”  He has a cocky look on his face, playful as it is.  “What do I do?” 

You narrow your eyes in a theatrical glare, then you just smile. 

“You...”  Your voice comes softly, your knuckles brushing his jaw.  “You know what it feels like to be inside me.” 

Your heart thumps erratically at his drastic shift in expression, the laughter replaced with shock then obvious vexation, dark eyes slanting in warning.  You just smile like it is of no concern to you at all. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” you murmur.  “I’m just saying.  Sweetheart.” 

You roll away, leaving space between you again.  You wriggle your hips more than necessary and your shirt predictably rucks up, your shorts similarly loose and high around your thighs. 

Your heart is still racing even though you got the last word in.  You breathe to centre yourself. 

Then he grabs you by the neck and tugs you back across the bed.  It is a showy demonstration but a gasp bursts past your lips, your hand instinctively clutching his sturdy hand.   It is your turn to be beyond surprised when he presses right up against you from behind. 

“Don’t play games that have no winner,” he speaks into your ear. 

“Who’s playing?” you reply, grinding back against him. 

He exhales, an exasperated sound that has you giggling.  You yelp when he rolls you onto your front, all but planting your face in a pillow before abruptly letting you go.  You lift your head as he swings out of the bed. 

“Where are you going?” you ask. 

“The bathroom,” he says.  “Don’t try to leave or I’ll tell your father, yeah?”  

He is grinning with his victorious retreat.  His alleged training is good enough that he dodges the pillow you chuck at his head. 

Your father returns home the next day.  He never had any intention of attending your graduation, agreeing with his own late father’s assertion that a high school graduation was a juvenile joke celebrating mediocrity. 

Felix already reported that you did not attend so there is nothing more to say on the matter.  The subject of graduation merely broaches the topic of post-secondary education.  He calls you into his office and presents you with a folder detailing the next step of your education.  You will attend his alma mater, a prestigious university that did not require your application as he most certainly just paid for your admittance. 

“And,” he says, “I am generously giving you one more opportunity to prove you are not the unfledged adolescent you have insisted on presenting.” 

This opportunity is online summer classes to pre-emptively advance your position in the program.  As if it matters where you rank in the scheme of things; your life set in stone. 

“Fine,” is all you say.   The wounds from the incident with Jisung are still fresh so you do not have an argument inside you.  It would just be for the sake of itself anyway, as it is not like you have anything better to do with your summer. 

You still complain to Felix.   You find him in the gym, working up a sweat.  A captive audience for your lengthy complaint session. 

He runs a self-made obstacle course while you inexpertly pummel a punching bag to let out your frustrations.  Eventually he takes a water break and wanders over to you.  You crinkle your nose and pretend to be disgusted with his appearance, but in actuality a hot, sweaty Felix reminds you of that cramped car and all the heat between you. 

He tips his head back and drinks his water and your eyes follow a drop of sweat as it licks down his neck.   You look away when he stops drinking, when he swipes a hand across his forehead. 

“Careful,” he says.  “You should tape your hands first, yeah?  You’ll hurt yourself.” 

You slap the punching bag and smirk when he frowns at you. 

“Not funny,” he says, and takes your hand to inspect it.   He is smiling despite his words.  When he catches your eye, he tries to quell it, but his gaze is tender as his touch when he massages your hand.  “Just remembering,” he mumbles.  “First night here.  You and that… what was it?  Eggplant?”  He shakes his head.  “I was, uhhh, not prepared.”  He laughs.  “I clearly didn’t know what I was getting into.”

“Yes, I’m sure I came across as a very intimidating adversary,” you say dryly. 

“Yes.”  He laughs, a sharp breath.  His eyes flick up to you.  “Like no one I’d ever met before.”  

You feel bashful under his gaze.  You look down at where he is rubbing your hand, so very careful with the amount pressure he applies.  It is still hard to reconcile this soft-touched boy with the violence that has evidently puppetted him for all his life.  It seems impossible that he could be a cog in that machine, not with hands like this, not with a touch so delicate in its gentle offer of solace. 

He mentioned being trained to withstand torture, a training he must have received very young because you met him at fourteen as a fully formed soldier ready to follow orders.  To this day, you remember his unblinking neutrality as he pressed the tip of that blade into the back of his hand.   Yet now he holds your hand with such loving attention, so much humanity in his affection for someone else, even where people apparently tried to scrub it out of him.   

It is too much to think about right now.  You pull your hand away and don a faux-haughty air, flicking your wrist at him, fingers wiggling.    

“Kiss it better,” you say with a supercilious tone.  “Or I’ll tell my dad you let me get injured.”

He blinks at you, maybe perplexed with the sudden shift in tone, but then he just laughs and rolls his eyes. 

“Mmm. Right,” he says.  But he checks the door is empty then takes your hand.  You realize this is a stupid ploy because it backfires the moment his lips brush your knuckles.  He looks up at you, his soft bottom lip resting on your skin.  Then he straightens, pats your hand, and smiles an annoyingly perfect, professional smile.  “There,” he says.  “Job well done?” 

“As always,” you say, unsteady.    

He breaks the tension by stepping away to fetch a towel.  He dries his sweaty neck while asking more about your meeting with your father.  You start complaining all over again, giving the punching bag another good slap.  You rant about his usual tyrannical nonsense, but also complain about the graduation affair. 

“They’re usually a big deal, yeah?”  Felix asks.  He is doing some cool-down exercises and you try to not to stare at him.  “Why didn’t he want to go again?” 

“Some stupid bullshit he parroted from his father, because he’s never had an original thought in his life,” you say.  “It is a celebration of mediocrity. I will only attend your graduation from a valuable institution with an education that has been obtained through true work.  As if he’s not paying to get me into university, and as if I won’t be walking out of there with a degree even if I sleep through every exam.” 

Felix laughs in a humourless, distracted way.  You look over and watch as he swings his water bottle up and catches it again.

“His father, huh?” he says.  He shakes the water, absent-minded in his distraction.  He walks backwards then takes a seat against the wall where he looks at you again. “This, uhhh, this everything in the family goes back far, huh?”

“Old money,” you say with an eye roll.  You cross the room to join him on the floor.  “Far enough.” 

“Did you know him?” 

“Who?  My grandfather?”  You slide down the wall and sit beside Felix, your shoulders touching.  “Yeah, I mean, he died when I was about ten or eleven.  You know him too.”  

Felix looks at you in bewilderment and you laugh.

“He was the same as my father is now,” you explain.  “If you know one, then you know the other.” 

“That must have been…” Felix searches for the word but there is very little to sufficiently summarize that household. 

“Yeah,” you say with a snort.  “It was.”  Your grandfather was a tyrant as sure as your father is now.  You cannot say if he was worse,  being so young when he ruled this household, but you remember he occupied the same untouchable sphere of power.  Your grandfather looms in your memory as a grim figure as dark and intimidating as Mister Miroh.  He was on the offense at all times, ambitious and striking out at whim.   Your father, perhaps in response to his own father’s iron fist, has always acted on the defense, holed up in his castle and building his walls high to seal in everything of value.  He attacks in retaliation or proactive defense. 

Neither ever permitted being contradicted or disobeyed. 

“I see,” Felix says.  He looks like he wants to say more, brow still furrowed in contemplation, but then he just sighs and rests his head against the wall.  “Are you sad about your graduation?” 

“I just hope Hyunjin looked out for Jisung.  He’s all I’m sad about.”  Picturing your best friend in a corner of a ballroom with no one paying him any attention is too devastating to think about for long, especially knowing about his home life and how alone he felt before you. 

You take a steadying breath. 

“He just deserved better,” you say. 

“So do you,” Felix says, only just above a whisper.  He pats your knee and you react predictably, all your nerves alight beneath his hand. 

But he does not linger long enough for that warmth to spread.  You are not alone, after all.  There are footfalls overhead and your father is tucked away in his office. 

That night you have a bad dream.  It is nothing so terrifying as a nightmare, featuring no guns or tyrant patriarchs.  It is just a miserable dream. 

You are at your graduation, wearing one of your many evening gowns.  There is nothing so special about dressing up given your forced lifestyle, but the party is not about the gown or a date or anything else.  You are looking for your friend.  That is all you want, but you can’t find Jisung anywhere.  You turn many corners, passing through the lengthy shadows of hotel hallways and school corridors, but there is an eerie emptiness to all of it.  Finally you find a door, beaten and weathered.  You step through knowing there is nothing fancy waiting on the other side of it.  

You find yourself on the roof of a ramshackle house.  Jisung is perched on the edge, dressed up in a blazer and tie but with his signature backwards cap.  He is gazing up at the stars.  You sit beside him, filled with so many things you want to say and yet nothing comes out.  Time feels warped in your dream and you feel like you sit there for days, months, years, the sky dark, the world quiet. 

“I’m sorry,” you finally say.   

It feels unreasonable to ask for forgiveness, even if you did not willingly abandon him.  You still feel the ache of guilt for having roped him into your life in the first place, but you feel especially guilty for not regretting those years.  You do not want to live in a world where you never met him.  To have never been someone, to have never known someone.  

You know he feels the same way.  He said as much during your goodbye.  

In the quiet, he hugs you, wrapped up comfortably like that last night at his house. 

Somehow that is the moment you become aware it is just a dream, that this is your own mind consoling you, but it is meaningful that your subconscious summons your best friend for that much-needed hug of reassurance. 

It seems ridiculous that you, of all people, should think they have the best understanding of love, but perhaps it is the long absence of it that allows you to recognize when you have it.  You have witnessed every elaborate gift and gesture in the world, but you are quite certain there is no grander demonstration of love than someone holding you for an hour with no other motive than to simply be there, seeing and being seen. 

When you wake, it is with such an ache that you find yourself clutching your chest.  Your uneven breathing wakes Felix.  The moment he touches your shoulder, you roll into his arms and let yourself cry.   He doesn’t ask what it is about, drawing any number of conclusions, but he holds you until your tears turn to sniffles then stop altogether. 

You get drowsy in his arms.  When he thinks you are asleep, he tries to lay you down on your side of the bed, but you are conscious enough to stir and cling to him.  He laughs under his breath. 

“Full house,” he whispers.  “You need to sleep over there.” 

You look at him morosely, blinking back tears.  He sighs, letting his head droop, then he gives you a pointed look.  You are surprised when he flicks his thumb over your bottom lip, drawing attention to the fact you are pouting. 

“Told you,” he whispers. 

“Hmmph.”    

He rolls away but you follow, wrapping around him like a clingy koala bear.  He chuckles and shakes his head, but lays on his back and allows you to rest your head on his chest.  You nuzzle under his chin, hand on his chest, feeling his heartbeat under your palm.  He rests a hand over yours.  When he breathes, you watch the rise and fall of those hands. 

It is a comforting embrace.  This bed has often felt like a world away from reality.  You stare at those hands, his kind touch.  You cuddle closer, secure with the weight of his arm around you.   

It sets your brain in motion, compiling these feelings with everything he has told you and everything he has done. 

Before you can stop yourself, before the insanity of such a statement dawns, you say, “Do you think we could make it if we ran away together?”

He goes very still, even his breath slowing.  His heart beats a steady staccato under your hand. 

“Felix,” you whisper. 

“No,” he says, sharply, like the instinctive hiss of pain when unexpectedly struck.  He shakes his head, coming back to himself.  “No,” he says again, softer.  His voice breaks as he lowers it to a whisper.  “No, I’m sorry—I’m—I told you—you know it’s not that simple—”

You know he’s right.   Felix is obviously very competent but he is still just one man, and your father would not let you slip through his fingers so easily.  This is disregarding all the technical logistics of running away, like money and food and a place to sleep. 

But a little cabin flashes across your mind and your argumentative side rears itself even though you know better. 

“Maybe it is that simple,” you say.   “He’s just one man—”

“He’s not just one man,” Felix says, sitting up.  You slip through his arms, laying back and watching as he pushes a hand through his hair.  “He is his business, and his… his world… and all the men like him…” 

“And our lives?” you say.  You sit up and put your hand on his back.  “You said I deserved better but so do you.  You aren’t selfish just because—  Stop shaking your head—”

He does but he still looks away, exhaling sharply through his nose. 

“It’s not—”  He chokes on the word, swallows, then speaks again softly, “It’s not just my life.”  He stares across the room, as if once more ensorcelled by some memory playing in the shadows.   “Life,” he says, “in pieces and only for a little bit.  I always remembered that, you know.  That’s how you described it.   That’s what I have.   Being here.   It’s more than—more than what I deserve.   And what I—what I get—is a life worth more than mine—”

“Stop saying things like that,” you say miserably.  You reach for his face but he turns away.  “Do you have any idea,” you say with as much as emotion as you can fit in a whisper, “any idea how much my life has changed because of you, because of the way you are…  Felix, you’re part of the good too.” 

“You can’t—you can’t say things like that to me—”

“Why not?”

“Because I’ll start to believe you.” 

You touch his face and he lets you this time, eyes lifting to yours as you guide his face up.  Your thumb brushes that dark constellation of freckles, your eyes searching the face you have woken to every morning for years now – the brown eyes, the dark brows, the wisps of blonde that dash across his forehead.  Your thumb brushes the groove to his upper lip, then the bow of his lower lip. 

You cup his jaw and tip your head, hoping your gaze reveals the words you cannot conjure.  The walls close in around you again.  All those nonsensical ideas make their escape, leaving you in the dark with him.

He holds your gaze, his consternation fading to a different sort of ache.  Longing carves itself in his features, the disconsolate but nonetheless ardent hunger of someone starving at a table they cannot eat from.  He lays his hand over yours, holding it against his face.  Eventually he lowers it.    

“I didn’t count them,” he says. 

“What?”  You blink to attention, confused by the seeming subject change.   “Count what?” 

“The, uhh…” His laugh is dry.  He clenches his jaw and looks down at where he is holding your hand.   “The people.  The people I killed.”   He keeps his gaze low, watching as he strokes his thumb across your knuckles.  “Others counted them but I—I dunno… I didn’t need to.  It comes back to me sometimes, yeah.  Hair colours.  Clothes.  Last words.  I didn’t need to… to write it down, to keep track.   I just remembered.  I still remember.” 

Even before you saw him in action, you knew killing was in his past.  It still feels different to have those suspicions confirmed, that there was that much violence in his youth, but you are not upset for the reasons he must think.  You are only more sympathetic, curling your fingers around his and squeezing. 

He won’t look at you.

“Felix,” you say.  “You were a kid, and I don’t know where you were, I don’t know what they did to you, but that’s not your fault—”

“I was good at it,” he says.  “I was the best.  I thought I knew what I was, why I existed.  Then things changed.  Now I’m not that.   I’m not anything else either.  I have no right to be, yeah?  Do you understand?  I can’t walk away.  It’s all in me and there’s nowhere to put it down.  All I can do is this—this one thing.  And honestly, I don’t even know if it is the right thing.  I just know that if I go with you, that feels selfish.  If I stay here, if I—I keep you trapped here because of me—that’s selfish too—”

“I’m not trapped because of you,” you say.  “I would be here either way.  If it wasn’t you here with me, it would just be someone else.”  So I’m glad it’s you, you want to say, with no obfuscation and no exaggeration.

He interrupts, “I killed your grandfather.” 

It is so unexpected that you freeze.  You cannot help the way you lock up when truly startled, even if the fright is only momentary.  Your body shuts down to protect itself. 

Felix withdraws his hand immediately, sensing your coldness.  You come back to yourself and look at him, though he still avoids your gaze. 

“What?” you eventually manage.  “You—”

“He was the target,” Felix says.  “They tried to kill him before.  Tried, and failed.  There were casualties.   Like your… like your mother.” 

You look away too, chronicling everything he is describing.  Your mother died when you were still in infancy and you were never told much more than that.  You always thought it might have contributed to your father’s obsessive protection efforts, at least in part, but you could never be sure.  

“He was…” Felix says.  “He was like a monster, to me, growing up, like a… like a ghost story or something.  They told us stories about him and men like him.  About how some were so… so powerful… and couldn’t be killed by a regular person… Everything I did—all the killing—was—was justified to me, yeah?  And he was the worst of all.  And if we could get rid of him, then… then all the other bad would go away too.” 

“But it didn’t,” you say, remembering the infallible creature of a man that was your grandfather, the same but different to your father.  Things changed when he died, in a way.  Your father’s defensive operations are contrary to the offensive strategy of your grandfather, but no less intense in application.   You can see how an enemy might have looked at your father, a frightened man always on the defensive, standing in your grandfather’s shadows.  You can see how they might have thought the empire might crumble without the iron fist ruling it. 

“But it didn’t,” Felix says. 

You have questions, so many questions.  Was it all Miroh?  What happened next?  How did Felix end up here?  Why does he stay?  A million questions fly through your mind.   The only one you manage to vocalize is, “Does my father know?”

Felix shakes his head. 

The rest of your questions evaporate into nothing.  Only a breath passes your lips.  Felix is bent over, elbows on knees, shoulders hunched.  He is staring at the ground. 

“Felix,” you say, reaching for him.  “Felix, I don’t blame you for anything.” 

Grandfather, father, it’s all the same poison sloshing from the same spoiled glass.  You would be here either way, only without Felix, his voice and his hands, his heartbeat under your palm.   You cannot imagine the bleakness of that loneliness. 

You lay a hand on Felix’s shoulder, wanting to say all this and more but at a complete loss for words. 

There is a moment of quiet, then he says, “All this time.”  It is barely more than a murmur, face still downturned.  “You were right here.  And they didn’t care, so I didn’t see you.  I didn’t even look.” 

You cup his face once more, guiding him upright.  He comes without a fight but takes his time, like it is agony to meet your gaze.  When those dark eyes locked with yours, a shaking breath leaves his lips, that aching expression returned to his face.   You do not know what your own face is doing, all your masks fallen away, leaving something open and raw, wounded but wanting.  You swipe your thumb over his cheek, the high point where his freckles cluster darkly, sweeping down to where they dim. 

“You’re looking now,” you say. 

You slide your hand around his head, into his hair, fingertips fluttering over his nape.  He shivers and tips his head, naturally leaning into your touch.  You remember seeing the scars that litter his chest, remember feeling the cuts on his back from your own father’s beatings.  You remember all the nights he has held you.  You remember every little tidbit of your life he has tried to rescue and give back to you despite his precarious position. 

You are both in a terrible situation without the tools to truly navigate your way out.  There are no rules for a situation like this, every choice a dangerous one. The only thing you know for certain is you are not alone. 

“I’m afraid,” you say, “but I’m not afraid of you.” 

He gazes at you for a long, thoughtful moment, then reaches to touch your face.  Just his thumb, tracing from temple to chin.  The tremble of his touch reveals more fear than his faint smile, all of it bound tightly in the tension that holds him together, the carefully restrained yearning for something bigger than this moment. 

“Yeah, but I’m afraid of you,” he says on a breath of a laugh. 

“Right,” you say, infused with all the light-hearted sarcasm as you can muster.  “That’s me,” you say.  “Scariest of them all.” 

“You have no idea,” he says, still so sincerely.  It is your turn to shiver, leaning into his touch as his thumb circles your chin.  He smiles again, not his exaggerated toothy grins but a sweet, fond smile.  “My job.  My enemy.”  His thumb presses on your mouth, gently parting your lips.  A breath escapes with the race of your heart.  “My sweetheart.” 

“You’re just being mean now,” you say.  “I hate you so much.”  You hold the back of his neck and tug him close to you.  Your noses brush, his breath colliding with yours.  A simmering warmth is tingling under every inch of your skin, gathering hotly in intimate places.  You scratch up the nape of his neck and he swallows hard. 

“A kiss,” he says, a rough whisper.  “Just one kiss.  It’s too—we can’t—” 

“One kiss,” you say, brushing noses again.  “For now.”

His soft laugh warms you even before your lips touch.  And a touch is all it is, lacking all the rushed dramatics of your first collision.  Even though you’re not truly alone, even though danger encircles this room like a poisonous fog, this little world away from everything feels momentarily invulnerable. 

You let your eyes close, surrendering to the gentle give-and-take of it all.  You wonder what makes a kiss so addicting, and you wonder how you went this long abstaining, and you wonder how you could ever hope to go without it again. 

You run your hands into his hair and pull his face close.  He sinks into the kiss, sharing a gasp before kissing you again.

You feel dizzy with breathlessness but you don’t stop.  You shiver when he cups your neck to control the movement of your head.  Your excitement has you bobbing forward, but he holds you and gently tips your head, then he kisses you with a long, hot pull.  When his tongue brushes your lips, you make a little noise and he very softly squeezes your neck, the only place he is touching, in warning.  This only tempts another sound but you restrain yourself, if only just barely.  

The kiss ends with a gasping breath.  You rest your forehead against his for a long moment.  Then you open your eyes only to close them when he descends, kissing your nose, your eyelids, your cheeks.  His sigh feathers against your lips. 

“More effective than a bullet,” he murmurs. 

Surely, it is meant to be joking, sweet, flirtatious.  But he looks at you with that deep-set longing.  He draws his thumb from your temple to chin again.  He tilts your head to kiss your cheek, closing his eyes like that innocent press is the greatest pleasure of his life.  Your cheek still tingles when he pulls away. 

He smiles then nods towards the top of the bed.  Your heart skips a beat, but then he says, “Sleep now.  No more bad dreams tonight, yeah?” 

You feel tipsy, breathless still, so you don’t argue.  You also do not look away from him.  Your eyes are locked as you slide to your side of the bed and pull back the covers.  He sits on the end, watching you.  Eventually he lays down and looks at the ceiling, scrubbing a hand over his forehead.  His mind is so clearly going a mile a minute. 

“Don’t worry,” you say with a wave of your hand.  “I still hate you.” 

He shoves his tongue into his cheek to hold back the laugh, looking at you out of the corner of his eye.  You just smile, then shrug, then turn your back to him for the night. 

-

The summer passes in euphoric bursts and tiny agonies.  There are days you and Felix are alone in the house, days when a calm settles between you even if all you do is sleep entangled, and there are days your father looms with all his threat and power, when Felix sensibly withdraws and you ache with the need for an intimacy that keeps you sane and human.

Felix is clearly torn between his own desires and the duty he has assigned himself.  It is also apparent that he is still struggling to consider himself worthy of honest affection.  You can see it in the way he stands, the way he looks at you, the way his shoulders tense when you so much as brush his shoulder.  You have laid in his arms more than once, your faces so close that you are almost kissing.  You run your fingers through his hair until the tension leaves his body and he lets himself slant towards you.

Please come to me, stay with me, you think. 

This is another one of those things that cannot coast on accidents, on fleeting moments of lustful tension that would ultimately fizzle if not for the emotional strength propelling them.  It is in that emotional undercurrent you must plant yourself deliberately if you want to feel anything, if you want to heal, and if you truly, completely want him.

Maybe you cannot leave, maybe that kind of rescue is impossible, but you form a haven of sorts between yourselves.  You try to find the words to tell him he’s a person, that you want to be a person for him, a body under his hands and a heartbeat in the dark, but you can never find the right thing to say to fully liberate you from the cage closed around that room.  The words touch your tongue and burn and suddenly you see every nightmare in front of you, every reminder of why this is dangerous.  So you turn your back and say you hate him, even while a kiss on the shoulder is enough to fully unravel you.

The summer is busy, a popular season for parties and events, some your father hosts and some you are invited to attend.  He drags you from place to place, with the rest of your spare time filled with advanced course work.  It is a distraction if nothing else.

At the end of summer, your father calls you into his home office.  It could be for a lecture, a demand, an argument he is itching to start.  You do not know but you appear when summoned.  

Felix is already there, sitting straight-backed in a small chair across from your father’s desk.  There is an empty seat beside him. 

He turns his head and looks at you, reminding you of the first moment you ever saw him.  Some things are the same, but most things are different.  You realize how much older he looks.  He is still slender, still clean-shaven, still very pretty, but he is not a child anymore.  He does not look ridiculous in his black blazer and tie, a holster under his jacket, a competent professional with a job to do.  Uniforms used to make him look even younger, his face too wide and sweet for such a grown-up ensemble.  He looked like a little boy playing dress-up.

He is not a little boy anymore.  You look into his face as you approach, your eyes locked.  His hair is long enough to tie into a little stub of a ponytail.  You ran your fingers through that hair this morning, fluffing the soft ends, making him smile.  You have kissed that pink bow of mouth, both roughly and softly.  You know what he sounds like when overcome with pleasure. 

You met years ago, two peculiar children with so much humanity beaten out of you.  You realize just how much has grown back thanks to the slow but tender cultivation of your relationship. 

It seemed like an impossible thought at the time.  Now it seems like it was inevitable. 

You take the empty seat beside him.  You both look at your father.  His hands are steepled on his desk, his attention rapt as it often is when meting out punishment.  His smile is not encouraging to the contrary, as he will sometimes smile when administering his reprimands. 

But then he says, “Congratulations, I am pleased.” 

He shows you the transcript for your summer courses.  Your grades are more than halfway decent despite your tumultuous year.

“You’ve worked hard to win back my favour,” he says.  It is the kind of comment that would usually trigger your frustration, prompting a quick rebuttal that would quickly escalate.  But you temper yourself, curling your fists in your lap.  You force yourself to ignore his bating, to listen with as stoic a face as you can muster.  Your father smiles, though it is strained.  “In my persistent generosity, I have decided to reward this behaviour in the hopes of encouraging it will continue.” 

He slides a folder across the desk, every encounter a business meeting when it isn’t a brawl.  You take the folder and read through it, the frustration leaving your body as it is replaced with confusion then the vaguest flicker of hope. 

“We are substantially removed from the university campus,” your father says.  “I have decided that for the sake of convenience and your continued academic success that it would be more prudent to move you closer to the university until your degree is completed in a timely manner.” 

“Move,” you say, trying to keep your voice level despite the fact it feels like your heart is trying to leap into your throat.  “All of us?  What about the house?”

“Just you,” he says.  “And Felix, of course, to supervise you.  The penthouse is secured with a high security system, not to mention armed doormen and a plethora of staff throughout the building.  Between that and your bodyguard, you should be secure and thus able to complete your studies without any obstruction.”  He thumps a hand on his desk, making you jump.  “And I expect your grades to reflect that.” 

You nod vigorously, staring down at the real estate listing of the penthouse apartment.  You have only just begun to picture the possibilities of an uninterrupted life, however brief the interim, when your father speaks again.   

“Felix,” he says.  “You know what I expect of you.” 

“Yes, sir,” Felix says with a curt nod. 

“I will have it on record now,” your father says to you, “that I give Felix complete and full control of this arrangement.  You will do what he says when he says it. I also grant him permission to use his own discretion to determine when and how to discipline you if you step out of line.”

“Oh,” you say, too stunned to add more.    

“If he reports that you are making things difficult in any capacity—”

“I won’t,” you say.  “I’ve been good all summer!”

Other than last night when you snuggled up to Felix and started kissing his neck.  It was chaste, a momentary touch, but then a sweet, low sound rumbled in his throat.  Naturally, you did it again, then once more, your lips a little wetter and more open each time.  He eventually had to pry you off him with a warning look, but he could not fully stamp down his smile when you giggled at him. 

“Felix,” your father says, disregarding your retort.  “You have my permission to do what you must to keep her in line.”

“Yes, sir,” Felix says, dropping his head in a respectful bow. 

-

“So what do I have to do get disciplined around here?”

“Stop,” Felix says, even while obviously amused, a smile tugging at his lips.  “They’re still here.”

You giggle and look over his shoulder where your father’s men are moving the last few things into the apartment.  One of them collects Felix to show him the workings of the security system, which Felix quickly learns with his all technological skills.  

You play the part of demure daughter, quietly moving from room to room as your father’s men assemble your life according to his directions.  You did not get to organize much of anything, but you don’t care.  A wall is a wall, a bed a bed.  But these walls offer privacy.  That bed is a new haven. 

It is just you and Felix. 

Eventually the men leave, one by one.  The move began in the morning, but it is late evening by the time Felix closes the door on the last departure.  You wait while he does his security check, in the sitting area, standing at the floor-to-ceiling window that boasts a beautiful city skyline view.  The outside of the window is a mirror, concealing your privacy, but you get to enjoy the twinkling city lights, the bustling world below that offers so much possibility.  It is very different than your view back home, of a perfectly manicured and perfectly stagnant garden, the mansion isolated on a hill with no other souls for miles. 

You remember your first night alone with Felix, how empty that house felt.  Now when Felix joins you, the apartment feels full.  It is brimming with life.

You look at him as he turns on a lamp, brightening the dim room with a cozy golden glow.  The whole room feels warm.  It is not eerie and empty like that house.  You were living in a mausoleum of wealth, rotting away with distractions and half-living in what little remained.  You feel golden and alive, now, here, with him. 

He clears his throat.  He was staring back at you, his regard as intense as yours.  He turns aside now, peeling off his uniform blazer.  He starts talking about dinner, suggestions for this and that, something about school, about going to campus tomorrow and finding your way around.  A hundred topics, more distractions. 

You say nothing so he continues to fill the silence with empty chatter.  He uses his friendliest voice, though your thoughts are not merely friendly when you watch him unholster his gun, when he fiddles with the harness around his chest and pulls it free.  He puts everything on the coffee table and sits on the couch, pretending to be very occupied with organizing it.  He checks his gun as if something could be wrong with it, nimble fingers flicking through its mechanisms as he checks its assembly.

You sit beside him on the couch, watching him fiddle with it. 

He says something about something.  Asks a question, maybe.  He is not really looking for an answer.  You think his heart might be beating just as fast as yours, even though his hands are steady and his gaze is resolute. 

“It doesn’t really matter what I want,” you say in a voice, sighing dramatically.  “My dad says you’re in charge of me anyway, right?” 

He clips the gun shut and puts it on the table.  He looks at it for a minute, then exhales. 

“Are we doing that now?” he asks dryly. 

“I dunno, are we?” you ask, shuffling a little closer to him.  He looks at you sideways then shakes his head.  He puts his hands on his knees and strums his fingers.  “Are you saying I can do what I want?” you ask. 

“Uhh, that depends,” he says.  Another strum.  “What do you want?” 

“A kiss.” 

He looks at you, those dark eyes narrowed, his expression one of warning. 

“Just one,” you say, batting the eyelashes that are apparently more persuasive than torture.  He swallows and you smile.  “Just one is fine, right?”

“You said just one a few times ago now,” he says dryly.  

“No, you said that,” you say with an innocent smile.  “I said just one for now.  But now I’m saying just one, because I’m going to be a good girl.”

“Oh.”  He looks amused now, nodding.  “Are you?  Really?  Wow.” 

“No sarcasm required, thank you,” you say.  “I’m trying to avoid being disciplined, after all.”

His mouth draws into a thin line.  He looks away and cracks his knuckles distractedly. 

“Just one,” he finally says.

“Yes.”  You nod and smile sweetly.  “Just one.” 

That one kiss lasts forty minutes.  First you are side by side on the couch, the blue evening night outside the window colliding with the golden glow within.  That blue light fades to black before long, but that golden warmth stays glowing.  Heat similarly rises between you, soft pecks against soft lips turning to open-mouthed kisses that beg and satisfy with each deep touch. 

He holds your face in both his hands when you tremble, keeping you steady, letting you melt into him.   He moves when you tug at his shoulders, mutely imploring as you lay back on the couch, though he holds himself well above you, maintaining distance. 

When his arms get tired, he lays back.  He lets you crawl on top of him, and sighs, giving in, holding the back of your neck as you wrap your arms around him.  You kiss again, wet and hot and hungry, losing time and sense. 

You kiss until it shows, when his whole mouth is pink and his skin is flushed and he can barely keep his eyes open with the dreamy intoxication of it all.  You are straddling his waist, hands on his chest, his holding your waist.  A breath breaks the kiss when you settle right above where he is hard, the ridge of him in his denim fitting between your open thighs.  You are wearing jeans too but the thick material does nothing for true modesty. 

You settle there against him, fitting like perfectly slotted halves of a whole.  His brow creases, a truly tortured expression that pours into bliss when he yields to desire.  He holds your hips, keeping you there against him, and goes back to kissing you with long, slow presses, eyes closed and the occasional breath gentle. 

Your fingers are in his hair, stroking at his nape.  Lovely low sounds slip into his sighs.  You can feel how desperately turned on and wanting you are, clenching around nothing if he so much as shifts.  You imagine laying here like this with him inside you, not moving much, lazily kissing and joined together like you have all the time in the world.  The very thought has you clenching again, whimpering into his mouth.  It sounds a little pained so he strokes your back, under your shirt, making you shiver very noticeably.

“Are you okay?” he asks, with a completely shot voice, rough and low. 

“Mhm,” you say.  Words take a long time to come back to you.  “Just… thinking…” 

“About?” 

“If we were kissing…” 

“We are kissing,” he says with a chuckle, tracing circles on your spine

“And,” you say, pointedly, and press your knees into his hips.  “If you were inside me while we did it.” 

That makes his hand pause.  Then he thunks his head back hard and fast, missing the cushion and hitting the arm of the couch.  His eyes close and his face scrunches, newfound pain adding to his present torture, all of it making you giggle. 

“You keep doing that,” you say, remembering him hitting his head in the car too. 

“That’s because you…”  He can’t even finish, he just makes a pained noise and shakes his head.  It makes you laugh a little more, biting your own bruised lip as you look down at him.  He cracks one eye open, his cheeks dimpling with the tug of a smile.  He slides his hand far up your back, thumb finding the band of your bra and skirting it, then diving back down to your spine to settle just above your ass.  “If I was inside you,” he says softly, “we would not just be kissing.” 

It is your turn for a pained noise, hiding your face in his neck while he laughs. 

“You can’t say things like that,” you whine.  “That’s just mean.”

“Mhm.”  He gives your ass a pat, making you wriggle on top of him.  “Okay,” he says breathlessly.  “That was one kiss.  Or something.  I think we’re done.” 

“You’re the wooorst,” you say as he sits up.  “I hate you so much.  You’re so evil.  You’re so sick and twisted—”

He just laughs, patting your sides and shaking his head.  You only stop complaining when he kisses your nose, a sweet little peck.  His smile is tender.  He touches your cheek. 

“Say it again,” he says.     

“What?  I hate you?  Fine.  There.  I hate you.” 

“One more time?” he teases, cupping your jaw, kissing your neck when you try and speak again.  Your words get garbled and he laughs, shaking his head.  “That’s what I thought,” he says.  “Now up.  I’m in charge.  It’s time for dinner.”

“I can give you something to eat—”

“Up.”  His tone is stern but he is still smiling.  “Don’t be trouble.”

“Me?” you say.  “When have I ever been trouble?  I’m perfect.”

“Of course you are,” he says dryly.  “I don’t know why I worried.” 

“Exactly,” you say, running your fingers through his hair.  Your eyes are locked, your smiles soft.  You kiss his nose.  “And I’m just getting started.” 

*input convincing 'he's not my bias' argument*

Felix fic recs

stray kids | Lee Felix 

masterlist

[ updated 230612 ]

 ⇥ heart shaped { s, f }  2.5k

TikTok Challenges { hybrid au; f }  1.3k

hey, hey, golden boy! { f2l; f, a }  11k

Strawberry Milk  {sub!Felix, s }  4,8k

buzzfeed said i like-like you.. { f2l; f } 

seven days to fall in love  { f2l,  cruise au; f, s } 19k

Arrangement { suggar daddy au; f, s }  8,6k

A(rouse)d { s } 1k

This is what friends do, pt. 1 { s }  4,3k

-Tattoo artist!Felix

Crooked Candle { roomates au, f2l; f, a }  3,8k

perfect distraction { college au; f, s } 11,4k

solace {90s au, f2l; f, s }  11,9k

HIDE & SEEK. { f, s }

Homework <<<; Makeout { f, s } 1k

NSFW Alphabet

Flowers. { s }  1,6k

cuddles { f } 500

addiction  { s } 

[23.02]  { greaser au, f2l; f, s }  4,1k

[9.00] { vampire au; f, a }  4,3k

early mornings w lix { f }

Cuddles with Felix { f }

Strangely in love { f } 0,7k

I waited for you { bsf2l; f, s } 3,6k

comfortable with you { roomates2l, f } 10k

Lixie laying on your chest { f }

Quit it or I’ll bite { f }

SUNSHINE { f2l, model lix, photographer yn; f, a, s } 7,4k

Felix’s cafe { f } 0,4k

helping Felix get ready { f }

Nintendo games and alcohol { nerd!lix, popular!reader; f, s } 7,5k

Is this love ? { pack au,+ Hyunjin; a,s,f }

1.

2.

3.

[11:42 pm] { f }

come back to bed { f }

so heavenly { s,f } 

SAFE HAVEN { royal, tutor lix, princess reader; a, f } 1,1k 

[7:29]  { christmas au, crushes2l; f } 0,4k

“I’m not jealous, why would I be jealous”+ “do you love me the same way I do you “

“are you flirting with me ? “ + “ yeah, thanks for noticing”

lollipop { s } 1,6k

hyper lix { f }

caramel popcorn { fwb; s } 11,5k

coffee fix. { coffee shop au; f } 1,7k

[ 02: 27 ] { s }

waiting for you { s } 2,2k

One of Those Days { f }

6:32pm { f }

SHUT UP AND KISS ME AGAIN ! { f2l; f } 1,2k

Drabble { comforting reader on period }

Tell me. { college au; f, s } 1,7k

BLOOM { s, f } 16,4k

“let me give you a reason to stay in bed” { s }

sick lix { f }

whiny sleepy lix { f }

[6:01 AM] { f } @/lixiessgirlie

Nesting { f, s } @/princess- -af 

Pt2 { s, f } 

Note: please let me know if the links are not working ! I’ll try to fix them as soon as possible ^^