Verisimilitude ; Hyunjin X Reader ; One-shot

verisimilitude ; hyunjin x reader ; one-shot

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( READ ON AO3. )

You are a self-identified no-nonsense curmudgeon. Your best friend is an eccentric pretty boy. You accidentally send him an explicit video of yourself. What's the worst that can happen?

pairing: hwang hyunjin/reader content info: romantic comedy. best friends to lovers. curly-haired reader because mood. accidental sexting. accidental voyeurism. sexual tension. resolved sexual tension. very explicit sexual content. not so much dom/sub but hyunjin explicitly prefer control. sexual discovery. very horny leads lol. (word count: 19500 words.)

-

You look like Hyunjin’s lawyer again. 

Your best friend has gravitated to a somewhat more punk persona in recent years.  You say somewhat because you are not sure it runs deeper than aesthetic, though he would probably be forgiven on account of his perfect face.   His good looks combined with his natural charisma lets him get away with most things. 

His vibrant red hair catches the sunlight like a painted flame, a perfect stroke of red against the beige canvas of the art gallery’s exterior.  He is slouching against the wall, hands in the pockets of his leather jacket, squinting in the light.  He looks like a rather put upon a vampire given the dark garb and eyeliner. 

Then he turns his head and sees you.  You are wearing one of your usual blazers and modest skirts, your untameable mess of curls twisted into an updo that is fighting (and losing) against the wind.  You try not to feel too preposterous, peeling bits of hair out of your mouth as you approach him. 

He smiles.  Some people think his smiles look a bit smarmy and you suppose they are not wrong, his lips perpetually quirked like a punchline just occurred to him, but you know your best friend well.  Despite the intimidating ring of dark eye-make up, his eyes are alight with a great deal of affection.  If you were prone to sentimentality, you might concede a heart flutter. 

You clear your throat and march ahead.  He saunters up the path to you.  You meet halfway. 

“Hi, pretty girl,” he says. 

He is the only person allowed to call you that. 

“Hello, Hyunjin,” you say.  You lack his playful charm so you do not have a nickname to return.  You are more comfortable around Hyunjin than anyone else on earth, and you are still awkward around him.  “Thank you for the invitation,” you say. “I appreciate you might have otherwise wanted the time to yourself, so I hope I am not imposing by accepting.” 

He laughs.  When all you do is blink at him, stone-faced, he covers his mouth with a delicate touch of his long fingers, still smirking behind them.    

“Sorry, why wouldn’t I want you to say yes?” he asks.  “We always go to the new exhibitions together.”

You tuck back an errant curl only for another to whip across your brow. 

“Well,” you say, tucking that one back too.  “Since I am temporarily living with you, I thought my company might grow wearisome in a way it usually does not.  Familiarity breeding contempt and all that.” 

Though you state this observation with your usual pragmatic detachment, you are very insecure about it.  You gave this risk a great deal of consideration prior to moving in with Hyunjin.  You are only staying in his apartment’s spare bedroom for a few months while your disaster of a townhouse undergoes repairs (the upstairs bathroom flooded again), but you have never lived with Hyunjin before.  You are aware of your short-comings and you were very worried that your best friend was going to tire of you within a week. 

It has been a month now and he has shown no signs of despising your existence, but it is still best to brace oneself for every eventuality.  

He just smiles and puts both hands in his pockets. 

“Are you getting sick of me?” he asks. 

Another ringlet whips across your face. 

“Good grief,” you say, frantically pushing it aside.  “Of course not!  How could anyone ever get sick of you?”  What a preposterous thought.  Hyunjin just has to wink for the universe to re-arrange itself.  People adore him.  He is handsome and funny and charming and talented and intelligent.   You have known him for most of your life and you are still unearthing his many intricate layers.  As if you could ever grow tired of him.   “I think that’s the most foolish thing you’ve ever said,” you say with complete sincerity. 

He laughs some more, tossing his head back so all that red hair flutters behind him.  The wind co-operates with his hair, of course, working in tandem with the sunlight to flatter him. 

“Are you sure?  I’ve said a lot of foolish things,” he says.

You sputter when a curl flies into your mouth.  You push it away. 

“Yes, well,” you say.  “That much is true too.”  

He looks at you for a moment.  You can’t imagine why.  The sunlight is beaming right in your eyes and the wind is beating you to a pulp.  Maybe you look so hideous that he is contemplating a means of escape. 

Then one hand lifts out of his pocket, long fingers reaching for you.  It is very unexpected.  You stare into his face, a stoic mask concealing your confusion.  His eyes do not meet yours, his gaze on a loose curl.  He is gentle in the way he scoops it up and smoothly tucks it behind your ear.  A shiver erupts under the brush of his fingertips, that heart flutter loosing itself when his touch lingers. 

Then he smiles and puts his hand back in his pocket. 

“Sweet?” he asks. 

“Excuse me?” 

“Do you want a sweet?” He whips an open bag of gummies out of his pocket. 

“Oh.”  You look at the bag.  “Um.  No.”

“Are you sure?”  He shakes the bag.  “It’s your favourite.” 

“Oh.”  Your attention went awry with the race of your heart but you do observe the candy is one you enjoy.  “Okay. Thank you.”  You take a few and pop them in your mouth. 

He upturns the bag over his mouth, finishing off the sugar.  You hope your eyes don’t widen at the flick of his tongue.  Oh, it really is cumbersome when your nether region gets an idea about Hyunjin.  You try to ignore the heat down there.

“Come on, pretty girl,” he says, already striding away.  The man is at least 80% per cent leg so it puts him ahead rather quickly. 

You are too refined to scamper-and-scurry, but you might pitter-and-patter to catch up. 

-

You are able to lose yourself in the art exhibition.  You and Hyunjin share a meal afterward, discussing everything at length.  Hyunjin is a little quieter than usual so you apologize for speaking too much.   He is gazing at you, his chin is propped in his hand.  Surprise flickers in his expression when you apologize, but he recovers, waving his hand like it’s no matter. 

You return to his home and separate for the evening.  You to your studies, him to his evening work-out. 

You are in the apartment’s quaint living room when Hyunjin gets back from the gym.  He is an absolute sight, bare-faced, his red hair yanked into a half-ponytail.  There is a subtle, rolling musculature to his arms, proudly displayed in his sleeveless shirt, and he is glistening with sweat from top to bottom.  It should be gross.  You pride yourself on cleanliness. 

But good grief.  He is gorgeous. 

You are sitting cross-legged on the couch, comfortably dressed down in a sweatshirt and pyjama pants.  You peek at him over the top of your book only to find him already staring at you.  He is rubbing the back of his neck with a towel, his arm flexed.  When he catches you looking, his lips pull into a lazy smile. 

You duck behind your book again.  It is a poor shield, or maybe he is a cunning adversary, because your heart keeps racing anyway. 

“Whatcha reading?” he asks.  You can hear his slow approach.  The towel is tossed somewhere. 

“A book,” you say. 

“Funny,” he says.  He is in front of you now.  You have no time to strategize before he plucks the book out of your hand and holds it over his head. 

“Hyunjin!”  You muster all the indignant attitude you can.  “That’s not funny.  We’re not children anymore.  Return my book at once.”

“I want a hug first,” he says, his full lips in a silly pout. 

“Out of the question.”  You hope you do not sound as flustered as you feel.  “You’re disgusting.  Look at the state of you.”

“Please?”  He blinks his long lashes at you.

You stand up and try to look imposing, hands on your hips.  His smile does not diminish.  He waves the book in the air. 

You lunge, diving at the book and failing spectacularly.  He holds it out of reach, laughing, then he tries to wrap you up in a hug.  He smells like sweat and exertion and it makes you think of sex.  This is sufficiently startling enough to cause a fumble.  You spill backwards, a frantic hand thoughtlessly grasping for an anchor.  Your fingers hook in the neck of his shirt which has the predictable outcome of dragging him with you onto the couch. 

His more athletic reflexes kick in, just enough that he drops the book and catches himself with his hands.  He successively suspends his weight above you, which is nice, but you still thump your head on the arm of the couch, which is less nice. 

“Are you okay?” he asks when you hiss and grab your head.  The laughter has left his voice, replaced with genuine concern. 

“No,” you say, petulantly.  “A horrible sweaty man stole my book and beat me up.” 

He laughs, a twinkling sound that enchants you despite everything. 

“Poor baby,” he says.   “That sounds so disgusting.  Will a hug help…?”

“Don’t you dare—hmmf!”  He lowers himself and squishes you.  You can’t help the laughter that bubbles out of you, partially because he swipes his nose on your neck and it tickles, largely because his laughter is infectious.   “Oh,” you say, pushing his face away. “You are a horrible person.”  

He giggles with boyish mirth.  It is at odds with the man he is, all hard planes and sturdy lines, an unfamiliar twinkle in his dark eyes.  You look back at him, at a loss for words.  Even if you were the sort of person to confess attraction, you would surely seem strange for finding his dishevelled appearance so desirable.  

Finally, you push him, diverting your gaze with an eye roll. 

“All right,” you say.  “That’s quite enough now.  There’s a shower at your disposal and I recommend you make use of it sooner than later.  Go on, get.” 

He obliges, but not without a cheeky kiss to your forehead.  It flusters you more than a chaste kiss should. 

He just winks, because of course the charmer is unaffected by such an innocent touch.  Hyunjin is too gushy and romantic to womanize, but he is certainly liberal with his sexual appetite.  You had the displeasure of running into a one-night stand your first weekend here.  Hyunjin left for work and let her sleep, assuming she would show herself out.  She was a pretty chatterbox and she bounded into the kitchen to strike up a very one-sided conversation with you in your bathrobe.

He did apologize for that.  He knows you do not like unexpected visitors at the best of times, never mind first thing in the morning, and certainly never mind ones he knew intimately.   Fortunately, it was the first and last time you made scrambled eggs for his hook-up. 

You are not in the habit of hook-ups, to say the very least, preferring a serving of scrambled eggs for one.  You had one boyfriend a few years ago but he was not the sort of man to tackle you onto the couch in a sweaty, flirtatious tangle.  You would have bopped him on the nose for trying, in fact.  Hyunjin really does get away with everything. 

Your nethers are getting ideas again.  The territory below your belt is usually well-behaved but unfortunately it lacks any sense when it comes to Hyunjin.  More time spent in proximity appears to be worsening its condition. 

You assume a blank face in the hopes of concealing any trace of arousal, watching Hyunjin amble his sweaty way to the bathroom. 

Oh dear.  You are very wound up.  Something will have to be done or you will never sleep tonight. 

You are blessedly granted an opportunity to satisfy your baser urges when Hyunjin emerges fully dressed for an evening out.  Some friends are at a bar down the street and they invited Hyunjin to join them.  Hyunjin tries to cajole you into joining him, promising it’s just a few drinks and teasing that your book won’t go anywhere, but your book is not how you intend to pass the time alone so his encouragement does not tempt you.  

“I’ll be back soon,” he says, shrugging on a leather vest.  His back is to you so you openly admire his form, his arms on display, his long legs, his ringed fingers as they gather his hair to tie in a knot.   He turns around before leaving, giving you one last finger-wiggle wave and a bounce of his eyebrows. 

He looks sinfully good.  You hope you look casual.  Innocently awaiting a quiet evening. 

Fifteen minutes later you are sitting in front of the full-length bedroom mirror, admiring yourself in a white satin babydoll.  Flaws like frizzy curls or unflattering shapes seem insignificant in the soft lighting and lingerie.  Your curls seem curlier, your face lovelier, your body more tempting than ever.

Though the idea of pursuing a real fling is mortifying, you lament the lack of company in an abstract way.  You feel pretty and ready and wound up.  When such a fancy strikes, the best form of satisfaction is found in self-appreciation.

The taboo of filming yourself always triples your arousal.   Even if there is no real audience, you can’t help but feel regarded. 

Eyes closed, phone camera filming, you imagine a certain pair of dark eyes on you.  You make the vaguest attempt to think of something else, peripherally aware that you shouldn’t fantasize about your best friend like this, but the attempt is useless.  It will always be Hyunjin.  Hyunjin with his fiery red hair, his smirks, his expressive brows and dark eyes.  Hyunjin’s hands, his fluid hips, his athleticism.  Hyunjin in black and leather, so contrary to your modest simplicity. Hyunjin sweaty and raw and determined, pinning you under him. 

Hyunjin, the person you know and like and love more than anything. 

You lift the babydoll and twist, filming yourself through the mirror, showing where a thick toy disappears inside of you.  You rock a little, so wet you can hear it, every nerve tingling as you become someone else in your reflection.  With the apartment to yourself, you don’t restrain any noises, especially when you sit back and fuck yourself with the toy.  You stop filming because you need that hand to finish, but you are so close that it only takes a few touches to climax. 

You slump back, satisfied for a while, then a little embarrassed.  You have a quick shower then climb into bed where you can’t help but watch your video.   You imagine a particular someone else watching it and it winds you up all over again.  You are still wet and sensitive, your fingers slipping smoothly into your shorts.  Your put the phone down and think of Hyunjin’s long fingers, his breath on your neck and his lips grazing your skin as he works his lovely hand inside you. 

When you are finished, truly finished, you feel momentarily miserable in your loneliness.  You try to imagine a version of yourself that went with Hyunjin to the bar, but even that fantasy only gets you so far.  Nothing would have happened.  Nothing has ever happened.  

Hyunjin interrupts your wallowing stream of self-pity.  He texts you a rather exasperated-looking selfie, captioning it with, I miss you, I’d rather be at home.  

It makes you smile.  It is probably foolish, but suppressing it is useless so you surrender to the warm glow in your chest. 

You text back a heart.  He replies, you never told me what you were reading.   He must be truly bored if he is texting about your books, but you dutifully reply like there is nothing unusual about the question.   He sends back a smiling emoji and a string of hearts.

You fall asleep after that.  You wake in the morning to a slew of missed text messages, Hyunjin insisting that he is having the worst night of his life because you didn’t come with him.  This is nonsense, of course, but he attacks you with an arsenal of teary-eyed emojis so you send an obligatory heart his way.  You are too sleepy to formulate a rejoinder, much less type one, so it will have to suffice. 

You click through your phone to wake up, still foggy after exhausting all notifications.  You open your photo album and find your video from last night.  You click on it just as a message alert swings down.  You instinctively swipe it away, but your clumsy finger opens the messenger.  You click around a little haphazardly, finger flying everywhere. 

After a bit of sleepy swiping, you close everything then check the message.  The text you just swiped was from Hyunjin, some goofy good morning remark with a squinty-eyed selfie under it.  Hyunjin does his make-up so severely these days so you like his softer, bare-faced selfies, especially because you know he sends them to no one else.  He will post elaborate photos all over his social media, but the simple stuff is for you. 

But you have no time to enjoy the selfie, because you are distracted by your own unwitting reply. 

Oh no.

You snap up so quickly that it nearly causes whiplash.  You are wide awake now, staring at the paused video of you in a white satin babydoll. 

You slap a hand over your mouth.  For a long moment, all you can do is stare.  Your head feels fuzzy, a radiating aura of fantastical insanity clouding your periphery.  Then you realize it is actually just your hair, because you fell asleep so suddenly and didn’t put on your bonnet. 

You look in the mirror.  You look like someone electrocuted you.  Fitting, because that’s what you feel like. 

Your phone buzzes.  In your silent but sublime mania, you dropped your phone facedown on the blanket.  You are tempted to hurl the demonic device across the room but that will solve nothing.  

You pick up the phone.  This is probably what execution feels like. 

Hyunjin, perpetually artistic in every capacity, even the literary, summarizes the exchange with one poetic text:

?!     

You fling yourself facedown on the bed and kick your legs like a petulant child.  The sky does not open, you are not struck by lightning, and the earth does not gobble you up, so you roll over and shakily type a reply. 

That was an accident, you write.  Surprisingly, once you start typing, it is hard to stop.  You continue:

Oh my good gracious, Hyunjin. 

Hyunjin, I am so sorry.  I cannot apologize to you enough. 

I assure you that was a complete accident.

I would never accost you so unsuspectingly with unprovoked licentious content.

An ellipses appears in the corner, Hyunjin typing a reply.  It feels like your stomach has folded in on itself.  You lay there with your hand cupped over it, willing yourself to explode.  But no, it would be very rude to explode in Hyunjin’s spare bedroom.  Bad enough you have attacked him with your inappropriate spank fodder, it would be uncouth to make him clean your spattered guts off the wall. 

Hyunjin finally replies, that makes sense… you aren’t the unprovoked licentious content type usually…

I assure you I am not, you reply.  I keep these videos to myself.  I would never intentionally spring them on you.

There’s more than one?? he replies, and you are mortified all over again.  Maybe you should just explode after all.

I assure you I will keep those where they are, you reply.  I cannot apologize enough.  If you want me to leave, I will pack my things immediately.  You are not one for extreme emotion, but you feel an unfamiliar stabbing in your eyes.  You realize with horror that it is the threat of tears as you imagine Hyunjin banishing you from his life forever.  Other people come and go but there is only one Hyunjin.  He is irreplaceable in your esteem, even if he dresses like a goth Las Vegas showgirl.

His replies come flying in, one after the other:

Whoa whoa

it’s okay

calm down

pretty girl hey hey hey

I don’t want you going anywhere

You take a breath and calm yourself.  You do Hyunjin a great disservice by thinking he would destroy your friendship over an accident.  You blame your embarrassment for your poor rationality. 

I should be apologizing to you, he says.  He continues swiftly: 

I kinda clicked on it…? 

I didn’t know what it was.  But I stopped once I did

I feel really bad

See baby now we’re both embarrassed idiots <3     

You can’t help but laugh, just a little, the entire mishap suddenly comically preposterous.  You smile fondly at your phone.  The unexpected address of baby gives you a heart flutter, but then the rest of it makes you pause.  A different embarrassment creeps into the corner of your brain, something gross and mean that interprets his words ungenerously.  Stopping would be the gentlemanly thing to do, so you should commend his restraint.   Still, some half-insane part of you is offended that the only emotion it invoked in him was “bad”. 

It made him feel bad.  Goodness.  Talk about an ego blow. 

The least you can do is soothe his conscience.  You have already put your foot in your mouth, not to mention toys in unspeakable places, so you figure another penetrative misstep cannot hurt the situation.   You write, I don’t mind you watching it.  I just feel horrific for sending it in the first place.  I really am sorry.

The ellipses appears.  Then disappears.  Then appears.  Then disappears.  Then appears.  Then disappears. 

You start to wonder if you should check on him.  He is just one room over, after all.   But you would rather explode once and for all than face him right now. 

The buzzer goes off in the main room, signalling a visitor outside. Hyunjin finally texts, one sec.  Then you hear him clamouring around in the next room.  Hyunjin is very graceful when he deigns to apply himself but other times he has the equilibrium of an overgrown gazelle.  All those limbs clatter around his bedroom and you think he knocks a lamp over. 

It sounds like the visitor is just a package delivery.  You leave him to his devices.  In the face of chaos, routine is a reliable companion.  You get up to dress yourself for the day.  Your hair is trying to force its way into a new dimension so it should take a while to fix.  

Everything will be fine.

-

Everything is fine until it is not.   Well, Hyunjin’s complexion is red as his hair when you meet face-to-face, but he recovers with an expected degree of poise and equanimity.  Despite your own internal chaos, you feign a similar indifference. 

Verisimilitude, you tell yourself.   Pretend everything is fine and everything will be fine. 

You think there might be an undercurrent of awkwardness to your interactions, but your social ineptitude makes it difficult to discern.  Your usual frankness fails as deliberately enquiring after Hyunjin’s opinion would consequently highlight the very issue you are striving to ignore.  Verisimilitude means nothing if you look him in the eye and ask if your pussy has made the friendship awkward.   

After a few days of polite camaraderie, you opt to solve your problems by running away.  You inform Hyunjin you will be occupied with a research project and thus mostly absent for the duration of its completion.   By the time you emerge from the depths of the university library, hopefully this entire embarrassing situation will be forgotten.    

You throw yourself into your academic distraction.   A truly comprehensive research project encompasses obstacles, minute quandaries you inevitably resolve, but this time it feels like there are no answers to be found.  No resolutions, no conclusions. 

Your anxiety is ultimately exacerbated.  Even your dreams suffer.  You wake multiple nights in a row from nightmares caused by stress.  Your usual pragmatic thoughtfulness abandons you in the dark, every shadow just another terror waiting to unleash itself. 

You wake from yet another nightmare.  Your heart is palpitating and you are too hot under your covers.  You kick to freedom and swing out of bed, whipping your silk bonnet onto the floor in a rare display of aggression.  You are frustrated with your seemingly inescapable burdens.  You want to pick up your phone and text Hyunjin despite the late hour, but that is the one thing you vehemently cannot do right now. 

You sigh and leave bed.  It is the middle of the night so you cannot start the day, but maybe a glass of water will refresh you. 

It seems your friend had the same idea.  Hyunjin is puttering around the kitchen when you stumble into the soft golden lamplight.   

“Hey,” he says, not unfriendly but maybe a little uncertain. 

“Hello,” you duly reply.

You are definitely awake now.  Hyunjin is standing there wearing a pair of black boxers and a t-shirt.  His red hair is loose around his bare face, unkempt but somehow still charming.  He is so effortlessly beautiful.  You feel like a mongrel in your baggy shirt and panties, your hair down like a messy lion mane. 

You try not to stare at him, meeting his gaze politely only to find him blinking quite wildly, a stuttering breath spilling over his full lips.  He clamps his mouth shut and returns your stare, smiling a thin smile that does not reach his eyes. 

“Are you okay?” he asks. 

It is a thoughtless query, no doubt.  The sort of inane question one poses because decorum dictates it is appropriate chatter.  Are you okay.  Yes, how are you. 

But you are looking at the beautiful and completely unattainable man you are so irrevocably in love with, and you feel horrible and disgusting, and you sent an embarrassing video that somehow humiliated him even more than you, and even your reliable books and academic joys are lacking these days. 

You can count on one hand the number of times you have cried over the years.  It is not something that comes easily to you.  You are not made of stone, despite the occasional lambaste at your expense, but your emotions seldom manifest according to the unspoken rules of human conduct.  But right now your eyes strain and your throat feels rough.  You sniff and shake your head. 

“No,” you say.  “I’m not okay.”  

A single tear falls.  From you, that is practically a waterfall. 

Hyunjin snaps out of whatever trance had him so enthralled.  You cannot see him clearly through your watery eyes, but you feel his hands as they wrap around your arms.  Hyunjin is an artist, those long fingers deft and nimble and steady.  You shiver when he brushes your hair off your neck, when he cups your face in his hand and strokes your cheek tenderly. 

“Hey, hey, pretty girl,” he says.  “What’s this?  What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” you say automatically.  You hate being a burden.  Feelings belong in bottles, not streaming down faces in salty rivulets in the middle of the night when everyone is in their underwear.  

But it is too late to spare your dignity.  Hyunjin is wiping away your tears and looking at you with abject concern, his expressive dark brows furrowed and his eyes so intensely locked on yours.  You heave a sigh. 

“A lot of things,” you admit.  “I’m sorry, Hyunjin.  It’s just stress.  My research.  You know how it is.” 

He does not look satisfied, all that concern still scrawled across his face.  He swipes his thumb across your cheek again.  Then he is pulling you towards his chest, arms open for an embrace that makes no demands but simply offers.  You are usually stiff and awkward when people hug you, but Hyunjin is not just people.  You fall into his arms and all but collapse there. 

Your next sigh is filled with relief, your head on his shoulder and your hands curled up on his chest.   He runs his palm down your hair, soothingly, his other arm secure around you. 

You do not know how long you stand there.  Long enough he stops catching his pinky on errant curls.  Soon he is smoothly running his fingers down your hair, a gentle rhythm that lulls you to drowsiness even while standing on your feet.        

“Come on,” Hyunjin says when he sees your drooping eyelids. 

You blink to attention, looking at him questioningly.   He gives you a quick smile then takes your hand.  To your surprise, he leads you to his bedroom.  The lights are off but the blinds are open and an ocean of blue moonlight floods the room.  It is bright enough you can make your way around his bed without stubbing any toes. 

While he folds back the bedcovers, you stop at his desk, brow crinkling at the scraps littering his work space.  His canvas depicts something floral, half-painted and oversaturated but clearly a bundle of flowers.  The rough sketches scribbled in the margins of his drafts do not depict flowers.  They are little portraits, some doodled distractedly with wiggly lines, and others more precisely drawn, painstakingly, almost lovingly.

That’s me, you think, looking at the woman who overwhelms his art.  It must be.  The unmistakable cascade of curls makes it irrefutable.  But the likeness is far too flattering to bear your full resemblance.  This girl is extremely pretty, even if she does have your quirky, lopsided smile.  Either Hyunjin has met your better looking doppelganger, or… this is simply how he sees you. 

“This is your room,” you say instead of that drawing is me.  It would be embarrassing if he denied it.  It would be even more embarrassing if he confirmed it. 

“Ha-ha, yes,” Hyunjin says, none-the-wiser.  He is arranging pillows for you.  By the time he looks your way, you are facing the bed.  He beckons you over.  “Come on,” he says.  “Like the old days.  It’ll make everything better.  I promise.” 

Your heart is working overtime in its rushing and pounding.  You shuffle to the bed, smiling your quirky smile then feeling even more feverish, thinking about him having your smile memorized.   Oh dear, why is that so deeply embarrassing?  It should be a compliment.  Maybe it is because no one else ever looks at you that closely, at least not with such affection.  

You are not good with attention.  You were bullied for your peculiarities quite badly in childhood.  Invisibility became something you sought, because the alternative was always much worse.  Attention meant derision.  If someone was paying attention to your half-smiles or awkward reactions, it was for the express purpose of mocking them. 

When you were ten years old, Hyunjin and his family moved in next door.  Those ramshackle houses, long weathered and much loved, leaned towards each other as if magnetized.  At the closet joining, the sill of your bedroom window touched his.  

An elderly widow previous owned his house. She had a puppy who would scamper up to that window.  You were quite devastated to learn a boy would be replacing the dog.  Boys and dogs were both slobbery creatures, but at least puppies could fetch. 

You were resolved to ignore your new neighbours.  You spared a fleeting glance at the moving van then occupied yourself with a book.  

A few hours later, your peace was forever disturbed.  A toy car flew in your window and landed at your feet.  You popped your curly head over the sill to face a dark-haired, dimple-cheeked boy. 

“Meet me downstairs,” he said.  He did not wait for an answer, dashing away before you could even blink at him.

You picked up the toy car and marched downstairs, determined to return it and explain to this boy, in no uncertain terms, that he was not allowed to throw things in your window, that he could have hit your head or one of your dolls, and unless he was prepared to offer financial compensation he should keep his cars to himself. 

The second your feet touched the lawn, he was there.  He grabbed your hand and dragged you off, already prattling about where he came from and where he was starting school and his favourite food and – everything.  You did not speak for a whole ten minutes. 

“My name is Hyunjin,” he finally said, after regaling you with the detailed events of his decade-long life.  “What’s yours?” 

You told him.  You also returned his toy car but you could no longer remember the script for your lecture.  He smiled at you, took your hand, and raced off again, towing you behind him.  

Hyunjin was very loved, even as a child.  It never occurred to him that someone might not like him.  He made friends so effortlessly.  His confidence was easy, his gravitas electrifying even at that age. 

His congeniality was infectious and you found yourself reciprocating his enthusiasm.  He was a natural showman and a creative visionary even at that age, coming up with detailed games of pretend with very involved storylines.  You ran amok in your yards, dressed in your costumes, and at night you giggled at your windows, close enough that if you stretched out every finger you could clasp hands.   

Climbing across that meager gap was an obvious inevitability.  When you were teenagers, your parents expressly forbade spending the night unsupervised.  The boy-girl dynamic concerned them despite your ardent protestations that it was not like that.  It just meant you got good at sneaking around. 

You sit on his bed now, remembering the many nights you curled up together just like this.  You would talk about utter nonsense and you would talk about your deepest thoughts, at least until the sound of your father’s footsteps sent Hyunjin hurtling back towards the window. 

There are no interruptions now.  You lay down beside him.  You squeak when he tugs you across the bed, pulling you closer to him.  You find yourself clinging to him, like you are suspended in that blue ocean of moonlight and he is your only life preserver.  He does not seem to mind, wrapping his arm around you, fingers tracing circles down your spine.  

“Your research will be fine,” he says.  “I wish I could help with those things, but I’m not smart like you are.  You’ll figure it out, okay, baby?”

You hope he does not notice how the pet name makes you shiver.  It really is quite unfair.  How is a person meant to maintain verisimilitude if Hwang Hyunjin is calling them baby so nonchalantly?

The flattery brings discomfort so you deflect.  “I’m not that smart,” you say.  “I’m just pathetic enough to waste my life in a stack of books.” 

You concede the self-deprecation is fishing for reassurance.  You burrow yourself deeper at his side.

“Hey,” he says sharply, tugging on a lock of hair so you look up at him.  He tsks and shakes his head, wisps of red hair appearing dark in the moonlight and falling into his face as he gazes at you.  “Don’t talk about my girl like that,” he says with another playful tug.  “You know what happens when people do that.” 

You find yourself smiling despite yourself.  Because, yes, Hyunjin has often defended you.  One time, when you were about fifteen, you were at his house with him and his school friends.  You were all in the yard and you excused yourself to wash your hands.  You returned just in time to see Hyunjin backhand one of the boys.  The boy stumbled then swung back.  Soon everyone was trying to pull the pair of them apart while they bit and kicked and swung at each other. 

When everyone went home, you and Hyunjin sat on his bed.  You were cleaning a nasty cut on his cheek, where the other boy’s ring broke skin. 

“Stop that now,” you said, because he was dramatically hissing and cringing while you rubbed ointment in his wound.  “You brought this on yourself,” you scolded him.  “I hope you learned your lesson.  There is absolutely no argument worth escalating to that degree of violence, you understand?”

“There is,” he said, pouting. 

“No.”  You pinched his arm and he yelped.  “There isn’t.” 

“This time there was,” he said.  Your mouth opened with a ready retort, but he interrupted, “It was you.” 

There was a moment of silence, your hand still on his cheek.  He was pouting into the distance and avoiding your eyes. 

“What was me?” you asked after a beat. 

“He called you strange,” Hyunjin said.  “And other things. I told him to stop and he didn’t.  So I made him stop.” 

It honestly never occurred to you that someone might stand up for you.  You hardly even defended yourself, long since resigned to the reality that some people were just not nice.   You were stunned into silence at your friend’s confession.  Only when he looked at you, a tentative sideways glance, did you clear your throat and nod. 

“Well,” you said.  “I am strange.  If you’re going to get into a fight, then next time make it about something worthwhile.” 

He smiled.  You smiled back.

You are quite certain you fell in love that day.  Curling up in his arms felt different after that.  You felt flustered and feverish, though you hid it very well.   You could not bear the thought of losing his friendship and, besides, it was such a cliché. You at your nicest still looked like the before shot of every romance movie makeover and he got stopped by model scouts while lounging in his sweatpants.  Cliché indeed.  That story never ended well.  You could not abide by it.  It was better to repress and deny those feelings. 

You are laying on his chest now, listening to his heartbeat, yours skipping erratically in your chest.  You think your affection has only grown more over the years, despite your effort to quell the brunt of it.  Those efforts seem ridiculous in the calming midnight blue, this comfortable little haven with no reality beyond the perimeter of the bed.  Your thigh drifts over his naturally, your bodies angled to each other.  He continues stroking your back. 

“Please don’t say those things again,” he says, his voice gentler in the calming quiet. 

“Sorry,” you grumble. 

“So many people admire you,” he continues.  “I… I do.  I know I’m a dumbass and my opinion isn’t worth much… but I think you’re the best.  You know that, right?” 

“Yes,” you say in a weak voice, feeling watery again.  You sniff.  “And you’re not a dumbass.  Your opinion means a lot.” 

His hand slides up and dives under all that hair, then he cups the nape of your neck.  You hide your face in his shoulder when he pulls you even closer.  Your palm is over his heart.  You feel the racing thrum. 

“Were you having nightmares?” he asks, because he knows you too well. 

“Yes,” you admit.  “The usual stress dreams.”   

“Poor baby,” he says, massaging your neck.  “I wish there was something I could do.” 

Keep touching me like that, you almost say, your frankness compelling you to blurt that vulnerable truth.  That his touch feels so good it makes you forget all your insecurities and grievances.  You will think clearly when he lets go, but right now his deft massage loosens the tension in your neck and shoulders.  You feel yourself go lax against him, limbs like jelly, and warmth spreading from somewhere low and deep within you. 

Your hand leaves his chest.  Dreamy and absent-mindedly, you reach to touch him like he is touching you. 

All you do is tuck some hair behind his ear, then trail your fingers ever so lightly down the side of his neck.  It is barely a caress. 

Despite the lightness of the touch, you feel his reaction.  Quick and unquestionable, his breath catches like he is surprised and his whole body jerks toward you.  Your leg is still thrown over his middle.  You can feel how fast he gets hard.

Men just do that, you think, even while remembering your ex-boyfriend did not react that way, not that fast, and not to that kind of touch.  You try to reason with yourself regardless, coming up with a million biological reasons why your best friend is getting turned on.  It has absolutely nothing to do with you wrapping around him in bed wearing nothing but a t-shirt and panties and tickling sensitive places on his neck. 

No.  It must be something else. 

Feeling awkward, you lift your head to deflect.  You force a smile and a weak laugh. 

“You cannot judge me in the morning,” you say.  “I am going to look awful.  My hair is going to be standing up in ten different directions.  You must promise me right now you will be gentlemanly and not deride me for the untameable monstrosity that latches onto my head overnight.  Do you promise?” 

He replies in a most ungentlemanly manner. 

He kisses you. 

His hand still cups your nape.  He pulls you close.  His lips are so full and his mouth so warm.  You must seem limp in comparison, so shocked that you just lay there, mouth and eyes wide open.  It is considerably more difficult to convince yourself this is not what it seems, that it has nothing to do with you.  Unless he is in immediate need of CPR.  Perhaps he is seeking resuscitation because he is feeling lightheaded. 

That is ridiculous.  It is you who is light-headed, eyes closing as you succumb to the dizzying dark.  He takes the opportunity to deepen the kiss, opening his mouth against yours. 

For all that his kiss is very thorough, it is not overly demanding.  He coaxes rather than takes, all slow seduction as his lips take yours, as he sucks your bottom lip then licks at your open mouth.  He swallows down your gasp. 

It feels like his hands are everywhere.  In your hair one moment then around your waist the next.  You think you are floating but then you are being pressed into the pillows.  When you open your eyes, he is half on top of you, propping himself up on one arm while his other hand tilts your face up. 

A stuttering thought dances on your lips, your eyes wide and breath short.   Is this real?  This cannot be real.  Can it? 

That bemused thought, tangled in your breath, dissolves into a surprised whine – a pretty, mewling sound that you did not know was inside you.  You have never made that noise, not once, not even alone. 

Hyunjin draws it out of you, gracefully manoeuvring himself, his thigh pressed between yours.  He nudges your legs apart, somehow spreads your thighs with a gentle push of his hips.  Your shirt rides up over your belly and you feel so hot and flushed, realizing you are barely clothed.  Somehow, before now, it did not truly occur to you.  It was a mere observation as you fumbled through your various anxieties. 

Now it is all you can think about it, how vulnerable you are, how little there is between you.  You gather fistfuls of his t-shirt when he presses against you, when he keeps your thighs open with his own and brings your bodies together.  You make a surprised sound, embarrassed because you are so wet and so hot where he is so hard and touching you.  A million nerves come to life under his weight, sending sparks shooting to every extremity.  It is a lot.  It is so much.  Too much?    

“Hyunjin,” you rasp, clutching his shirt so tightly that your hands are shaking.  “Wait.” 

He stops immediately, holding himself above you. 

He is out of breath, his chest moving as quickly as yours.  His hair is as dishevelled for once, though it makes him look ruggedly sexy.  There is already a sheen of perspiration on his hairline.  His heart is thundering where you touch his chest. 

“Okay?” he asks, breathlessly.

You nod, taking a few deep breaths before your voice is under control.  “I just… overwhelmed… I think…”   

It all happened so fast.  One moment you were thinking about how he would never want you that way, and then suddenly he was kissing you like it was the only thing keeping him alive. 

Hyunjin is something of a rakish libertine, but his partners are always so enthusiastic and friendly, all his pursuits fully consensual even in their brevity.  He would never use and discard someone.  He would certainly never use you.  But your heart is brimming with emotions and this is causing them to bubble and boil over.  You cannot, under any circumstances, be physical with him and just move on.  You do not work like that. 

You have written papers, won awards for your ability to string sentences together.  You cannot find two words to put together right now.  Nothing to explain why you have to stop, how you do not want to stop, how desperately you love him, why you want him.  Why is it so hard to say?  Is it hard for everyone or is this another peculiarity of yours?  It is always so hard to tell. 

You close your eyes and catch your breath.  He gives you space, laying down beside you while catching his own breath.  He runs a hand through his hair, smoothing it back. 

You look at each other at the same time. 

“I still want to sleep here,” you say.  You hope the words are enough.  You are not upset.  You still want his company. 

He nods.  “Of course,” he says, his voice rough in a way you have never heard before.  It sends an electric shock through your body, igniting between your legs.  You push your shirt down when his gaze wanders there and he swallows, hard.   He lays flat on his back and closes his eyes, his lips moving like he is murmuring to himself.  You think he might be counting. 

You lay back as well, looking at his handsome profile then up at the ceiling.  You are not sure that counting will slow the race of your heart or the muddled mess of your mind.   You try anyway, backwards from one-hundred. 

You are asleep before fifty.

-

You wake to a predictable mess of hair.  You yawn and stretch and scratch your head. 

Then you remember why your hair is a mess.  Why your bonnet is on the floor in a different room.  That you are in Hyunjin’s bed and last night—

You look at his side of the bed.  The shape of his body indents the sheets and the space is still warm.  He must have just left.  Your heart is already pounding like it wants to leap out of your chest.  It does not feel like the healthiest way to the start the day. 

You are not sure if you are giddy or terrified.  How do other people cope with the sheer inundation of sensation that is wrought by desire for another person?  How are you expected to carry it inside of you, all day every day, with absolutely no reprieve?  How on earth are you expected to walk into the next room and start a conversation with a man who had his tongue in your mouth last night, especially when that man holds a lifetime of friendship in his hands? 

At least the video you sent was an honest accident.  Verisimilitude will do you no good here.  There will be no pretending it did not transpire. 

You should have just exploded when you had the chance. 

You slide out of bed and cross the room.  You poke your head out the door.  The bathroom door is closed and you can hear the shower running.  You take the opportunity to scurry across the apartment, back to your temporary room where you close the door then slide down it. 

You turn yourself into a boneless lump on the floor.  Then you huff and stand.   

Something will need to be done.  Conversations will need to be had.  That is simply the rub of it.  If he clarifies it was all a physical reaction, you will politely inform him that such a dynamic will be impossible to pursue.   If he claims it was because he likes you the way you like him –

It doesn’t matter.  That will not happen.  You convince yourself of this, running several scripts through your head as you get yourself dressed for the day.  You have a conversation with your reflection in the mirror, making some very good points to the abstract Hyunjin of your imagination.  He is very compliant.  If only real people could stick to your pre-determined scripts the way their imaginary counterparts do. 

You stand in front of the mirror, assessing your appearance one last time.  Your hair is neat as possible, the more unruly ringlets pinned back.  You are wearing a modest sweater and a long skirt.  You slip into your shoes and finally leave your room.  You hope Hyunjin is still home.  You want to talk to him while the script is fresh in your mind and your appearance is composed. 

But then you see Hyunjin, making his morning coffee, also dressed for the day.  He is wearing all black, shirt and suit jacket and trousers and boots, with a sparkling slash of a silver necklace.  His make-up is breath-taking, severe but beautiful.  It leaves you slack-jawed.  He looks sleek and sexy, but still this side of rebellious with his vibrant red hair and dark make-up. 

You cannot help but stare, thoroughly looking him over before you blurt, “Wow. Why do you look so good today?”

A surprised little laugh bursts out of him, almost like a yelp

“I’m taking some photos today.”  His gaze is very intense.  Or maybe it is the make-up.  It makes your heart palpitate regardless, dark eyes fixed so resolutely on you as he smiles and says, “Thank you.  You look lovely, pretty girl.”

“Nonsense,” you say quickly.  “I look no different than usual.”

“You always look lovely,” he says without any hesitation. 

“Be quiet,” you reply.  He is already preposterously off-script. 

It makes him laugh again.  He covers his mouth politely, shaking his head as he pours his coffee.   He offers you some but you decline.  You want to speak your piece and be done with this awkward situation once and for all. 

Hyunjin takes a sip of his coffee, looking at you over the rim of the cup. 

This should be easy.  You have the words prepared; all you have to do is say them.

“I have to go,” you say instead, because your good sense flitters into oblivion and takes your words with it. 

Hyunjin chokes on his coffee, sputtering while you dash to the door.  Your purse is sitting on the shoe rack so you snatch it.  Your heart is racing like a prey animal, your predator a red-headed pretty boy wiping coffee off his chin as he stumbles after you.   He says your name but you ignore him, fumbling around for your keys. 

“I’ll be back after dinner,” you say.  “Lots of research.  Reading.  You know how it is.  I might lose track of time.  We’ll talk later, yes?  Yes.  Okay.  Goodbye.” 

He reaches you when you open the door.  You can see he wants to talk.  You know you should talk.  No good ever comes from prolonging the inevitable.  But you suddenly cannot face him. 

You know you are being cowardly.  You know it is unkind because he might want answers too.  But you are not good and open like him.   You are shut off and shut down and shutting doors. 

You stand in the hallway, the closed door between you.  Your heart is still pounding.  You take a deep breath then turn to leave.  You are halfway down the corridor when you realize you need your work bag.  Your purse has basic necessities but no study tools. 

You stomp your foot, frustrated with yourself and this stupid emotional tempest.  If only you were as cold-hearted as people said.  But you feel everything with so much burning intensity that you fear it will burn you down to cinders. 

You pace in the hallway for a few minutes.  It accomplishes nothing but stalling for time, because you cannot go anywhere without your bag.  You don’t even have your parking pass or library card.  With a resigned sigh, you glumly unlock the door and step back into the apartment. 

Fate has opted to spare you a chagrined return. Hyunjin is in his bedroom and does not hear you come in. 

You hurry to your room.  If you grab your bag and bolt, he might not even notice you returned at all. 

Unfortunately, you are a disaster. 

You were so frustrated yesterday, overstimulated and erupting at the slightest provocation.  Then your bag strap had the audacity to catch on the doorknob, sending papers flying.  In mature retaliation, you dumped all the contents of your bag on the floor.  It was a mildly satisfying expulsion of frustration at the time.  Now you want to shriek because it will take a few good minutes to organize and pack everything again. 

You lean your door closed, leaving it cracked just a sliver.  You plan another mental script, despite what little good it did last time, explaining to imaginary Hyunjin that you have deadlines and, yes, it is inconvenient, and, oh, maybe we should order take-out for dinner, yes, because everything is normal between us and no one needs to grapple with the onward progression of time and the subsequent shifting relationship dynamics therein—

You hear a creak.  You pause, kneeling by the door, holding a stack of papers.  You peer through the sliver to see Hyunjin, sighing to himself as he ambles across the room and plops down on the couch.  He leans forward, elbows on his knees, scrolling on his phone. 

You find yourself once more arrested by the sight of him.  He looks so beautiful but also starkly masculine, sophisticated but dangerous.  A gentleman and a bad boy and every other dreamy amalgamation of boy crushes. 

He tucks some hair behind his ear and you feel hot, remembering how you touched him just the same, remembering the reaction it garnered. 

You fantasize about a braver version of yourself, someone brash and confident enough to approach him.  He would look up at you with those smoky eyes, curious but wanting. You would touch him, that same simple touch, and he would rear up and kiss you with abandon once more.  You would not even need a conversation because action would speak for itself. 

Instead you are peering through cracks in doors, separated thanks to your own cowardice.

He touches his fingers to his chin.  Whatever is on his phone is causing a great deal of deliberation.  He turns off his screen and lays his phone facedown.  His contemplation looks almost painful. 

You want to comfort him because he is evidently perturbed by something.  But the longer you wait, the more awkward it will be to reveal yourself.

He heaves a great sigh, doubling over, his face in his hands.  He shakes his head.  He looks truly forlorn, so you finally lay the papers down and try to think of something to say.  You watch as he leans back, as he picks up his phone again.  He stares down at the screen. 

You are still psyching yourself up, preparing yet another useless script. 

Then he turns up the volume.  

You have rewatched the video you sent him more than once, assessing the details to torture yourself.  Maybe, also, secretly, sometimes… imagining him watching it.  Then shaking your head and turning it off, because he said himself it made him feel bad and nothing else.  So that was impossible. 

So why is he watching it now?

Because he is.  Unmistakably.  You know the sound of your own voice.  You know the sounds in that video.  You sit there, wide-eyed, staring at him as he stares at you – the you in the video, the you in white satin, the you moaning and touching yourself, fucking yourself while you thought of him. 

He puts the phone on his knee, not moving his eyes from the screen as he peels off his jacket and chucks it aside.  You can only blink, stupefied.  This does not feel real, just like that kiss.  Except that kiss was real, this is real, and you are watching Hyunjin as he slouches back and parts his knees and cups his hand between his legs.  He touches himself with those long fingers, fingers you imagined while touching yourself in the very video that has him captivated. 

He picks up the phone to rewind, all while undoing his pants then reaching inside. 

You realize he is about to get his dick out, right here, right in front of you, completely unwittingly, and that snaps you back to reality.  Far too quickly, because you make a surprised noise.

He freezes and looks up, first to the front door, then to your bedroom door.   You make eye contact very briefly. 

Then you slam the door shut. 

-

You do the only logical thing.

You do not go to the library.  Hyunjin leaves for his photography session and you pace your bedroom about a dozen times, then you sit down and write.  You make a chronological notation of every emotional turning point in your friendship.  You chart the data and sketch a few rough diagrams.  You arrange all the appropriate paperwork and laminate a few important spreadsheets.  Then you clip them all in a binder and pick up your phone and think of how to succinctly summarize three hours worth of deliberation.   

The facts fall thusly:

You accidentally sent your best friend a sexually explicit video of yourself. 

You granted him permission to watch it.

He watched it. 

You caught him in a compromising position with it.

You made a spreadsheet. 

Based on your calculations, the probability of Hyunjin returning your feelings seems fairly substantial.  But you are not sure how to articulate any verdict based on the facts presented.  Your spreadsheets contain data, not a resolution. 

Hyunjin is a romantic and soulful creature.  You wooed your last boyfriend with a portfolio but he was nothing like Hyunjin.   That courtship was an amicable affair and little more.  The break-up was cordial and tearless.  You shook hands then walked in opposite directions. 

A memory comes to mind. 

You and Hyunjin.  Starting university together.  Back when the world first offered itself to your young adult selves.

One day he skipped class and you went to check on him, only to find him curled up in bed in his baggiest sweatshirt, sniffling away.  He was blonde then, a burst of starlight in every room he occupied.  It was so strange and so wrong seeing him so grey and dejected.   

He laid his head in your lap and let you pet his hair.  It took some cajoling to get the story out of him.  His secondary major was dance studies and he spent months preparing a showcase.  Apparently his instructor did not offer him the same thorough critiques he gave other students.  You tried to say that was a good thing, but he insisted it was not. 

“He doesn’t think I’m worth improving,” he said.   “He told me I’ll get by because of my looks.  That’s the only thing I have.  No one really likes me or thinks I’m worth anything.” 

“I know it’s hard because you are a natural drama queen, but don’t be dramatic, Hyunjin,” you said.  “Plenty of people like you just fine.  They adore you, in fact.  And you are very talented.  It is not your fault if this one person cannot see past appearances.”

“It’s not just one person,” he said.  He sat up to wipe his tears.    

You sat awkwardly beside him, hands twitching with the desire to do something helpful but at a complete loss.  You never intentionally sought comfort, keeping your feelings to yourself, so you were bad at giving it. 

You put a hand on his shaking shoulder.  “Hyunjin,” you said, imploringly. 

“No,” he said, miserable, his face all scrunched up.  “Everyone leaves me when I’m not what they want, and I’m never what they want, because I’m just a worthless face and nothing else.” 

It was very strange to hear him express such a sentiment.  Hyunjin was always surrounded by doting crowds.  But you supposed he had his share of heartbreak as a consequence of knowing so many people.   He gave away his heart so easily and it was sometimes returned in pieces.  It did not stop him from trying again, which you always commended.  You wished you knew how to express that. 

“We’re friends, are we not?” you finally asked.  “I care for you very dearly.”   

“You do?” he asked.  Even his voice sounded wet.  You grabbed a tissue and shoved it at him. 

“Of course I do,” you said.  “Though statistically no one can be truly unique in every capacity, and friendships and relationships are often founded by chance and choice, I nonetheless consider your amalgamation of parts to be quite magnificent, and I find your character irreplaceable.  You are, indeed, very handsome, but also witty and playful, dramatic to your detriment but nonetheless entertaining, creative and soulful, and you have a defensive streak and natural bite, but a fragile heart beneath that, and I rather admire that.  I am afraid I will like you forever, regardless of our proximity or friendship status.  Such is the nature of affection.  Why are you still crying?”

You were immensely confused when your consolation generated more tears, but you accepted your best friend was an emotional riddle.  

Hyunjin has many layers.  You have always known this.  You told him as much.  You have done him a terrible disservice by assuming the worst, that he would be shallow in regards to you.  He has always exhibited a fondness for your own depths. 

It is more difficult to accept him finding your surface just as attractive.   It seems conclusive, though.  There is no shortage of sexual content in the world.  He could have watched anything.   So it is safe to say, touching his dick while watching you fuck yourself might have been a demonstration of a certain level of attraction.  Possibly. 

You sit on your bed, staring at your phone.  You jump when it buzzes with a text alert.  You open it, your heart skipping beats when you see it is from Hyunjin. 

I’m sorry for this morning, he writes.  

I can stay at Felix’s place until you’re comfortable okay..  Please just tell me

i deleted the video now.  and the message where you sent it.  I should have done that right away

I know you said you didn’t mind but still.  I should have just

just done it all differently

The messages come flying in one right after the other.  You imagine him a mirror to you, sitting somewhere, slouched over his phone.  Hair dishevelled from jamming his fingers through it.  A shaky breath on his lips.

You look up, picturing him across from you.  You want to reach across the space between you, stretch out every finger, and clasp his hand.  You never want to let go. 

Your phone buzzes again.  You read his words and your heart floods with more than desire.  Rich with sentiment, it leaves you more breathless than a kiss.    

you mean everything to me.

He is still typing.  The ellipses in the corner flashes.  You suspect he will send you an endless stream of consciousness if you do not reply soon. 

You look at your binder of data, then you look at your phone, then you look at your binder, then you look at your phone.  You take a breath.  The decent and logical approach would be patience.  To study everything you have compiled.  To see if he concurs.  To communicate the best way to move forward, what that looks like, and how it should happen. 

You are not someone who intentionally takes risks.  You are not wild and spontaneous.  You are not brash or confident.  You are not sexy.

Verisimilitude, you remember.  Act like it is true, maybe it will be. 

You type.  

Hello, Hyunjin.

His ellipses disappears.

It is true.  I sent that video by accident.  But I did grant you permission to watch it.

You open your photo album.  There is the video, so inconspicuous, one of a dozen.  It is not your most extravagant nor the longest.  You were too eager in the moment to prolong anything.  You could film it better if you did it again.  But it is nonetheless the video that started this whole thing. 

Even though you were not trying, the video turned him on.  You are hot all over, remembering how he warred with himself before submitting.  You remember the amorous look on his face, how desperately he watched you while touching himself.  He could not rip his gaze away for even a moment. 

You click on the video.  You send it with your next message.

This is for you.

You can keep it.

Then you take a chance and write, I want you to keep it.

There is a long moment with no reply.  Or maybe it feels longer because you are holding your breath.  You exhale with a whoosh and a breathless laugh when he finally replies.   

fuck.

are you trying to kill me

You smile, though even that gets you hot, remembering your portrait doodled in the margins of his art.  A lightness fills your heart, recalling that, picturing him now.  You can imagine his wide, startled eyes, expressive dark brows lifting as he stares at his phone.

No, you write.  You are not sure how to respond to a flirtatious overture so you opt for simplicity.  You are not one to colour your statements with unnecessary artifice so you state your intentions without colourful obfuscations.  To clarify, you write, I fully consent to you masturbating to it.  It is only fair.  I was thinking of you while I made it. 

You wonder if he is still at the photography studio.  You can picture him sitting behind the camera, waiting for the next set, his make-up touched up, his black ensemble pristine, and his face humorously contorted. 

so you are trying to kill me, he writes.

and i thought you weren’t the unprovoked licentious content type....

You are fairly certain he is playing with you, but texts are even harder to construe than verbal tones.  You tilt your head, staring at the message, imagining his voice.  The little ellipses flashes in the corner, then you smile when his next message comes through. 

I’m just teasing you baby. 

He knows you so well.  Years of friendship have fortified the affection between you.  You were so foolish to ever think otherwise.   Of course he can picture you like you can picture him.  You feel as if he is holding you in those steady hands, comforting you with that loving touch as the tension leaves your body.  You feel safest curled against him and you always have.  The only difference now is he calls you baby and your heart does a flip.     

I see, you write.  Well.

Technically that was not wholly unprovoked.  It was very much within the context of our discussion. 

This one, however, is entirely unprovoked.

You send another video.  This one you filmed a while ago, back in your own bedroom at your townhouse.  You are wearing a sweater he bought you.  The gift was touching because there was no occasion.  He saw it and thought of you so he got it.  And he knows your tastes so well, your fit and size and style.  He knows you prefer a more modest ensemble in the world.    

This video is not modest.  You filmed the sweater from every angle then laid down, wearing nothing else.  You held a vibrator between your legs and arched your back and filmed yourself, every whimper and sigh and breath.  You stopped just before coming, dropping your phone to focus on your orgasm. 

You send the video and wait.  His ellipses appears and disappears then he finally writes:

fuck.

You flop back on the bed, biting your lip as his rather frantic messages fly in one after the other. 

god. pretty girl. you know i'm obsessed with you right?

jesus we did all this backwards.  i wanted to be cool when i told you but I’m a stupid mess.

fuck I’m about to have my photo taken

hiding in the bathroom because christ

what are you doing to me

where are you right now??

After all that, you simply answer, In bed.  You realize it sounds suggestive only after the fact, but you do not retract it.  Nerves gather inside you, blending into adrenaline and anticipation.  You know him well but you are not sure what he will say now.  This is new territory.  It is exhilarating.  You do not remember feeling this way with your ex.  He was too much like you, so there was nothing to discover between you. 

Hyunjin is so different but he fits with you like a puzzle piece, complimentary rather than contradictory.  You feel sweltering hot, thinking he must reciprocate those feelings.  Maybe he likes your hidden depths.  Maybe he likes knowing it is all for him.  He is romantic that way.  So maybe he likes to see your articulate and intelligent self let go of inhibitions.  Maybe you like it too, becoming a body and sharing it with him. 

Show me, he writes, echoing that very sentiment. 

Be polite, you reply, mostly to buy time while you temper your racing heart.  It melts at his next words. 

Please.   

Show me you want me.  want this.  want us.

Pretty girl.

My girl. 

Please.

Okay, you type.  You are quivering but the sensation is not unpleasant.  Last night was overwhelming, so much at once, but this you can do.  This you want to do.  There is a breath of distance, so it is a step rather than a leap.  You are no stranger to aiming a camera at yourself. 

Before you prepare, you take a breath and write, You show me too.

You get an idea.  While he formulates his reply, you jump out of bed and hurry to the front room.  He has an array of leather jackets hanging by the door, because of course he does.  You rifle through them, looking for the one he wears the most.  It smells like him, that rich cologne, a hint of his hair product.  If your knees were not already knocking, it would send you swooning.  You clutch it to your chest as you make your way back to your room. 

You close the door, as if it matters, but this is between you and Hyunjin, the rest of the world insignificant. 

You strip down to your underwear then don the jacket.  You keep your hair pinned so you do not look like a mess, then you arrange yourself on the bed as neatly as you can.  You try not to overthink, even though overthinking is your speciality.  You pretend this is a video like any other. 

Except the scent of his masculine cologne surrounds you.  He is inside your mind, completely and irrevocably. 

You open your phone to a new message, a video from him.  The lighting is dark in the small studio bathroom, backlit in red.  It makes it all the more erotic. 

You have never unwittingly clenched.  You did not even know you could be so aroused that your body would form a mind of its own.  But you are, and it does, pussy very literally throbbing as you watch the video.  His artist hand, long fingers curling around the hard curve of his fly.  He lowers the zipper and you clench again, making that meek little whimper. 

Apparently you like watching videos just as much as making them.  You are a mess by the time he gets his dick out. 

You turn up the volume to hear his breathing.  You know he has to keep his voice down, but it makes his breathy little fuck all the hotter. 

Oh Hyunjin, you write.  Your vocabulary otherwise fails.  There is no other word. 

Yes please, he writes.

My pretty girl.   

Say my name. 

Your next sound is embarrassing and guttural.  You are a little glad you were not filming yet. 

You clear your throat and position yourself, holding the camera above you.   You start recording.  With your free hand, you touch the collar of the jacket.  You rake your teeth over your bottom lip then lower the camera.  The jacket falls open just enough to hint at every curve in contains.  You skim down your body.  You touch yourself and you are so wet and so ready that you cannot help but make another noise.  Unlike him, you are free to be noisy, so you do not restrain yourself. 

It feels so different, knowing someone will watch this.  You have never been so wet in your life.  You cannot even tease yourself, so desperate that you quickly push two fingers inside you.  Oh, dear, god, you really sound filthy, ridiculously wet as you fuck yourself with jerky little thrusts.

“Hyunjin,” you murmur, the name that has often perched on your tongue while you do this.  It feels so good to say it out loud.

You send him that much, continuing to stroke and fuck yourself while the video sends.  You close your eyes and stimulate your clit, rubbing and circling, finding a rhythm.  You need it.  You need him. 

Your phone buzzes and you turn your head.  You open the message.  You clamp your thighs around your hand, your pussy clenching around your fingers as you read his words. 

God I wanted to film it but I just came all over myself

baby you are everything

I wish I was beside you I need to say so many things

god..

pretty girl if I ask so politely will you come for me?  will you let me see your pretty face when you come? Please.

You do not type a reply because it is too difficult with one hand, and you will not stop touching yourself, not when you are so close. 

It is just a few flicks of your thumb to open the camera again.  You frame your face and hit record.  You come only seconds later, releasing such a desperate cry as you unravel.  It is so much yet not enough.  You thoughtlessly shove your own fingers in your mouth, closing your eyes, imaging it is his hand, his wet fingers dragging over your tongue.  You want to taste him.  You want to choke on him.  You just want to feel him so much that the rest of the whole world will fall away.  You don’t need to be anyone else.  You don’t want anyone else. 

You say his name again.  Your pussy clenches as if already trained to react to it.  You stop filming and send it, breathing hard in the aftermath. 

As your adrenaline dwindles, you feel a modicum of embarrassment, but no regrets.  Your logical brain does make a grudging return, however.  As much as you want him, you know if you rush into things that you will end up balking again.  You need a proper conversation.  You need spreadsheets.  You need to do it his way and your way too. 

But for now, you smile, giggling to yourself as you read his replies.  Half of his texts are unintelligible gibberish, the other half completely and utterly worshipful. 

Nonsense, you finally write. 

I’ll come home right now and prove it to you, he says without hesitation. 

Except by right now I mean in two hours, because I caught the train out here and it doesn’t leave until then.

Then you’re all mine. 

You laugh in spite of yourself, curling up in his jacket.  You take in a breath, the scent of him.  You type. 

I’ve been yours for a long time.  I can wait two more hours. 

Then… can we talk?

Yes, he answers quickly.  Absolutely.  I have so much I want to say to you.

Me too, Hyunjin.  

He caught the bus to the train station but you offer to pick him up.  He enthusiastically agrees, evidently eager to see you again.  You find yourself laughing, such a light in your chest that it cannot help but spill out.  You are somehow both anxious and excited, but so happy that you do not mind. 

When the details are settled, you lower your phone and look at your binder. 

You have two hours.  That is enough time to laminate a few more spreadsheets.

-

You tell yourself you will be resilient.  You are notoriously stringent and a self-identified no-nonsense curmudgeon at the best of times.  Given you have expelled the brunt of your sexual frustration, you figure there will be no problem.  You will meet Hyunjin at the train station, you will come home, you will share a meal and have a conversation, and everything will go smoothly from there. 

Except Hyunjin changed clothes.  It is not anything extravagant by any means.  He is in black jeans and a red shirt, his black dress shirt shrugged overtop. The wind tousles his hair just so, and his make-up has been redone, a little less severe but still so sharp.  It is more casual than you expected, and somehow that undoes your perseverance.

You are gawking at him, staring through the car window as he strides over.  He gets into the passenger seat like nothing is remiss, tossing his bag into the back.  He is wearing heavy boots that thunk when he sits.  He closes the door and looks over at you with a smile.

“Hi, pretty girl,” he says. 

He is so atrocious at keeping to your script.  Imaginary Hyunjin is much more accommodating. 

“Hello, Hyunjin,” you say. 

You sit there for a long time.  It is getting dark outside, which makes it easy to forget you are in a parking lot outside a train station. 

Then he has the audacity to be sweet, at such odds to his daring appearance.  He looks so rebellious and you look so meek.  He is all vibrant colours and dark slashes, while you are in a blazer and a long brown skirt.  Your shirt is buttoned all the way up to your chin and, despite your best efforts, your hair has come unpinned.  The wind has never been your friend. 

You are certain you make a funny sight, but he is not laughing at all.  His gaze is so affectionate but so warm, burning you up.  You gaze back at him, your heart already skipping beats.  Then he reaches out and tucks a loose curl behind your ear.  You remember him doing that at the art gallery.  He was looking at you then like he is looking at you now.  You realize you have been such a fool. 

You lean in at the same time.  This kiss does not even pretend at patience.  It is a hungry collision, his hand in your hair and yours on his chest.  You make a wanting noise when his fingers hook through the curls at your nape and he tugs just a little, just enough to move your head where he wants it so he can deepen the kiss.  He makes a noise too, something low and needy.  He licks into your mouth, far too hot and far too dirty for a parking lot kiss. 

You remember yourself, vaguely.  You break the kiss with a gasp.  Your fingers curl on his chest and his grip tightens in your hair.  Your foreheads touch.  The only sound in the car is your mutual rough breathing. 

“Right,” you say, your voice raspier than you expected.  “Um.  We should.  Go.” 

He nods.  But then he proves he is as evil as he looks, because he tilts your head and exposes your throat.  He leans in, presses his full lips on that soft vulnerable skin and kisses it so delicately that your whole body is wracked with a shiver.  He exhales, warm breath fluttering over your pulse.  Then he finally lets go and leans back. 

“Okay,” he says.  “Let’s go home.”

Home.  You have a discussion on that very subject upon arrival. 

Prior to departure, you arranged your papers on the kitchen table.  You deposit your take-out boxes alongside it, then sit down to eat and discuss. 

He furrows his brow as he holds up a spreadsheet. 

“Is this laminated?” he asks.  “You brought a laminator with you?”

“Of course I brought a laminator with me,” you say unflinchingly.  “What kind of question is that?”

He cracks a smile and nods, then waves you on.  He listens diligently to your proposed contingency.  You prepared index cards so you would not be distracted and led astray.  You are glad you did, because when he finishes eating he just stares at you, and he still looks hungry, but not for sustenance. 

You clear your throat and try to disregard this, but it is difficult.  You unbutton the top button of your shirt to breathe a little easier and he looks at you with more voracious intensity than a single button warrants.  You might as well have stripped down naked. 

You suppose you already have, halfway.  You swallow hard. 

“Look,” you say, lowering your index cards to speak frankly.  “The bottom line is this.  I desire you greatly.  I believe there is some reciprocation in this regard.  But we are living under a shared roof temporarily and I fear this may cause us to progress faster than I am ultimately comfortable.  I would like some longevity in our blossoming dynamic.  You are very important to me, Hyunjin.  I want us to succeed.  I would feel more comfortable if we waited to sleep together, at least until I am back in my townhouse.  That means no sharing a bed too.  When I am back home, we can properly date, and see how this grows between us.  What are your thoughts?” 

“When will your place be ready again?” he asks.  He is sitting back in his seat, arms crossed, looking thoughtful.  You appreciate he is not grabbing at you or immediately trying to convince you otherwise. 

You knew he would not pressure you. Regardless, you cannot help the skip in your bloodstream, the natural nerves that surface when he looks at you.  You have known him for years.  You wonder if these sensations will ever diminish.  Present research dictates no. 

“The last estimation was six more weeks,” you say.   

He smiles.  It soothes your heart.  You stare at his hand as it crosses the table, as he gently laces your fingers together and squeezes.   You blink up at him. 

“If you asked me to wait a year, I would,” he says.  “If you told me there were things you never wanted, we would make it work.  I’ve waited years for you, baby.  Six weeks is nothing.”

Goodness gracious. Exactly how is a person meant to be strict and curmudgeonly with this man?  He really is the universal exception to every rule.  You have just outlined your rubric and you are already considering breaking it. 

“Kisses are okay,” you say, hot under your skin.  Writing your flirtations was easier than speaking them.  Your tone is brusque because you are bad at this, but it just makes him smile.  “Maybe other things when the circumstances arise.  But we will wait for the rest.”

He lifts your hand to his mouth and places a soft kiss on your palm, holding your gaze all the while.  You are quite certain your insides turn to complete mush. 

-

It occurs to you in bed. 

You have long since said good night and retired for the evening.  You pick up your phone and sigh.  You are already skirting the edge of your rules, fully aware you are about to poke a sleeping beast but unable to resist.  The realization plagues you, the subsequent questions burning in your chest. 

And you are wet.  So, so wet, and so, so needy.  Because Hyunjin walked you to your bedroom door like a gentleman.  Then he kissed you like a scoundrel.  He leaned you against the door, his hand planted beside your head and the other holding your face.  He kissed you long and slow, like he wanted to draw it out, like he did not want to say good night.  Your hands were clasped together because you did not trust yourself to touch him.  If you did, you would have dragged him into the bedroom and regretted it later. 

But in the moment, it felt so right.  You are certain that no kiss, ever, since the dawn of time, had ever felt as good as that one.  He took his time with each gentle press, each touch of his tongue, each shared breath.  Your chests rose and fell in tandem, your legs turning to jelly where you stood.  He fiddled with that one undone top button.  You would not have resisted him tearing them all open. 

He did not.  He kissed you slowly.  He kissed you sweetly.  With one last peck, he whispered, “Good night, pretty girl.  Sleep well.” 

You could not find your voice.  You made a weak gurgling noise and nodded frantically.  He smiled.  You rather suspect he knew his effect on you, the rapscallion. 

Now you are in bed, staring at the ceiling, thinking about something he said at dinner.  You debate texting him.  It will open a floodgate.  You lower your phone a few times, but ultimately determine you will not sleep until you have settled your mind.

Hyunjin, you write, if you liked me for years, that means you were already inclined towards affection when I accidentally sent that video. Correct?

Correct, he answers with a little emoji face, one with a quirked eyebrow.  Why do you ask…?

I was just wondering…

If when I saw you was your first time watching it. 

The ellipses is there for a while.  Your heart is pounding in your chest.  You are certain this man is going to send you into cardiac arrest one of these days.  Then you will finally explode at the most inopportune moment.

You sink into the bedsheets, pressing your legs together when his reply comes through. 

Honestly… I watched it more than once.  I did stop when you first sent it. even though it got me hard in seconds.  then you said i could watch it.. and i honestly thought i was still dreaming.

You cannot help but laugh a little.  You turn on your side, smiling as he types some more.  Then his message comes through and you swallow, flush with heat. 

I tried to answer.  I tried to flirt with you.  I tried to be funny.  It all sounded stupid.  Then I got back in bed and tried to think of something to say… but god. 

god..

Baby what was I supposed to do?  if I resisted that they would have made me a saint. 

You laugh again.  You marvel at his ability to make you smile and get you hot at the same time. 

Did you masturbate to it?  you ask.  It sounds too frank to be seductive but you are not sure how else to pose the query. 

You really don’t pull your punches, he says.  You think you can somehow hear a smile in his words.

yeah baby, he writes. I did.  More than once. 

I see, you reply.  Okay, thank you, I was just wondering.  Good night.

The ellipses flickers again.  You release a torrent of giggles into the blankets when he sends you a very tortured looking emoji.

This is going to be a long six weeks. 

-

He is not wrong.  It is simultaneously the longest, most arduous six weeks of your life, but also the fastest, the most lively, and the most fulfilling. 

You spend the first week stealing kisses.  He is good to you, respecting your boundaries.  He never asks to share a bed and he does not initiate anything beyond your established desires.  He leaves space for you, his arms always open, but he does not force you. 

This is sufficiently more seductive than if he started yanking on your clothes in the corridor. 

You are watching a movie one night.  He puts an arm across the back of the couch but makes no further demand.  You settle under that arm, nestling closer at your own pace.  You are not watching the film, all your focus on him.  He has a foot propped on the coffee table, his arms spread across the couch, and he bops his head along to the music.  Of course, he does that even when the music stops, so you think he not paying attention either. 

Eventually, you succumb to the butterflies in your belly.  They flutter free with an exhale.  You touch his cheek and turn his face.  He requires little convincing, kissing you without a word. 

His foot thumps onto the ground.  You find yourself in his lap.  You do not know how you lose your head around him.  One second, you swear you are on solid ground, the next you are floating.  Someone should study this phenomenon.  You, yourself, have no idea how to parse its logic. 

You straddle his lap, your arms wrapped around his neck.  He is dressed in all black again, black jeans and a black t-shirt, his eyes still smudged with black eyeshadow.  It makes him look so utterly devastating, his eyes so dark and searching. 

It makes you bold, coming to life under the intensity of that gaze.  It is like some subliminal message passes to something rooted deep inside you, something primal and animal that he plucks with ease. 

You dive in for another kiss, burning too hotly under his gaze.  He cups your head with both hands.  He tosses little hairpins everywhere, grunting with displeasure when he finds them.  When you are completely free, he groans, a deep and ravaging moan as he buries his fingers in your hair and pulls you close. 

“Hyunjin,” you say, once more at a loss for any other word. 

He cannot even manage that much, nothing but a guttural sound leaving his throat.  It makes you melt against him.  Your body really has a mind of its own these days.  You find yourself rocking against him, making his breath catch. 

He tugs your hair a little more viciously, thoughtlessly, so entangled that it cannot be helped.  You make another ridiculous mewling sound that will embarrass you later, but in the moment it slips free. 

He holds you in place, palm cupping your head, keeping you steady while he rolls his hips under you. 

It makes you dizzy.  Your mouth opens and your eyes close.  You slowly rock back.  You dig your nails into his shoulders and you are amazed it does not hurt him.  But, then again, he is tugging your hair inadvertently and if that hurts you do not notice.  The seam of your own pants presses deliciously against you, the hard line in his jeans grinding against the softest part of you, again and again and again. 

“Oh,” you say, or rather sigh.  Your shoulders shake and surprise thunders into your racing heart.  You realize are going to come like this.  “Oh.  Ohh.”

“Yes,” he says, and holds you steady, and keeps rolling his hips until you come apart in his arms. 

You slump against his chest after, resting your head on his shoulder.  You can feel him flicking your hair out of his mouth, but he doesn’t complain.  You are breathing hard, clinging to him, still surprised you did what you did. 

Eventually you find a modicum of strength in your arms.  You somehow push yourself upright.  You deposit a single apologetic kiss to his shoulder, which is doubtlessly riddled with crescents from nail bites. 

He looks at you with a smile, a little breathless himself but evidently pleased.  

“You’re beautiful,” he says, so reverently you actually believe it.  Instinct still compels you to argue, but you cannot find your voice to do so.  You just make a little noise and look down at your hand on his chest. 

His heart races under your palm. 

You think you need to see him come too. 

You were previously too nervous to strike the endeavour.  You sexted again in bed the night before, but leaving him to his devices is different than taking matters into your own hands.  Literally.  You are not inexperienced, but he is certainly more experienced.  It is another reason you cannot rush into things. 

He does not rush you.  You arrive at the moment in your own time.  And in this moment, it stops mattering.  His heart beats under your palm and he looks at you with such an outpouring of affection, it makes your own heart stutter.  You are tingling with aftershocks, feeling so alive and vibrant with his eyes on you. 

You trail your hand down his chest to his belt.  His eyelashes flutter, surprise crossing his own face.  His hand covers yours and he lifts a questioning brow.  You nod and he lets you go. 

You get his belt open with a little struggle.  You are a prestigious academic decorated with multiple literary awards, but a belt stupefies you.   

He lets you work, twisting a curl around his finger, smiling a lazy smile.  You pry the belt open and get his fly down, satisfied when some of his cockiness dissipates as your touch overwhelms him.  It is a good overwhelming, given the noise he makes as he rests his face on yours.  He murmurs your name and presses kisses all over your face as you work him in your hand. 

The jeans are thrown into the laundry hamper immediately after. 

-

The second week is mostly comprised of your usual routines.  You have both shirked some responsibilities, too busy flirting like horny prepubescents to get any work done.  You eventually return to your books and make remarkable progress on your research project.  Hyunjin edits the photos from his latest shoot, uploading them to his profiles and collecting his sponsorships. 

You go to your favourite café.  You accompany him to his favourite bar because it’s a trivia night and you enjoy it more than you anticipated. You return to the art exhibition then rehash your previous opinions over dinner. 

Some moments feel like dates, like when he holds you hand or gets the door or you dare to kiss his cheek in public.  Some moments feel like the comfortable friendship you have long enjoyed, and for that you are glad.  Gaining Hyunjin as a boyfriend would mean little if you lost him as a friend. 

But he is still your Hyunjin. 

He just puts his tongue in your mouth now. 

The couch becomes a site of utter debauchery.  It is the apartment’s no man’s land, given the beds have been relegated to solitary confinement.  It really is for the best.  For now.  You will enjoy yourself more when you are truly ready. 

Until then, the couch is subject to repeated episodes of defiling. 

You and Hyunjin sit down with the intention of reading your own books, but they are both on the floor and you are on your back and Hyunjin is on top of you.  It is not unlike a few weeks ago, when he stole your book and pinned you down.  It feels like a lifetime since then.  You never would have imagined yourself in this situation for real. 

But it is real.  You know that, because every nerve in your body is alive and shooting sparks.  You make little moans, weaving your fingers in his bright red hair as he kisses you deeply.  His jeans are blue today.  You are in a long skirt.  It makes it a little easier for the material to fall on its own, gathering around your thighs as he presses against you. 

You take his hand and guide it up your skirt, resting it on your inner thigh.  When he squeezes the soft flesh, you arch your back.  A shaky please leaves your lips, breathing the word against his own.

He nods quickly, thumb stroking a circle high on your inner thigh.  “What do you want, baby?” he asks. 

“Hand,” you say, thinking about that video of him unzipping his fly, how many times you have gotten yourself off to his perfect hand sliding into the frame.  His deft and nimble fingers, so precise for his artistic crafts.   You blink up at him, hoping you do not look so dishevelled that it is ridiculous.

He clearly likes what he sees.  He reaches under your skirt to slip your panties down and off, shoving them in his back pocket so they are not lost.  His jeans have a long chain on the hip that he pushes out of his way when he kneels upright on the couch.  He guides your thighs apart and angles your hips up, your thighs resting on his. 

“Sorry,” you say when he touches you, because you are already so wet from just kissing. 

“Sorry?” he asks in a rough voice, very lightly touching you, gathering all that desire on his fingertips and making you shudder.  “For what?” 

“Just… so… ready…” 

It sounds ridiculous to say out loud.  He must agree because he laughs incredulously.  But you do not have time to feel ashamed because he slides two fingers inside you, your body offering no resistance to him.  Then he starts curling up and putting pressure on your inner walls in a way that makes your head spin. 

“Poor baby,” he says, his other hand sliding up your waist, holding you steady.  “What should we do about that?” 

You are coming minutes later, your shirt half-off, your breasts mauled with hickeys and your pussy spasming around his fingers.  It feels so good, you do it again, and he ends up coming before you even touch him once. 

Next time, you are not on the couch, but standing by the front door, preparing to go out.  He is fully dressed with his leather jacket and boots, but you are missing a sweater and one shoe.  He is standing behind you, your cheek pressed to the door as he works his hand under your skirt.  You cant your hips up and back, grinding against him while he finger-fucks you. 

You come so hard your knees buckle.  Fortunately, he realizes what it is about to happen and catches you.  He does not slow down, though, the bastard, and you keep coming, balanced in his arms. 

You are halfway to the ground when you are satisfied.  He puts you down gently.  And maybe it is being half-dressed at his feet, maybe it his boots or his belt or that leather jacket, or maybe it is the way he looks down at you, but your mouth waters and you swallow hard. 

“We don’t need to—” he starts, but you interrupt by opening his belt.  You are much better at unbuckling it now, hardly wrestling with the leather at all. 

You are acutely aware that you are not very good at giving oral.  You are sensitive to sensation and it can be a bit much, but you like the noises he makes and the way he grabs your hair.  You are certain he has had better, but you would not know from his reactions.  He curses and sighs and groans, alternating between looking at you lovingly and ravenously. 

He gets down on one knee after and cups your face and kisses you. 

And that is just week two.

-

By week six, an amendment has been made to the bedroom rule.  You will not share a bed overnight, but the morning is a different matter entirely.  When the sun is up, the day is starting, so there is nothing wrong with climbing into bed together to talk about the day. 

To be fair, sometimes you do just talk. 

Other times, like now, your shirt is pushed up to your breasts and his face is buried in your pussy.  He is wearing boxers and nothing else, his face bare.  You like to look at it, his soft eyes glancing up at you as you push his hair back. 

Unlike you who still administers oral with something of a polite and fastidious air, he gets messy with it.  You are both drenched when you come, your pussy and thighs a mess while he wipes his face on a discarded shirt. 

“So,” he says.  “About the townhouse?” 

-

When you finally step foot in your townhouse again, it is an abominable mess.  You stand in the foyer with your luggage, slack-jawed and already so overstimulated that you nearly start vibrating. 

Hyunjin joins you a second later, carrying the rest of your bags.  He knows better than to yank you around when you get like this, but he does guide you to the couch to sit you on a clean cushion.   He gets you some water and makes you drink.   It helps, marginally. 

“Oh dear,” you finally say, an understatement. 

You made dinner plans, mostly to dissuade you from desecrating the foyer before you had an opportunity to unpack your bags, but those plans are cancelled in light of all the work that needs doing to make the place habitable again.  You are immensely glad there is no longer a river of water leaking out of your shower and into the living room, but the contractors were not overly kind regarding dust and debris, to say nothing of plain dust and dirt. 

Your poor bookshelves have been so neglected.  They are the first thing to get a good dusting. 

It is not an impossible task, when all is said and done, but pizza delivery replaces a dinner out.  Whatever plans for seduction you might or might not have had, all evaporate, because you are so exhausted from cleaning that you fall asleep on the couch before it even gets dark outside. 

You wake with a start in the middle of the night.  You dreamed about giant dust bunnies devouring your poor innocent bookshelves.   It takes a minute to ground yourself in reality, your surroundings unfamiliar.  You have grown so used to the spare bedroom at Hyunjin’s apartment that you forget your own bedroom for a sleepy moment.  When you fully come to consciousness, you remember where you are. 

Then you remember you fell asleep the couch, a half-finished plate of pizza in your lap.  Hyunjin must have gathered you in his arms and put you to bed.  The thought is a little touching but also embarrassing, because that was not the plan for tonight.  You suppose your provisos merely outlined not sleeping together until you were in your townhouse, not that it was a requisite for moving back in, but you still miss his company. 

You search around for your phone.  He left it on your bedside table for you.  It is not as late as you thought it was, probably because you fell asleep so early.  You text him an apology.  You assume he went back to his apartment but you are not sure if he is awake or asleep. 

You always liked living alone, but you suddenly lament the empty space.  You miss the comfort of another person just one room over.   No, not just another person, but Hyunjin. 

hey it’s okay, he texts back.  you were tired.  you should go back to sleep it’s late

I am unfortunately wide awake now.

Yeah me too. 

Why are you so awake?

Thinking about you. 

If you were not already wide awake, that would have done the job of waking you all the way.  You sit up in bed, all your attention on your phone now.  You type a reply. 

Oh?  What about me? 

You are not sure if his tone is flirtatious or not.  You are getting better at verbal cues but it is still impossible to read someone, even Hyunjin, over text.   You cannot even read your own tone, uncertain if it comes across as flirtatious or just curious. 

That I’m kinda glad you fell asleep. 

Don't laugh at me.. but I think I am nervous

About sleeping with you

You expect any number of answers, but not that one.  You struggle with a reply for a moment, not sure if he is seeking reassurance or he just wants to speak his mind.  When he starts typing again, you decide to wait. 

I know it sounds stupid. 

We spent all this time waiting

And god I want to.  my girl

I’m so scared of messing this up and letting you down. 

Hyunjin, you finally type, before he can descend in a spiral.  You told me you would wait a year, or that we would work something out for ourselves if it was necessary.  Do you not think I would do the same for you? 

The ellipses appears and disappears as he contemplates this.  His answer comes a moment later, You’re right.

Of course I am, you reply.  I always am. 

You hear a laugh.  It startles you so bad, you drop your phone on the floor.  You snatch it up quickly as possibly and frantically type, Please tell me that is you laughing in my living room. 

Oh yeah sorry I just slept on your couch.

This man will be the death of you one way or another, that much is for certain.

You frightened me half to death.  I thought you left. 

Ah sorry baby..

Do you… want me to come upstairs?

That restless heart of yours skips beats for another reason, a different type of fear, one not unlike his own.  You are not sure how the night will progress, but you know one thing for certain, one thing that is true and will always be true: you want Hyunjin.  You want him with you, and beside you, now and always. 

Yes please, you write, then wait. 

His footsteps creak on the stairs.  The human body really is a peculiar creation, because your fear seems to bleed right into newfound arousal. 

You look up as he opens the door, using his phone flashlight as a guiding light.  It is facing upward, illuminating him.  Your phone screen is on, offering some light over your own features. 

You are still wearing the sweater and sweatpants you cleaned in, absolutely not a sexy outfit for a first time sleeping together.  You considered ordering special lingerie for the occasion but you are still quite bad about feeling embarrassed about those things.  You made yourself nervous and balked every time you pictured walking in the room with them on.  You think you will do that one day.  You will probably have to make yourself comfortable with it first.  Maybe you will send him a video. 

You look up at him, your heart pounding just thinking about it.  He gazes back at you.  He is wearing jeans and a t-shirt, also not an especially fancy outfit to celebrate any firsts. 

His face is bare.  Your hair is loose.  There is something about the shadows and a new room that makes you feel like strangers for a moment.   You tell him as much, mostly to fill the silence, because he is staring at you and his gaze is far too amorous to be directed at a silly woman who fell asleep in her cleaning clothes at suppertime. 

He tips his head as he looks you.  You shiver, as if it is the first time he has ever looked at you, as if he has not made you come a dozen times on his face and hands, as if he has not known you for most of your life. 

He turns off his light.  The room is plunged into darkness.  That ridiculous heart of yours starts leaping around like it has an electric current. 

“Hyunjin,” you say, reaching blindly.  You gasp when he captures your hand, leading it onto his shoulder.  Then you feel his whole body, his hair brushing your face, his hands on you.  Your eyes begin to adjust to the darkness and see you him a little better, the muscle definition in his arms, the necklace dangling when he leans down towards you. 

“I’d fall in love with you again,” he says.  “If we were.  Strangers.  If I was seeing you now for the first time.”  He touches your cheek, brushes his knuckles up your temple then slips his fingers into your unruly hair.   “I think I’ve fallen in love with you a hundred different ways.  I think I will again.” 

“You know I am not good at speaking with poetic embellishment,” you say, swallowing around the lump in your throat, one caused by both sentiment and nerves.  “So I will have to speak plainly with you.   I love you too, Hyunjin.  I always have.  If we were meeting for the first time right now, though, I would probably be screaming and throwing things at you.”

He laughs and the sound make you feel like you are glowing.  You need no other light.  You reach up and touch his face and you see him perfectly, can picture his smile even before you trace your thumb across his bottom lip.  You cannot draw like him, but if you could, you would scribble his likeness in the margin of your work as well.   

“Good thing we’re not strangers, then,” he says.  “Because I’d really rather make love to you.”  He swoops down and kisses your forehead.  “My friend.”  He kisses a sensitive spot below your ear, the place he teases when he wants to rile you up quickly.  “Baby.”  Then he is tipping your head at the perfect angle to lean down, his lips brushing yours when he says, “My pretty girl.” 

“Nonsense,” you say breathlessly, because of course you do. 

And of course he kisses you.

He kisses you deeply, holding the back of your head as he gently lays you down.  You push the covers away, opening yourself to him completely.  You wrap around each other, sinking into the sheets, arching your back to feel more of him. 

You gasp when he tugs your hair.  He has already found so many ways to make you plaint and needy, to forget your skills of articulation and lose every word but his name. 

“That’s it,” he says, hooking your legs around his waist.  “Show me what you want, baby.” 

You reach between your bodies, cupping where he is already hard in his jeans.  Everything about him is so hard against you, you in your soft sweats with your pool of curly hair, losing yourself as his strong hands work their way down your body.  He lifts your shirt off and tosses it to the side, then gathers your hands because you always have an instinctive moment of covering yourself.  You are modest by nature, but you trust him with everything.  It is exhilarating, when he takes your wrists and pins them by your head. 

For a moment, you do imagine every version of yourselves.  You and him, old friends turning into lovers.  You and him, established lovers, finally coming together.  Two strangers, finding each other for the first time. There is always something new to discover. You love him again and again. 

“Say my name,” he says, working his way down your body.  He is still fully clothed when he has you fully naked, writhing under him as he pushes his tongue in you.  It is a slow seduction with his mouth on your pussy as he kisses you there as thoroughly as he kissed your mouth.   “Say it.”

“Hyunjin,” you say, repeating it as you come, your legs wrapped around his head. 

He spares you only seconds before his fingers are inside you.  You cling to his arm, making noises that still surprise you, begging him with your eyes and hands and little cries.  When he cups your face after, you open your mouth wide, wanting.  He fucks your mouth like he fucked your pussy, two fingers gliding across your tongue until you are bucking and pleading, sucking on his fingers and staring at him with wide eyes. 

“Fuck,” he says, then whips off his shirt. 

He kneels and you help tug his jeans and boxers down to his knees.  You curl towards him, situated so he can finger you while you wrap your lips around his cock.  You are usually very neat about it, but you cannot think clearly with his fingers inside you.  You mostly wet him, barely blowing him, but he still kisses you when you pull back. 

When he gets the last of his clothes off, he surprises you by sitting back against the headboard and pulling you into his lap.  He surprises you even more by folding your arms behind your back and pinning your wrists at the base of your spine.  He holds them there in one hand, the other between you as he helps you settle on top of him. 

He does know you well.  The second his cock so much as brushes you, there is an instinct to cover up.  You hands twitch but he holds you, speaking to you gently, soothingly.  He eases you through it, breathing just as hard as you sink down until he is fully inside you.  Then you are clenching sporadically around him, almost a mini-orgasm just from the initial thrust.  He is still holding your arms behind you, guiding you through it with him completely in control.  It seems to be the way he likes it, but you don’t mind at all.  You can be a stern stickler everywhere else; here you can be his. 

“That’s it, that’s my girl,” he says, free hand on your hip, holding you as he rolls his hips under you.  “That good, baby?”

You answer with a mewl, dropping your face to his shoulder and staying there.  He laughs, eventually lifting your head.  Then he puts you on your back and lifts your leg onto his shoulder, and he fucks you in a way you once could only imagine. 

He pushes your knees back, presses his body so close to yours.  A sheen of perspiration covers his skin and you are certain you are not faring better.  It feels good, it feels free.  You wrap your arms around him and hold tight. 

“My girl,” he says, with a strong thrust, then another.  Sounding as deliriously inarticulate as you when he says, “Mine.”  And thrusts again.  “Mine.”  And again.  “Always.”  Again. 

You seek his hand blindly.  He offers it, lacing your fingers like the romantic he instinctively is, but you lead it right to your throat where you want him to hold you.  When he does, your body goes completely soft for him, like every worry flees at once.  You are always so in your head, to be a body feels good, to share it with him even better.  You hum with pleasure, mouth open like a good girl for your dreamy bad boy as he leans down and kisses you, his tongue fucking into your mouth with the same vigour he takes your pussy. 

When he rubs his thumb over your clit, you last only seconds, your whole body shaking as you lose complete control.  He holds you through it, rocking into you, kissing your face and neck.  He pulls out and strokes himself to completion, coming on your thighs and pussy. 

You wrap around each other after, rolling into the middle of the bed.  You somehow migrated horizontally during your lovemaking.   You will need to move eventually, but sleep is finally hitting you.  You feel Hyunjin clean you up with his t-shirt, but you only stir when he kisses you.  You wrap around him and return a few sleepy kisses down his neck.  He slides a hand in your hair, cups the back of your neck, and stays like that. 

“What next,” you ask sleepily, not fully conscious of your words. 

“Mmm.” He sounds just as sleepy.  “Still need our dinner date,” he murmurs.  “Can decide in the morning.”

“Okay,” you say.  And even though you are half asleep and barely conscious, you add, “I can make a spreadsheet.”

He smiles.   You think maybe you should learn to draw just so you can draw that smile after all.  Maybe there is an artist and a romantic inside you, or maybe it is just the parts of him so entwined with you, forever embedded in your heart.  You are actually excited to learn. 

You give him one more sleepy kiss.  It is early morning now.

You fall asleep together at the start of a new day. 

LEE KNOW The Kitten Interview

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RANDOM CHANGBIN GIFS 43/∞: Changbin with Dwaekki at a concert via kkulchon9 and g0kittyg0g0

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this is so unbelievably cute ;___; here’s a lil me presenting a mythical gift of a (wolf chan) critter!!

no pressure tags: no one but it’s so fun to make :D send it to your friends!!

new picrew dropped, stolen from the besties over on nsfvv twitterrrr

make yourself here: https://picrew.me/en/image_maker/1712061

this is me in all my soft glory (the background options are fucking hilarious btw)

tagging (without any pressure): @stayconnecteed @hyunsvngs @hyunjins-dimples @cinhomi @cbini

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ARE MY BANGER MOOTS OK AFTER CHAN'S SOLO STAGE???

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cybernetic system

pairing: winter soldier!seo changbin x afab!reader

warnings: basically post catws recovery bucky but make it changbin, memory loss, trauma, ptsd, breaking and entering, vomiting, descriptions of past torture (electroshock therapy, brainwashing, human experimentation), mentions of suicide and death, murder, identity issues/crises, self doubt, crying, established relationship, slow burn, kissing, masturbation (m & f), nonconsensual voyeurism for like .2 seconds, nipple play, metal arm kink, scar kissing, unprotected sex

w/c: 16k

a/n: happy birthday changbin!!! i’m proud to have written birthday fics for the birthday boy 2 years in a row now! this one is inspired of course by his first verse in runners, i took one listen and knew what i had to do lol. this doesn’t follow the exact plot of captain america, it’s my own little twist, so i hope that’s okay! everyone, but most especially my fellow seolars and bucky lovers, i hope you enjoy!! 🖤

he doesn’t recognize the man on the wall. 

the man in the pictures. changbin seo, The Captain had told him on the carrier before it went down. 

changbin, you’ve known me your whole life. 

your name is changbin seo. 

i’m not gonna fight you, you’re my friend. 

then finish it. ‘cause i’m with you ‘til the end of the line. 

The Asset does not have friends, and he most certainly does not smile. 

the man in the pictures is unrecognizable. a wide grin is spread across changbin seo’s face, eyes squinted and cheeks bunched in what can only be described as joy. something that only humans feel. his arms, both made of flesh and blood, are thrown around someone who is smiling just as wide. the smile is not directed outwards toward the camera, it’s directed at him. a foreign notion. The Arm whirs. 

a look to the right shows another picture on the wall. a black tuxedo, a white dress. two figures huddled over a table with something large in the middle. cake, he recalls after a moment, but he can’t be too sure. it’s foggy. changbin seo holds a utensil in his hand and is bringing it to the other person’s lips, a smile once more appearing on his face. there’s a look in his eyes that The Asset cannot name. 

his boots are silent on the floor when he turns to leave. through the window again, the way he came. 

he scopes the perimeter outside one last time and makes for the abandoned safe house. 

that’s where The Falcon finds him two days later, sitting on his cot with a stolen Captain America pamphlet from the smithsonian. 

his gun is on the table, but he makes no move for it. he keeps a knife strapped to his thigh and another in his boot anyway. The Falcon wears his civilian clothing, he doesn’t have his wings like he did on the bridge because The Asset ripped them apart. he doesn’t have his red-eye goggles or machinery either, but The Asset knows he’s carrying. a handgun, in his back pocket by the way he tucks in his shirt when he rounds the door. 

“you’re loud. you’re a shit spy,” The Asset gripes, and he turns the page of the pamphlet. there would be a bullet hole in the middle of the man’s forehead if only The Asset deemed necessary, but he doesn’t know what is and isn’t anymore. 

programming required. 

a thin box drops in front of him, and The Falcon lowers himself to the ground to sit. “and you’re a shit host. where’s the hospitality? your esteemed guest is sitting on the cold, hard floor while you’re all comfortable on your… raggedy cot.” his sentence trails off, but he kicks the box towards him regardless. 

The Asset glares. at The Falcon, then at the box, then back up again. 

“it’s just a pie, man, jesus. with those little pepperoni cups?” 

a kitchen table, two places set. crumpled, greasy napkins strewn along the turquoise mats. bare feet tangled underneath the table and hands tangled on top. 

‘do you want the last piece, changbin? here, i’ll-”

the thought is gone as soon as it starts, and The Falcon blinks owlishly at him. he rolls his eyes and reaches forward to open the box, and the smell wafts over him like a fog, greasy, cheesy, and warm. 

his stomach hollows, contorts and writhes with the ache of hunger. it claws at his insides like a beast, and it growls angrily when he watches The Falcon grab a slice of his own and shove it into his mouth. 

it has been twenty-eight days since his last maintenance check. twenty-eight days since the last time he was reprogrammed, brain fried to high heavens and body injected with so many fluids before he was frozen inside The Tank to wait for his next orders that The Asset hardly had use for eating. when they did feed him, it was always something tasteless and slushy. eating for pleasure makes no sense in his scrambled mind. only humans and animals did that, and The Asset is neither of those things. but the injections have now run their course, and his body is weak. it will collapse in on itself without sustenance. 

is this a test? it is a cruel one if it is. he doesn’t remember much, but he doesn’t think The Falcon is cruel, even after they fought rough and hard and ugly on the highway and the helicarrier. his eyes are kind. trepidatious, rightfully so, but kind. he has not been looked at with kindness in a very long time. 

“it’s not rigged with explosives or anything, dude, just eat,” The Falcon says around an unattractive mouthful of pizza. 

The Asset reaches his flesh hand down to take a piece. it’s warm, dough greasy and cheese heavy enough that when he lifts the pizza to his mouth, the end of it droops. 

he’s on his second slice before he finishes chewing the first. 

“slow down a little, alright? i imagine you haven’t eaten in a while. if you eat too fast it’ll make you sick.” 

sick…

The Falcon doesn’t need to know he has already been sick. the twenty-eight days since his last reprogramming have allowed for recent memories to worm their way slowly back into his brain. like a dam that’s cracking down the middle. not many yet, but enough. enough to make him double over and empty the meager contents of his stomach onto the concrete flooring of the safe house. enough to make him wake up thrashing from night terrors. enough to make him fear closing his eyes at all lest he see the carnage he alone is responsible for. 

fear. a new development. The Asset is not familiar with fear. 

he wonders if Captain America is. 

if changbin seo was. 

“what do you want, Falcon? how did you find me?” is what he says instead. the crust is too chewy, and he puts it back in the box. 

“oh, business names, got it. um- well, first of all. i’m jisung. you tried to kill me and now i’m buying you pizza, what a turn around. chris has already told me your name is changbin.”

chris. christopher chahn bahng. Captain America. 

“don’t call me that. that’s not- i’m not- him.” 

all of the exhibits he’s been to have shown changbin seo to be an honorable man, Captain America’s right hand before martyring himself in combat five years prior. a loyal, faithful soldier, an even better friend. a fallen brother. an adored husband. such high regard should remain untainted by the blood and death and destruction on The Asset’s hands. changbin seo’s name should never be associated with that of The Winter Soldier. 

The Arm recalibrates as he flexes his fingers. all ten, half flesh and half titanium. 

“alright, robocop, don’t shoot the messenger. jeez, tough fucking crowd. anyway, you can thank redwing for that! recon and tracking. we’ve had your face in our system since you tried to feed me to the birds. cool, huh? wanna pet him? you can, just don’t rip him apart like you tried to do to me.” 

The Falcon, jisung, smirks toothily while he chews on the crust of his pizza. 

it’s then that redwing makes itself known, a drone that was previously camouflaged against the corner of the ceiling. 

if jisung and his drone were able to find him this easily, who else could? The Captain no doubt, maybe even The Widow if he feels inclined. he’s not ready to face either yet, but the thought that something bigger could find him sends a shiver up his spine and dread coursing through his vessel. 

fear. 

there it is again. 

he doesn’t want to go back to The Chair, where he’s strapped down and shocked so thoroughly until he remembers nothing but his orders, nothing but his objective as a Weapon. he can still taste the rubber bit in his mouth, where his teeth gnashed so hard his gums bled. The Tank, where he’s frozen in cryogenic stasis until he’s needed for a mission. he can still feel the phantom chills before his body and mind are trapped in nothingness. The Handler, who oversees it all. he can still hear his voice, hear his Words. 

he doesn’t want to go back, not to Hydra. he’ll put a bullet in his own head before that happens. 

“no one knows i’m here,” jisung pacifies. he wipes his hands together and then smooths them on his jeans. “chris thought you might be in the wind by now. thought maybe you’d make your way back east and tie up some… loose ends now that the head of the snake’s been cut off. but he’ll figure it out, man. especially when it comes to you, for some reason. we’re leaving to look for you tomorrow, and he’ll keep looking when we don’t find you. he’s hell bent on it.” 

he doesn’t understand why he’s worth the trouble. the benefit is not worth the cost, he’s sure. there is no benefit. not at this point. changbin seo is dead and gone, and The Asset is irredeemable. 

“i can see the cogs turning up there. just- you’re his best friend. or you were, at least. look, i don’t know why i’m even saying this, but… i had a partner a while ago, my wingman. he was killed during a mission while we were testing a new flight prototype, and i couldn’t do a damn thing. i just- all i could do was fucking watch while he went down. if he came back like you have, i don’t- man, i don’t even know what i’d do. i think i’d do everything i could to bring him home too.” 

he does go back east, but only when news outlets and tabloid magazines show that Captain America has returned to the states. 

there is no objective now. The Asset has no direction, no authority to follow. he is used to being given concrete instructions by The Handler at the behest of Hydra, and he hasn’t seen his Handler in a month. 

he failed the last mission given to him. The Asset did not eliminate Captain America, instead, he pulled him out of the potomac when he should have left him to drown. he is rogue. defective and faulty, he is no one’s asset but his own. 

if there is no mission to follow, he will create his own, and he will not fail this time. 

he finds The Handler standing above a whore in a seedy motel in kiev. his pants are around his ankles when The Asset slits his throat and listens to him choke. the woman looks momentarily stunned from her spot on the floor before she starts screaming. a freshly wiped Winter Soldier would have killed her with no hesitation. she is collateral, a hindrance, a means to an end, but he doesn’t even look at her before stalking out of the room without looking back. 

blood stains the carpet. another body added to his long, long list. this one though, his own choice. 

he doesn’t know whose screams are louder, the ones he leaves behind in the motel room or changbin seo’s in his head. 

soft fingers trace the scar on his chin, a body turned towards him in bed. smiling cheeks, minty breath, a nuzzle to his nose. he’s content. 

“my arm is numb,” he laughs. someone uses it as a pillow, but he doesn’t really mind. he doesn’t mind at all. 

“but i’m comfy!” the person says. “changbin. bin, i love you. i’m so happy you’re home with me.” something rustles at the end of the bed. a dog, playfully corn cobbing the comforter and pawing at the shape of entwined feet. 

his other hand moves to cup a smiling cheek, he just wants to touch. flesh fingers prod at the person’s lips, plush and smooth with residual chapstick. he can taste it on his tongue. he closes his eyes to take everything in, and when he opens them again, metal fingers are wrapped tightly around an unsuspecting throat. 

“changbin…?” 

his name is strained. his name is strained because his fingers are pressing hard against the person’s windpipe and interrupting the flow of oxygen. a kink in the hose. the plates in his Arm clack as he tightens his grip. 

he wakes up thrashing in his cot, a scream ricocheting off the walls of the safe house.

there’s a blanket on the couch that wasn’t there the last time. he remembers that. it hasn’t been too long since he’s been here, and as time continued to pass, the weight of his memories have broken the dam. The Soldier’s came first, then changbin’s, although there is still plenty that’s spotty. 

his flesh hand takes the corner of the blanket and rubs it between his fingers. it’s soft, something someone might pull over their legs while watching television or curling up with a book. 

he walks slowly around the living area and takes it in. the pictures on the wall, the decor, the placement of furniture. 

he lived here once. 

his feet padded across these floors, he danced in the kitchen, he brushed his teeth at the sink in the bathroom. 

he lived here once. 

he lived here with his partner. 

he’s married, or at least he was. 

can he still be married if he lost the hand his wedding band was on? can he still be married if his partner believes him to be dead? 

maybe he can be, but does he deserve it after everything he’s done? 

a picture frame on the small table beside the couch catches his attention. The Asset picks it up to inspect it further and has to catch himself on the arm of the couch before he falls to the floor, overwhelmed with the force of the memory that comes flooding back into his head. 

“it’s beautiful.” a wet voice, a trembling smile. 

your voice. your smile. 

changbin’s fingers reach up to wipe steadily falling tears off of sticky cheeks. his own smile is watery, and his chin quivers. the ring is beautiful, but it looks even more so on your precious finger. 

the small diamond on the right is from your grandmother’s wedding ring. what a surprise it was when she pulled him aside after his third christmas dinner with your family and gifted it to him for this purpose only. a soft, wrinkled hand cupped his own calloused one and hugged him tight, paired with a fierce whisper of ‘you take care of my baby’ spoken into his pinkening ear. 

the diamond on the left is his mother’s. her wedding ring had three: one for changbin, one for his sister, and one saved just for her. it sits on your finger now because you’re part of his family. his mother will tell you she knew you were his one before he did, but he knew you were it for him from the moment he laid eyes on you. call him a sap. 

the diamond in the middle he picked out himself. 

he knew he made the right choice, but he can’t help but breathe a sigh of relief knowing that you can’t stop looking at it. his smile widens as you hold your hand in front of yourself and stare, wiggling your fingers lightly to watch the way the candlelight hits the diamonds on your engagement ring.  

when you look up at him, his lungs nearly give out. you’re too beautiful that he can’t catch his breath. he almost drops to one knee all over again. 

“can we take a picture?!” you blubber, and he laughs. you’re precious to him. changbin wipes your tears again and goes back over the tracks with his lips, kissing down your face so that he can bring another smile to your lips. 

your hands are shaking when you pull out your phone. he’s not surprised when you hand it to him, and he’s not ashamed to say his hands are shaking just as bad. your hand comes up to cup his cheek; he feels the coolness of the band against his splotchy skin, and he nearly tears up again. the pictures will be blurry, there’s almost no doubt about it. 

changbin drops his hand when you turn to him, phone camera focused on nothing but the carpeted floor of your living room. 

“i love you,” you say, and it’s the best, most gratifying thing he’s ever had the blessing of hearing. “i’ll love you forever. you’re my person, i want to love you for the rest of my life.” 

when he comes to, the sun has nearly risen. The Asset blinks himself out of his reverie just in time to hear the distant creak of a bed, a gentle, tired voice. he places the picture frame haphazardly on the table again and is out the window before he has time to process anything. 

the window shuts with a click. out just the way he came.

as always, The Asset scopes the perimeter before he leaves for his safe house. 

his face itches. he’s antsy, and his flesh hand comes to swipe anxiously at his cheek. 

when he looks at his fingers, they’re wet. 

the face looking back at him in the mirror is nearly as unrecognizable as the one in the pictures on the wall of his old house. his eyes are sunken; his hair is greasy. 

there’s a few bathroom amenities in the corner of the abandoned safe house. a rusty sink, a smudged mirror, a toilet, a spigot in the wall, a drain in the floor. he needs a haircut almost as badly as he needs a shower, but he takes care of his hair first, scrounging through the desk in the opposite corner and finding an old pair of scissors that will do the trick. black clumps of hair fall into the dingy sink as he hacks away at the chin-length strands. it’s uneven when he’s done, a little choppy, but better than it was. it’s nothing a cap can’t cover up. 

turning to face the spigot in the wall is more daunting than taking scissors to his hair. he remembers being shoved into shower cubicles and sprayed with cold water like a dog. he remembers the high pressure water hose too, and a chill courses through his body right where he stands when he thinks of the aftermath. bruises, rashes, welts. the tender, mangled scarring that lines his titanium Arm torn open and bleeding. he can’t put it off any longer; he throws off his clothes and steps under the spigot, turning the knob and jolting as the cold water hits his skin. it makes him hiss, he cries out. his shoulders curl in on themselves, but he straightens back up to wet his hair. 

it’s all he’s felt for years, the cold, but he still can’t seem to get used to it. 

there’s an old bar of soap in the corner that he uses to wash his body and his hair. the water is so cold against his skin that his teeth chatter, but he’s gentler with himself than The Handler ever was. he washes himself efficiently enough and quickly turns the knob to turn the water off. there’s no grime underneath his nails anymore; the hair on his legs is no longer matted with dirt. his vessel is scrubbed clean. 

it’s warm enough outside and in the safe house that his shivering dies down as he moves around, but he still can’t help but wish he could wrap himself in the soft blanket from your couch. 

his hair curls as it air dries, and he hides it underneath a baseball cap after he dresses himself. they’re stolen clothes, jeans and a baggy hoodie to cover his titanium Arm, but they fit him well enough. 

a hesitant look in the mirror has him grimacing. it hits him then that he looks more like the man in the pictures now than he has in years, since he fell from the train and was made into a killer, a monster. he looks like changbin. like The Captain's best friend and your loving husband, but he doesn’t feel like him. he doesn’t think he ever will again. 

if he looks like changbin, is that who he is? is he changbin? he doesn’t know. he doesn’t think he can be. he doesn’t think he deserves to be. 

his head is full of memories that aren’t — are? — his own. some of them feel too good to be true, the memories that don’t belong to The Soldier feel like a dream he hardly wants to wake up from. he doesn’t know what’s real or what’s fake. if the nostalgia-filled memories in his head are just the product of his battered, broken mind trying to heal itself after all he’s done. 

his head is starting to hurt, and he presses his fingers against his throbbing temples as if it will quell the pain. 

he needs a sandwich. 

there’s a bell on the door handle that jingles when he walks into the diner. he’s been here enough times now that the noise doesn’t startle him anymore, and he shyly lifts his flesh hand up to wave at the middle-aged woman behind the cash register. 

he doesn’t stop to wait at the counter like the other patrons, not since the first time he came in, so he makes his way to his favorite booth in the corner and slides into the seat. 

The Asset bides his time by taking a napkin from the holder at the end of the table and placing it neatly in front of him. the fork comes next, he pulls it from the cutlery bag and sits it atop of the napkin. 

it doesn’t take much longer before ma brings over his club sandwich with a side of chilled pasta salad and an ice cold glass of water to drink. ma, the owner of the diner. she has curly salt-and-pepper hair and a silver tooth that matches the color of his titanium Arm. 

“you got a haircut,” she notes. she pulls a straw out of the apron around her waist and places it beside his drink. “i like it! less scruffy.” 

“dennis is scruffy.” 

“i know. couldn’t be assed with shaving all week, ‘s what he said. he tried to kiss me this morning ‘n’ it felt like gettin’ kissed by a damn critter.” she turns to look at the middle-aged man behind the counter with a grimace and he meets her eyes with a wink. she turns back and rolls her eyes, but she’s not angry, she’s not annoyed. The Asset can tell by her body language and the growing smile on her face that she is fond. “he’ll bring you your pie when you’re done. you better tell’im ma wants all that hair gone unless he wants to sleep on the porch tonight with the raccoons.” 

“yes ma’am, i’ll be sure to relay the message.” 

the smile that spreads across his face is slow. he hasn’t smiled in a long time; it feels foreign, but ma smiles back anyway. she takes the rag from the pocket of her apron and thwacks him on the shoulder lightly as she walks away. The Asset tenses but relaxes right away. her intention was not to hurt him, he isn’t being punished because there is nothing to be punished for. 

from the moment he stumbled into the diner weeks ago nearly delirious with hunger, ma has been kind to him. 

“pick out whatever you like on the menu. it’s on the house tonight,” she had said that first night. he didn’t know what to do; there was a stolen wallet sitting fresh in his pocket that he could use to pay for his meal, but she shook her head resolutely when he tried to pull it out. “i know a vet when i see one, ‘n’ you look a little worse for wear right now. how about you go sit down in one of the empty booths, can you do that? wave me over when you pick out something that tickles your fancy.” 

dennis’ club sandwich has been his go-to since that night, and he’s nearly through the first half of the club when the bell on the door jingles. 

he knows who it is without looking up. 

The Captain’s hesitant steps trail towards the counter, but The Asset can tell he’s being watched. he only looks up when he hears a slight commotion at the counter. dennis fumbles with the cups he’s stacking beside the register, and ma nudges him out of the way. 

“go sit down, honey. let’s not burn the place down now that Captain America’s here,” she jokes, and The Captain laughs. “can i get you anything special?” 

“maybe- maybe one of those famous milkshakes of yours? i’m just… here to see a friend.” 

he feels eyes on him again, and his eyebrows furrow as he takes a big bite of his sandwich. The Arm whirs underneath the sleeve of his hoodie. 

“you know lewis? well alrighty then! go sit, i’ll bring your milkshake right over when it’s ready.” 

The Captain drums his fingers against the counter for a moment and nods, turning on his heels to make his way slowly towards his booth. it’s almost as if he’s trying not to spook a skittish animal - he walks slowly, both of his hands are in plain sight. he stands almost shyly at the opposite side of the booth, and it’s not until The Soldier cocks his head towards the seat that he sits down across from him. 

he clears his throat once, twice. “lewis, huh? you- you remember that?” 

“i remember,” he gruffs, jamming his fork into his medium side of pasta salad. “i wanted an english name too. wanted to be called luck, but you said lewis fit me better. guess that makes sense now.” 

“there was another one too, yeah? you hated it! i- i remember that.  you wouldn’t even entertain it!” 

“fucking bartholomew,” The Asset huffs, head shaking. “i can’t even spell that.” 

“i really don’t think i can either,” The Captain laughs. he’s smiling wide, dimples popping on his cheeks, but his hands are restless. he folds his hands together on top of the table, props his chin on them, rubs anxiously at his earlobes. 

they’re silent for a moment, and Captain America watches as he takes a bite of his club. his eyes linger on his titanium fingers that peek out of the sleeve of his hoodie, but they snap away quickly, just in time for ma to bring over his vanilla milkshake with whipped cream on top. she looks between the two of them before she places a straw beside The Captain’s milkshake. she’s gone as soon as she came, whistling a tune as she heads back over to the register to count change until another customer comes in.  

The Asset sighs. 

“i’m not him, you know. not anymore.” 

“you are,” The Captain says, and he leans forward earnestly, elbows knocking on the wood before he jams a stubborn finger into the top of the checkered table to make his point. “he’s you. he’s- he’s in there. you wouldn’t have pulled me out of the river if he wasn’t.” 

the first sign of his malfunction, pulling The Captain out of the potomac. The Asset knew something had gone wrong with his programming as soon as he dragged Captain America’s limp body to the muddy riverbank. that wasn’t all, either, he remembers. he stood above the man to make sure his chest was rising and falling before he limped into the weeds. he should have reported back to Hydra, he should have been wiped clean and re-programmed to try again until he completed his mission, but he didn’t. 

“i don’t know why i did that.” he shakes his head. he doesn’t know. he doesn’t know. he does know. 

but is it real? 

he’s supposed to be meeting his sister at the bus stop, but a commotion from the playground behind the school catches his attention before he can make it very far. changbin clutches the strap of his bookbag and peeks around the corner of the brick wall to see big-headed bully jared wright push another boy roughly into the pole of the swingset. he falls to the ground with an oof, but he gets up quickly and holds his fists in front of his face. 

“i can do this all day,” changbin hears the boy say, and jared knocks him square in the jaw. 

changbin’s never been in a fight before. his eyes widen when the other boy goes for a hit and misses completely only to be met with the knuckles of jared’s mean fist again. his momma has always told him that violence isn’t the answer, run the other way and find an adult as fast as you can. 

his sister told him never to start a fight, but to finish it instead. 

changbin’s metal lunchbox collides with the back of jared wright’s big head with a clang, and he shouts and spins around angrily. jared clutches the back of his head and teeters on his feet. 

“hey, asshole! pick on someone your own size!” changbin yells. he’s sweating, nervous, and strands of his long hair stick to his chin. he swings his lunchbox again; it collides with the side of jared’s head this time. the hit shunts him to the side, and changbin lifts his foot and kicks him on the behind. jared’s feet scramble in the sand as he tries to get away. he turns back toward them with an angry glare but keeps going, jogging wobbly away from the playground. 

the boy sits dazed in front of the swingset, so changbin reaches his hand out. he takes it with no hesitation, standing shakily on his feet with changbin’s help. his lip is bleeding, his cheek is already forming a nasty bruise, but he wipes his hands together to clean the sand from his scraped palms before extending his hand for changbin to shake. 

“thanks for that. i- i mean, i coulda taken him, but that was really nice of you. i’m chris! what’s your name?” 

“my name is changbin seo, i’m seven.” 

“seo, huh? hey, your sister’s in my class!” 

“please don’t tell her i said a bad word. she’ll hit me with her headphone cord and tell my mom.” 

“it can be our secret! i owe you big time anyway.” 

The Captain’s eyes are patient when he finally rouses from the memory. there’s no expectation in his gaze, in chris’ gaze, just an open kindness that The Asset still isn’t used to experiencing. 

“i think- i mean, i think you do know. you always helped me out when i needed it the most, you know? that’s the type of person changbin is. that’s who you are.” 

yes, the voice in his head says fiercely. that’s who we are. 

“i’ve done things,” he whispers. his throat is tight. his chest is tight. he’s done so many things. evil, wretched things. he killed without question and without hesitation, families decimated by his hands at the command of Hydra. men, women, children. he was their Weapon. The Fist of Hydra. he can never begin to atone for all that he’s done, for even an ounce of the pain he’s caused. 

“i have too,” chris replies. his gaze drops to the table before it snaps back up. “i’ve done things i can never forgive myself for, and i have to live with that. but changbin… bin, that wasn’t you. they- they made you do those things. none of it was your fault.” 

he nods. it’s slow, but he is hesitantly willing to admit that he doesn’t think he chose any of this. he fell from the freight car and woke up in an underground Hydra facility. The Asset was born there, but changbin seo would have never chosen to give his life to Hydra. “but i still did it.” 

chris is slow to speak. he’s silent for a long while; the only sounds around them are dennis sweeping the floor and the low murmurs of the baseball game on the television above the counter. 

“you don’t have to do that anymore,” he says slowly. “you don’t ever have to do that again. you went back east, yeah? The Winter Soldier got his answers, right? when- when you found him?” 

The Handler. 

“i wasn’t looking for answers,” he says. no explanation could ever justify what he had been put through for so many years. no explanation or reason why could heal him, could fill the void in his chest or patch the fissures of his mind. “that was vengeance.” 

chris gives an understanding nod, like his answer makes all the sense in the world. chris always understood him, maybe that never changed. 

“are you satisfied?” 

is he? a feeling like that, is it possible? he isn’t sure, he hasn’t felt in years. 

“i can have a team ready tonight,” chris barrels on. “you just say the word. we can help you find them, take them all out if that’s what you think you need. if it’ll help.” 

he has no urge to go back east again, and he’s not stupid enough to think Hydra bases aren’t scattered around the states. if Hydra was able to infiltrate s.h.i.e.l.d, they could be anywhere. he has no urge to face them. not right now, at least. maybe one day, if he’s more stable and can think more rationally, if his mind can tell the difference between killing because that’s what he’s made for and killing the dregs of Hydra because it will make the world safer. 

“there’s nothing for me there. not now.” 

chris nods again. it’s life-changing, he would have been hit for giving an answer The Handler didn’t like, strapped to The Chair and fried to hell and back if he faltered or showed a hint of agency. he was never given the option to make choices for himself. now, chris sits across from him and asks him what he wants. 

“that side of you found what it needed, and i’m really, really glad. that’s a step forward, yeah? maybe you can find answers for changbin now. and y’know, i’m not the same chris you knew before… people change. it’s okay if you’re not the same changbin. no one will expect that from you, alright? not after- not after all you’ve been through. all you’ve overcome.” 

he cannot be changbin seo from five years ago. he can never be him again, even with his stolen memories steadily falling back into their rightful places. he doesn’t want to be The Asset, but he doesn’t know who he is if he is not The Asset, The Weapon, The Soldier. 

changbin was a good man. a loyal, selfless friend, a loving husband, a son, a brother. if he has the choice, if he can choose to be anyone he would want to be that man again, but— 

“i don’t know where to start.” 

chris does that for him. 

the morning after their meeting at the diner, chris rings your doorbell. he’s nervous, just as jittery and restless as he was when he sat across from him in the booth for the first time in over five years. he knows that chris is nervous, because he’s staked out on the roof of your neighbor’s house keeping watch. that, chris does not know. 

chris leaves his sight when the front door opens for him, and he waits with bated breath until he sees the man through the window in the living room. his window. 

his breath all but leaves his lungs when you turn from the door. his memories don’t do you justice, the beautiful curves and angles of your body, the smile on your face when you pull his friend into your arms for a hug. if only he could hear your voice. 

the serum heightened every aspect of his being. his musculature, his stature, his sight, his hearing, but he’s too far away to hear the goings on inside the house. he doesn’t know if he could bear it anyway; he is aware of the news you’re about to receive. he doesn’t know if he could handle the sound of your reaction because even the thought of it is sending his heart plummeting into his stomach. 

even though he is anxious, he doesn’t fidget. he may not want to be The Asset anymore, but he will never be able to unlearn what he was programmed for. there were times when he would spend days on a solitary mission, sitting completely motionless and unwavering with a trained eye peering through the scope of a sniper rifle. this is what he’s good at. he can wait. 

it all falls from the cracks when you lift yourself shakily from the couch and stumble over your own feet as you try to take a step. chris is up immediately, catching your elbow in his strong grip to keep you from falling. 

he’s off the roof and pressed against the side of your house in a second, heartbeat thundering in his chest. he can hear you now, hear your trembling inhales and your frantic, choked voice when you speak over the thunderous sounds of kitchen cabinets slamming open and shut. 

“he’ll- he’ll be hungry when he- when he comes home. i n-need- he loves pasta. chris, i don’t have any! i don’t- i don’t have any pasta! i c-can’t- chris!” 

his head turns away from the window when he hears you fall to the floor. chris follows you again, he hears that too, hears his best friend drop to his knees in your kitchen to hold you while you weep for the husband you thought you had lost for good. for him. 

every part of him aches. it overcomes him so completely that he has to grit his teeth before he shouts. he aches to hold you in his arms, to rock you gently back and forth until the wails that claw themselves raggedly from your throat calm into exhausted whimpers, but he can’t. 

he isn’t ready. 

he doesn’t know if he’s capable of that, doesn’t know if the titanium Arm that recalibrates and whirs and clanks on the left side of his body is capable of anything other than harm. can his voice still soothe you? would he even have the words to try? 

will you still love him when you find out what he’s done? when you learn that your husband has been made into a monster, a killer. will you look at him in disgust? will you fear him like everyone else has?

you should. he deserves that, but he doesn’t think he can bear it. his battered heart would stop beating in his chest. 

he moves to crouch underneath your window when your cries finally quiet down. chris leads you back to the couch and your feet follow clumsily. they drag against the carpet; he can hear the way you slump pitifully onto the sofa. 

you cry again when chris tells you what he knows. he doesn’t tell you everything, just like he promised at the diner. you know that he’s alive, you know he was kidnapped and experimented on and brainwashed, but chris keeps the more difficult details to himself. they’re not for you to know. not now, not so soon, maybe not ever. you might not come back from it. he barely even thinks he can. 

“is- is he safe?” you sob. “chris, is he safe? those people that hurt him… will they come back for him?” 

with the Hydra-infiltrated s.h.i.e.l.d in shambles, Hydra’s high ranking officers will be scrambling. he is not their top priority; they have other Winter Soldiers they can weaponize. he is safe as long as he lays low and stays off the radar. 

“if they do, they’re gonna have to go through me,” chris says. they’ve tried before, and they failed. “i promise you he’s safe. we’ve been… keeping an eye on him. if anything changes, we’ll know. we’ll be ready.” 

you’re silent for a while, contemplating probably. your breath still hitches with softening cries, you still snivel every few seconds, but he perks up when he hears your voice again. 

“i don’t- i don’t know if i’ll believe that until i see him for myself,” you whisper. “i know you’re telling me the truth, i know you are, but- but. y-you know? i need- i need to see his face. i- i need to touch him, i need to feel him. chris, it hurts. my heart- my heart hurts. oh, changbin. changbin.” 

he can’t believe you still want to see him, that you still want him to come home. 

chris is long gone by the time he lifts himself from the ground underneath your window, the sun has set and the crickets are chirping from the bushes. he presses his ear once more to the side of your house; dog paws are scrambling on the tile floor of the kitchen, the refrigerator door opens and closes. 

he backs away slowly and surveys the perimeter before making the trek to his safe house. 

the bedroom door is halfway open the next time he lets himself in through the window. he stops in his tracks, staring unblinking into the darkness of your room. he can see the shape of your bed, your head on the pillow, and he can tell by the sound of your breath that you’re thankfully sound asleep. it’s deep, you’ve been asleep for a while. 

did you leave it open for him?

as always, his boots are silent on the carpet as he walks his way around the living room. his flesh fingers reach out to touch the soft blanket that still sits on the corner of your couch, pinching the soft fabric between two fingers and rubbing. he glances at pictures, thumbs the corner of your wedding picture and blinks his eyes hard to stop the sting. 

he’s surprised to see the light above the stove has been left on in the kitchen. you don’t usually leave it on - at least not in the handful of times he has let himself inside. it’s always turned off, and your bedroom door is always closed shut. he should turn it off for you, he thinks, what if you left it on by accident? but maybe you didn’t. he shouldn’t change something you might have done on purpose; he doesn’t want to upset you or give you a reason to be angry. 

he’s conflicted. his sudden and unexpected acquisition of agency makes him more and more uncertain every day. there are so many things he doesn’t know, so many things that he could do wrong because there is no one there to give him concrete instructions anymore. 

it’s the first time his feet have taken him anywhere other than the living room. he steps carefully into the kitchen and is immediately stopped in his tracks again, uncertainty stripping away almost as soon as it came. 

there’s a pot on the stove, and beside it, a plastic, pink bowl with a matching fork. a quilted dishcloth is placed over the open pot. he lifts the corner of the cloth and is met with a garlicky smell that he immediately remembers. his mouth waters, and he swallows thickly. 

you made his favorite pasta. 

it’s garnished on top with what looks to be parsley and red pepper flakes. he doesn’t use the bowl; it would make too much noise, but he gingerly picks up the fork with his flesh hand and twirls it slowly when he leans over the pot. his eyes close when he brings the fork to his mouth and chews slowly, the flavor bursting on his tongue. it’s oily, it’s garlicky, it’s fresh with hints of lemon juice, just like he remembered. 

“eating from the pot like a caveman, i see. you don’t want a bowl?” 

you stand on your tiptoes behind him as he stands over the pot of aglio e olio on the burner to eat his dinner straight from the source. your arms wrap around his waist, and he squirms when your hands sneak underneath his t-shirt to pet at the warm skin of his belly. 

“i don’t need a bowl! it’s too good. i couldn’t wait…” 

changbin turns in your grasp and offers you a bite, bringing the fork to your lips and cupping his hand underneath in case some of the noodles slip from the utensil. your cheeks bulge when you chew, and it’s the cutest thing he’s ever seen. changbin coos and pets his thumb against the soft skin of your chewing cheek. 

he takes another bite, and another, and another, until half of the pasta in the pot is gone. you made it for him, at least he thinks you did, but he shouldn’t be greedy and eat it all when he doesn’t know if you’ve had any. he places the dishcloth back on top of the pot and walks to the sink, gingerly laying the fork down in it now that he’s done. he leaves the unused bowl by the pot and makes the decision to turn off the stove light as well. when he turns around to head back into the living room, he’s stopped in his tracks for the third time that night. 

a small dog sits in the doorway of the kitchen. 

his heart plummets to his stomach. what does he do now? there are so many synapses firing in his brain, and the uncertainty is back with a vengeance. does he kill the dog? will he have to? he doesn’t want to, but he can’t face you yet, not tonight. he can’t risk the barking waking you up. 

he’s not ready. 

but he doesn’t have to worry for long, because all your dog does is waddle up to him with a wagging, tucked tail to lay on his boots. she wiggles and squirms and flips onto her back, tail thumping quickly against the tile floor of the kitchen. it’s louder than he likes, even louder when she starts frantically whimpering for his attention until he crouches down to hesitantly pet her small head with his flesh hand. 

she’s alone in her kennel at the shelter. 

she had a bath today; her silky fur smells like apples, and her nails are trimmed neatly. the laminated paper beside the fenced in kennel she occupies says that her name is sadie, and she’s a cavalier king charles spaniel just like chris’ dog berry. changbin’s senses are overwhelmed by the cacophony of barking dogs in the other kennels in the shelter, but she sits quietly, looking up at the two of you with sparkling eyes that he knows are making you melt.  

she’s a recent mother, the attendant says as he stops before her kennel, all of her pups have been adopted. she was a good mama to them, fed them well and played well with them too until one-by-one they were taken away - a gift for a child, a surprise birthday present for a grandfather. 

changbin knows she’s the one when you start to tear up, when you clutch his shoulder and pull him into you until he’s bumping against your chest. he’s never had a pet before, not even when he was little. he’s allergic to animal fur, and taking medicine or getting shots just seemed like too much effort for something he wasn’t even positive he wanted. 

he doesn’t think that now. not anymore, when he sees the sweet, tender look on your face as you watch sadie, alone and newly childless in her kennel. he knows he’d do whatever he had to do in order to take her home and make you happy. 

“is she trained?” he asks, and the attendant nods. she’s a good dog, knows how to use the bathroom outside and is good with children and other dogs. she can even do some tricks. 

you pull changbin closer towards the cage, and her fluffy tail swishes against the hard, concrete floor. she meets you at the grated door, snuffles and licks at your outstretched palm and wiggles when you stick your finger through the wiring to stroke her soft head. 

she licks at changbin’s hand too, and he snatches it away with a surprised laugh. he reaches out again and lets her smell the tips of his fingers. you tear up once more when she rests her chin in his palm. changbin kisses the side of your head and thinks that this is the perfect start to your little family. 

he asks for the papers immediately and sneezes the entire drive home. 

five years have been kinder to her than they have to him. sadie’s eyebrows and nose are sprinkled powdered sugar-white with age, and even the soft tufts of fur on her ears are scattered with white. she remembers him, just like he remembers her, and her tail keeps swishing when he cups her little face in his hand. 

“hi puppy,” he whispers. he sits down silently on the tile floor of your kitchen and lets her climb up his thighs. she licks frantically at his neck and his face and sticks her cold nose into his ear. “hi sadie.” 

her fur is so soft underneath his fingers. you keep her clean, you keep her happy and well fed and loved. she whiffs confusedly at his Arm, and he immediately goes stock still while she smells up and down the titanium limb. sadie cocks her head when the plates on his Arm shift; her ears perk and twitch cutely. if he moves, he could hurt her. he never wants to hurt her. 

he sits unmoving and silent on your kitchen floor. only his fingers move, flesh fingers, scratching lightly at her ears and rubbing at the side of her soft, round belly. sadie dozes in his lap, her little front paws curled snugly under her chest. one of her hind legs slips slowly down his thigh, but she’s comfortable, and he won’t move her until he has to. 

she’s so small. she’s so small, and she sleeps peacefully in his lap like she doesn’t care that he isn’t responsible for carnage as long as he scratches her ears. like the blood on his hands doesn’t stain her precious fur. 

he eases his petting, softens the movement of his fingers. he has to be careful; he has to make sure he doesn’t hurt her. 

he sits for so long on the kitchen floor that the lower half of his body goes numb, but it isn’t until the night turns slowly into dawn that he stands up with sadie in his arms. he needs to leave. he has to leave before you wake up, so he pads slowly to the living room and sets sadie on the carpet. she turns and runs straight back into your bedroom where she came. his heart pangs for a moment because she left him so quickly, but when he looks towards your bedroom it pangs for another reason. 

sadie sits on the edge of the bed and wags her tail. 

“come to bed, baby, sadie and i are waiting for you.” 

you’re asleep on the far side of the bed, body turned away from the open door. he always slept closest to it, and now, sadie sits in his spot and waits for him to join. her tail picks up speed when he steps closer, but he takes hold of the doorknob and closes it lightly instead. he presses his forehead to the closed door and breathes shakily. 

it takes him longer to leave this time. he doesn’t want to, he realizes when he closes the window, but he scopes the perimeter as always and leaves regardless. the walk back to his safe house hurts like it never has before. 

he doesn’t want to leave. 

he wants to come home. 

it doesn’t hit him until he’s laying on his cot and willing his eyes shut that he never sneezed once. the serum is certainly the reason for that. five years ago, holding sadie for that long would have had his nose running and eyes burning if he hadn’t taken his medicine. 

the serum changed everything. it kept him alive after he fell from the freight car, it made him nearly invincible in battle and on missions, it fixed his fucking allergies. 

everything is different, and things will never be how they once were. 

he curls onto his side and lets himself cry.

he stills when his boots step silently onto the carpet of your living room. you didn’t rouse with the muted click of the window opening, and you still remain fast asleep on the couch even when he stands mere feet from you. 

he can hear his blood rushing in his ears. his heart feels like it’s three sizes too big in his chest, swelling like a balloon that’s fit to burst with ever growing pressure. it’s the closest he’s been to you in half a decade, and it almost sends him to his knees. 

you’re waiting for him. it’s something he just knows. he’s not sure how, but he knows it deep in his bones. 

he’s killed people like this, unsuspecting and sound asleep in their beds. he watched the blood seep into their pillows, watched their bodies grow cold before fleeing the scene and leaving no trace.  

now, all he does is watch you rest. he watches your chest rise and fall, watches your eyes move underneath your closed eyelids. are you dreaming? do you dream of him like he dreams of you? your hands are curled under your chin, and he aches to touch you so badly that he almost reaches out and does it. he touches the blanket instead, the soft one on the corner of your couch. it’s unfolded and in his hands before he can register that he even picked it up, and he gently drapes it across your sleeping body. 

sadie wags her tail all the while, impatiently waiting her turn for his attention. she’s circling his feet and pawing at his legs until he bends down to cup her head and rub her ears. 

he can’t risk waking you up, so he doesn’t pace his way around the living room like he normally does. he sits across from you instead, in the small recliner beside the television, and sadie paws at him again to let him know she wants to sit in his lap.

he sits. he pets sadie, he sits, and he waits. 

he wants to come home, but is he ready? is he too dangerous to be around you? does he deserve it? he doesn’t know the right answer to any of the questions bouncing around in his mind, he hardly ever does anymore. what he does know, though, is that it feels right to be here, like something has clicked into place. it feels like this is where he’s supposed to be. here with you, here with sadie. 

The Soldier can’t want; he has never been allowed, but he wants this, and he shouldn’t. it’s so selfish, and he can’t be selfish with you. not when the force of his memories have broken the weakened dam of his mind, not when the currents of it will rise and rush and devastate anyone in his path. the people in his newfound life are collateral because of the damage that’s been done to him. he can’t let it take you like it has him. you’ve suffered enough; he won’t let himself be the reason you suffer more. he’s not ready, it isn’t time— 

he places sadie on the floor and makes for the window. he has to go, he can’t let you see him like this. this battered, this bruised, this broken. the window snicks open - an easy escape, but he pauses still, looking out into the night as he wills himself to leave the warmth of the home he once shared with you. 

his back is to you when he hears your breathing stutter. your heart rate accelerates, pounding hard in your chest when you see his figure in front of your open window. he can hear you sit up, hears your fingers tighten their hold on the blanket he draped over you earlier. 

“c-changbin?” 

it’s forced from your throat, something small and meek, like it takes everything in you to use your voice. even so, it’s a birdsong. it rejuvenates his withered soul, a soothing aloe to his very being. 

his head droops. he sags against the windowsill, and your arms are around him just before his knees hit the ground. he’s slumped against the wall, groaning deep in his throat before he curls in on himself. your fingers wrap themselves in the baggy fabric of his worn hoodie, they pet his choppy hair, caress his sunken face. he can feel the chill of the ring on your finger, the ring he gave you. his body isn’t used to being touched this gently. he flinches on reflex, but his flesh hand grips the fabric of your sleep pants fiercely when you try to separate yourself from him. he hasn’t felt tender intimacy and kindness in so long that your touch is life-altering. is this what he has been missing? is this what they took from him? 

“you made me pasta,” is all he says, before his body wracks with horrible sobs. 

you clutch him to your chest, your heart is a hummingbird wing. 

“you came home to me,” you whimper into his hair. you hold him like you can’t believe he’s in your arms, and sadie wriggles herself into your embrace to lick frantically at his wet cheeks. he holds her tiny body to his chest while you hold him to yours. 

“i’m sorry,” he chokes. “i’m so sorry. don’t- don’t make me go. please don’t send me away.” 

he’s nearly inconsolable, everything feels like it’s crashing down on him at once. his words are garbled with sobs, but you understand him anyway, bearing the heavy weight of the left side of his body in your lap as you begin to rock him from side to side. the steady press of your body warms the titanium of his Arm through his hoodie. 

“oh baby, never. never, oh, changbin.” you touch his face again. his cheeks are sticky wet, and he reluctantly lets you tilt his chin up so that you can look at him. he’s ashamed; he can’t open his eyes, but you thumb the weeping edges of them and they open on their own. you’re already crying, but your face crumples when you look into his eyes for the first time. he hates himself for it - he doesn’t deserve the tears you cry for him, but he’ll hold onto them like a liferaft. you cry because you still care about him, and that’s the only thing that keeps him from drowning. 

he sleeps on the floor in the guest bedroom, and you make pasta almost every night for dinner. 

when you knock on his half-open door, he’s shirtless and scrounging through the dresser in the corner for clothes. 

“o-oh, were you going to take a shower?”

he wasn’t, but if you’re asking, does that mean you want him to? he must smell bad, so he shouldn’t say no. 

“yes,” he lies, and he looks towards the bathroom door with slight trepidation. you don’t notice the look in his eyes because your eyes are locked on his Arm. his ears flush red, shame curling hot in his gut and spreading like an infection. it was already bad enough that he lost his arm during his fall from the freight car, then Hydra went and implanted the titanium appendage to his shoulder. frankenstein’s monster. the skin around his bionic Arm is mangled with ugly scarring, jagged and bulbous and tender pink. he doesn’t want you to see it, a permanent spotlight to the atrocities he’s committed and the guilt he lives with. “it’s an eyesore, huh?” 

“no,” you immediately say. your heartbeat doesn’t waver, and he doesn’t know what to make of that. “just another part of you.” 

“you’re crazy,” he laughs humorlessly, and he doesn’t realize what he said until it’s out of his mouth. he stiffens, body expecting some sort of punishment after making such a snide comment, but all you do is laugh in return. 

“and you still married me anyway!” 

you quiet down when you step closer to him, your body suddenly so close that he can feel the heat radiating off of you on his bare chest. your eyes trace the scarring of his Arm, and the shame spreads further when he sees the sadness pool in them. he knows that you won’t hurt him, your hands have only ever brought him comfort, but he flinches anyway when your hand lifts slightly to touch the titanium. he rears the Arm away from you, suddenly petrified.

“no! no, p-please no- you can’t. it could-” 

hurt you. it goes unsaid because he can’t bring himself to say it out loud. it could hurt you, it could kill you. The Arm is part of what made him one of the best Weapons that Hydra ever had. he can’t let you touch it. he can’t let it rot your innocent fingers. 

he hates himself even more when you shut yourself in his bathroom. he can hear you crying, pained whimpers and harsh breathing, and he hates himself. he should stop being selfish, he should have never stayed when all he does is make you suffer. 

but the urge to comfort you is stronger than the urge to leave, the ache wraps itself around his bones like barbed wire and keeps him rooted where he stands until he’s knocking softly on the bathroom door. he can hear you sniffle harshly to try and compose yourself before twisting the knob, but you start to sob all over again when you see the mutilated scarring on his shoulder. 

“stop,” he begs. “please don’t. i don’t- i don’t like it.” you let him touch your face. it’s warm, sticky wet, and your eyes close when his thumb tracks a tear down your cheeks. “please don’t cry. i- i don’t want to make you cry.” 

“‘m sorry, i’m sorry. n-no, no changbin, you didn’t make me cry. i- i should’ve asked first, b-but, but i just- i- it must have hurt so bad,” you sob, voice high pitched and watery. 

he thinks about it often now, how much anguish you must feel. how many conflicting thoughts must go through your head just like they do his. the undoing of his being has not only affected him. you thought he was dead, missing in action and presumed deceased by the army. you held a memorial service for him, you go to grief counseling monthly. and now, your dead-but-not-dead husband stands before you, with a surgically implanted bionic arm and half a decade worth of brainwashing and trauma to work through, a fate that many might consider worse than death. when you thought he was dead, maybe you could have at least reassured yourself with the thought that he died quickly, that he died without even knowing. now, you know without a doubt that he has suffered. you know he still suffers. 

he reaches for your hand. it’s the first thing he can think to do. flesh on flesh, he feels the warmth of your precious fingers and trails his hand gently up your arm until it can wrap around your shoulders. you let yourself be pulled into his chest, and he only jolts a little when you wrap both of your arms around his bare waist. he doesn’t know how long you stand in the bathroom, holding each other tightly and breathing in each other’s presence. neither of you let go when your cries settle down, two bodies making up for lost time. 

he traces your shoulder blade through your shirt when you pull back from him, and he shivers as you place a kiss in the middle of his chest. he holds his Arm at an angle so it doesn’t brush against you when you lean against the sink. 

“i’ll get out of your hair so you can shower now,” you say. your voice is raspy from crying hard, and suddenly he’s anxious again. 

he hates showers. they’re too cold, but he doesn’t want to offend you by wasting your hospitality. he watches you reach into the cabinet under the sink to retrieve a towel for him - another luxury he isn’t used to, and he touches the corner with his flesh fingers when you set it on the counter. it’s so soft, maybe it will help combat the cold water. 

the shower’s sliding door moves easily when he nudges it to the side, and he steels himself before turning on the water. he drops his sweatpants without hesitation and uses his peripherals to gauge your reaction in the mirror. he’s been bulking up again - you keep him well fed, and chris and jisung like to drag him out of the house every other morning for runs. the satisfaction that seeps through his body freezes to a halt when he steps inside the shower. 

you’re opening the door to leave the bathroom when he chokes, when the cold water hits his chest and shivers wrack his vessel. he curls in on himself as always but turns around and throws his head back to get it over with, to wet his hair and let the water cascade over his face. he shouts when the water hits his back, a debilitating chill zinging straight down his spine. 

“changbin? what’s wrong?!” 

you don’t even take your clothes off before you’re rushing over to slide the shower door open and step inside to help. it’s freezing, he knows, the water hasn’t touched your skin, but the cold air inside the shower stall is harrowing. 

“fuck, bin, it’s freezing!” you screech, and he backs into the corner, folding in on himself and making himself smaller. you’re mad. you’re mad at him, you must be. he couldn’t handle the cold and now he has to pay the price. the shower tile is just as cold as the water, and his teeth chatter loudly in his mouth. “baby, do you not want hot water?” 

you reach out and quickly turn the valve of the shower, not bothering to wait for his answer when he shivers so violently. 

“i- i can have hot?” he asks, and he watches as your hand dips under the rain of the shower head. your hand is blissfully warm when you touch his arm. he lets you pull him from the corner, looking at you with wild eyes. he squirms when the water touches his skin again, but the breath leaves his lungs when he feels it. the warmth.  

“baby, it’s warm. it’s warm now, is that better?” you ask, and your face is wet again. from the water, yes, but from the tears that immediately started falling from your eyes again as well. your t-shirt is plastered tight to your body, shorts and socks soaking wet, but none of that matters when you hold him in your arms under the warm shower. you hold him for so long that you feel his shivers die down. he leans his head back slowly so the warm water cascades over his face, his hair. 

“you used to wash my hair,” he mumbles instead, and you headbutt his chest with a nod, still crying. 

“yes,” you reply. “i would- i would really love to do it again, if you’d like me to.” 

you’re giving him an option. it’s hard to let himself accept comfort or ask for the things he wants. sometimes he still feels like he’s talking out of turn, like the next time he tries to speak he’ll be strapped to The Chair again and shocked until he doesn’t remember how to use his mouth. but you look at him with patience, and with kindness, just like chris does. maybe this once, he can allow himself to want. 

“yes. i would like that.” 

once he makes the life-altering discovery that not all physical contact requires pain, he seeks it out. his body searches for it constantly, even unconsciously. when you make dinner, when you sit next to him on the couch to watch a movie, when you join him in the bathroom to brush your teeth together. 

that’s only part of the reason he kisses you in the kitchen. 

the other part of the reason is that he wants, and he can’t stop. he wants with an ache so fierce it wakes him up almost as frequently as the nightmares do. he’s not used to wanting, to craving, but now that he’s gotten a taste, it consumes him from the inside out. 

you’re sitting on the kitchen counter waiting for the water to boil so you can throw your pasta noodles in when he trudges between your legs. you wrap around him immediately, legs and arms clinging to him while he basks in the comfort of your presence. his flesh arm slinks behind your back and underneath your shirt to feel the warmth of your skin. you’re eye to eye, and he kisses you when you tilt your chin forward to nuzzle your nose against his round one. you make a devastating noise, a new memory he’ll treasure until his last breath. 

your first kiss since he came back. 

it’s gentle, a slow press of lips. he remembers this. 

countless kisses, a constant from a faraway life. in this exact position and others. kisses on the couch, kisses before bed, kisses when you leave for work, kisses while sadie scrambles her way in between the two of you in search of her own. 

he remembers them all, but this one feels like coming home. 

you pull away with a wet smack and lean back just enough to look into his eyes. 

“changbin?” you ask. 

“mm?” 

that’s a recent development too. he answers to his name. not The Asset, not The Soldier, but changbin. his name is changbin seo. he’s not the same man he was five years ago, but maybe that’s okay. maybe he doesn’t have to be. 

“are you sure?” 

is he? he’s not sure of much. he still has days where he worries that all of his good memories were just created by his mind in order to try and protect himself from the constant pain he feels from his past actions, but he knows this. he knows you, and he knows this is what he wants. 

“you’re the only thing i’m sure of.” 

his lips are plump and spit-slick when they kiss you again; they trail from your neck to your jaw, and your mouth drops open when he scrapes his teeth lightly against the skin there. not enough to hurt, never enough to hurt, but enough to make goosebumps raise in anticipation. the noises you make are so beautiful, and changbin wants to taste them on his tongue. so he does, trailing his way from your jaw to the siren song of your lips. when you moan into his mouth, it feels like he’s born again, like this is what life is all about.

changbin’s metal fingers scrape noisily against the counter in his haste to grab onto something. his flesh hand is wrapped safely around your back, pulling you closer to him while you kiss. he feels you arch against him, feels your perfect breasts press against his chest as the arch deepens. his fingers trace the dip in your back and you shiver. 

as your kiss deepens, you ease closer and closer towards the edge of the counter to get closer to him. there’s hardly any space between you, and your fingers worm their way into changbin’s hair as his tongue explores your mouth. it’s not until you nearly slip off the edge of the counter that his metal hand moves from gripping the corner of it - the chill of the titanium makes you gasp as it holds you steady underneath your thigh, and changbin pulls away from your lips frantically. 

“it’s okay. it’s okay, i promise,” you whisper fiercely, pressing needy kisses to his cheek. 

you’re not scared of it. you never have been. your eyes have never looked at his Arm with unease even though he would never blame you if they did. you’ve reached for it, laid your hand down between the two of you with your palm facing up just to give him the option. let him know he can touch you, flesh fingers or metal. 

his Arm recalibrates under your added weight, and the sound of it makes you bite your lip. he sets you on the counter again like it’s nothing. he leans forward to kiss you again, but a sudden bark from sadie has you both jolting apart, lips swollen tender and slick.  

“oh, fuck, the water!” you cry, and changbin backs up enough to let you slip to the floor so you can quickly move the pot from the burner, right before it overflows with boiling water. 

changbin isn’t asleep, but he’s comfortable enough on his pallet on the floor that he very well could be soon, until a noise from your room has him immediately on alert. he sits up quickly, stealthily walking his way to the door and opening it quietly. he surveys the living room, the kitchen, then makes his way slowly to your bedroom. 

the door is cracked. your lights are off, but the fairy lights above your bed are on so he can see you clearly. 

it takes him a moment to realize what it is that you’re doing, that you aren’t in any danger at all. your sleep shirt is rucked up above your breasts, and your underwear dangles from a delicate ankle. even without his enhanced hearing, he would be able to hear the buzzing noise that whatever you have between your legs makes, something small and pink that settles right over your clit. he swallows hard, eyes trailing down your writhing body until they’ve seared every inch of it into his memory. your face is what mesmerizes him the most, the way your eyebrows scrunch, the way your lips fall open.

“changbin!” you whimper, and your hand flies up to cover your mouth. your eyebrows furrow deeper in the middle and your body twists. he watches your thighs shake, sees the way they squeeze shut before you pry them open again so that you can keep going.

he aches again, heat curling in his stomach when he thinks about how badly he wants to fit himself between your legs like he used to. it takes everything in him to step away from your door and go back to his room. he doesn’t want to; he wants to stay. he wants to watch, but not without your permission. when he makes it back to his room, he shuts his door lightly and heads straight for the bathroom. the lights on the mirror are so bright that they make him squint when he looks at himself. he’s sweating, his ears are pink, and his pupils are blown wide. 

the water is scalding hot when he steps into the shower. that’s how he likes it now, a touch too hot to remind him that not everything has to be so cold. 

his titanium Arm presses against the tile of the shower wall, and he hangs his head. he spends a few moments watching the water cascade from his hair to the floor, but his gaze soon settles on his cock, hard and throbbing between his legs. he takes his cock and balls in one hand and squeezes, shakes them a little bit just to get a good feel of them after so long. he can hardly wrap his mind around the fact that his body used to bring you pleasure, that it felt pleasure. that his vessel could be used for anything other than bringing death and destruction. 

when he begins to stroke himself in earnest, he sees flashes from the past of the two of you entwined. your hands clawing at his back, your legs over his broad shoulders, his hands gripping your asscheeks to spread them apart for his gaze. he’s taken you in so many ways, so many places, but his mind keeps going back to what he saw mere moments before. 

your tits jiggled so sweetly when you arched your back to rut your hips into the toy, your nipples pebbled as you brought yourself pleasure and whimpered his name. god, the way you sound. he wants to make you moan like that again, kiss the sound from your lips while his cock kisses you inside. you felt perfect when he held you on top of the counter, your body fit against his just right. he felt your skin, felt your curves under his flesh and the weight of your gorgeous thigh on top of titanium. 

his recent memories of you get to him the most, and changbin sags against the cool shower wall when he cums in thick rivulets. 

he’s laying on his pallet again when you knock on his door.

“hey, i heard the shower running a few minutes ago. everything okay?” you ask, and he immediately feels guilty. you ask him if you can come in, so he scoots over and lets you settle down beside him. shame flares in his gut again; you should be laying on a soft bed instead of on the floor, but the bed is just too soft for him. the thought dissipates before he can stew on it for too long when you throw your leg over his waist. 

“i saw you,” he says. he needs to tell you the truth, that’s the least you deserve. “in your room earlier, with your…” changbin waves his Arm in the air like that will explain what he means. “i’m sorry. i thought something was wrong, so i went to see if you were alright, but i… i’m sorry, i won’t make another mistake.” 

your hand comes up to pet his face. his cheek is hot to the touch, and he presses his forehead against yours when you pull him into you. 

“it’s okay to make mistakes,” you whisper. “people make mistakes all the time, it’s kind of our thing.” 

it always takes him back when you say things like that. like they’re a fact, like it’s normal, like no one will bat an eye if he says the wrong thing or makes the wrong move. it still makes him angry when he thinks about it - what Hydra took from him, how they broke him to his core, and the anger he feels isn’t only for himself. he feels it for you, for chris. it’s his burden to bear, but he’s not the only one that’s crushed underneath it. 

a press of lips to his own has him blinking, and he hears your voice call to him. a lighthouse in the fog. 

“come back,” you say, kissing his lips, his cheeks, the scar on his chin. “come back to me, changbin. where are you?” 

he’s here with you - he never wants to be anywhere else. he kisses you about it, turns onto his side and pulls you into his thick chest, nudging your noses together before pressing his lips to yours. changbin keeps his lips close when you pull away to speak. he can’t seem to make himself stop, kissing languidly at your throat and your collar bones and making his way slowly to your jaw. 

“did it- ah, ch-changbin, what you saw, did it upset you?” 

“no,” he gasps. something fierce and untamed rises in his throat, and he gulps it down. “no, i- you were beautiful.” 

changbin lifts onto the elbow of his titanium Arm and cups the nape of your neck with the other. you’re so beautiful, so special to him that it twists his insides, ensnares his beating heart. your eyes shimmer in the lamplight while you watch him watch you, and he can’t bear not kissing you for another second. he dips down again, hesitant to press his weight onto you, but you don’t let him hesitate for long. you tug him down, wrapping your arms and a leg around him and humming in contentment when you feel his weight, the heat of his body. 

you kiss like that for a long while, until your lips are sore and your hips rock against each other fitfully. 

your fingers nudge at his chest, and he pulls away immediately. he’s surprised when he feels your hands scramble down to your waist to — oh god — lift the hem of your t-shirt until the fabric is rucked above your bare breasts again, just like it was in your bedroom earlier. he stares, he can’t help it. your nipples pebble under his gaze, and your eyebrows furrow when you look up at him pleadingly.  

his hand caresses your side, thumb circling your soft skin while he blinks dazedly at the mounds on your chest. 

“can i touch?” he breathes, and you meet him halfway. your back arches as his hand trails to your chest. you’re so soft, so fucking soft, your skin so warm and supple that he never wants to spend another day not touching you like this. he cups you underneath your breast to feel the way it gives underneath his fingertips, and you whimper when he shakily thumbs your peaked nipple. 

“the other one too? please, changbin. bin, please,” you whine, and The Arm recalibrates like it knows it’s what you want. “you won’t hurt me. i trust you, you’d never hurt me.” 

he could. he dreams of it; it’s his worst nightmare. he’s hurt so many people, and he’d never recover if he hurt you. 

but looking down at you, your expression so open, so raw, so hopeful, he finds himself wanting to give you what you ask so sweetly for. how could he ever deny you when you look at him like that? he wants to deserve your trust, he wants to live up to it. you trust him, and maybe that can be enough for now.

changbin readjusts the stance of his elbow so the titanium Arm has more room to move, and he slowly lifts his metal fingers to the other side of your chest. you both gasp when it makes contact, and his fingers flinch away on reflex. you cup his hand, bringing the metal back to your chest and squeezing his fingers in encouragement. it’s not something he can feel - not really. he feels the pressure of your hand, but it can’t feel your touch like his flesh hand can. 

“oh my god,” you keen, and your chin tilts down so you can watch. he kneads your chest softly with both hands, pushing them towards your chin and back down. he hasn’t touched you like this in years, but you arch against his hands beautifully, like you’re happy to have him relearn your body. 

the breath leaves your lungs in a stutter when he pinches at both of your nipples. it’s such a juxtaposing sensation, one hand blood-warm, one hand cool. the nipple he teases with his titanium fingers is so hard, perked up and sensitive to the touch because of the coldness of his fingers. he circles the areola lightly and it has you writhing underneath him, but your thighs slam shut around him when he sucks it into his mouth. 

“ohmygod, fuck!” you cry. changbin hums against your chest while his tongue whips quickly at your nipple. he moves to the other one, kissing wetly across your chest before he circles it with his tongue. his head bobs, he opens his mouth wide so that he can fit as much of your breast inside as he can. changbin kisses and nips and licks back up your neck and into your mouth - tongues clashing wildly in a kiss that leaves spit seeping down your chins. 

he wants to go back to kissing his way down your beautiful body again, but you take matters into your own hands by kissing down his neck. changbin bares his throat for you, tossing his head to the side to give you more room to kiss. 

he has to stop himself from freezing completely when your fingers come up to trace the plates on his Arm. they whir, clank into place at the foreign touch, and you follow the shifting with the tips of your pretty fingers. 

“be- be careful, okay? just be careful, i-” he’s at a loss for words, and he watches you with wild eyes when you lean up to kiss the scarring on his shoulder. 

your lips press tender, open mouthed kisses where his skin meets metal, the jagged, pink, grotesque scarring that circles his shoulder and underneath his Arm. changbin slams his eyes shut. he can’t watch. he can’t feel it either, the loss of his flesh arm and the addition of the surgical implant left him with so much nerve damage that he’s surprised he can feel the left side of his body at all, but he can hear it. he hears your lips smack softly against the ugliest part of himself, and he hopes that you won’t be disgusted by him when you pull away. 

fingers cup his face, and when he opens his eyes, he’s looking right into yours. he meets you in the middle for a kiss, heart hammering in his chest when you mumble against them. 

“fuck me,” you whisper. right against changbin’s lips. “do you want to? please, i- i want to feel you again.” 

the ache flares again, rises in his chest until it’s threatening to spill from his throat. he wants. 

“a-are you sure?” 

he has to know. are you sure you want this? are you sure you want this with him? are you sure you want him? 

“you’re the only thing i’m sure of.” you smile against his lips, repeating his words from earlier, and he sags against you in relief. 

taking each other’s clothes off is a dangerous affair. you’re pressed so close together that it makes it difficult, you almost knock him in the head with your knee and he almost elbows you in the stomach. changbin hasn’t laughed in so long, in years, but he finds himself laughing with you when your clothes finally find themselves tossed all over his room. 

he’s felt it occasionally lately, but it really hits him now that he’s healing, or at least that’s what his therapist says. he owns himself again; changbin is no one’s Asset. he can laugh, he can feel joy, and he presses the feeling into your lips for the thousandth time tonight. 

changbin breathes heavily against your open lips when your precious hand wraps itself around his cock. he’s so hard that he leaks in your grasp. it tilts his world on its axis, the way you grip and stroke him, so much better than the feeling of his own hand in the shower earlier tonight. he props himself on his metal elbow again and reaches the other hand between you, and he bites his lips when he feels your thighs spread for him. 

you’re hot to the touch, silky wet, and changbin’s mouth waters like a dog. he lets himself explore, lets himself feel his way around your beautiful cunt. the pudge of your swollen clit, the give of your willing hole. you touch each other like that for a while, warm breaths mingling and bodies rocking until the tip of his cock grinds against your clit. 

“i- i- oh,” you stutter. “oh god, ‘m so fucking wet.” 

you’re right. he slips against you; he can’t stop rocking his hips. you feel too good, your lips bracket his cock so perfectly that his head spins. 

“i should do something about that, huh?” he asks. it’s said through a grin, but he’s just as breathless as you are. 

you cling to him so tightly when he sheaths himself inside that he has half a mind to think your muscles will lock that way. his plump mouth is mashed against the side of your nose while his hips slowly rock into you. changbin is pressed so tightly against you that he can feel when you start to cry, and he’s scared to death again. he stops rolling his hips, immediately cupping your face in his warm hand and searching for the answer. 

“i hurt you. i’m so sorry, what’s wrong? sweetheart, what did i do?” changbin begs. he might just start crying too. 

the pet name makes you cry harder, but you shake your head. 

“i never thought i would have this again,” you weep, clutching onto his shoulders tighter and pressing your heels against his ass as a sign to stay put. “but you’re here with me.” 

he’s here with you, and he’ll stay as long as you’ll have him. 

changbin eases himself forward until his hips are flush to yours and nuzzles his nose in the space behind your ear to breathe you in. 

“i’m here with you,” he whispers. it sends goosebumps up and down your arms. he knows his cock is thick, and he wonders if you’ll feel it tomorrow, if you’ll feel the phantom ache and remember that this is real. “i’m right here with you.” 

you’re pressed so tightly together that he has no other choice but to rut his hips into you. there’s no room to thrust, so he cages you in and grinds into you deeply. changbin’s flesh hand comes up to cup the top of your head, and his titanium Arm curls underneath your shoulder to pull you as close as possible. you’re all he can feel, all he can taste and smell and hear. inside and out, your body is warm, and he can’t get enough of it. your fingers wind themselves into his damp hair and curl over the bulging bicep of his Arm. 

“you feel so fucking good in me. you always feel so good, baby, your cock-!” you mewl. he shivers when you mouth desperately at the shell of his ear. he can hear how much you like it. the precious noises you make in his ear tell him all about it, the whimpers, the moans, but so does the sweet squelching of your soaked cunt. he’ll bury his face in it later if you’ll let him, drink your nectar until there’s none left to swallow.

you’ve always felt so good too, he remembers. the clutch of your body has always been breathtaking, but memories could ever compare to the real thing. 

he has to fuck you better. he has to fuck you like you deserve, so he kisses the whine from your mouth when he pulls back and sits up on his knees. god, you’re a sight for sore eyes, a flower in the desert. he rubs the heaving skin of your stomach and plants his knees firmly on the soft blankets underneath him and fucks you. his thrusts shunt you up the pallet until you’re chanting yes-yes-yes-yes! with your head thrown back. you’re clutching at his arms where they’re balled into fists and planted by your sides, fingers wrapped tightly around his forearms.

“fuck. fuck,” he grunts. “do you like it? is it good?”

you nod frantically. “i love it! i love it, please don’t stop, changbin, oh-!” 

he can’t. he wouldn’t dream of it now. it’s not like he had the chance to try it out, but he has a feeling the serum coursing through his veins could keep him going all night if that’s what you want him to do. changbin wants it too, wants it more than anything, to reacquaint himself with your body after so long without it. 

your chest shakes every time he fucks his hips, and he breathes a rough curse into the air when you cup them in your hands. you thumb at your nipples, twist and pinch them between your fingers. you up your game when you notice him watching - pushing your tits together and jiggling them in your hands. 

“you’re a minx,” he says, but it’s paired with a fond shake of his head. his heart almost stops when you smile up at him. 

changbin slows his thrusting for a moment to adjust the stance of his knees, sliding them forward until his thighs press against the backs of yours. you spread yourself wider for him, gripping underneath your knees to keep them up and open for him. he’s deeper this way, so fucking deep that it feels like his thick cock is in your throat, and one of your hands scrambles for him again. you’ll settle for anything you can reach; you just want to feel him. 

you grip his Arm, and changbin gasps. he’s still not used to it, not used to your gentle touch on the part of his body he’s most ashamed of, but it gives him a headrush when your fingers seek his out. they entwine frantically with his metal ones, clenching and squeezing while you’re fucked just how you want. your own muscles flex when you move to lift his Arm. the titanium is heavy, he knows, so he helps you the best he can. changbin doesn’t know what you’re doing, but he lets you guide his Arm where you want it anyway. he isn’t expecting for you to bring it to your lips, much less for you to lick the tips of two of his metal fingers. he almost jolts back on instinct, but the look in your hazy eyes keeps him in place. he watches in awe when you suck them into your mouth - his pinky and ring fingers curl downwards to give you more room, and you bob your head in thanks. you suck on his titanium fingers just like you would his cock. changbin can’t stop staring, the way your lips wrap around the metal is intoxicating, nearly damning. you suck him deep into your mouth until your throat is convulsing, and only then do you pull your lips back with a sultry pop!

a deep, depraved part of him tells him to reach down to rub your clit with it, make you cum faster. the coolness of his fingertips would have you thrashing underneath him. admittedly, he’s not ready for that, but the thought has him going nearly cross eyed. you would surely like it, he knows that. maybe he can give it to you one day.

for now, his flesh fingers do the job. he swipes them against the drool running down your chin and brings them straight down to your swollen clit, rubbing swift, tight circles on that cute little button his mind tells him that he missed so much. 

“yes! like that, keep going just like that!” you cry. so he rubs your clit and drills his cock inside just like you ask for until you’re cumming with a high pitched wail of his name. it’s beautiful, one of the most beautiful things he’s ever seen, heard, and felt. he follows behind you quickly, rutting into the softness of your pulsing cunt and stilling inside to let you have it all. 

you trade kisses even as he rolls off of you and lands on his side, he cranes his neck and puckers his lips as you stand up to go use his bathroom, and you’re about to bend down to straddle his lap and kiss him until you fall asleep when you hear a scratch at the door. 

you find the bare minimum of your clothes before you let sadie in; changbin shoves his legs into his sweatpants and you put your panties and sleep shirt back on again. sweet sadie curls right up between the two of you when you let her in and lay back down on changbin’s pallet, and everything feels right. 

changbin breaks the silence first, breathing your name and petting your head where it’s resting on his flushed chest. you hum to show him that you’re listening. 

“i’ll never be the changbin that you lost,” he says. he’ll never be that man again. too much has changed, too much has been taken from him. he’s not the same changbin seo he was before he fell from the train car, but that doesn’t mean he can’t be changbin seo at all. 

you kiss his chest, right above his beating heart.

“this is enough. any changbin you let me have is more than enough.”

you know what he’s done. you know what he’s been through, but you choose him anyway. you’ve chosen him every day since you found him in your house. you chose even before he came back to you; the pictures that hung on your wall proved it. you chose him when you took his hand in marriage, when you took his last name. you chose him then, and you still choose him now despite the things he was made to do, despite the damage that has been done to him. monster turned man. 

“you love me anyways…” he says. it’s not a question, but a statement. 

“i love you anyways,” you confirm. “i love you always.”

for years, all changbin felt was the cold, but here, with your head on his chest and sadie curled at his hip, he begins to thaw.

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