Bodyguard Felix Supremacy - Tumblr Posts

The ending had me DEVASTATED– like I probably won't be watching any skz content this weekend bc if I see Felix I'll simply just cry

"I was never as young as you" I FEEL HORRIBLE

Pls did I even sleep last night? All my dreams were in relation to this fic

@skzdarlings I'm about to start the series now and this just might be my final message before I perish😩 Please tell me you're a writer irl as well bc I would spend ALL MY MONEY on your books

There are so many people who love this story so I know I can't gatekeep it and say I'm it's biggest fan 🤒🤒 but just know U won't be reading/watching anything romantic for like, the next fortnight bc it just won't measure up to this. Bro this changed something in me last night😭✋

06. sharing a bed series ; skz ; felix

masterlist.

sharing a bed series part 6/8. because it’s the cheesiest most classic trope and it’s FUN. -

pairing: lee felix/reader content info: sexual content. enemies2lovers, sharing a bed trope. bodyguard au. a dose of angst. open ending. past violence and parental abuse mentioned. ongoing perilous situation and forced proximity. not the healthiest dynamic lol. spanking, some rough play, hair-pulling, throat-grabbing, overstimulation, crying during sex, mention of past unprotected sex, a more dominant felix and a kinda bratty reader.

-

You kick open your bedroom door.  As usual, no one is home except for you and Felix so you are free to scream and curse and stomp all you want. 

“I can’t fucking believe you!” you shout among a flurry of other colourful words.   

Felix enters behind you with his hands in his pockets, looking as nonchalant as ever. 

Felix’s perpetual calmness is half the reason your father hired him.  The other reason is that Felix was the best behaved boy in the world who grew into the most pristine, perfect man.  Your father did not claw his way to the top of the industrial world by settling for anything less than the best.  Lee Felix is the best.  Your father trusts him with everything and anything, including wrangling his rambunctious daughter.  Felix’s job is to guard and protect you – from others and from yourself.   He is annoyingly good at it.    

Felix is the prettiest, loveliest, sweetest man on the outside, particularly selected for his unassuming attributes.  An obvious bodyguard figure draws unwanted attention.  Felix, however, attended high school and college with you, posing as a fellow student and never looking out of place, always appearing gentle and ordinary and kind.  Behind that, he is a lethally competent bodyguard.  Your skinny, freckled, fair-haired watchdog can subdue any adversary. 

Including the one tonight. 

“I was just doing my job,” Felix says.  He closes your bedroom door and locks it out of habit even though you are home alone.  He is still completely uncaring to your crisis, as fucking usual, wandering around like he is a sensitive little lamb, smiling and content. 

You throw yourself down on your bed with a dramatic heave. 

“You broke his arm!” you cry.   

Felix is standing at your desk, removing his work equipment.  He is dressed like a civilian for the most part, denim pants with a windbreaker and a button-down over a t-shirt.  He lays the jacket over the back of the chair and sighs, looking at his reflection in your vanity mirror.   He runs a hand through his hair, still casual, feathering the dyed locks so they flutter back into place.   

“I was just doing my job,” he repeats.  He undoes the button-down and tosses it aside, then kicks his shoes under the desk.  

Felix is all sharp lines and harsh angles, slender but athletic.  His cheekbones are high, his angular face softened by his dark eyes and endearing freckles.   That sweetness is juxtaposed by the gun harness strapped across his back. 

You swallow.  The harness hits the floor, then he grabs the back of the t-shirt and yanks it swiftly over his head.  It joins the pile of discarded articles. 

He sits on the desk chair with a distracted sigh, dutifully disassembling the gun for an inspection or cleaning or whatever nonsense Felix has decided is more important than your conversation.  

“His arm,” you repeat.  “You broke his arm.  He was a completely innocent guy!  I’m allowed to flirt with guys!  Just because you’re my daddy’s good dog and he doesn’t let you get your dick wet, doesn’t mean I have to suffer too.” 

Felix looks at you, his mouth a thin line with his unamused smile. 

“Cute,” he says.  He drops the smile and his distinctive deep voice drops another decibel when he says, “You can flirt.  Just not with him.”

“His arm—”

Felix closes the gun and puts it on the desk. 

“I think he was lucky I didn’t rip it off for grabbing you like that, don’t you think?”  Felix says.  He asks it so nicely too, tipping his head imploringly, like he really wants an answer.  Not that he waits.  Just as soon as the smile comes, it goes, replaced with a eye roll as he gets to his feet. 

“Get ready for bed,” Felix says.  “And, mmm, that’s not a request by the way.  I’m phoning your dad to tell him we’re home safe.” 

He doesn’t give you a chance to argue, just leaves the room while reaching into his back pocket for his phone.  He closes the door behind himself, leaving you to fume by your lonesome. 

Out of rebellious frustration, you do not budge an inch.  You cross your arms and sit back on your bed, still dressed in your evening outfit.  You can distantly hear Felix speaking in a formal voice and it makes you twitch with anticipation. 

Felix being so professional is simultaneously his most annoying and most attractive quality.  Annoying, because he really never falters on the clock.  Attractive, because it wouldn’t be any fun pushing him to the boundaries of his rules if he wasn’t such a stickler in the first place.

When Felix returns, still wearing nothing more than his jeans, his expression immediately turns exasperated.  He closes the door and puts his hands on his hips, staring down at you.  

You stare straight ahead, arms and ankles crossed.   You and Felix have shared a bed since the day he was hired, back when you were teenagers, as you were in the habit of sneaking out at night.  You were not intimidated by the chubby-cheeked teenage boy, gleefully slipping past him while he slumbered – until suddenly you were being yanked back through the window.  You learned the hard way that despite his appearance and disposition, he was an especially skilled martial artist.    

As your father continues to accrue enemies in every market, you cannot live life on your own, not without endangering it.  You still need Felix.  You still share a bed.  Everything you do, you do with Felix, whether you like it or not.  Felix expresses little feeling on that front, a perpetual font of seeming sunshine when he isn’t breaking someone’s arm.

You know you are being mightily petulant by keeping him up, but you don’t care.   If you can’t have what you want then neither can he.   You can stay up all night, just staring and glaring at each other contemptuously.  You are happy to let all that mutual disdain simmer through its achingly slow burn. 

“Really?”  Felix says.  “Do we have to do this tonight?” 

“I’m not doing anything,” you say.   

“Right.”  He laughs dryly but sits gingerly on his side of the bed.  He smiles, his eyes crinkling sweetly with pleasure.  His hair is getting longer again, sweeping his neck, and you watch as he delicately tucks some behind his ear.   He leans on one arm, looking at you.  “I’ll ask you nicely then, sweetheart.” 

Ooh, that’s a low blow and he knows it.  The word sweetheart always sounds so rich in his mouth, his accent softening the heart of it.  Hopefully he misses the way you melt, but you doubt it. 

His smile only deepens. 

“Please, please get ready for bed,” he says.  “It’s been a long day, yeah?  And we’re both so tired.  Come on.  Let’s go.  Just need some rest I think.  Yeah, yeah, let’s go.” 

You do not move.    

You hear him sigh, a melodic sound.  He runs his hand through his hair again. 

“All right,” he says, soulfully.  “All right.  Fine.” 

You hear the sharper inflection in his tone but you react a moment too late.  Your bed is big, big enough you could starfish without even brushing his side of the bed, so it takes you a second to scamper to the opposite side. 

That second is too long.  Felix reaches out and grabs you by the calf, dragging you across the bed.

“Don’t you dare,” you say, kicking at him to no avail.   “I’ll phone my dad!”

He is completely undeterred by your dramatics, only sighing when he hauls you over his lap. 

“Go ahead,” he says.  “I’m allowed to use, uhhh, what’d he say… discretion… mm… to discipline you if I think I need to.” He puts his phone within your reach.  It is not a genuine gesture of goodwill so much as it is taunting you because you both know your father would take his side.   “Well?” he asks.  “Do you want to phone him?”   

“I hate you,” you say.

“I know,” he replies.  “Sorry.” 

He sounds like he means it, though it’s hard to believe him when he flicks up your dress and swings his open palm across your ass.  His hand comes down four more times before he neatly fixes your skirt again. 

“Bed time?” he asks brightly, like everything has been solved with no problem. 

You crawl off his lap while grumbling irritably, doing your best to ignore the smarting on your behind when you turn over to glare at him.  He is just smiling at you, that thin-lipped way he smiles with dry humour. 

“I hate you,” you say again. 

He waves his hand, gesturing the vaguest, blandest sentiment of meh with its wiggle.  

“I’m just doing my job,” he says for the millionth time. 

“Really?” you reply with as much sarcasm as he usually gives.  He hears it, tilting his head like a curious cat, as if he has no idea why you could possibly be upset with him – though the stupid little upturn to his lips tells you that he knows exactly why.  

You hate him.  You really, really do hate him.  You have never hated anyone the way you hate him and you want to shout it from the roof.  But you can’t do that.  You can only say it to his face in private, in whatever way you can.  

You reach without warning, cupping the bulge between his legs and finding a lot more than a denim crinkle.  His gaze darkens, his hand covering yours warningly, though he doesn’t lift it away.

You adopt a saccharine sweet tone when you speak.

“Do you tell my daddy that when you discipline me you get hard?” you ask, batting your eyelashes. 

He moves your hand to his thigh instead, shaking his head. 

“Stop being silly,” he says.  “Go get ready for bed.” 

Your eyes follow him as he stands.  He doesn’t get far when you grab his belt loop and tug him back.   Felix has fast reflexes and is incredibly coordinated, so you find it hard to believe you sincerely bested him, but he stumbles as if you did.   He stands where you want him, where he’s close enough for you to kneel on the bed and press your face right against his bulge. 

He says your name in a warning voice, his already deep voice dropping more.

“I wonder…” you say, nuzzling your nose against the ridge in the denim, where you can feel him hard and getting harder still.  “When my daddy asks you what we do all day,” you say, flicking your eyes up to his, “do you tell him your dick spends more time in my mouth than in your pants?”

His nostrils flare with his next breath. 

You smile, victorious. 

“He still thinks you’re his perfect soldier, doesn’t he?” you ask.  “You can do no wrong.  Little does he know…”

“I do my job,” Felix says.  “And I do a good job.  Okay? That’s all that matters.”   

You start to open your mouth, one hand climbing towards his fly.   You stop with a gasp when he fists a chunk of your hair, tugging your head away from him.  It sends a hot shock rippling through you, flooding you with the recollection of all the times he grabbed your hair and pulled you closer, the times he cupped your head and put himself in your mouth despite knowing better, the number of times he fucked between your pretty lips and forgot to be proper, cursing so much it was practically poetry. 

This time he guides you away and you whimper miserably.  He does not loosen his grip, his fingers threading closer to your scalp so it both hurts less and holds stronger.   He knows better than to just let go.   He knows you perfectly.  You glare at him. 

“Look at me,” he says, because your gaze dropped to his bulge again.  “I said look at me.”   He tugs your hair so you obey, giving him your most annoyed expression.  “You’re listening, yeah?” he says.  He doesn’t wait for an answer.  “You’re going to go to your closet.  Get ready for bed.  Sleep.  You’re going to do that,” his voice turns frighteningly pleasant, “or I’m going to carry you over there and get you ready myself.” 

“Like when we were leaving the club tonight?” you ask just as sweetly.  “And you put me over your shoulder then, oops, something happened when we were in the limo, didn’t it?” 

He lets go of you, exhaling tiredly in a high-pitched breath.

“Where did all your pretty rings go, Felix?” you ask, reaching for his bare hand, usually adorned with rings.  “Did they fall on the floor in the limo when you decided you had to shove your hand up my skirt?”   

Leaving the club, you were both wired.  Felix was honestly justified in breaking that guy’s arm.  You purposefully chose the creepiest, shadiest guy in the club to lead on, knowing Felix would appear two seconds later to rescue you.   He always does.  No one else ever pays you any personal attention and your life is too complicated for romance, so you thrive on the feeling of someone caring enough to always find you – even if it’s literally his job. 

You also like getting mad at him for overreacting, but you like his overreactions.   Him twisting and breaking that creep’s arm honestly turned you on.  It also got Felix all worked up, a bit pissed because you were being irresponsible again but nonetheless heated.  You thought for sure he’d take you home and go crazy and fuck you in the foyer.  Instead he put up the limo divider and one-by-one removed his rings, giving you ample time to refuse before he covered your mouth tightly and slid his other hand up between your thighs. 

Of course, despite bringing you to the edge several times, he never let you finish.  Because he’s the worst. 

And now you’re all worked up and he’s shirtless and being a stupid, pretty, two-faced bitch.

“I—”  you start. 

He rolls his eyes and says, “I know. I know.  You hate me.  Now go.”

You get up, stomping all the way to your walk-in closet.  You can’t even slam the door because it’s a sliding one, but you make the biggest possible demonstration of closing it anyway. 

You get ready for bed.   You briefly consider dressing provocatively or even strolling out there naked, but in the end you decide to just dress in your ugly, comfy, over-sized t-shirt and march angrily back into the room. 

Felix is gone when you return, probably off to double-check the house security one last time before joining you.   You could try climbing out the window and down the terrace, just to be ridiculous, but he’ll catch up sooner than later and be even more annoying about it.   So you get into bed and turn off the lights, laying down with a huff, blankets pulled up to your chin. 

You get a bit dozy before Felix returns, the creaking door snapping you awake.  You look over your shoulder and watch him finally shuck the jeans.  He gets into bed in his boxers, removing his earrings once under the covers.  He puts on the bedside table, then double-checks his gun is in the drawer, then and then only then does he lay down. 

The big bed leaves an ocean of space between you.  You roll over to face him.  His eyes are closed but there’s no way he is already asleep. 

“Felix,” you whisper, even though the big house is empty, “I’m cold.”

“There’s another blanket in the closet,” he says without opening his eyes. 

You slide across the bed, close enough to reach out and put a hand on his chest.  He opens his eyes and stares straight up. 

“I need a cuddle,” you say.  “Or I’ll have nightmares.” 

“You’re not a child anymore,” he says. 

That is maybe one thing you miss about the time before you and Felix started… this.  When things were still innocent between you, he would often let you snuggle up with him.  Now, he keep his distance.  Now, he doesn’t hug or hold you. 

So no one does.    

“We’re still young,” you say, a dumb argument, but you’re tired and out of ideas. 

“I was never as young as you,” he grumbles, more to himself than you.  He seems to realize what he said and shakes his head.  He pats your hand on his chest then rolls over, leaving his back to you. 

You slowly return your hand to yourself, staring at the back of his head with an uncharacteristic prickling of tears. 

Felix doesn’t talk about his life before this.  You just know that it was somehow worse.   Worse than being a watchdog.  Worse than giving up years of his life to protect someone else.   Worse than the times your father wanted to discipline you but learned that if he hit you directly you would just patch yourself up and move on, but if he hit Felix then you would break down and offer anything to make him stop.  

You can see a couple faded scars from those times, faint lines that cross his back, remnants of old belt lashings.  You touch one now, tracing your finger lightly from one end to the other.  You watch a shiver roll down his spine.   He doesn’t turn around. 

Giving up, you roll away, back to your distant side of the bed.  You close your eyes and will yourself to sleep, but it just makes you well up with tears.  You sniffle, rubbing your nose messily on the back of your arm.    

Fabric rustles.  You suck in a breath when Felix slides up behind you, pulling you into the middle of the bed where he holds you snugly in his arms.   You immediately roll to face him, throwing a leg over his hip and burying your face in his neck. 

“Sweetheart,” he says, nothing else. 

“I hate you,” you say, then press a kiss just under his jaw.

“I know.”  He cups the back of your head as your kisses move down his neck.  “I know.” 

You make it to the middle of his chest before he turns you onto your back and gets up over you.  He kisses you properly, thumbs wiping your tears as his mouth makes you forget about the reason you cried at all.  All that matters is kissing him back, wrapping your legs around his hips and pulling him close as possible.  His sounds of pleasure are so deep and rough and rumbling. 

“Fuck me, please, please,” you say, pushing your fingers into his hair. 

He groans, pressing his forehead to yours. 

“You know we can’t do that,” he says. 

“We’ve done it before,” you say, purposefully canting your hips to rub against him, reminding him you are still so hot and wet from his finger-fucking, that only stupid underwear keeps you apart.  It has the desired effect, his brow furrowing as he holds himself still above you.  You peck his lips and string your arms around his neck.  “You know I’m on birth control now for that reason,” you say, a little sweetly, smiling up at him.  “Remember?”

He drops his face in the crook of your neck and makes an even crazier sound, shaking his head. 

“That was very, very irresponsible of us, you know,” he says. 

“Mhm,” you say, sliding your hand down his body to his waistband.  “It really was.  But it felt good, didn’t it?   Dangerous.  Coming inside me like that.”

Felix is right; that incident was very irresponsible.  You had already started your little cat-and-mouse game and ran out of condoms one night.  Because the two of you only have sex with each other, when that happened, you usually just fooled around until he pulled out. 

That time was… a lot.   You were pressed so tightly together and you were being painfully quiet because you weren’t home alone.  It was such a stupid time to mess around, but common sense leaves you when Felix is involved. 

That feeling is mutual.  Felix knew better too.   If he got you pregnant… the fallout with your father would be catastrophic for both of you.   Still, for that moment he was inside you, with your fingers laced together and pressed by your head, with your legs tight around him and his face in your neck, nothing else seemed to exist.  You were two normal people who were allowed to do whatever they wanted with whoever they wanted.  It was a breathless, momentary fantasy, holding him tight and telling him to come, shuddering at the noise he made as he did just that.   You didn’t even panic after the fact.   You let the moment linger for as long as it could, still pretending you were normal, still pretending it was fine. 

You started birth control soon after, telling your father it was to regulate your period.   He waved it off, not wanting to hear more.  

Your father has truly never suspected a thing.  He doesn’t see the people around him as people, just objects, so it makes sense that he sees nothing in Felix but a soldier.  He doesn’t know anything about Felix.  Doesn’t know the pattern of his freckles or how his eyes crinkle up when he smiles.  Doesn’t know he has a sweet tooth and will dump a thing of sugar in nearly everything.  Doesn’t know what he finds funny, doesn’t know what makes him sad, doesn’t know anything at all.  

You drag your calf up the back of his leg.

“Felix,” you say. 

He gives you no chance to say more.  One second you are in limbo, the very next he has shoved down both his boxers and your underwear and is already pressing into you.  Only nonsense leaves your lips after that, your eyes closing as he works your body like a familiar and well-loved instrument.   He knows it as well as you do.  As you do his.  It’s easy to work him up, to get him as close as you. 

“I know what you’re doing,” he says, changing position so he’s kneeling.  He puts one of your legs up against his chest, levelling you with an amused smile.  “You’re trying to get me to finish first,” he says. 

“What? Noooo…”  Your giggle turns into a gasp.  You can be as loud as you want but you bite your fist anyway, hiccupping with a choked back sob of pleasure when he finds an angle that makes you see stars. 

“Yes, you are,” he says.  “But you won’t win.” 

“I will,” you say.

“Uh-uh,” he says. “Sure.” 

He makes you come twice before he does.  He even starts pushing you towards a third but you are so oversensitive that it makes tears fall.  He cups your chin and looks at you, cursing. 

“You’re so mean,” you say, smiling through your tears.  “Getting off to me crying.”

“I’m—not—I just—”

“Liar,” you tease.  “You totally are.”

He just giggles.  Then he flips a switch and goes from cute to something else, grabbing your throat and fucking into your oversensitive pussy so good and hard that you cry out.

“Shhh, sweetheart, it’s okay,” he says.  “Got you.  Got you.  I—”

You kiss him and he comes, sinking into you with dick and tongue and breath, filling you and surrounding you.  

You hold him close, arms tight around him, his sweaty forehead pressed to yours.   When he tries to lift away, you pull him back, making him laugh softly. 

“Stay,” you say, and repay his torture by squeezing him inside you, knowing it will make him twitch and jerk with oversensitivity of his own. 

“You never make it easy for me, do you,” he says with no animosity. 

You shake your head and smile like you’re proud of that.  He laughs then kisses you.   The kiss is good and thorough and sweet, completely loving, affectionate.  It gets your heart racing despite everything you just did.  You rest your hands on his chest and gently push him back. 

“I still hate you,” you say, because you have to say it, because the opposite would be too dangerous to ever say.  You can’t even let that word enter your thoughts, certainly never let it leave your lips.  If you held that word in your mouth for even a second, you would become addicted to it.   So you glare at him with all passion you can muster and say,   “I hate you so much.”   You sniffle when he wipes your tears away.   You turn your face.  “I hate you more than I’ve ever hated anyone.” 

“I know,” he says in a strained voice.  He presses his forehead to your temple and exhales.   “I know, sweetheart.” 

---

@skzdarlings (I'm the moot who sent you like 5 asks about bodyguard lix🤡❤️)

Made a piccrew of Felix and mc in high school ;) inspired by part ii of the series <3

[Here's the specific one. Also, couldn't find a beanie for him, or the right uniform colors :( but oh well, we move]

Enjoy ʕ⁠ノ⁠•⁠ᴥ⁠•⁠ʔ⁠ノ⁠ 

(fav line below the cut ㅠㅠ)

☆✧⁠☆✧⁠☆✧⁠☆✧⁠☆

Jisung arrives late, but just in time to 'comfort' Felix.

..."Don't stress it, man, don't stress it," he says. "I mean, stress it a little, the hot guys got hotter and you're gonna be bitchless forever, but other than that, don't stress it."...

☆✧⁠☆✧⁠☆✧⁠☆✧⁠☆

love the way he's told this... then proceeds to grow up and serve the most cunt lmfao

---

Eyyy! I'm glad you love it ꒰⁠⑅⁠ᵕ⁠༚⁠ᵕ⁠꒱⁠˖⁠♡

That story... I could write a fanfic of it yet it's a fanfic in itself 😂

@skzdarlings (I'm the moot who sent you like 5 asks about bodyguard lix🤡❤️)

Made a piccrew of Felix and mc in high school ;) inspired by part ii of the series <3

[Here's the specific one. Also, couldn't find a beanie for him, or the right uniform colors :( but oh well, we move]

Enjoy ʕ⁠ノ⁠•⁠ᴥ⁠•⁠ʔ⁠ノ⁠ 

(fav line below the cut ㅠㅠ)

☆✧⁠☆✧⁠☆✧⁠☆✧⁠☆

Jisung arrives late, but just in time to 'comfort' Felix.

..."Don't stress it, man, don't stress it," he says. "I mean, stress it a little, the hot guys got hotter and you're gonna be bitchless forever, but other than that, don't stress it."...

☆✧⁠☆✧⁠☆✧⁠☆✧⁠☆

love the way he's told this... then proceeds to grow up and serve the most cunt lmfao

---

ANON SPITTING FACTS

I was thinking about this in the shower like why can't they just *permanently silence* her dad then go get Han & live with HyunHo in Jinnie's cabin

had to hug my Quokka skzoo extra tight after that Bodyguard!Felix chapter😭 I want Lixie and Y/n to escape, I want them to grab Jisung and go to Hyunnies cabin, and I want all of them to have peace and happiness bc it’s what they deserve. now excuse me while I go sob until I can’t anymore🤧

-☘️

give quokka skzoo an extra hug from me 😫💗 i am glad you’re invested heh i hope you will continue to enjoy!

---

Literally me rn!!!

I'm so scared for them ngl 😭😭✋

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

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

part vii: bodyguard!felix x reader

masterlist.

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You should be.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yup.”

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

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

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

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

You giggle, blowing a few bubbles apart. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You hum casually as you wave a razor. 

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

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

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

“Do you want to discipline me, Felix?” 

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

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

You are good, you want to say.    

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I have another leg,” you say dryly. 

He laughs and sits back down.

-

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

Until you see Hyunjin. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Who?” he says. 

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

And your father says who. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hyunjin smiles and pats your arm. 

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

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

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

“Oh.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“We’re just friends,” you say. 

“I didn’t say anything,” he says.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Menace,” Felix says affectionately. 

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

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

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

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

Finally, he exhales and turns the screen off.     

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Okay?”  You smirk again.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your hand pauses too.   

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

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

“Felix,” you finally say.   

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

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

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

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

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

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

He exhales, then moves. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You, uhhh, ah, you—” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He settles, though he looks away from you. 

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

“Will you sleep with me?” you ask. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Uhhh, yeah, sure.” 

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

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

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

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

“Mhm,” he says.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes?” he says after a moment.   

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

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

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

He laughs at the question and shakes his head. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh?” is the reply you manage.

“Mm.  The opposite, really.” 

“It seemed like a nightmare,” you say. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No shoulds,” you bark back. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You will deal with the consequences tomorrow.   

---