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bodyguard: the first guard | part four | chan/reader

masterlist.

(part one of the previous story.)

( read on AO3 )

A sequel to the Bodyguard. Miroh’s daughter is assigned a bodyguard of her own. The past is confronted when old friendships and new enemies are pushed to the brink.

pairing: bang chan/reader content info: sequel to the bodyguard (felix/reader). this is a new reader perspective. this chapter contains explicit sexual content. this chapter also has a content warning for descriptions of torture and dehumanization. the previously established story dynamics are prevalent. chapter word count: 14,600 words.

enjoy <3

B E F O R E

Felix is with the enemy. He let himself be taken.

Losing a fight was the only way to win. The enemy is well-fortified, his defences impenetrable, but offensive strikes are not a strength. The best of his men are no match for Felix, not their force or their taunting or threatening. They can torture him. They can hurt him. It is literal child’s play, every move a textbook manoeuvre from his childhood training.

After some prodding, coercion, and violence, someone decides to send word up the chain of command. It reaches the ear of the enemy, and now Felix is cuffed to a chair in some kind of warehouse, waiting to meet a monster.

The man finally strides into the room. He is average height, average build, with cold eyes but a dull demeanour.

Felix was hoping for a nightmare. Maybe that would have helped justify some of it. But the immense nothingness of the man is infuriating. This? Everything they did, everything Felix did, was because of this? Just another pathetic man hurting the weak with someone else’s hands.

The enemy stands above Felix and his shadow feels no different than Miroh.

That is how Felix rationalizes it, even with a roiling stomach as he sits beneath that man. A shadow will fall, one way or the other. His choice is no choice at all: two dark paths, neither with a light at the end.

Felix is not here to save himself. His mission is to save Chris. That is all that matters now.

“You work for Miroh,” the enemy says. “Or is that worked, if my men are to be believed?”

“That’s right,” Felix says. He sees the flicker of surprise in the enemy’s eyes. Felix’s voice has already dropped and its darker, deeper tone always surprises people. It counters his youth, his soft face, makes the enemy look twice and consider him more carefully.

Felix is everything Miroh wanted his soldiers to be. He is easy to misjudge, overlook, underestimate, but competent, deadly, and loyal to a single, unmoving cause.

Thinking of Chris, Felix says, “I know how to end this.”

His throat is dry, his voice rough. He drags it up, propelled by the pounding of his desperate heart.

“I know Miroh’s next move,” Felix says. “I know where he’ll be. I know what he’s planning. I know how to interfere. But we both know you’re the only one who can really do it.”

Flattery takes the enemy from wary to invested. He is so easy to read, more childish than Felix ever was. It is infuriating. It takes all his strength for Felix to grit his teeth and restrain himself, to not rip out of his bonds and destroy this shadow of a man.

But this is not about Felix.

“What is it you think you know?” the enemy asks.

Felix smiles, a soft, disarming smile, practiced from a lifetime of subterfuge. A lie on his face, but coupled with the truth. He thinks about everything he has done and everything he will do.

Felix says, “Everything.”

P R E S E N T D A Y

Two days ago, you were running missions for your father. You kept your head down and strove for the best, blindly believing your compliance would lead somewhere worthwhile. The ends would justify the means. You would prove yourself and everything would come together.

Now, your only plan is to tear it all apart.

Your father is dead. You are miles from the world he created, off the edge of every map he ever drew. You stare down a long, dark path with no seeming end.

You think of your friend and find the strength to place one foot in front of the other.

It is something you should have done a long time ago, but there is no time to linger in past feelings. Not the guilt of years ago, not the pain of a few days, and not the embarrassment of last night.

You lift your head as Chan approaches the park bench. Your first order of business was acquiring basic necessities, so you left the motel and ventured out. It required more than a little theft and cunning, but now you are both dressed in civilian clothes, better blending in with your surroundings.

Chan went to grab some food while you sat and mapped out a basic strategy. He has followed your lead in every regard, including conversation. You have not spoken a word about last night so neither has he, but it sits between you like a tangible block. Your eyes meet and speak without the help of words. Who are you? you seem to ask each other, and neither has an answer.

Miroh’s first guard. You think of him in the ring. You imagine him in even darker shadows. It is impossible to reconcile that soldier with the man who comforted you, who tucked you into bed, who sat with you until you fell asleep.

Miroh’s daughter. It is just as impossible to reconcile the soldier you were with the woman who not only broken down crying, but let someone comfort her with so much tenderness.

You look at each other, a flash of something between you, then you clear your throat and look away and hope it disappears.

Chan sits beside you on the bench. He hands you a sandwich.

“What next?” he asks, then takes a bite of his own.

You are both in blue jeans and flannels, baseball caps tugged over your eyes. You keep to a quiet space in the park, but there are still civilians nearby. You watch some kids throw a ball around. You don’t have much of an appetite, but your body needs sustenance if you want to heal properly. Much as you would prefer to dive into the mission, ignoring your own wellbeing, an unbalanced fight will not save Changbin.

You take a bite of your sandwich and pass the notebook to Chan.

“I’ve made a list of the main research facilities,” you say. “My father implied Changbin would be used for study so I don’t think he’s being held at any training base. I’ve ranked the research facilities in order of likelihood based on their location and general field of focus.”

Chan nods, looking over the list. You stare at him while he reads.

You need to say something. Each bite of food is excruciating because it is fighting the pit in your stomach. You are a tangle of embarrassment, confusion, and unfamiliar emotions you cannot name. Finding the right words is physically painful.

You rub the bridge of your nose and steady your breathing. Chan looks at you with an inquisitive tilt of his head, but he looks away when your eyes meet.

“I’m sorry,” you say. Despite your preparation, it is more of a blurt. “For last night, I mean.”

You cringe thinking about it, but addressing it finally alleviates the weight in your gut. You fiddle with the wrapping to your sandwich, staring at the ground and pointedly not at him.

“It’s not like me,” you say. “The past couple days, it’s just…”

“It’s fine,” Chan says. When you scoff, he bumps his shoulder against yours. “Seriously, you don’t have to apologize. Can’t really blame you, ya know, considering everything.”

“I’ve dealt with some crazy fucking circumstances,” you say. “And I’ve never…” Mortification settles as you recall last night, which drudges up all those feelings again. It twists together inside you. You put the sandwich down and rub your eyes. “I just don’t feel like myself at all.” It is a resigned admittance, sitting at the crux of everything. You are lost without your father’s map, even though you know it is better off burned. “I just don’t know how everything used to feel so easy. It’s like I’m a stranger and the whole world is just as foreign. My father drew a perfect map of his world and now I’m way off the grid.”

“Maybe it’s time to draw a new one,” Chan says.

You look at each other. You are both hunched over, elbows on your knees, bodies inclined just barely towards each other where your knees almost touch. His face is bare and yours is scarred, his tone sincere and voice as raw as yours.

The dark path ahead seems a little less daunting.

There is one more thing you have to say, and this one is even harder, mixed up with embarrassment.

Sheepishly, you say, “Also, uh… thank you. For what you did last night.”

Chan laughs, just a breath of a sound, and there is some colour in his cheeks. He deflects the gratitude with more awkwardness than the apology, stammering on some vague denial.

“Nah, nah, it’s fine, you know,” he says, then says it a dozen more times.

If crying was a break from your usual character, the little grin on your face is even more alien. But it’s there, admittedly amused as you watch the most lethal weapon in Miroh’s arsenal stumble over his words. His hair is over his ears, his hat over that, but you can see where they start to darken with a blush. You had no idea the First Guard could go so red. Maybe that’s why he has to wear a mask, you think to yourself, tickled.

But now is not the time for teasing. You bump his knee with your own then pick up your sandwich. Your appetite has returned, little by little, the worst of that pit closing.

“Yeah, just… think nothing of it,” he says.

“I’ll try,” you say, cringing.

He pats your knee consolingly, then he smiles, light-hearted, looking at you with a goofy wink. “Next time it’ll be me and you can help me out,” he says. “Then we’ll be even.”

He goes back to eating his sandwich, his attention straying to the kids and their ball game. You look at him a moment longer.

If it had been him who broke down last night, you are not sure what you would have done. But he voices such an honest belief that you would return the favour, so you cannot help but believe he might be right.

The day is spent driving. You steal a different vehicle, losing the last traceable item from the fallen facility. You replace it with something a little faster and more efficient on the road.

Once you are in the car, the conversation stays professional. Today you plan to scout the perimeter of the targeted facility on foot. It should have a secondary security outpost that will be easier to breach, at least with your skills and inside knowledge.

Chan will cover most of the physicality as he insists you need another day of recuperation before launching a proper attack. You begrudgingly admit he is right, even though you want to charge the facility to second it is in sight.

Changbin could be in there right now, separated from you by cement walls and nothing more. You look at the building as you circle it. Your heart pounds, leaping as if magnetized to your friend’s potential proximity. It makes you want to leap the wall and fight everything in your path.

Like he knows what you’re thinking, Chan nudges you. He tips his head, gesturing to the direction you need to go. You huff but follow. This is your plan and you made it for a reason.

You reach the security outpost. After Chan incapacitates the guards, you will have sparse minutes for action and acquisition.

Chan lays down the unconscious guards while you gather your intel. You know where to look, unlike an enemy or third party, so you can use the short allotted time to your advantage.

You see there were deliveries made over the past couple days, but it is unclear what they entailed. It could be anything from equipment to a body. You save the information and run through the security logs so you can strategize a full-proof infiltration plan for tomorrow night.

While you work, Chan embarks on his own search, finding a few weapons and packing them in a duffel bag.

He claps you on the shoulder with less than a minute to spare. You take your hard drive and notes, he takes his bag and guns, and you are out the door.

Back in the car, he sits in the passenger seat, assembling a gun while you drive. Your eyes are on the road but your mind is in the mission, running schematics and floor plans and security details.

Your mind jumps frantically from one thought to the next. Thinking of security logs reminds you of the information you obtained about the enemy. You told Changbin about it a couple nights ago, but it lost importance in the midst of all your personal drama. Now your mind returns there.

Miroh’s team acquired the security information from the house that night, but they overlooked the most glaringly obvious discrepancy. They were so preoccupied with the system itself that they did not notice how much of it had been scrubbed by someone who knew what they were doing, someone who had a reason to hide what transpired.

Maybe it means nothing. Maybe it means everything.

“What’s up?” Chan says, noticing you are deep in thought.

You glance at him, shaking your head as you return to the present. You have your hands full with dismantling Miroh’s regime that the dead enemy should not really matter anymore, but it will not leave your head. The weirdness of that whole situation sits in the nucleus of everything else. The enemy’s collapse sent your father spiralling, his fears driving him straight into a self-fulfilling prophecy of destruction. In a way, you are only here because of what happened that night.

“Just thinking,” you say, struggling to summarize the tumult of thought.

“About?” he prompts when you stall. He lifts an eyebrow. “Something I can help with? Or like… something personal…?”

“Neither really,” you say. “It’s about my father’s enemy. You know my father had a lot of enemies, but… he had one that rivalled them all.”

“I know who you mean,” he says. “I didn’t really run any missions involving him, because, you know, Miroh thought it was useless to waste my skills there. The enemy was pretty well-defended. Nothing got in or out.”

“Makes sense,” you reply. “The enemy was watched more than pursued. I actually ran a lot of those missions.”

You were with the enemy while Chan was everywhere else. It is why you never really crossed paths. You knew the outcomes of his missions because it often impacted lines of business, but you did not see him. He was a weapon at your father’s disposal, less than a human and more than a soldier.

“Yeah,” Chan says, echoing that thought. “Miroh thought I would be more useful… other places.”

You look at him again. He is looking out the window, his own gaze pensive. You do not push for more detail, knowing well enough how gory and intense some of his missions were. It makes you aware of who is in this car, the weapons at his feet, the gun in his lap.

You find you are not that frightened, which is frightening in its own way.

You look at him in his flannel and baseball cap. You think about him earlier, laughing as he watched some kids playing games in the park. You picture that face in the shadows, a gloved hand around a neck, a gun in his hand, the trigger practically a part of him. It makes your heart pang.

“Anyway, what about it?” Chan asks, looking at you.

“Never mind,” you say, discombobulated as you are inundated with images of Chan’s missions. You shake your head. “It’s probably nothing,” you add. “It doesn’t matter. They’re all dead anyway.”

There is a moment of silence, then he asks, “Did we ever find out what happened that night?” His voice is a little smaller, like the question weighs heavy on his tongue. Like he also knows this new world is spinning on the axis of everything destroyed that night.

“No,” you say. You grip the steering wheel a little tighter. “And the last person who had any contact with them is being held somewhere.”

“Changbin,” Chan says.

“Changbin,” you say.

Your mind runs away again, thinking about the way Changbin talked about that mission. Or rather, the things he did not talk about. He never officially reported the details of his altercation with Felix. He never reported the fact Felix asked about Chris.

As if he can hear your thoughts, Chan asks, “Felix is dead too, isn’t he?”

Lee Felix was raised in the young soldier program with the rest of you, but you don’t remember much of him from childhood, just one face among many. Then he betrayed the operation. Miroh was securing some contracts that the enemy was also eying, and Felix was assigned to a major mission that would procure the venture. You were not on that mission, but you later learned how it was infiltrated by the enemy, how Miroh was blindsided and attacked in a rare moment of weakness instigated by the same traitor who sold out their location in the first place.

Felix got away.

Several agents died in the confrontation. By that point, other child soldiers had died on other missions. Only a few of you remained. Chan, Changbin, you. Felix was recruited by the enemy. He became a grating sore in the operation’s side. Somehow, the enemy utilizing one of Miroh’s best soldiers as a glorified babysitter was more offensive than using him for military tactics. Even by doing nothing, your father’s enemy boasted over him. Look what I have and I don’t even need it, while you fight for everything.

That was how your father put it. He always looked at the offense, the wrong-doing, the betrayal.

He never saw anything else. Just like he never saw your friendship with Changbin.

You think Felix and Chan were also friends once, maybe, or something like it. Felix would have no way of knowing what became of Chan after he left. Maybe he cared. Maybe his motivations were more complicated than an opportunistic betrayal for the sake of itself.

You look at Chan. His body is holding a lot of tension, his fingers curling and uncurling over his knee. A muscle feathers in his jaw when he clenches it.

“Yes,” you say. “Felix died that night with the rest of them.”

Chan exhales. His whole face is shadowed with the furrow of his brow.

“I’m sure it wasn’t easy for him. We all made difficult decisions, I guess,” you say, thinking of how to approach this conversation because there is a darkness to Chan that feels more like the First Guard. “He, uh, he asked about you apparently.”

“About me,” Chris says flatly. “What about me?”

“About what happened to you,” you say. “I guess he wouldn’t have known what happened after he left. Changbin, uh, Changbin told him you died.”

Chan is quiet for a moment, just staring across the dashboard at the stretch of highway. The sun is starting to set behind the trees, casting an orange glow in the vehicle. It brightens his eyes even while his whole countenance seems to darken.

Then he laughs. It is abrupt and harsh with no genuine humour whatsoever. He rubs his jaw and shakes his head.

“I guess that’s one way of putting it, yeah?” he says dryly.

“I’m sorry,” you say.

“What for?”

“I don’t know, I guess it just—” You glance at him. He is still staring ahead, his shoulders locked with tension. “None of this is easy. I get it. You have every right to be upset.”

“Upset,” Chan says as if the word is totally foreign. It lingers in his mouth. He chews the thought over. The fierceness of his gaze reminds you of the guard that sits behind a mask – intense and dangerous.

“I guess I am upset,” he says slowly. “It means I don’t get to kill him myself.”

The response startles you. You anticipated this conversation taking a totally different trajectory.

Your glance flicks between the road and Chan. He goes back to fidgeting with the gun. His hand movements are firmer, more deliberate, the click-shuffle-click more pronounced.

It is a very unfortunate and wildly inappropriate time to find him attractive. The realization hits you all at once, leaving more whiplash than a hit to the head. You watch his quick and competent hands do what they do best. Coupled with his sudden intensity, it feels like a punch to your core.

You want to offer a remark, some acknowledgement of his thoughts, but it gets garbled in the mess of feelings. It is not like you to get so flustered. You are not used to it.

You clear your throat and look ahead. Out of the corner of your eye, you see him tilt his head.

“What?” he asks. “The guy’s a traitor, isn’t he?”

“It’s not that.”

“Huh? Then what is it?”

“Nothing,” you reply.

“Nothing? You have a weird look on your face.”

“No, I don’t.”

The First Guard, Miroh’s weapon, assassin and spy and deadly agent, reaches across the console and pokes your cheek.

“Stop that,” you say. “I’m fine.”

He laughs and this laugh is sincere. You try to school your expression but the damage is evidently done because he is clearly aware he has you flustered.

You bat his hand away. Even worse than finding him physically attractive, you are a little enamoured with the sound of his laugh. It feels much better than the tension from before. You feel your own chest lifting with a clear breath.

“Just thinking about yesterday,” you lie, but now you are thinking about yesterday and how you abruptly kissed him, which makes you more flustered and makes his dimples more pronounced. Refusing to look at him, you tightly grip the wheel and say, “Sorry, by the way.”

“For?” He sounds amused.

“Kissing you.”

“Ah.” He pokes your cheek again, dodging your hand. “I thought I told you to stop apologizing to me.”

“That’s different,” you say. “Especially after everything else you told me.”

Chan has spent most of his life in the forced employ of someone else, using his body to one end or another. He told you as much last night. In light of that, spontaneously kissing him without warning feels wrong, even if you were panicked and not thinking.

He goes quiet. After a beat, he says, “I didn’t tell you that so you would pity me.”

“Well, why did you then?” you ask. You can admit you were forward last night because that is just how you are. Sexual desire is just another bodily function that needs satisfying. He was the one who continued the conversation after it ended.

“Well,” he says. “I trust you.”

“Right.” The honest simplicity just flusters you more. “Good to know.”

The car is very silent after that. Or maybe the rest of the world gets louder – the cars whizzing down the highway, the wind against the glass. Even the sun seems to fizzle in the darkening sky.

You swear you can hear his heart beating, fast, or maybe that is your own.

“It’s fine,” he breaks the long silence.

“Huh?”

You glance at him which is a mistake, because he turns his head to you, his dimples deep with the cheekiness of his smile.

“it’s fine that you kissed me,” he says.

People have outright propositioned you for explicit sexual acts and none of those come-ons ever garnered half as much heat as that simple, stupid line.

You bat it down instinctively, swallowing hard. His earlier intensity sparked your adrenaline and your body confused it for something else. That must be it. You don’t get flustered and heated like this, not so fast and not so deeply.

“Well,” you say firmly. “Don’t worry because it won’t happen again.”

“Oh?” he asks, still too amused.

Desperate to even the playing field and knock those dimples down, you grin and employ your own simple frankness.

“Tell you what,” you say. “You can fuck me all you want, but no kissing. How’s that sound?”

It works. He chokes on a nervous laugh and turns completely red. He looks away while rubbing his neck and it’s your turn to laugh.

The sound of your own laughter surprises you, the adrenaline in your chest suffusing to something gentler. For a moment, in the middle of all the anxiety and worry and terror, you feel a flicker of delight.

When you look at him, your eyes meet in a shared moment of mirth, that setting golden light flooding the car. It feels strange to smile so sincerely, but it does not feel wrong. It feels like a moment you did not realize you had been waiting for.

None of the safe houses are safe. Miroh is dead but his operation is running in fragmented pieces, so there are eyes on those houses. You stick with cheap motels for now, the little crevices and unassuming places forgotten by the passing world.

Chan lifted some money from a register at a closed service station, so you use that cash to pay for a room. It makes you think about crime, petty and big, about Miroh and his enemies, soldiers and civilians. About the ends justifying the means, and what taking down Miroh’s operation will entail.

“Ready for another fight?” you ask. You and Chan are sitting at the small table in the little kitchenette, drafting plans for tomorrow’s night infiltration.

“Always,” he says with a sigh, but smiles at you.

You take the first shower tonight. You feel better and your reinvigorated energy makes you even more restless. It feels like a waste of time, sitting here while Changbin is out there, but you know you will be in better shape tomorrow when all your plans can come together.

For now, you prepare your own weapons and combat clothes, laying everything out while Chan showers.

Your eyes lift when he emerges from the washroom, strolling into the room with nothing but a towel wrapped around his hips.

You stare at him because of course you do, and he looks at you with a raised eyebrow because of course he does. That cheeky smile returns and he says, “What?”

“Nothing,” you reply, frowning, looking back at your things. “Just restless.”

“You should do some push-ups,” he says.

Ugh, this guy, you think, looking up at him again. His back is to you as he stands over his bag, shifting around for some clean clothes. A snarky reply is on your tongue but then he drops his towel, silencing you as swiftly. You blink in surprise at his bare backside then look away, hot in the face.

“You know what,” you say. “Maybe I will do some push-ups.”

He chuckles and continues dressing himself while you go through a small exercise routine to expel your excess energy. It honestly works and it feels good to get some muscles moving again.

You are not totally invulnerable, but the hormone supplements administered in your childhood ensure that your healing is a little quicker than average. The worst of the pain will pass so you can fight without distraction tomorrow night. The only thing that will remain will be the scars.

You sit at the foot of your bed and touch the scar on your palm. You wonder if Changbin is sitting somewhere, touching his own scar, and you wonder if he thinks it was worth it – all of it, his whole life, offering it up to save you.

“All good?” Chan asks, a little more seriously. He is closer than you realized, standing near the bed.

You nod, closing your hand into a fist. “Yeah,” you say. “We just… We have to find him.”

You can feel yourself drifting, thoughts taking over. You stare down at the ground.

Chan touches your shoulder, just enough to draw you out of that reverie before you sink too far. You look up slowly. The back of his fingers brush your cheek before he drops his hand to his side. It feels like he touched you with a firework, a trail of heat sparkling along your cheek. You dig your nails into your palm because you do not feel like you should indulge that sort of feeling while Changbin is hurting for you.

“I know,” Chan says. “We will. But he wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself or give yourself up, would he?”

You stop clenching. You release a breath you did not realize you were holding.

“Yeah,” you say softly. “Sorry. You’re right.”

You blink quickly, surprised when knocks his knuckles under your chin, a teasing little touch.

“Told you to stop apologizing,” he says, then winks and steps away.

Your dreams that night are tumultuous but not as torturous. You don’t sleep as heavily so it is easier to snap out of them.

Chan is a light sleeper and the sound of you jolting awake stirs him as well. You apologize after a few times, his groggy voice sleepily assuring you that it’s fine. That rough sound scratches your brain, tingling down your spine as you close your eyes to sleep again.

You dream of a different touch, no violence or pain, just fingers trailing softly across your cheek. Your eyes are closed but you can feel it, a lightning spark ignited under the stroke of those fingers. You tilt your face up and take in a deep breath. It fills your whole body with warmth, makes your heart race and skin heat. The touch curls under your chin and you follow where that hand guides you, eyes closed and mouth open.

Your breath is stolen by a kiss. You know this is a dream because real kisses never feel this way. They are just a touch, no different than any other.

This touch is different. It overwhelms with its gentleness, a caress more thorough and claiming than every rough kiss exchanged in a heated moment that inevitably cooled. This one does not cool, does not even simmer, but burns hotly, endlessly. Even when your lips part for air, heat lingers between you. Your fingers twitch, coming to life with the desire to touch.

You wake before that.

It is still night. You glance at the clock then across the room. Chan’s bed is empty and it startles you, snapping you from half-conscious to fully awake. You sit up in bed. The panicked race of your heart putters to a slower cadence when you see him. He is sitting at the table in the kitchenette, near the open window. The neon light from the motel’s NO VACANCY sign bathes him in a cascade of red.

“All good?” Chan asks.

“Yeah,” you say. “I just—” You look at the empty bed then at him.

“Sorry,” he says, sheepish. “Couldn’t sleep. When that happens, feels better to just look at the plans, you know?”

You nod. You understand completely.

“More bad dreams?” he asks.

“Sometimes it feels like a memory,” you say, thinking of every nightmare, then thinking of your dream. There was no reality in that fantasy, but you swear your cheek still tingles. Embarrassed, you lay back down and turn away. You stare at the wall.

To your horror, you find yourself blinking back tears. The night is clearly not your friend, overwhelming you with every thought and fear and memory, every emotion you do not know you were capable of feeling.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Chan says. “I promise. You can sleep.”

“Okay,” you say softly.

I trust you, he said with so much earnest simplicity. It is hard, but you return the sentiment and close your eyes.

The next night is a very different scenario. There is no opportunity for good or bad dreams, for quiet phrases and glances that you would not dare exchange in the light.

You and Chan spent the day in preparation, practiced some moves, pored over your plans. Your adrenaline builds and builds. By nightfall, you are bursting with a desire for action.

The night does not feel quiet or still, the very air around you vibrating with the shuddering power of your determination.

“Careful in there,” Chan says.

You look at him. He is not wearing the mask, not yet, but he is the soldier you first encountered. Earlier, you watched as he slicked back his hair and darkened his eyes as part of his preparation, turning himself into a strange, intimidating figure. His transformation is so all-encompassing, your heart palpitates with nerves whenever you meet his eye.

“This is gonna be a shitshow when we start taking it apart,” he continues. “After we find him, when we start hitting marks and tripping lines, it’s gonna be fast.”

First you will look for Changbin, then you will go after everything else in that facility. Wiping data, disabling networks, making the entire operation unusable. You know some agents will move onto the next one, but you’ll follow. You will follow all of your father’s work and you won’t stop until you have destroyed it all. If it means tearing out one brick at a time, that is what you will do.

You tug at a clasp to ensure your armaments are locked in place. Chan secures his mask. You nod at each other, then you advance.

It becomes abundantly obvious very quickly that this facility does not have active test subjects, just data and back-logged research storage. The deliveries were mostly data transfers and hard copies of research for ongoing trials.

That means Changbin is definitely not in this building, but you try to keep your energy up. While Changbin is not here, there should be information about his actual whereabouts. The fight is not over. Far from it.

“I’ll be across the hall,” Chan says. “Radio if something trips. We won’t have long.”

The literal fight is only half the work and not more the prevalent half. You and Chan take a system each and spend most of the night looking through files. You would rather punch something, your adrenaline still so keyed, but you put it in reserve for now.

You move and erase certain files, sifting for relevant information and finding none.

You snap upright when a related subject finally appears. You lean closer to the screen. This entire folder seems dedicated to human test subjects. The fact the folder is so big already has you nauseated. Then again, you are not surprised. You were one of those subjects, living proof of a military experiment.

You cannot find anything about the special-ops program in this folder. That means no data on Changbin, past or present. Instead, it looks like years and years of logs tracking a single experiment.

TEST SUBJECT I : SOLDIERING RECONFIGURATION

You see the word soldier and click.

No. This is definitely not Changbin or the special-ops program. You read and realize this particular experiment was something else entirely.

You look at the date. This began a long time ago. There are long memos and notes about ‘reconfiguring’ mental processes, utilizing the brain’s trauma to suppress memory through torture.

You have seen a lot of dark things, but nothing like this. Your stomach turns over itself, balking at the horror, the detailed descriptions of severe electro-shock and drowning, of starvation and long isolation.

Subject is presented with an unchanging control from which comparison can be made.

Subject recognizes control after one round of treatment.

This is worse than a fight. A fight you can control through retaliation. This, you just have to endure, your heart pounding as evocative images of dehumanization unfold before you.

They tortured someone into forgetting everything. Turned them into the perfect soldier.

Eleventh round of treatment – some effect is beginning to take. Not a recommended course of action on regular humans. Hormonal-supplement medicine improved durability.

Subject will need to be brought in on a semi-regular basis to maintain stasis.

There is a long list of all the dates and times the so-called subject was brought in. It spans years, all the way up until recently. A session was schedule two weeks ago but it was not completed.

You sit back, the white screen blaring in your face, your stomach a sickly iron weight.

Chan.

The subject is completely, irrevocably Bang Chan. You wish it wasn’t true but you know, deep down, it undoubtedly is.

The incomplete session must account for his recent behaviour. If he was not brought in for a reconfiguration within the allotted time, that might explain his deviation from expectation, his raw humanity and his spontaneous decision to join you.

It is unbearable, imagining all that torture.

He was just a boy.

Your throat cloys, feeling tight with suffocation as you imagine the darkness of a narrow well and cold water closing in around you. You close the file then look away from the screen, the shadowed room even darker after ripping your gaze away from the light. You feel that darkness tighten around you. You close your eyes, shake your head.

Though you never imagined the details, you knew Miroh did something awful to make a boy a thing. Especially that boy. For as long as you can remember, gossip about the First Guard has been whispered in every corner of the operation. Those who knew a young Bang Christopher Chan talked about the overnight change. One day he was a rebellious child, throwing tantrums in front of Miroh himself, and the next day he was complying with the worst of orders in his name.

Some people joked it was all about the bloodlust, that Chan was inherently built to be violent, steeped and raised in it. They said it came naturally to him, that he was just waiting for an opportunity to be that vicious.

You know better. You have seen glimpses of the man who spent years in Miroh’s mask, and that man has nothing in common with the First Guard. That soldier, the agent with the highest clearest level missions, with the most destruction in his wake, is not Chan. Whoever Bang Chan really is, it is not the monster that Miroh made him.

“You’ll wanna see this.”

Chan’s voice breaks the silence. You jump out of your skin with a horrible hiss, startling him in return.

“Whoa,” he says. “What is it?”

You do not hide your expression fast enough. He quickly ducks down to look in your face, those dark eyes intensely focussed. He asks something through the mask – what’s wrong, you think – but it sounds foggy and faraway. Your eyes are locked on his. The rest of the world falls away.

You reach for him without conscious thought. It is the instinctive search for a hand in the dark, a desperate grasp shooting across cold water for a lifeline.

He blinks quickly, surprised when you touch his face with both hands. He stiffens but does not stop you from removing his mask. Only when his face is clear do you come back to yourself.

Sorry forms on your lips, but you remember he said to stop apologizing. Besides, your voice is shot even though you have been sitting in silence.

You place the mask on the desk and shake your head.

Chan looks at you, then his gaze flicks to the empty screen and back.

“What is it?” he asks again, softer this time. “What did you find?”

The document mentioned the subject had a resistance to abrupt reminders. Too much sudden information could trigger the trauma response. It is better to ease the subject into slow recollection.

“Nothing,” you say. Your voice comes out rough so you clear your throat. “It’s nothing important. Just – Miroh. Some dark stuff. You know.”

He scrutinizes you for another second. His hand hovers like he might touch you, but he eventually curls his fingers and drops it.

“Okay,” he says, wary.

“What did you find?” you ask, because he burst in here with an exclamation.

He smiles. It is not a huge smile, but it looks like Chan peeking through the soldier’s mask – the one he wears even when the literal mask has fallen. It puts you at ease.

“I found him,” Chan says.

Your heart skips a beat as you are reminded of your real mission. You eagerly take the papers that Chan offers.

“Not literally, of course,” Chan says. “But look—”

The document explicitly names Seo Changbin, with the correct description of his medical history and occupation in the Miroh’s order. It doesn’t say where he is behind held, just that he has been relocated from the main base. It says he must be kept under more intense security than the main research facility can provide.

It also provides a detailed schedule for the work and tests that have been administered so far – blood samples, urine samples, even skin samples – and it states that he will be kept for more tests and evaluations. He is to be held for two weeks before more intensive studies can be conducted. It is imperative that he does not weaken or die, as he is the only viable study subject.

A massive weight lifts off your shoulders. Changbin is not here but he is alive and unharmed. It seems they are keeping him in a state of mellowed sedation and do not want to move him around.

Though you do not know where he is precisely, you know he is stationary. He is probably not too far from this one if they were concerned about security in relocation.

“We got him,” you say. Your brain is already racing ahead, narrowing down the most likely bases and what infiltration will entail. You look at Chan and your smile returns, brightening with the light in your chest. “We can actually do this,” you say. Until now, you believed it because you had to believe it, because you stubbornly refused any alternative.

But Changbin is alive. You can rescue him.

You can also eliminate a lot of other bad things while you do it.

“We still have work here,” you say.

“You’re not wrong,” Chan says, grinning. “Found some files with some political figures who probably… definitely… don’t want their affiliation getting out.”

That blatant rebellious streak fills you with even more hope.

You get to work. In the end, some alarms are tripped and you are not out before security arrives.

“You ready for that fight?” Chan asks, already drawing a weapon.

“Always,” you reply.

You fight together. You think of all that detailed violence and you funnel it into something good. You were made to fight and it does not scare you, not when it’s like this. You are far more scared of not fighting back. You will never sit back again.

You and Chan have a complimentary fight style. You were both raised in the same program, so that makes sense, but there are instinctive openings you fill, a swift understanding that does not need words. Like your eyes meeting across a park bench, you connect on another level. It is like you have fought together a million times before.

When you are done, Chan takes a turn at the wheel. The windows are rolled down and you have a few shiny new scars, but you feel good, hopeful, free. You see a light at the end of the darkness. You are not scared of the fight to get there.

Your adrenaline is still pumping when you get back to the motel. The dawn is entering twilight, streaks of light slashing across the dark sky. It is swallowed up by rainclouds but the promise of daylight persists despite the gloom. You feel like you could wrestle the sun itself, no power too great.

You also know you are running on fumes of a long, adrenaline-fueled night. You are definitely going to crash, especially when several nights of bad sleep catch up to you. But first you need to come down from that high, blood still pumping a mile a minute.

Chan exhales, clearly just as keyed. He shakes out his shoulders and stretches his neck this way and that. He sits on a chair to unlace his boots. He looks down as he says, “You can have the first shower.”

You look at him. Against all odds, you are both here, rebelling against everything that was engrained in you. You can appreciate that more now that you have some relief regarding the mission.

Despite the effort to control and change you, you made it to this place together. You are free. Your lives are yours for the first time.

You open the top few clasps of your combat shirt.

“We’re both pretty messy,” you say.

He drops one of his boots with a clunk then starts on the next one.

“Yeah,” he says, laughing. “That’s fine, though. Just be quick.”

He discards the other boot and lifts his head. His gaze looks even more intense with the dark lines traced around his brown eyes. A single curl escapes his smoothed back hair, curling in an endearing tuft over his forehead. He is still breathing a little hard, his combat shirt also unclasped, the skin of his neck sweaty.

When those dark eyes collide with yours, your thundering heart pounds faster. His gaze briefly, thoughtlessly, flicks down your body then back up. Heat thunders through you and it has nothing to do with a fight.

He sits straighter, holding your gaze in his.

“Hey,” he says softly. “What’s up?”

“I know I asked before, and I know I said it jokingly,” you say. “But I think we understand each other better now. I’m not asking or demanding anything. I’m just letting you know. I think sex is a good way to expend energy. I think the fast pleasure is good for the brain as much as the body. It’s like exercise. I know we both have complicated pasts but I’m okay with that. With me. With you. I don’t care about the past and I’m not looking for a future. If you’re interested in right now, so am I.”

You push open the bathroom door. His eyes are rivetted to you but his expression is unreadable.

You undo another clasp and shrug.

“You know where to find me,” you say, then step into the bathroom.

You are not sure what to expect from him. You cannot even anticipate your own reactions. You are startled by the erratic pounding of your heart and the nervous twist in your gut. You chalk it up to the crazy evening, to the even crazier week. It is another reason to seek release, to ground yourself in your body and forget about everything else.

You strip down, leaving the sweaty and bloody clothes in a heap. The hot water is a balm. You close your eyes, letting the simple pleasure wash over you.

You rub a sore shoulder. The muscle loosens under the heat of the water. Your hand wanders, fingertips skimming your arm.

You seldom picture a particular person when you touch yourself, hardly caring about the identity of your partner even when they are in front of you, but you cannot escape the vision of a dark pair of eyes.

Your breath catches. Your head tips back. Your hand wanders across the curve of your chest, palm across each sensitive peak, sending pleasant sparks shooting downward. Your hand follows that path, stopping just short of its destination when the door opens.

You look over your shoulder. The glass door has not fogged much so you see Chan in the doorway. He looks as dishevelled as you left him. Those dark eyes are slow in their wandering perusal down your body. It feels like fireworks again, sparking everywhere he looks.

You turn a little more. He looks up. His brow furrows like he is scrutinizing you, like maybe he doesn’t believe you. You suppose you cannot blame him. It is a forward offer to any man, never mind one who is probably unaccustomed to them. A proposition he can accept or decline of his own free will, pleasure without contracts or compromises. No wonder he looks wary, like you are going to disappear if he steps wrong.

“Well?” you say, because you are not going anywhere. “Are you just going to stand there?”

He answers with a step. He closes the door behind him. Your eyes never leave each other, locked as he swiftly undoes his shirt and peels it off. The undershirt follows, tugged over his head, messing some of his hair. Then your gaze finally drops, an intimate heat rushing inside you as you look down his body. A sheen of sweat covers most of his torso, several prominent scars cutting through an otherwise perfect body. His muscles are even more prominent, strained from fighting.

You are already thinking of all the places you want to put your mouth when he strips off his bottom layers. For a man who was so lost in contemplation, he has no uncertainty now, striding up to where you wait.

You face him fully as he steps into the shower. The glass door closes. It finally fogs with your combined heat.

His presence overwhelms this small space, much like it did that first little civilian car. It feels like he is everywhere. Your eyes move all over his body, your breath coming faster. He pushes a hand through his hair and you look up, breath catching when you meet his eyes.

“No past,” you say, practically gasping. “No future. Just now.”

“Just now,” he says.

You are so close together and so far apart, a breath away but not touching. You are uncharacteristically hesitant.

He is the one who closes the space, holding your chin between his thumb and forefinger. You feel that small touch everywhere, shuddering despite the hot water slipping down your body.

He leans towards you.

Your heart leaps right out of your chest. You turn your face at the last second and try to sound playful when you say, “No kissing remember?”

It was supposed to be a joke but you cling to it. It must be the danger or adrenaline, maybe the heat or his eyes, but kissing feels far too intimate. The rest is just exercise. You tell yourself that.

“You don’t like kissing?” he asks with a raised eyebrow. “What do you like?”

“Bet you can’t guess,” you tease. Banter is better than intimate gazing. You want release, not more tension.

“Hm,” Chan says.

He cups the back of your neck before weaving his hand through your hair, swift, smooth, smiling. He tugs and your head follows, the line of your throat exposed and a mewl of a sound escaping.

“Lucky guess,” you say, clearing your throat after that embarrassing sound.

But then you make another one. Those competent fingers find the curve of your breast and he wastes no time utterly tormenting the sensitive peak. You have always been extra sensitive there, though you seldom take the time to linger, usually rushing to the next best thing. You almost forgot how intense it feels, your whole body puppeted by the bolt of pleasure in his control.

“Lucky guess,” he says, tugging your head back when you start to curl up. “You like that?” he asks. He takes your whimper for a reply, pinching a nipple meanly before sliding his hand down your body. You rear up, eager as his fingers dip between your legs. “And that?”

This time, your body answers for itself when he finds how wet you are. You make an undignified squeak when your back touches the cold wall, the hot water cascading down his back. He lets go of your hair and plants a hand above your head, his whole body crowding yours in a way that feels more protective than suffocating. You would usually be tempted to push him away, but your whole body opens up to him. You touch his chest and rock your hips, riding the deft strokes of his fingers.

“God, you’re so wet,” he murmurs, his face in your neck, his body against yours.

“Yes,” you say. You slide both hands down his chest, savour in his gasp when you find how hard he is. You take him in hand, both of you working the other into a frenzy. “Fuck me,” you say, your voice already a low mess. “Chan, please.”

The effect of his name is immediate. He grabs you by the hips and lifts you like it is easy. He pins you to the wall so there is no space between you anymore.

You string your arms around his neck, stroking your fingers across his back as he angles you.

He is strong and his movements are effortless, but his groaning betrays a deeper desperation.

“Fuck,” he says, his voice breaking in your ear. It makes you clench, getting tight around him as he pushes in. It makes you both gasp, open-mouthed and needy as your bodies come together. “Fuck. Oh, fuck, you feel so good. I’m not—”

He is barely coherent but you are in no position to judge, clinging to him with your eyes closed and mouth hanging open. He bottoms out and immediately starts fucking you with no reprieve.

“I’m not—” he says again. “It’s—it’s been so long—I—”

“It’s fine,” you say, voice straining. You hold the back of his head, your cheek against his, making all sorts of embarrassingly desperate sounds right into his ear. “It’s fine,” you say. “Just come. I have an implant. Want you to come like this.”

A couple days ago, he was chasing you through a building, lifting you off your feet and pinning you down in a very different way. His dark eyes felt inhuman, but now he is groaning and whimpering as he fucks you deep and steady, every snap of his hips as frantic as your racing heart. Your wet bodies are pressed together and he is all hot skin and sturdy muscle, human, real, living and breathing as much as you. They tried to make him into something that did not know how to want anything, but he wants you.

That repeats in your head until you start murmuring it, “Want you, want you, want you.”

He comes with a groan and a deep stroke. He holds you against the wall while the water continues to run down his back.

With a sigh, you descend from the high of pleasure. You breathe hard while he keeps you in place for a minute longer.

“Sorry,” he suddenly says, panting as he surfaces.

You wince with the separation, your knees shaking when he lowers you. You hold his arms, fingers clasped tightly around his veiny forearms as you stare at him. It takes a second for his word to register.

“Sorry?” you say on a breathless laugh. “For what?”

“That was, uh, fast,” he says, giggling that musical laugh, a very embarrassed sound.

You stroke your fingers up his bicep and across his shoulder, watch a shiver wrack his body even though he could not possibly be cold. You meet his eyes. They have not lost any hunger, devouring the sight of you. He wets his lips, drag his teeth across the bottom one, and you start to feel delirious from the heat and sensations.

“Trust me,” you say. “That was hot.”

His smile looks relieved. He bumps his forehead to yours, his hands loose around your hips. You rock towards him, encouraging the slow wander of his touch.

“I get it,” you say, breathy, your knees shaking as he cups a handful of your ass and squeezes, then drags his palm to up the centre of your back. “It, uh,” you stammer, eyes closing. “It’s been a long time for me too. A few months at least.” Your last liaison was well before the debacle with the enemy. It was a forgettable exchange.

You do not think you will forget tonight.

His hands curve around you like he is memorizing the shape of your body, the way your bare skin feels against his. You are close, so it is obvious when he bristles at your words.

“What?” you ask.

“Nothing,” he says, far too casually, avoiding your eye as he reaches around you for some body soap from the dispenser. He lathers his hands and touches you again, stroking his palm down your backside and around your waist.

It almost distracts you. Almost. You look at him at with squinting eyes, smiling a small smile.

“What?” you say again. “You sound a bit jealous.”

“I’m not jealous,” he says, too defensively.

“Oh, really?” you say.

He cups some water in his hand and runs it over you. His eyes lift from his task to meet yours.

Maybe teasing was a mistake. A flash of something dangerous sparkles behind his smile.

“Really,” he says. He turns off the water with a flick of his wrist. “I have nothing to be jealous about.”

It should stop surprising you, but you yelp when he sweeps you into his arms. You hook your legs around his waist, your arms his neck, holding tight while he carries you to the bedroom.

You are wet and the air is cold, but then a mattress dips beneath you and a bundle of bedsheets surround you. He lays you out, deliberate and measured, very different from his slow tenderness the other night.

“Quick question,” he says. He runs both hands through his wet hair, pushing it back. You look up at where he stands, your eyes wandering every plane of his body.

“Yes?” you ask.

He grabs your ankles and drags you down the bed, all while dropping to his knees. When your legs are over his shoulders and his breath is soft between your legs, he asks, “Does this count as kissing?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer, his mouth interrupting any coherent thought of yours.

A part of you thinks you should conserve your energy, but then his tongue is swirling over you and nothing else matters. Your hands cover your breasts, touching yourself in time with him. You let yourself enjoy your own body and help him find his way back to his.

By the time you get to sleep, you are both thoroughly worn out. Chan falls asleep first for once, all but passing out beside you. You are sharing a bed because the other sheets are wet and used.

You look at him through sleepy eyes. You touch his cheek, amazed when you think of how much things changed in just a few days. If you were told a week ago that the First Guard would be in your bed like this, you would have laughed.

If someone tried to tell you he had dimples and warm eyes, that he would sigh your name like it was the breath that kept him living, you are not sure what you have said.

You drift into sleep. You see his face in your dreams, still peaceful and slumbering beside you until that dream becomes a nightmare. His eyes snap open. In this sleeping world, it is not the warm gaze you have come to know so well. An emotionless weapon stares back at you.

There is no time to fight before his hand is around your throat and all the air leaves your body.

You feel cold, unbelievably cold.

You hear a voice. It says, “Stop. Stop!” You swear it sounds like Chan.

Your vision blurs.

You blink, blink, blink. Your eyes open underwater. When you scream, it is suffused in the rushing cold, air bubbling past your lips and fading into darkness. You thrash to no avail, throwing your head back and closing your eyes.

They open again. There are wooden beams high, high above your head. You still can’t breathe, your chest heaving with desperation, and you can’t feel your body. Why can’t you feel anything?

“Hey, it’s me! I’m coming!” Your blurry gaze darts around for the voice. Grey smoke slithers around the wooden beams. It takes a long time for a face to emerge in the fog.

Changbin leans over you, younger, thinner, a cut on his head bleeding profusely.

“Go,” you say, because he’s hurt and he needs to go now or he will never escape. You want to tell him what’s coming, tell him he needs to run, but he shakes his head before you can.

“I’m not leaving here without you.”

The weight leaves your chest all at once. Air rushes into your lungs and fills you like a cloud. You feel as though you are flying. When you open your eyes, you are sitting on a park bench. You have never seen this park before, blossoming in green and gold with summertime sunshine. The edge of your periphery blurs, obscuring shapes and bodies into glowing phantoms. Only one face is clear.

“I’m coming, I’m coming!” Changbin shouts. He runs across the field towards you. He is young, barely more than a child, but he curses like an old man when he reaches you.

“Fine, fine!” He throws his hands in the air. “You’re right, you’re faster. But I’m still stronger. Watch this, princess—”

He tackles you. You hear his laughter and your own, a youthful sound, twinkling with childish delight. You roll across the grass in a giggling frenzy.

The greenery darkens as you roll away. The park changes. When you look up, the trees are a mosaic of red and orange. Leaves drift on the autumn breeze.

“Do you ever think about what else you could do with your life?” Changbin asks.

You look at him. He is older, not a teenager but not fully grown. His face is still gawky with youth, his muscles growing in. He is staring up at the sky.

“No,” you hear yourself say.

He laughs but without much humour. His eyes close and he sighs, nodding.

“Ah, yeah,” he says. “I thought you might say that today.”

You turn your face to the trees as a leaf flutters towards you. It touches your forehead and sends a painful jolt rampaging through your body. You blink, blink, blink, up at the doctor and their syringe. They say you did well but you don’t feel well, your insides churning like every organ is folding itself inside out.

The doctor steps aside and you meet eyes with another child across the room. Changbin is holding his arm and rocking back and forth. He is the only one not crying.

You cross the room. It was brimming with screaming children but now it’s empty.

“It’s okay,” you hear your voice. You see your small hand reach out, touching Changbin on the forehead where he contorts with pain in his small cot. “You can cry,” you say. “I won’t tell anyone.”

In another blink, he is older, a teenager again, crying and curled up in his bunk.

“Changbin,” you hear yourself say.

“I’m fine,” he snaps.

“You’re not,” your voice says. “None of us are.” You see your hand on his shoulder. “It’s okay. You’re not alone. You’ve never been alone.”

“You’re going to get hurt. And then what?”

“Then I’ll get hurt,” you hear yourself reply, speaking with more certainty than you ever remember feeling. “You’re my friend, Changbin. I don’t mind if something happens to me. I don’t care if it hurts, because I won’t be doing it for Miroh. I’m doing it for you.”

You look down at his hand when he reaches for yours. When you look back up, he is grown, sitting on a windowsill in the moonlight with a small scar on his cheek.

“I didn’t bleed for Miroh,” he says.

You blink. The wooden beams are high above you, his bloodied face full of concern.

“I’m your soldier, not his.”

The weight slams back into your chest. All the air goes out of you. You are falling, endlessly falling, all the way down to where there is nothing but cold. The walls close around you. You feel the stone under your palm. You suck in a breath of cold air only to choke on water. There is a light above your head and voices, screaming. You twist and kick like a wild thing.

You get closer to the surface. You hear Chan say, “Stop, stop—”

Then you wake in your shared bed. His voice echoes in the waking world.

You realize that is because Chan is talking in his sleep. He keeps repeating, “Stop, stop.”

You shake off the last dredges of sleep. It is not easy, your heart still skipping beats from the rapid-fire scenes.

Chan is on his back, his chest rising and falling, fast asleep but clearly in the throes of a nightmare. You are not sure how to help. You chance a tentative touch, saying his name as you brush his shoulder.

He wakes with a start, his eyes flying open. You see the flicker of panic as he forgets where he is, still half-lost in his nightmare.

Chan is much faster than you. It takes only seconds for his instincts to commandeer control, then you are the one on your back and he is leaning over you. Fortunately, he does not swing his arms around like you. His manoeuvre gives him the advantage but he doesn’t hurt you, other than leaving you a little startled and winded.

“Chan,” you say. “It’s me. It’s fine. It was just a dream.”

He blinks away the vestiges of sleep. You see the moment he recognizes you, the tension that immediately leaves his shoulders.

You are surprised yet again when he abruptly drops his weight, practically smothering you as he cages you in his arms. You put your arms around him, patting his back until his breathing slows to a normal cadence.

He eventually rolls back over, but he hooks his arms around your middle and drags you close. A part of you wants to balk, scared this is too intimate, but your own heart settles in the quiet comfort of his embrace. You let yourself rest, falling asleep to the gentle rhythm of his breathing.

There are two nearby research facilities. It is a toss-up between the smaller, closer one or the bigger, farther one. You opt for the closer base, figuring a smaller facility would be easy to incapacitate quickly. You and Chan have knowledge about Miroh’s operation that no one in the world can match. You are the only ones who can do what you are doing, so they never see you coming.

You dismantle the base but Changbin is not there. The only place you see your friend is in your dreams, emerging from smoke and disappearing as fast, leaving you with his promises and your guilt.

It is so strange why your mind keeps summoning that same vision. It smashed through something in your mind, cracked it somehow, and now it can’t relinquish it.

It is strange what a stressed mind can conjure and invent. Even stranger is its inability to let go. These days, all your thoughts and feelings slip through your mind like water in a sieve, everything flowing too fast to catch despite the desperate cup of your hands. But that image and his voice returns again and again and again.

The only satisfaction you get is watching pieces of Miroh’s operation crumble. You watch the news, keep up with the business reports, and watch as a domino effect transpires thanks to your actions.

It does mean security is going to tighten at the remain bases, but you are ready.

You move on to the next facility, even more determined. For a moment, this seems like the place. You find other enemies and subject imprisoned in the lower level cells, but Changbin is not one of them.

Chan escorts the innocent captives out while you search the remainder of the facility. It is empty, an echoing steel chamber and little more. You want to shout his name but you already know the only answer will be the reverberation of your own voice.

You search every crevice, just in case.

Your attention is rapt until you run past a certain door. At first, you merely glance inside. When you see it is empty, you turn to continue.

It’s like a tether wraps around your mind. You slam to a halt, the squeak of your boots echoing in the corridor.

You turn back around. You step into the chamber.

Every hair on the back of your neck stands up. You swear, the temperature drops by a few degrees as you step further inside. If you didn’t know any better, you would almost believe it was haunted, not like in stories of decrepit mansions, but filled with empty figments still crying out in pain. The room is rife with an unsettling chill, dank as a tomb.

You walk slowly. You feel like the echo is louder here despite your careful steps. You look around. There is lots of wiring, lots of sockets. There are dusty shapes on the floor where things used to stand, types of furniture maybe, or machines.

There is a dip in the corner, what looks like a well. You approach it cautiously, craning your neck to peer down without getting too close. It is dry as bone but deep. You can’t see the bottom. Heights don’t usually bother you, but you feel suffocated with a cloying fear. Your feet tingle as you imagine falling. You know it must have a bottom but somehow you feel like it would never end.

You realize footsteps are approaching, fast down the corridor then slow as they enter the room. You put a hand on the gun at your hip, turning quickly.

It’s just Chan. You are about to speak, or at least try looking for works, but you are stricken by the look on his face. Even though he was fiery when you last saw him, he looks very gaunt, flushed pale as he looks around the room. He is not merely unsettled like you. He looks sick.

You immediately know where you are. This was the room they used to torture him.

“You know this place,” you say, not a question. You remember all those torture descriptions. They have haunted your nightmares, all those images so vivid that you imagined them happening to yourself. If it was horrifying just reading it, you can only imagine how he feels right now.

He nods. It takes a few tries to clear his throat. “Yes,” he says weakly. He looks between you and the well as if he half-expects it to grow teeth and attack you.

He shakes his head. He crosses the room in a sharp stride, so swift that it takes you back. He grabs your arm and yanks you towards him.

“Get away from there,” he says, his voice hard. “There’s nothing in here. We need to go. Now.”

You have no argument but he waits for no reply, practically dragging you out of the room. He leads you back into the corridor, taking huge strides. His grip tightens.

“Another second and that will hurt,” you say, more calm than you feel. His energy is so panicked that it bleeds into you.

He drops your arm quickly, snapping to realization. He flexes his gloved hand.

“Sorry,” he says. He turns on his heel with a swivel so fast that you collide. He catches your shoulders and holds them, looking at you without really seeing you, his stare so intense it bores right through you. “Sorry,” he says again. His voice is shaking when he says, “Fuck. I’m sorry. I just—”

“It’s fine,” you say, understanding how overwhelming that must have been. There are tears in his eyes but he rips away before you can look too closely.

“It’s fine,” he says, his voice hard again. “There’s no one else here. It’s time to go. This place…” He spares one last glance over your shoulder. “This place is over. It’s time to go.”

You leave together.

You take a day for recuperation while you plan you next move. Neither of you slept very well last night, but at least there were no nightmares. You take turns driving, occasionally sleeping in the passenger seat.

You reach the next motel at sunset. The room only has one bed which draws Chan to a halt. He blinks at it like he doesn’t understand, then his ears get red, then he looks at you.

A laugh bursts out of you. You try to contain it but it’s hopeless. Chan smiles then laughs too, shaking his head and rubbing his neck.

“Sorry,” you say. “Just – you don’t think it’s a little late to be blushing like that? Mister Does This Count As Kissing?”

“Wow,” Chan says, playfully throwing his hands up in surrender. “Sorry for being a gentleman.”

“You’re forgiven,” you say, making him smile.

You eat dinner on the bed then place all the containers to the side. Chan watches the news while you scribble memos in your notebook. You are trying to connect dots and figure out which facility is most likely. You go back to your original notes, obtained from the first research facility, to see if you missed anything.

You fall asleep while working. The week’s travails evidently catch up to you.

You stir when Chan tries to move you. You are awkwardly slumped over your notes. You watch as he carefully places them aside and tries to lay you down properly.

The sun has long since set by now. The room is lit by the glow of the television and the warm neon light from the motel sign, such a vibrant yellow it pours through the curtains.

You look up at Chan, squinting because of the slash of light in your eyes. He tilts his head to shield you.

“Better?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you say. “Thanks.”

“Yeah, no problem.”

He doesn’t move. Neither do you. You are on your back and he is on his side, propped up on his arm and looking down at you. You offer a little smile which draws his eyes to your mouth.

Your breath catches and, just like that, something ignites inside you. You see it reflected back at you, all his thoughts in the depth of his gaze.

You are not sure who moves first. It might happen simultaneously. It only takes a second before your fingers are in his hair and his hands are on your waist. He climbs over you, his mouth brushing your jaw and your throat without ever landing a kiss. You shiver as his breath caresses your skin.

You had no idea so many small places were so sensitive. Even the back of your calf tingles when his leg brushes yours.

You move in tandem, with the same synchronisation as when you fought together. Your bodies are a good fit, shaped by similar lives, bearing similar scars. You tug the flannel down his shoulders and sit to remove your own shirt. When you are completely bare up top, he lays you down. Your hips lift towards him, needing him, legs parting as he presses his weight just so. He guides your leg over his hip and fits himself against the softest parts of you.

He presses a hand into the mattress, right by your head. You tip your head back and grind up against him.

“Chan,” you say.

His mouth hovers above your breasts and you grab his head and pull him close. He takes the offer and parts his lips around the hardening sensitive peak, twisting his tongue around it until you are writhing under him.

“Oh god,” you say, tugging desperately at his t-shirt. You normally don’t care about fully undressing, but you need to feel him. You want his heart beating against yours, his skin hot against your own. “Please,” you say, not even embarrassed when it turns to a whimper.

He makes a small noise, acknowledging you, but continues to lave kisses and bites across your breasts, teasing until they are almost sore with pleasure. Only when you are a mindless puddle of desire does he sit up and whip his shirt off. It flies across the room, forgotten. You both unbutton your jeans and shuffle them down. The few seconds you are apart are agony.

When he lays back on top of you, it is with no barriers. He holds your hand and laces your fingers with his, pressing it into the mattress as he spreads your legs with his own.

“You feel so—” he says, sentiment ending in a sigh. No other word suffices.

Your whole body feels alight. His thumb find the centre of your pleasure, rubbing at you while he sinks inside you. He is somehow both gentle and powerful, holding you at the best angle as he takes you. You are used to fast and dirty and this slow tenderness aches with a burn so good, you never want it to end.

“Chan,” you say his name on a breath. He releases your hand so you can put your arms around his shoulders, holding him as he rocks into you with rolling, deep strokes.

His face is so close. Your mouth is aching with the rest of you. His lips felt so good everywhere else. The delirium of desire takes over and you decide, fuck it. You have done this much, changed this much; you can be brave and accept more intimacy. It’s just a kiss. There’s nothing life-changing about a kiss.

You lean up to kiss him but you are too fast, too frantic with nerves. It lands awkwardly on the corner of his mouth. Then you feel embarrassed. You shake your head.

“Sorry,” you say. “Sorry, I was just—”

Chan is frozen on top of you. He stares while you stammer an apology.

Then his nose brushes yours. You feel his breath against your lips. You stop talking. Your heart thunders.

“I told you,” he whispers, “stop apologizing.”

Then his lips are on yours. Your eyes close as you follow the give-and-take of his kiss. Your lips part and his tongue touches your top lip, then he sucks your bottom lip and moans against your open mouth. You clench around him, moaning back. His hips move again and you cling to him. The kisses start small and grow to desperate, open-mouthed passion. Coupled with his deep strokes, getting faster and faster, you feel like you are flying.

Oh, is all you think, this is what this is supposed to feel like.

You come first, the orgasm taking you by surprise. It was steadily building at a small pace before all at once striking. You cry out, burying your fingers in his hair as you rock against him. He finishes only seconds later, groaning your name in the curve of your neck then sucking a bruising kiss right there.

You hold him after, your fingers stroking down the nape of his neck, your legs wrapped around him. It feels like years before your heart comes back to a normal pace. Your breathing still comes shaky, but so does his. His strong arms seem suddenly weak as he pushes himself up with a quiver.

You separate. You try to find the words but you mind still feels like water.

You are so floaty, it takes a second to realize something is wrong. Chan is crying, or about to, sniffling hard and scrunching his face to stop it.

“Chan—”

Alarmed, you reach for him, but he moves before your hand makes contact. He gets up and wordlessly puts on his jeans and a flannel, buttoning it askew. You grab your shirt as well, tugging it on frantically to keep up.

“Chan,” you say again. “What’s wrong? Did I—”

“It wasn’t you,” he says, but he won’t look at you. He sits on a chair and starts putting on his boots. That’s when you really panic, jumping out of bed and looking for your own pants. “Stay,” he says. “It’s fine. It’s not you. It’s me.”

“It’s not you, it’s me?” you ask. “Seriously?”

“It’s my fault,” he says. “You said right now and that you were fine without the past or the future and I thought – I thought I could – but –”

He grabs his baseball cap and tugs it on. You say his name again, reaching for his sleeve as he walks past, but he does not break stride for a second.

You can’t exactly chase after him half-naked. You know he will be long gone by the time you get dressed. You can only stand there in shock and confusion as the door closes and he disappears.

You sniffle. You shake your head, refusing to cry, not after everything.

Your body does not listen to your head, unsurprisingly, and you end up sputtering through messy tears while putting on some clothes. You wipe your eyes, fighting an upward battle against your hormones as all those happy, pleasurable feelings melt into something ugly.

Chan returns almost an hour later. By that point, you have passed through several different emotions. You were worried, of course, then you were sad. Now you are irate. You were left to stew in anxiety, sitting on edge. For a while you wondered if he was coming back at all, which set off more tears.

You are certain your face is puffy and your eyes are red. Chan looks at you with a guilty expression but says nothing.

“Well?” you say, but he just stares at you. You are sitting on the edge of the bed while he stands a few feet away. “Great,” you say, smacking the bedcovers. “Fucking fantastic. We’re back to the silence, I guess?”

“I know,” he says. “Sorry.”

You wait for more but that non-committal reply is all you get.

“You told me that you trusted me,” you say, mortified when your voice breaks. “You said that one day it would be my turn to help you, but every time you start to feel something you hide it or turn away or say you’re fine or run out the fucking door with no explanation!” You stand up to put more space between you, marching to other side of the room. You wipe your eyes. “You know, I feel like I don’t even know who I’m talking to half the time.”

“I’m always me,” he says.

“And who is that?” you ask. “From the start, you’ve basically asked me to blindly trust you. One second you’re this terrifying agent who does everything my father asks, and the next you’re just standing there letting me kill him. I haven’t demanded explanations. You said it was just your mission and I accepted that, even though I knew it was bullshit. I know this is about more than jobs or missions and I – I – I’m sorry everything’s all fucked up. But we’re all we have right now.” Your voice breaks again and you choke back a sob. “You can’t ask me to trust you then push me away. You can’t say you trust me but never let me in. I’m terrified out here. We’re doing something insane and I can’t have the person I’m relying on the most shove me away. I want to be on your side. Chan, I want – I want so badly –”

He takes a breath but stays silent. His gaze is heavy.

“Please, don’t look at me like that,” you say. “I know you’re not what Miroh tried to make you. I know what they did to you. I know it was terrible. But I’m not afraid of you and I’m not judging you. I want to know you. I need to know you. I know you can remember some things. I know it’s causing you pain. If I could understand—”

“I remember everything,” he says.

You are not expecting an interjection. It takes a second to comprehend.

“What?” you say.

“I said I remember everything,” he says. He looks at you as he slowly approaches. “There isn’t a single moment of my life that I’ve forgotten for even a second.”

He stops a foot from you. This close, you can see he has been crying too. Even through your frustration, you want to touch him. You are so bad at comfort, receiving and giving, but your fingers itch to smooth his brow and cup his jaw.

You curl your fingers at your side.

“Everyday,” he says. “Every single day I think of my mistakes and what it cost. I haven’t forgotten anything.”

“What do you mean?” Your adrenaline is starting to spike. “There was a reconfiguration program. I know about it. That’s how it happened.” You know about the torture. You can see the light at the top of the well and feel the cold in the bottom of the Cell. You know about it. You can picture it. You saw that place yesterday.

You know. You know. You know.

Your chest starts to tighten with panic.

“You did all of Miroh’s work willingly,” you continue.

“Yes, I did,” he says. “But it wasn’t willingly.”

“Because they tortured you.”

“In a way.” He sucks back a breath. “I thought I was smart. I thought I could beat Miroh. I almost did, but then everything—”

A memory from a dream: a flash of grey smoke.

“It went wrong,” he says with a resigned sigh. “I was punished. That’s true. But I didn’t care what they did to me and Miroh knew that. So he took someone else. Someone I cared about. And when it was all done, I was given a choice.” His voice breaks on the word choice, the whole phrase utterly dryly. “And it wasn’t really a choice,” he says. “I could walk away. He wasn’t even going to try and stop me. But Miroh wanted a soldier. He said all the blood on his hands was going somewhere one way or another – and he said it could be on mine or hers.”

You are not sure if you are breathing anymore.

“The things they did to her – the things they made me watch.” He presses a hand to his forehead as he takes another breath. “She was a good fighter, but she wasn’t a killer. It never mattered what they did to her, she always knew who she was. She knew whose side she was on. She wanted to help people, not hurt them. I couldn’t let her become that thing. If she ever – if she ever came back to me—” He swallows. “I couldn’t let it be her. I couldn’t let her have all that blood on her conscious. I’d already failed her. Again and again, I let her down. I couldn’t do it again. I told Miroh I’d take her place willingly. I’d do anything he asked so she wouldn’t have to get her hands dirty. She could come back one day and… and…”

“What are you talking about,” you say. You fumble towards the bed and drop down heavily.

Chan looks at you. That silent conversation.

You already know what he is going to say.

“Miroh only put one soldier through a reconfiguration program,” he says. “And it wasn’t me. It was you.”

#bang chan x reader #bang chan smut #chan x reader #bang chan x you #chan x you #bang chan fanfiction #stray kids fanfiction #skz x reader #stray kids x reader #skz x you #stray kids x you

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hd-wireless · 1 month

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📻🎶 H/D WIRELESS 2024 - REVEALS

At last, the day you’ve been waiting for! It’s the REVEALS!

🎵 Raise your glass if you are wrong In all the right ways All my Drarry fans We will never be never be, anything but loud And nitty gritty dirty little freaks (fond) Won't you come on and come on and raise your glass! Just come on and come on and raise your glass!! 🎵

🥂

Time to raise our glass and toast all of the talented people who created your favourite Wireless fics, artworks and podfics!

Massive thanks once again to all the creators of our works. And thanks also to all the readers, betas and supporters of H/D Wireless!

Before we reveal, let's put our hands together for the winners of the guessing game.

🥇1st place: @tackytigerfic with 33 correct guesses!

🥈2nd place: @citrusses with 20 correct

🥉3rd: place: @peachydreamxx with 18 correct

And we can reveal that the fic writer that was guessed correctly the most was @lqtraintracks ! And the most recognised artist was @getawayfox!!! 🤩

On to REVEALS! So... without further ado... 🥁

🎶 H/D Wireless Art 🎶

📻 Fly Away with Me Tonight? [Gen, Digital Art]

✏️ Artist: @quail-in-red

🎵 Song Prompt: Levitating by Dua Lipa 🎵Summary: A chance meeting, an invitation to dance

📻 ghost (might as well be gone) [Gen, Digital ]

✏️ Artist: @dragontamerdame (dragontamerdrarry)

🎵 Song Prompt: Might as Well Be Gone by Pixies 🎵 Summary: Draco Malfoy retired from the Auror force and left England a decade ago, but he still receives the Daily Prophet. Today’s issue provides closure on the one case he was never able to officially solve.

📻 MY FRIENDS SAY I SHOULDN'T SEE YOU ANYMORE [T, Digital Art ]

✏️ Artist: @bicholsdrarrysideblog (bichol)

🎵 Song Prompt: bad idea right? by Olivia Rodrigo 🎵 Summary: Both Draco's and Harry's friends don't approve of their little... dalliance. But it's so hard to stay away from each other! Could this be a bit more than just casual?

📻 He Did IT! [Not Rated, Digital Art]

✏️ Artist: @legendrarry (whileatwiltshire)

🎵 Song Prompt: No Body, No Crime by Taylor Swift 🎵 Summary: Harry: I think he did it but I just can't prove it, 'Mione!! Hermione: And, what exactly did he do, Harry? Harry: I-, I don't know! Something! He has to! It feels weird every time I look at him!! Hermione: ..... Ron: ...... Ron: Mate... ***** Or, it's sixth year and Malfoy is definitely up to something! Why else would Harry's heart beat so fast every time the stupid git so much as looks at him!?!

📻 A Quiet Life [T, Digital art]

✏️ Artist: @getawayfox

🎵 Song Prompt: A Quiet Life by Teho Teardo & Blixa Bargeld 🎵 Summary: After their relationship becomes public knowledge; after being hounded by the paparazzi; after Draco says enough is enough and leaves London; Harry’s more than happy to follow. After all, a quiet life is all he’s ever wanted.

📻 The Shape I found you in [Not Rated, Digital art]

✏️ Artist: @veneficusposts (innifinity)

🎵 Song Prompt: 'The Shape I found you in' by 'Girlyman' 🎵 Summary: But your heart was busy within, Building bomb shelters under your skin. That's the shape I found you in

🎶 H/D Wireless Fic and Art 🎶

📻 Trade My Heart For Honey [M, 64.170, Digital Watercolour]

✏️ 🖋️ Artist and Author: @thunderfiction (MyNameIsThunder)

🎵 Prompt: Water Under The Bridge by Adele 🎵 Summary: A Witch who thinks she’s a Seer, a Seer who thinks she’s a Witch, a former nemesis-turned-something-turned-acquaintance who thinks they could be friends, and a Scottish village full of Muggles who think this is as much their business as the fair folk in the woods. Draco is going to prove them all wrong.

📻 Thunder [E, 11,325, digital]

✏️ 🖋️ Artist/Author: @cavendishbutterfly / @fictional (milkandhoney)

🎵 Song Prompt: "Dreams" by Fleetwood Mac 🎵 Summary: Harry and Ginny are on a break. Harry and Ginny don’t want anyone to know. Harry assumes Ginny is fucking their way through their Quidditch team. Harry punches Draco Malfoy in the face in his free time. Harry considers this a perfectly reasonable coping mechanism. Harry figures that as long as he keeps everything the way that it is, that everything will stay the same, and nothing bad will happen, and Ginny will stay with him, and Malfoy will keep quietly visiting his dreams.

🎶 H/D Wireless Fic 🎶

📻 You're on Your Own, Kid [E, 44.274]

🖋️ Author: @thesleepiesthufflepuff (bluefay)

🎵 Song Prompt: You're on Your Own, Kid by Taylor Swift 🎵 Summary: In August of 1998, Draco leaves behind everything he’s ever known. With the help of two middle-aged lesbians, a Muggle bookshop, and a new best friend, Draco’s future is finally looking up. That is, until Harry Potter wanders back into his life a year later, undoing everything Draco has worked towards. Or, a tale about healing, forgiveness, and living for no one but yourself.

📻 Heartbeat [E, 22,791]

🖋️ Author: @saxamophone (eight_of_wands)

🎵 Prompt: Heartbeat by Childish Gambino 🎵 Summary: Harry hates Draco, and Draco hates him in return. Only it's not hate, not even a little bit. Featuring: a cooperative independent study, golden hour on wrecked sheets, strawberries in the summer at Grimmauld Place, water from fountains of (dubious) origin, purple Mardi Gras beads, and a bird with silly legs. Also featuring: heated arguments, infidelity, unquenchable desire, and heartbreak. Over and over again.

📻 Long for Bliss! [E, 9,400]

🖋️ Author: @thusspoketrish (Trishjames)

🎵 Song Prompt: This Must Be It by Röyksopp 🎵 Summary: Harry has a tough decision to make: take the blue pill or the red pill. He chooses a pink one instead and throws caution to the wind. What blows back comes in the form of a blond fallen angel that talks like he’s the Devil and, hopefully, fucks as deliciously as he moves. Or: Harry tries MDMA for the first time and unexpectedly encounters a mysteriously captivating Draco at KOKO London. “Dragon caught your tongue?” Malfoy asks around his candy. Harry’s voice is an awed whisper as he feasts upon the strangely delicate, alien splendour of Malfoy. “Yes, you have.”

📻 Going Down Swinging [E, 4,661 ]

🖋️ Author: @sleepstxtic

🎵 Song Prompt: Hello Mudduh, Hello Fadduh! by Allan Sherman 🎵 Summary: “Who are you?” he asked, feeling around for a truly abominable pair of glasses he fixed firmly above his nose. “I’m Draco,” he answered. “Draco—” He paused. It wasn’t that he couldn’t remember; it was that the memory wasn’t there.

📻 The Most He’s Ever Said [E,16,431]

🖋️ Author: @fastbrother

🎵 Song Prompt: One of Your Girls by Troye Sivan 🎵 Summary: It takes them twenty years.

📻 Draco Malfoy’s Guide to Seduction (DISCLAIMER: not guaranteed to work on one HJ Potter) [M, 11,107 ]

🖋️ Author: skotini

🎵 Song Prompt: 'Push the button' by 'Sugababes' 🎵 Summary: Harry's gorgeous. Draco wants him. Draco's exasperatedly trying to get him to get. the. message.

📻 karma is a (cat) [E, 8,714 ]

🖋️ Author: @ravenesse

🎵 Song Prompt: Karma by Taylor Swift 🎵 Summary: Draco knew that his karma would come one to him one day and make him pay for all the mistakes he made during the war. But he didn’t expect for it to have four legs, white whiskers, and a soft bushy tail.

📻 Kiss and Tell [E, 27,786 ]

🖋️ Author: @drarrysworld (use_it_well)

🎵 Song Prompt: Kiss and Tell by Bryan Ferry 🎵 Summary: Sometimes, Harry really fucking hated being himself. All he wanted was to be left alone. That, and someone to share his life with. Was that too much to ask? Apparently so. When Harry’s sex-life was plastered across the front page of the Daily fucking Prophet, he decided to get away until it all died down. Unfortunately, trouble had always known how to find him. Would it be possible to forgive the unforgivable?

📻 When the Flood Comes [E, 10,340]

🖋️ Author: @academicdisasterfic

🎵 Song Prompt: Eat Your Young by Hozier 🎵 Summary: Nine years on from the war, Auror Potter is upholding the Ministry of Magic's rule of law. Senior legal counsel Draco Malfoy is challenging it. And absolutely nothing is as it seems.

📻 Never Getting Over You [E, 4,396]

🖋️ Author: @arminaa8

🎵 Prompt: Attention by Charlie Puth 🎵 Summary: Harry finally gets the push he needs to fight for what he's lost after a breakup that no one wanted.

📻 Mermaid [E, 3,000]

🖋️ Author: @lettersbyelise

🎵 Song Prompt: 'Mermaids' by Florence and The Machine 🎵 Summary: “Your magic,” Harry says. “It’s gone.” “It’s a curse,” Draco says, sounding wry. “Courtesy of Aunt Bellatrix. Disown a Black, and you’ll take their magic away, too. Even if their family name is Malfoy.” “What could bring your magic back?” Draco laughs in his ear. “True love’s kiss," he murmurs. And then he turns in Harry’s arms.

📻 Us, infinite (unfortunately) [E, 77,287 ]

🖋️ Author: @thecouchsofa

🎵 Song Prompt: All Things End by Hozier 🎵 Summary: It’s very fitting for how Harry’s life has gone thus far that he gets trapped in a time loop without rhyme, reason, or warning. To make matters infinitely worse, the one other person stuck on the same hellish chronological ride is Draco Malfoy, git extraordinaire.

📻 I made loving you a blood sport (so let's play) [E, 3,032]

🖋️ Author: @otpcutie

🎵 Song Prompt: Blood Sport by Sleep Token 🎵 Summary: They sat in an odd kind of silence, comfortable in its discomfort. In the predictability of its recklessness. The thing between them was as palpable as the thick smoke in the air, consumed with every breath, and likely just as bad for them.

📻 Everything that can go wrong will go wrong [T, 5,178]

🖋️ Author: @etteishere (Etteee)

🎵 Song Prompt: If You Were Mine by Leon Bridges and Miranda Lambert 🎵 Summary: “You can move in with me!” Shit. Apparently there was still a possibility to make a fool out of himself to his crush despite his best efforts at minimizing contact. Draco and Andromeda looked at him in record speed, showing their own expressions of confusion. Maybe at his appearing out of nowhere, maybe at his panting that made it seem like he just ran a marathon for some reason, or maybe at his abrupt and impulsive suggestion. Shit. Teddy wasn’t even here to take off the edge—Harry was completely alone in this one. After a pause, Draco fully turned to him with a manner that definitely showed his opinion of how stupid Harry was, and asked, “What?”

📻 Antelucan Ruins [E, 29,453]

🖋️ Author: @rainjulyx

🎵 Song Prompt: Ghost by Justin Bieber 🎵 Summary: From the bloody Prophet, Draco discovers Harry Potter’s death splashed in grey ink printed on the front page. Potter is dead before Draco gets to see him again to fulfil a half-spoken promise. And yet, these days Draco has the power to bend the world to his heart’s desires, and that includes fucking Harry Potter even after he personally saw Potter’s pale, lifeless body lying in a coffin before it got buried under the soil. — "Do you realise that you're just as pathetic and insane? You're so hung up on the idea of me that you'd fuck a ghost, Malfoy. You risked your life for it." Draco puts an arm around Potter's body, "Whoever says I am sane? Certainly not me. It's calculated risk with more success rate than failure. And you are dead, Potter. You refuse to move on to the next realm because you crave for my cock."

📻 I've Been There (sitting in that same chair) [Gen, 2,212]

🖋️ Author: @dreamingandwideawake (KatIsSleeping)

🎵 Song Prompt: The Village by Wrabel 🎵 Summary: People keep knocking on Draco’s door. Draco just wants to read his book (he doesn’t mind, really). Or: Draco gets to be the supportive queer person he’d wished for when he was younger.

📻 Lonely Rivers [M, 7,370]

🖋️ Author: @enparallel

🎵 Song Prompt: 'Unchained Melody' by 'The Righteous Brothers' 🎵 Summary: Six years after the end of the war, Harry takes care of Teddy Lupin and has started to learn guitar. Hermione negotiates with foreign powers. Draco's a trainee Healer with a glam karaoke routine. And when Ron and Parvati decide to get married, they find a job for everyone...

📻 How to Begin [E, 8,478]

🖋️ Author: @wolfpants

🎵 Song Prompt: Blush by Orville Peck 🎵 Summary: Harry is completely, pathetically besotted with his flatmate, Draco. Fuelled by liquid courage, he finally makes his move when he's absolutely sozzled. What could possibly go wrong?

📻 Oneiros [E, 13,125]

🖋️ Author: Mischievous (meandminniemcg)

🎵 Song Prompt: Enter Sandman by Metallica 🎵 Summary: When contact with a weird vase traps Harry in his nightmares, it's Unspeakable Draco Malfoy's task to rescue him. In order to do so, he will have to face his past and his family history and win a duel of wits against a Morpheus and try to be better than his father each step of the way...

📻 Say When [E, 24,545]

🖋️ Author: @lqtraintracks

🎵 Song Prompt: Undisclosed Desires by Muse 🎵 Summary: When Auror Harry Potter is sent in undercover to determine if Draco Malfoy is laundering money through his BDSM club, will he be able to keep up the ruse and close the case? Or, more to the point, will he keep from falling in love?

📻 crawlin' helpless on the floor [M, 1,525]

🖋️ Author: @stationintern

🎵 Song Prompt: Cure For Pain by Morphine 🎵 Summary: It doesn't take much to torment a man when he's three broken contracts away from being out of a job and down a newspaper.

📻 Hell is the talkin' type [E, 7,309]

🖋️ Author: @avigethblogs (avigethwrites)

🎵 Song Prompt: Dinner and Diatribes by Hozier 🎵 Summary: “Morgana, I need a drink,” Draco sighs. “Why did I let you convince me to participate in this torture again?” Harry chuckles. “Because I’m your husband, and you love me?” he offers. “Bah. Remind me not to let myself be so sentimental next time.”

📻 Mr Blue Sky [E, 69,024]

🖋️ Author: @doingthechachaslide (dothechachaslide)

🎵 Song Prompt: ‘Mr. Blue Sky’ by ‘Electric Light Orchestra’ 🎵 Summary: Mr Blue Sky, please tell us why, you had to hide away for so long... After five years, Malfoy had finally escaped house arrest, and he moved in just a few streets down from Grimmauld Place. Overnight, the Daily Prophet seemed to fall in love with him. For his charity work, and his charming smile, and—Harry was sure—his prattish fucking personality. No matter how hard Harry tried, he couldn't stop running into him. He had bigger problems, though. His best friends in the world were having a baby together, which was fantastic, except that they weren't sure he could hold it together well enough to be Godfather. But despite being flat broke, with a dead dad, and no one willing to risk hiring him, Malfoy appeared to be completely in control of the narrative surrounding his newfound freedom. Maybe Harry could learn a thing or two from the best of the best. After all, he had the entire pregnancy to convince Ron and Hermione he was perfectly, entirely, 100% fine. If sometimes he had to fistfight Malfoy about it, well, that was nothing new.

📻 'tis the damn season [M, 2,892]

🖋️ Author: @phoebe-delia

🎵 Song Prompt: 'tis the damn season by Taylor Swift 🎵 Summary: He doesn’t know why the universe seems to keep placing him in Potter’s proximity every time he returns to London. He doesn’t know how they keep falling into bed, every year, like clockwork. Draco has tried not to question it.

📻 Tecum Ad Astra [M, 3,257]

🖋️ Author: @apricitydays-lazynights (apricitydays)

🎵 Song Prompt: Levitating by Dua Lipa 🎵 Summary: It's Friday night and Harry Potter is relaxing with a good book in front of a crackling fire. But he should be at the club.

📻 Music to my ears [E, 13,190]

🖋️ Author: MissQuigley

🎵 Song Prompt: River flows in You, Yiruma 🎵 Summary: Harry is completely captivated by the beautiful music played on a street piano at a park in Cambridge. He is, however, unprepared for whom the pianist turns out to be.

📻 Pancakes for Dinner [T, 2,176]

🖋️ Author: @kittycargo

🎵 Song Prompt: Pancakes for Dinner by Lizzie McAlpine 🎵 Summary: Draco’s on a trip to visit Harry in his new city at his new job. He’s not brave enough to say how he really feels.

📻 Seasons [E, 9,314]

🖋️ Author: @greattemptation

🎵 Song Prompt: Águas de Março (Waters of March) by Antônio Carlos Jobim 🎵 Summary: Seconds pass, and it’s like he can see Draco worrying the sliver of glass in his heart, looking for a way to press it out, to expose the wound to the sun. It’s life; Harry can be patient.

📻 Two Houses [E, 11,498]

🖋️ Author: @tackytigerfic

🎵 Song Prompt: Social Cues by Cage the Elephant 🎵 Summary: Two households, both alike in... meddling Floo connections, apparently? Draco Malfoy is a highly professional and well-respected Ministry official, with a demanding schedule, a loving son, and—through no fault of his own—a faulty Floo connection that keeps regurgitating the Minister for Magic through his fireplace.

�� Perpetual Motion, Perpetual Sound [E, 51,165]

🖋️ Author: @dodgerkedavra

🎵 Song Prompt: Perpetual Motion, Perpetual Sound by Lovers 🎵 Summary: Harry Potter can’t sleep.

📻 Closing Time [E, 18,406]

🖋️ Author: @sweet-s0rr0w

🎵 Song Prompt: 'Closing Time' by 'Semisonic' 🎵 Summary: Draco’s been invited to Neville’s stag party in Bristol, and he's confident he knows what to expect. There’ll be too many Gryffindors, for starters, plus a few humiliating team-building activities, some dodgy clubs, and a truly preposterous level of alcohol consumption. But… a drunken Harry Potter climbing into Draco's bed when he’s having a wank? No, he definitely didn't see that coming...

📻 every scrap of you (you left them all to me) [E, 54,191]

🖋️ Author: @peachydreamxx

🎵 Song Prompt: marjorie by taylor swift 🎵 Summary: Twelve years on from the war, Harry finds himself in an endless cycle of bedding Draco Malfoy, and waking up alone. Desperate to understand why Draco won't give him a chance to be something more, he commits to courting the slippery blond git. But there's a reason Draco can't fall for him, and Harry will go to the darkest depths to change that.

📻 What are you doing Sunday, baby? [M, 12,034]

🖋️ Author: @badwolfblues

🎵 Song Prompt: Disco 2000 by Pulp 🎵 Summary: Draco needs a respectable husband to strengthen his reputation before his in-laws try to take Scorpius from him. Who better than his ex, the independently wealthy, out and proud single father, Harry Potter?

📻 Too Good At Raising Hell [E, 87,462]

🖋️ Author: @the-sinking-ship

🎵 Song Prompt: 'Too Good At Raising Hell' by 'The Struts' 🎵 Summary: When Harry Potter walks into Draco’s nightclub looking like trouble, Draco can’t stop staring. He really ought to train his dick not to react so enthusiastically to red flags, but where would be the fun in that?

🎶 H/D Wireless Podfic 🎶

📻 [Podfic] Move, move [T, 54:30 ]

🎤 Podficcer: @sweatersinthesummer

🎵 Song Prompt: Bar Italia by Pulp 🎵 Summary: She grabbed Harry’s hand, slipping something small into it and pressing his fingers around it. “Dilectio. It’ll cheer you up. Make you feel like dancing.” Harry gaped at her. Drugs. Ginny’s fucking giving me drugs? At Stasis nightclub Ginny does indeed give Harry drugs. But it's all good: Malfoy looks after Harry, and Harry grapples with newfound enlightenments, not to mention a newfound fascination with all things Malfoy—one which persists even when he finds out what Malfoy's up to.

📻 [Podfic] A Different Kind of Meaning by p1013 [E, 01:42:57]

🎤 Podficcer: @reveriepi

🎵 Song Prompt: 'Outnumbered' by Dermot Kennedy 🎵 Summary: The ceiling doesn't hold any answers, but there are cobwebs scattered across the corners with shadows tangled in their threads. The rug against his back is rough and scratchy, threadbare and devoid of colours other than various shades of brown. Harry takes it all in, absorbs the dingy and depressed state of his home. There's a pointed moment of decision, a note about to be played, a silence about to end, and then he rolls to his feet and sets to cleaning. It's the first constructive thing he's done in years.

📻 [Podfic] Case of You [Et, 11:48:56]

🎤 Podficcer: @cailynwrites

🎵 Song Prompt: Case of You by Joni Mitchell 🎵 Summary: Draco was doing just fine working as an Unspeakable in Paris, hanging out with his living and ghostly pals, inventing new spells, and definitely not thinking about Potter. Then, Lucius just had to break out of prison and turn his world upside down. Now, Draco has to return to England, where he is forced to confront how family ties bind us—and one infuriatingly fit Harry Potter.

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