I love it when he tortures me, and the evil way he’s smirking, like he’s enjoying a particularly gruesome daydream, promises some delicious torment in the near future. He takes out his phone and my stomach riots with butterflies because I justknowhe’s not working right now, he’s doing something sneaky and manipulative for me. I love that about him.
The helicopter tilts and a crackle of static comes into my headset, the voice of our pilot grainy and metallic. “Prepare for landing.”
We drop fast and I let out an unintentional hoot, a mix of a scream and a whoop of glee. I don’t blink and I barely breathe as we rapidly approach a beautiful building surrounded by nature, with a heli-pad on the roof. The helicopter hovers abruptly over the pad, and we touch down far more gently than I expected. I’m both relieved and disappointed.
I didn’t want to crash or anything, but like, I did kind of expect it to be more eventful.
Young-gi is already unbuckled, obviously used to helicopters and not dazed like me. Before I can process the fact that we’ve landed and the sensory overload of the blades is slowing down above our heads, he’s crouched in front of me and working on my straps.
I pull the headset off tentatively, now that the noise is dying down. Young-gi unwraps me like a gift and I shudder. My dick gets hard and then soft because I’m kind of still broken. I start to get up, but he grips my legs and shoves them up, bending me almost in half in the seat, pinning me back into the chair.
“Shit–” I wheeze. “I’m not this flexible–”
“You like being held down,” Young-gi comments idly.
“That’s no secret,” I puff as I wriggle, only to realize how stuck and helpless I am. My dick immediately gets hard again, but only half because I shouldn’t like this, should I? I mean, I do, I know I do, and I’ve always been in the middle of a spanking when heholds me down, so maybe I just didn’t think about it too hard before, but is it okay for me to like this after what I’ve been through?
Young-gi lets my legs drop and pulls me in for a hard, distracting kiss. I’m panting when he pulls back, but he grips my chin in a firm hold, a stern warning. “Don’t think any lies, Tommy.”
“I–” I swallow. “I’m not.”
“Hm,” he seems unconvinced, but since I didn’t voice my doubts aloud, he has no confirmation of his suspicions.
How does he always seem to know when I’m getting lost in an anxiety spiral, anyway? Do I give myself away? Or is he just that good at reading me? Am I predictable?
Whatever the reason, I hope it never changes.
“Let’s go,” he hums, a soft and predatory gleam, warm and threatening. A strange mix that is uniquely him, uniquely ours. “We’ve got an idiot to deal with.”
“He’s mine,” I say breathlessly as he opens the helicopter doors and pulls me out. He keeps my head low with a huge hand in my hair, even though the blades above us are spinning fairly slowly now. I grunt in annoyance, and once we’re out from under the huge flying death machine, I yank myself away, sputtering and smacking at his hand.
I justlovewhen he gives me chances to be a brat. He always praises me for giving him chances to remind me of his care, to pass ‘tests’ as he puts it. But sometimes he sets it up so smoothly. Like roleplay. I’m not constantly melting down anymore, but I still need his reassurance, so he gives me opportunities to act out.
“Fuck off,” I snap, scowling at him, leaning into my role.
His brick-wall expression might fool anyone else, but me? I see the way one corner of his mouth deepens, I see the way hisfingers flex at his sides, like he’s already thinking about grabbing me.
He doesn’t even say anything. He just stares at me.
“Fuck, I love you,” I say unthinkingly, because now I’m hornyandemotional.
“And I’ll never let you forget it,” he promises darkly. Shit, he makes everything good between us sound like the best kind of threat. “Let’s get this over with. I have plans for you.”
We’re ushered through a rooftop entrance by clinic staff, and I curiously take in the casual opulence. It looks nothing like the ER rooms I’ve occasionally visited in the past, or the pediatrician I went to once or twice as a kid, before I had bruises to hide. It’s fancy and cushy and annoyingly pretty. Now I’m scowling for real because fuck rich people. Brian doesn’t deserve all this nice shit.
The clinic staff points us to reception and Young-gi puts his hand on my lower back as we approach. The warm weight of his touch grounds me, keeps me from throwing things because fuck all this shit.
The reception desk is huge and glossy and sparkling clean. But it’s not empty. An older couple wait there for us, in front of the desk, watching us walk toward them like we’re devils on earth. I take them in with a critical eye and find them lacking.
They both have a vaguely plastic look to them, like they’ve had just a little bit too much work done in an attempt to stay young. But despite the work, I can tell they’re in their late fifties at least. The woman’s frame is sharp and hollow, and she wrings her delicate hands. The husband is pale, he swallows hard, but the sight of me makes both of them turn red. Their expressions contort with a combination of disgust, anger, and fear.
Ha. Fuck them.
“Mr and Mrs Vandmorson,” Young-gi greets them coldly. A glacial wind would be more welcoming than his voice. “So glad you could make it. We have so much to discuss.”
“Mr Sokolov,” Brian’s dad sputters, trying to look firm. “We certainly do! We haven’t gotten a single apology, nor any kind of reparations, for what happened to our son on your property. And for you to have theaudacityto bring this violent thug here–!”
Young-gi leans down and kisses my temple, then pats my ass. “Go on and visit with your little friend, sweet boy. Take your time. I’ll be waiting out here when you’re done.”
