Chapter 16
Young-gi
Tommy’s eyes slide shut, even though I can tell he’s fighting it tooth and nail. His breath keeps hitching, his shoulders twitching like he’s trying to get up, but he can’t. Soon enough, he’s out like a light.
Once he’s asleep, I stop pretending to look at my laptop. I wasn’t going to get any work done, anyway. Sure, it’s now four in the morning and I often get up and work around this time, or exercise, but I can’t focus on anything except Tommy right now. His emotions, his need, his chaos.
The bags under his eyes are heavy, standing out even against his dark skin.
He mentioned during his emotional rant in the study that he couldn’t sleep at Kira’s, and it’s clear that he meant it.
But as his breathing slows and deepens, the stress lines bracketing his mouth start to fade, and I relax into my chair.
What a mess. The incident at the nightclub will be annoying to deal with–witnesses, police reports, camera footage–lots of small fires to put out.
And the fact that Oscar, the little shit who started it, wants to press charges is frustrating because I’ll have to take time out of my schedule to shut him up; but that’s not the mess I’m talking about. I’m talking about Tommy.
He’s a mess, and that’s just a fact. Jagged where he should be soft, hollow where he pretends to have substance; defensive and needy, greedy and ungrateful.
Saying one thing and meaning another, the kind of emotional enigma that I might never solve.
His coping skills seem to be limited to escapism and sarcasm, and his strategy for conflict is to either run away from whatever is chasing him or kill it–be it an enemy or his own feelings.
Yes, he’s a mess, there’s no denying it.
I want to keep him forever.
He pulls me in like a force of nature, like a tide, and I don’t mind.
A tide seems like an apt description, because that scene in my study just now?
When I straightened him out and put him in the corner while he had a little fit and tried to start a fight…
I felt like I was drowning. Drowning? Is that the right comparison?
I think so. Like I’ve been swept away in something irresistible, something that will change me, something I didn’t see coming. A tidal wave.
Ah, now that I consider it, I think drowning is considered a negative image, like I’m complaining, but for me it’s quite the opposite.
I’ve never felt more alive. Never felt more real.
Like I’m breathing something other than air now, but it’s better than air ever was.
I’ve never felt more… just more. Overwhelmed, overjoyed?
Was that joy? It was electric, and I want to relive it over and over. That’s joy, isn’t it?
Or something like it.
The dim lighting in the room can’t stop me from staring, painting him with my gaze, just like he drew me in pen several days ago.
I still have that drawing. If that’s how he sees me, maybe this whole obsession I’m growing isn’t one sided after all.
All the details on the page faded the further they got from me, getting hazy, like I was the only important part of the image.
He sighs in his sleep and I lean forward, wishing I could drink him down like a shot, feel him everywhere. What is this feeling?
Desire?
Perhaps. I’ve never felt this strongly before, certainly not for a man.
My cock isn’t hard; or at least, it’s not completely hard.
A little interested, sure, but nothing that can’t be explained away by adrenaline.
And it was a lot of adrenaline: controlling Tommy, my Tommy, who is explosive and dangerous, fragile and sharp, and watching him submit to me was a rush I’ve never known.
But this lingering need to be near him, to consume him… this feels like something important, too. Something fast and full and exciting.
He shifts in his sleep, rolling onto his back. I’m as greedy and needy for the sight of him as he just was for my attention, for my stern control. I slide off the chair and get closer, crouching right beside him, only to pause as his breathing gets shallow. He flinches, winces, his fingers twitch.
He groans, a small noise, so soft I almost don’t hear the ‘no’ hidden inside of it.
A nightmare.
“Tommy,” I murmur, hoping to gently nudge his subconscious mind back into that relaxed, submissive state he was in before; the state that let him drift to sleep so quickly in the first place. But rather than comfort him, my voice does the opposite.
He sucks in air like he’s dying, and explodes into motion so fast that I can’t dodge it. One of his hands grabs my throat hard, the other claws at my shoulder and holds my shirt to keep me where he wants me; in arm’s reach so he can choke the life from me. He snarls, his eyes wild and far away.
I grab his wrist, but before I can even pull, he’s awake and yanking himself away from me, breathing hard.
“Shit!” He gasps, scrambling back on the bed. “Sorry, sorry. Shit.”
“My fault,” I tell him, trying not to cough because damn, he had me good. “I startled you.”
“No I–wait, where am–?” He looks around, getting groggy as his adrenaline fades. “Oh shit, right, I’m here. Is it time to leave?”
He tries to struggle up and out of bed, but I lean over him and bundle him back under the covers. His weak attempts to wriggle back out as I just keep rebundling him are cute, funny, and I grin at him. That seems to help, and he stops squirming, staring up at me as I tuck him in.
“No, it’s not time,” I say firmly. “Go back to sleep. I’m still working.”
“Working?” he slurs. He grabs my wrist when I try to back off, so I sit down on the carpet next to his bed instead of in the chair. He dazedly pulls my hand to his face, rubbing his cheek on it like a kitten, then scowls and shoves it away.
“Fuck off,” he grumbles, completely nonsensical. “Choke you out again, bitch. Don’t make me…”
I can’t help it, I smile again, because he’s just that adorable. He lets me pet his hair and run my fingers over his face and down his neck, his shoulder, and back up again.
The poor boy really is exhausted. I can’t imagine how he was up and fighting only a few hours ago, beating the shit out of some scumbag on what appears to be no sleep.
In less than a minute he’s falling back under again, his eyes drooping and blinking until he’s down for the count.
I keep petting him, soothing him, occasionally murmuring his name so he gets used to my voice while he’s asleep.
Maybe, if I subconsciously connect myself to a decent sleep, he’ll come to crave me as I crave him.
Maybe, if I’m the one giving him what he so clearly needs, he’ll decide that I’m the only thing he really wants.
Hmm… it’s basic Pavlovian training, associating one thing with another. Logical, useful, proven to work.
Sounds like a plan to me. Anything to keep him coming back for more. Because now that I’ve had a taste of his chaos, I don’t think I’ll ever get enough.
And speaking of Pavlov… I huff with a smirk when I remember his tantrum in the car a few nights ago, outside my office.
He dropped the Daddy clue then, and again tonight.
Once? Could be nothing. Twice? That means he’s thinking about it already, especially in connection to me.
The two things–me, and Daddy play–are already linked in his mind.
I wonder what started the association for him.
Did I do something early on in our interactions to make him mentally link me with that?
And how can I keep doing it? The way he reacts to my promises of consequences is a bright flashing neon light, a signal that begs for me to go full speed ahead with more.
He likes being told he’s a good boy, too, that much is obvious.
It was a guess on my part, because some people like that kind of thing, and Tommy reacted so well. He enjoyed it.
And I enjoyed correcting him, corralling him, giving him what he needs; maybe things he doesn’t know he needs, or doesn’t want to need.
It’s unusual for me to enjoy something. To like it. To want it. It’s not like me. Maybe I’m getting something I need from him, too.
“Daddy play, huh?” I mutter to myself, tracing his jaw, enjoying the way he isn’t tensing up or getting nervous with my touch.
I’ve never considered that kind of lifestyle before. Never cared to. Why would I?
Why indeed? I run my fingers across his shoulder and back again.
But what I’m doing with Tommy isn’t kink. Not yet. We aren’t doing anything sexual. Does it still count as Daddy play if that’s the case?
Seems to.
Maybe I’d better look into this. See what I can find out.
******************
Tommy
I feel the ghost of something tracing my jaw, my temple, my neck. Fingertips, I think. Someone’s touching me while I sleep.
My heart skips a beat in terror and I sit bolt upright, ready for violence and rage… only to realize no one is in the room with me.
Must have been a dream. But I remember Young-gi wrapping me in the blankets. I remember choking him first, too. But I get a little hazy after that. Did he… pet me to sleep? Why is that thought so terrifyingly good?
I’m so keyed up that I jump about two feet off the bed when the door opens, and the blood rushes to my head and makes me dizzy when Young-gi walks in with a giant steaming mug of coffee, and a newspaper tucked under his arm.
He’s still wearing his pajamas, but I’d guess by the items in his hands that he’s about to get ready for his day.
“I’m up,” I snap, assuming he’s about to try and get me out of bed.
He calmly sits in the chair, sips his hot coffee, and watches me over the rim of his cup. It takes all my willpower to sit still. “Then go back to sleep and try that greeting again when you’re feeling less cranky.”
I scowl and huff, cross my arms, give him a withering glare, but he doesn’t address it. Seems like I can get away with some brattiness, after all.