Page 8 of Damian & Jun, Episodes 9-12 (The Residency Boys #8)

I’m not your child

I’m your crime

I’m not your blood

I’m your patricide

We don’t speak

I never see you

I lost you

Before I ever met you.

“Most sons don’t have criminals for fathers. How’s anyone going to want to listen to this?”

émeric read over the words. They were all in English, the only language in which he and his father had ever communicated.

“More than you would think.” émeric put the paper down.

“We all have had father figures that have let us down and left us with the consequences. If not a direct biological father, then a grandfather, a boss we looked up to, a political leader, a religious figure, generations past that set us on roads that are now ruinous.”

Jun blinked. Tears he didn’t expect burned on the edges of his eyes. He dabbed at them trying not to smear his eyeliner.

émeric looked back down at the lyrics. “Even if not a father figure, the pain of being held to blame for something we can’t change or didn’t do is common. The desperation to be free of pain, that’s universal. There’s layers here, Jun.”

More tears spilled over Jun’s lashes. He put the napkin to the edge of his water line, trying to stop them. “See, this is why you’re scary. You’re already making me cry.”

émeric shook his head, eyes soft, and scooted his chair back. “Come here, little crime.”

“I’m not your crime.”

“I know. Which is why I’m allowed to hold you.”

Jun tromped around the table and sat across émeric’s legs. émeric scooped him up, turning him into a ball of skirts and knees against his chest, guiding Jun’s head down on his shoulder. Jun pressed his napkin against his wet face. “What about your sweater?”

“I’m quite sure our laundry service is magic. If not, I’ll buy another.”

“This doesn’t make you any less scary.”

émeric’s voice brimmed with dark amusement. “Are you sure?”

Jun snuffled. “I’ll have you know I didn’t even cry during military training.”

émeric chuckled.

Jun waited for émeric to let him go, but the dark Frenchman did no such thing.

He leaned forward and retrieved Jun’s coffee, handing him the cup, and then sipped at his own, relaxing back in his chair, contentedly holding Jun.

Jun drank tentatively. He was a grown man on another man’s lap. Surely this was about to end?

émeric adjusted Jun to be even more cradled, took his cup, and guided his head back down on his shoulder. “Shush, stop thinking.”

“Not possible.”

“Quite possible.”

Jun gave in with a huff. émeric was astonishingly comfortable to lean into.

His eyes fluttered and shut, and his breathing slowed.

He wasn’t sleeping. He was…taking comfort.

One of émeric’s arms was around his back, his other arm on Jun’s thigh, holding him in place.

The petticoats were everywhere, but émeric smoothed them down into a tamed drooping flower lying over them both.

“What if I’m not enough?” Jun whispered. “What if not enough people like my music anymore? What if they like the stuff Bak produced better?”

“All five of you boys are talented, dedicated, bright young men. Millions of musicians and artists have changed trajectories in their careers and survived. The world is your audience. You don’t even need one percent of the entire globe to like you. A fraction of a percent, and you’re still a star.”

“That’s not how Bak and his people did their math.”

“From what little I know of your career, bright one, you’ve been woefully underutilized.

The world is bigger than South Korea. You know it, your teammates know it.

You come from three different countries.

You could have a career, all five of you, without ever going back to South Korea or taking part in a single additional K-pop show. ”

“That’s anathema. What about our fans?”

“Being more loyal to a set of people than that set of people is to you is a recipe for martyrdom and disappointment, little crime.”

Jun sniffed. “I do love my fans. I owe them so much.”

“Then write to them. Bring them with you, the ones who are willing. But don’t try to make something for them that doesn’t exist. Then they aren’t loving you, they’re loving an illusion, and you’ll feel it. You can’t drink from a cup that’s meant for a person who doesn't even exist.”

“Bak always told me how selfish I was.”

“Consider the yawning maw of greed that passed as his personality, being a sacrificial lamb is all he wanted you to aspire to be.”

Jun snorted. “I hate him. Why do parts of me still believe him?”

“Because there hasn’t been enough time yet for you to go back and pick apart all the lies.” émeric pressed his lips to the top of Jun’s head. “That’s what Richard and I are here for. We won’t let you believe such things in peace. We’ll torture it out of you.”

Jun chuckled against émeric’s collarbone. “Is that a threat?”

“No, a promise.”

“I haven’t consented to torture.”

“You will.”

“You sound so confident.” Jun tilted his head to see émeric’s face. The man’s eyes were doing that infuriating twinkling thing again.

“I am. You want it. You’re curious.”

Jun opened his mouth to bite émeric just above his collar but stopped. “Fuck, I don’t have permission to bite you either.”

émeric laughed. “I’ll give you permission to bite me like a brat when you give me permission to treat you like one.”

Jun growled and thunked his head down. “Damian’s still my person, though.”

“We know. It’s clear as a diamond. Being a grand-dom sounds intriguing, though.”

Jun growled again and dropped his head gently against émeric’s shoulder some more. This man’s amusement shouldn’t be making his stomach squirm and his dick hard. “You’re so fucking dangerous.”

“Does that mean I can dress you up and take you out again?”

Jun’s cheeks heated. He curled into émeric’s chest. “Yes, as long as Damian’s not jealous, but just us. I’m not dressing like this all the time.”

Damian

Damian sank to his knees in front of Richard.

His dom was in his favorite chair, the large wood-frame one that sat in the corner of the playroom behind the only locked door in The Residency.

For the moment, they were both fully clothed, Richard in a dark button-down shirt with the sleeves folded back away from his wrists, and Damian in loose black linen pants and a matching Japanese housecoat belted at his waist.

The thick rug in front of the chair cushioned Damian’s knees and ankles as he settled in between the V of Richard’s legs.

The soft light of the room, the familiar smell of polished leather that always came with being close to Richard’s chair, and the deadened sound that accompanied the heavy soundproofing of the inner room settled into Damian’s senses.

He gripped his left wrist with his right hand and leaned forward, laying his head on Richard’s thigh.

Richard’s hand settled over Damian’s scalp. Large, warm hands. Strong fingers. Soft touch. Damian breathed out, his shoulders loosening.

“What do you need, boy?”

“Pain.” Gods, he needed pain. Pain and someone else in control.

Richard’s soft touches paused, just long enough to signal careful thought. He went back to stroking Damian’s head. “I can give you pain, Pup. But you must give me something in return.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Tell me why you want the pain.”

Damian’s body tightened. How did he even start?

Except that Richard had taught him. He knew what to do.

Asking where to start was an outer world retort.

It didn’t belong here in this room, not between him and his dom.

He closed his eyes, reaching inside and letting the first thought that answered the request come out his lips.

“Guilt, sir. Guilt for Howser. I could have been him; instead, I—I judged him.”

“What else?”

“More guilt, sir.”

“For what, boy?”

“For leaving them so long, for everything that happened.”

“Anything else, boy?”

“For release, sir.”

“Explain this release.”

“It hurts, and I can’t see it. I can’t experience it. It’s inside, and it’s going nowhere.”

“Is there more?”

“Maybe, I think so, sir.”

Richard’s hand stroked more firmly. “Guilt, release, hurt. We’ll start with those and peel them back, find what’s beneath.”

“Yes, sir.” Just the promise was enough to drain a little of the burning tautness out of his arms and back. This was the place he’d earned, the position from which he’d worked through so many moments before.

Richard traced lines over Damian’s cheek with his fingers. His other hand settled on Damian’s shoulder. “We’ll get you there, Pup. We’ll find your peace.”

They would. Damian both longed and feared it.

Richard helped him up to his feet. Strong arms enfolded him from behind. The scent of Richard’s cologne pressed against his nose. Familiar. Comforting.

Years together meant few words were needed. Richard smoothed his hands over Damian’s shoulders and back. He loosened the tie on Damian’s housecoat. Fabric slid down Damian’s arms. Small changes in temperature ghosted over his skin.

Richard squeezed his wrist once and left him to go to the St. Andrew’s cross at the head of the room.

The large heavy table had already been moved away from the center of the room, leaving the area in front of the cross clear.

Bolts kept the cross completely vertical or released it to lean forward at various degrees.

It could even be laid flat on the floor.

This time, Richard bent it toward the wall by five or six degrees, enough for a body to rest against it during a long session but not enough to make a position difficult to hold while standing.