#LMK Memories of Stone AU

[thenocturneofanightshade]

Soo First post, here.. about this AU I have for LMK. I'll just Info Dump a lot of it. Anyways, still new to LMK so a lot of this could change or be similar.. I mainly just wanted to share this AU Idea and Plot Points..

This AU was somewhat inspired by 'Stone Monkey AU' but I have my own twists.

So here's me trying to say it all while making it easy to read.

Firstly, some backstory inspiration for life on the mountain before Wukong's quest for Immortality comes from the Monkey King 2009 series. An English Translation for about 14 episodes (subbed) has been done by a channel called 'Monkey Servant'.

My main takeaway is that Liu'er has been kidnapped a lot and Wukong often came to their rescue (and they used to have fresh snow-white fur and their Ears look very much like their 2009 counterpart)

(Here's an image from the show I found.)

Major changes with MK and his place in Canon. I'll start with this for now since I feel their character and role will have some of the biggest changes short of Wukong.

Qi Xiaotian/MK is a Stone Monkey who is technically Sun Wukong and Liu'er Mihou/Macaque's kid(Though the Latter is unaware). They have Four Ears and have basically the same powers as Canon(May add more because of Mac but we'll see.) The main difference between this MK and Canon is that 1, he has had more training done by Sun Wukong, and he is a few centuries younger than Red Son. And he misses his Baba. (I'll get more into that MK later.) (May also make Trans but ??? I'll make a poll later to let people decide.)

Sun Wukong has learned a lot from being a father and HAS told MK about Mac, he tells the truth about the situation and how through his own actions he shattered the precious jewel he held so dear and it was his biggest regret because he is certain that if Mac lived they would have been their other Parent, their Papa or Mama.

So ShadowPeach was once Canon but not really anymore. (But who knows~)

After JTTW Wukong became very Isolated with only pop-ins, or visits between them.

Tripitaka also at some point during JTTW realised how much he had at times over-done it with the fillet and apologised. (Also during the Journey when asked how he was doing so well with the Kidnapping stuff he decides to be vague as fuck and say 'Oh, I have experience.' The Pilgrims believe he means he has kidnapped people before. Not saved them.) As Centuries went on the Pilgrims passed on, Tripitaka was first because Mortal, Sha Wujing and Zhu Bajie were next passing about the same time before finally Ao Lie.

Ao Lie only told Wukong about the fourth ring on their Death Bed, When the Celestial Realm called for DBK's Death (Likely also Red Son's too.) and ordered PIF back into their courts. Hearing about this Wukong made a deal with them to let him seal DBK and spare Red Son and PIF. The DBF has no clue about what Wukong has done and after sealing DBK under the Mountain they leave from the views of many basically sealing up Flower Fruit Mountain for good. Mainly this is because in the Original JTTW story, Wukong clearly shows a lot of care for their friends and respect for DBK and his family.

Now between JTTW and DBK's Sealing during Wukong's depressed spiral, a Stone Egg hatched and out came MK!!

There were ups and downs to single parent life but Wukong made it work. He taught MK everything and trained him well (I should mention MK never held his Father's staff once during this period of time.)

About a few years after sealing DBK Somethings has been attacking the Seals and Wukong has been using his own power to keep up. Collapsing in front of MK Wukong turns into a crystal the colour of a Vivid Orange Sapphire. (MK Gains his first bit of Trauma!!!)

(Anyways this part is left in the air because idk why he became like this. I mainly put this down for plot.)

Because of the Bridges Wukong burned and how many people would likely try to attack FFM to destroy the crystal if word got out the Kingdom decided to not ask for aid from anybody, unsure who to trust or who they could even reach let along reach out to (As nobody is even sure how to reach Guanyin and they don't rlly wanna owe them anything..) as by now all the original Pilgrims have passed on and MK is unsure if their families could even help them in the first place.

So he goes out to research and find a way to save his Baba in secret with little help or aid. All under glamours and Shapeshifting, while some look possibly promising the required living sacrifices and MK doesn't think his Baba would like that he killed somebody to save him. The Crystal is kept under constant Guard on FFM with many flowers, fruits and carved items placed around it.

He eventually goes to Megapolis, to follow leads. (He avoided it mainly because of DBF and not wanting to run into them.) After arriving about a few years before Canon. Transforming to look like young child (About 12 or so) they start looking around the city mainly to get a lay of the land when they get caught in a storm and a car hits them with muddy water.

Pigsy finds them, brings them in and asks MK why they were out in the storm at this time of day panicking he tells Pigsy that "Dad's really sick and.." MK doesn't elaborate, Pigsy asks MK if he has anybody to call, nodding MK quickly steps out and makes a clone to pose as an 'Uncle' as he quickly comes up with a cover story. The "Uncle" arrives a few minutes later, they tell Pigsy that they recently moved to the city for hospital reasons as 'MK's Father had fallen into a coma and he hadn't taken the news well.' After Eating the two leave as MK decides to use the old shrine his father had gotten years ago when the Pilgrims had still lived and renovate it while he stayed there. After he was "16" he got a drivers License and worked for Pigsy as a delivery boy. AND NOW WITH THOSE MAJOR CHANGES OUT OF THE WAY!!!

Now, we get to the main part, as we all know Pigsy, Tang and Sandy are 3 of the original Pilgrims reborn (Mei is up in the air for this AU. May make an "Uncle" for her and make her take over MK's role but that's for later.) The Main thing about is the three(Four?) of them remember their past lives as the Pilgrims. None of them knows MK is a Demon Monkey let alone Sun Wukong's Son, Now it starts off the same as MK takes the delivery to the DBF house but he decides to make a Clone to head back to Pigsy's as he goes to check out what they were doing after curiosity got the best of him. And in his monkey form, he steals his dad's staff. Giving them the name Qi Xiaotian. Now we have Pilgrims remembering their past lives + Secret Vigilante MK + Turned into Stone(Crystal)Wukong. I may add more onto this later but for now I hope you enjoy this idea.

[pj-was-here]

Silly au where wukong upon finding out he killed his mate straight up has a mental break down and disappears after the journey

Years later MK searchingly for Monkey King ends up running into a rather big and tall peach farmer named Tao Nong who oddly looks just like the monkey king

Or in which wukong gets amnesia via stress and distress over Macaques dead and he's a pacifistic himbo who doesn't fire who loves his little monkey fam and is just trying to live life unfortunately he is still the Great Sage who Conquered Heaven despite being amnesiac so trouble tends to find him

[etfrin]

⤷❝Mine To Love | Coriolanus Snow❞ˎˊ-

⇢☾Warning: NSFW | Snow is his own warning, mentions of killing, mentions of caging/locking you up (doesn't do it though), hair pulling, breath play if you squint, creampie, unprotected sex (wrap it dumbfucks), pinv sex, blowjob, male masterbation, cunnilingus, mating press, mentions of Lucy Gray, no spoilers | lmk if I forgot anything!

⇢☾Pairing: young president Snow x fem! Reader

⇢☾Summary: Snow realizing his feelings for you, being fucked up about it and fucks you!

⇢☾A/N: don't romanticize, it's dark romance so y'all are warned! This is set in the same au as The Study (you don't have to read it beforehand but it's recommended)

< masterlist > < bc: @cafekitsune > <tag list>

It started slowly, so slow that Snow didn't even realize it. It started with that night in the study after he had you. He didn't touch you again, denying himself of you. You, his wife, a little bird stuck in a cage. The First Lady of Panem was nothing but a doll, a showcase piece for the country.

You played the role well enough, but you weren't a doll at all. You brought life in what was otherwise a stone-cold mannor. The workers cook your favorite, making sure you're the most well-accommodated. Like a Queen. How their shoulders relax and the smile that springs up when they do the tasks that you assigned them. You earned their respect and their loyalty.

You were dangerous yet harmless. It baffled Coriolanus to no end. It started slow. He coincidentally met you in the hallways more and more. After that night, you couldn't make eye contact with him, no longer did you greet him with an awkward hello or a shy smile.

You look down at the floor whenever he passes you by, your body flushing from the mere second of proximity. So obvious and adorable. He loved how easy you were to read, how open you were. Whatever your lips hide, your eyes show. Whatever your soul hides, your body shows.

It started slow. The monthly dinners with the First Lady turned weekly. Every Sunday now he had you sit across him for dinner and he would ask you about your day. Just to be polite, mind you, don't look into it. He would be annoyed by those one-word answers but would never show it. His fingers subtly grasped the glass of wine tighter than he should, his heart pricking his brain into paranoia. ‘What else?’ he wanted to ask, ‘Stop saying it was good. Tell me what made it good.’

Instead of uttering those words, cameras were placed on every inch of the manner with the audio functions so everything is recorded for his and only his view. He watched you walking through the library, your fingertips touching the spines of the books you already read (which was most of them), you didn't even realize new books were added to the collection, all similar to the ones you liked. He watched you stroll the gardens, your face in a frown at the neverending white roses. A red rose and several other flowers were added the next day.

It started slow. He began to talk about his day more and more trying to fill a silence. He started asking for your opinion and oh, how that lighted your eyes up that you were finally doing what you were meant to do. Supporting him not as a doll but as a wife. You begin to talk about your days more, trusting him with your day-to-day activities. You tell him about friends and family, something he wasn't interested in (he has files on every single person you mentioned).

The nights that were dedicated to his needed sleep turned into the witching hours in which he would stroke his cock over the memory of you. His mouth biting into the pillow to stop his groans, hearing them would mean admitting his need for you and he rejected that notion. His cock was oversensitive because he couldn't stop. He couldn't stop fucking into his fist, again and again thinking about you. Not just your pussy but you. Your desperate moans, your lips marking his neck, your slick walls, and everything of you. Your tears, your head on his chest when he had fucked you. Everything.

He wanted to pin you against a wall. He wanted to bend over during dinner. He wanted you on his lap in his study. He wanted to push you to the bed and fuck you until the bed breaks. He wanted you!

The realization made him spill onto his bed sheets for the nth time. A gasp escaped his lips as he realized how deeply you are rooted in him now. He needed to kill you. He can't afford this again. Whatever this is. Obsession? Love? Was there ever a difference? He needed this to end.

‘You don't deserve to be loved,’ he thinks, you were no Lucy Gray after all, you were different. You could never compare to his first and only (not anymore) love. But he had caged you, he had you and knew your every move. The rumors that spread of cheating were seized along with the man who flirted with you. True to your words, you hadn't fallen to the temptations of the Capitol, rejecting their offers politely rather than basking in their attention like before.

‘Good,’ he thought, he had killed everyone who had touched you and it was hard to hide the evidence. “I am so much better than her,” he muttered, “I could do so much better.” He asked himself, ‘Why? After all the promises I made to myself of never repeating the mistake.’

He didn't get a reply but he dreamt of you.

Breakfast had passed, lunch too, he hadn't seen you once today. A quick peek at his monitors showed that you were sleeping in your room. He clenched his jaw, a part of him hating you for sleeping in because it deprived him of seeing you. A part of his heart warmed because your hair was a mess, the shirt you were wearing while sleeping was his, and you looked so darn pretty.

Coriolanus convinced himself that he was going to your room to wake you up. Nobody should sleep this late into the day. It wasn't healthy, and he needed the First Lady to remain healthy. That was all.

He stepped into the room, his footsteps quiet so he didn't alert you. He sits down on the bed, your sleeping figure beside him. Your mouth had dried drool on the corners which made him disgusted but amusement all the same. His hand went to your cheek, he couldn't control the action of his thumb stroking your cheek.

“I should lock you up forever,” he whispered as softly as possible, almost inaudible. “In this room, so no one can see you but me.”

He knew by now his thoughts weren't normal and it would never be. That's him and he had accepted himself. He leaned in closer, his lips inches away from yours. He stopped right before he closed the gap. He takes a deep breath, taking in your scent before pulling back.

His hand goes to your shoulder, he shakes you. “Wake up, bird,” he said, his eyes softening when he saw you wake up and peer at him with confused eyes. You yawn, and sit up, your eyes wide when you look at him. You rub them with your hand and blink.

“Is there anything wrong, Coryo?” You asked softly, “Anything I can do to help.” “You should shower and eat first,” he said instead, “and next time don't sleep in. I don't like indiscipline.”

“Sorry,” you mutter, “I was finishing a book.” Your eyes flicker to him, “It's nice by the way! I will tell you about it during dinner.” He wanted to hear about it now, he wanted to pull you closer and kiss your lips, he wanted to push you into the mattress and breed you. He wanted to clean you up after and feed you every kind of feed.

He clenched his jaw, trying to get rid of such thoughts. “We'll see,” he said before walking out of the room, accidentally slamming the door. The first sign of Snow losing control.

The second sign of Coriolanus losing control was how his breath hitched when he saw you during dinner. You are wearing yet another one of his shirts (how do you even get your hands on them) and that's it. A white shirt that reached your knees, you had forgone pants and opted for shorts that couldn't even be seen. Your legs were in complete view, the same legs he wanted wrapped around his waist.

He didn't say a single comment even when it was clear you were waiting for one. ‘Were you trying to seduce him?’ he thinks, ‘Or something else.’ He felt paranoid about you wearing his shirt. Did you want him? Want him to bend you over, press your face onto the table and fuck you like you were an animal?

He felt his pants getting tighter from his thoughts, flashes of what he could do to you, what he had done to you. He couldn't focus as you talked during dinner, he made a mental note to watch the cameras later to know the words you had blessed him with.

It hits him like a wave when dinner ends and you come to him with a book. Tabs were spilling out and it was a hardcover of an old classic that he had to read during the academy.

“You once told me that you liked this book, I spent last night annotating it! I did a few finishing touches before dinner…”

That explains your attire, you were busy formatting this gift for him. He took the book from your hand, he wanted to throw it across the room, he wanted to set it on fire. It was now his most precious treasure, more important than Panem itself.

The truth he denied washes over him. Making him take a sharp breath and your eyebrows etch together in concern. He had once a girl dedicate songs for him, now he had a wife dedicating booms for him. ‘It would be a mistake,’ he told himself, ‘It won't be a mistake if I don't repeat the past.’

The desires he shoved at the back of his mind sprang forward and he made a decision. The third sign of Coriolanus surrendering to himself was that he had everyone including the guards leave the dining room. Making your eyes widen from the sudden instruction.

“Is there anything wrong-” you begin to ask before Snow interrupts you. “Here is what's going to happen now. You're gonna be on your knees, you'll take my cock in your mouth and you'll make me cum. Then I will take you to our room and I'll fuck you until you can't remember your name.”

You blink once, twice just staring into his eyes that revealed nothing before you went closer to him and got down on your knees for him. “Like this?” You asked, breathless, your cheeks flushed. He smirked, “Exactly like this, pet.”

“Now part those pretty lips for me,” he said as he unzipped his pants and set his hard cock free. He lets out a chuckle as he sees you eyeing his cock like a long-lost lover. Guess he wasn't the only one thinking about that time.

You part your mouth wide enough for him as he pushes his cock in slowly. No matter how desperate he was a gentleman for his wife. He knew better than to gag you. He stopped when his cock had completely disappeared, his length engulfed into your wet, hot mouth.

He throws back his head as his dick hits the back of your throat. He relishes the sound of your choking around his length. He lets out his groan, trying his hardest not to cum down your throat so soon. His hand is in your hair, keeping you in place like an obedient pet.

You try your best to take in a deep breath as your tongue swirls around his length as much as possible. You weren't the best at blowjobs, but you knew the sloppier the better. Saliva ran down your cheek as you tried your best to focus on his cock underside, your tongue dragging itself across a pulsing vein that reached his cockhead.

You moan around his length as the taste of pre-cum bursts in your mouth. You close your eyes and try your best, bopping your head up and down. You clenched your fist, trying your best not to gag when his cock gets deeper into your throat.

Meanwhile, Snow was a wreck of a man, the heat of your mouth ruining his capability of having coherent thoughts. You were sucking his soul through his dick it seemed to him. His fingers tangled in your locks, gripping your hair tighter as a way to anchor himself to reality.

His blue eyes dilated to almost black as he looks at you taking his cock so well. Like you were made for it. Made for his cock. Made for him. Meant to be his wife, his bird, his pet, and his love. It's destiny, he decided as he pulls you off his cock and uses his suit sleeves to wipe your mouth and chin.

‘Everything leads to this,’ he thought, as he pulled you onto his lap and pressed a kiss to your lips. The saltiness of his taste in your mouth does not deter his tongue from tasting you.

“Go to my- our room,” he whispered to you as he broke the kiss. “I'll be there soon,” he promises as he nuzzles into your neck, his lips kissing your skin. You nod and get off his lap. Your feet drag you into his room.

Meanwhile, Coriolanus takes a deep breath, trying to maintain whatever pathetic excuse of sanity he had held. It didn't work. His cock was hard enough to hurt and his brain made him think. He thinks of removing you, he thinks of keeping you. He thinks of plans to protect you, backup plans to make sure you remain untouched while still maintaining the image of the First Lady. His true possessiveness and obsession flares up in his mind.

‘It won't be a mistake if I don't repeat the past,’ he told himself, repeating that line to his head.

He takes a deep breath, a glance at the cameras shows workers and guards kept the halls clear and you were in his room and on his bed waiting for him. Waiting for him to ravish you as you kept playing with the buttons of the shirt, and your underwear on the floor. Your face was crimson but your lower lip was in a darker shade of red with how much you bitten it because of nervousness.

He lets out a huff of air before adjusting himself accordingly. Coriolanus Snow was many things, gentlemen included and gentlemen don't keep their ladies waiting.

You freeze as he enters the room. You swallow nervously, your fingers pausing on the shirt button you were playing with. He glances at the panties that were on the floor and he gives you a little smirk. “Take it all off, my wife,” he said as his hands worked to undress him. His suit was on the floor, his shirt joining it soon enough.

You have to press your thighs together as you see his skin again, a whimper escaping your lips at the sight. He was so beautiful, craved by the angels, breathed to life by the devil. Soon, his pants and boxers were getting ridden off.

You check him out, your gaze hungry. Your fingers shake with desire as you take off your (his) shirt. You let it fall, exposing yourself completely to him, like he did for you. His eyes rack you up, causing a flush to every visible inch of your skin.

“Open your legs,” he said, as he walked closer and got down on his knees for you. “I am hungry,” he said, while his lips pressed to your knee and his lustful eyes bewitched you. You had to bite your tongue to not let a moan from his mere words. You spread your legs wide, letting your cunt come into his view.

Your folds that were glistening with your arousal and your slit which was the cause of your juices fluttered around nothing from his gaze. “Exquisite,” he had whispered, the praise warming you up and making your pussy clench harder. “Eager too,” he chuckles, looking up at you but you refuse to meet his gaze.

“Have your meal,” you mumbled, embarrassed. He pressed a wet kiss to your inner thigh, making your breath hitch from the contact. A sharp moan escapes when he bites, his teeth digging into the flesh and your hand falls onto his hair. Your fingers grip the blonde locks but you don't try to push him away. Your legs tried to close around him, but his hands made sure to keep them spread as he liked it.

He pulled away, admiring the mark before he pressed another wet kiss to it. His fingers grip your thighs, they hold tight enough to leave marks too.

He takes in a deep breath, nuzzling into your thigh. Your primal scent makes him go wild, his nail digging into your skin as he brings his lips closer to your pussy. One swipe of his tongue onto your folds and he groans louder than you have ever heard him to do so.

“You taste like fucking candy,” he lets out, as his nose bumps into your clit, his tongue messily swirling around your folds, gathering as much of your juices as possible. Your legs were all on his shoulders now as he all but pressed his face, burying himself in your cunt. He takes in a deep breath through his mouth before he begins to ravish you properly.

His mouth taking in your entire pussy and sucking it with such devotion it made you see stars. He laps at your pussy, his tongue never stopping to devour you. You pulled him even closer, your thighs closing around his head. The action only made him. You couldn't see it, but his eyes rolled back from the lack of air and your taste that quickly became his favorite.

His teeth pulled at the outer lips of your pussy, making you cry out and gush more juices. He licks it all up. Before his attention goes to your little bud, his mouth kisses it at first. Then he takes your clit into his mouth to suck without any mercy.

It makes you cry out, the soles of your feet digging into his back as your hips begin to rut against his face. You have no control over your actions. You were gripping his hair so tight you were afraid that you tore away a few strands. Overwhelming pleasure attacked all of your senses as he didn't stop his merciless actions.

You arch your back, your lips moaning his name as heat begins to gather in your body. You cry out, “Close! Coryo! Fuck!” Pleads begin to leave your mouth as your hips grind faster, your clit nudged his nose as his tongue is now inside your walls, fucking you with his tongue.

Your eyes widen, and you let out a silent scream when his teeth nip your swollen clit. You lay on the bed, panting as your pussy cums on his face. Your arousal makes a mess on his face which makes you even more slick when he pulls back and gets on top of you.

You looked into his eyes, his cold blue eyes that were nearly black now. He was panting, both of your breaths mixing into the air. With whatever senses you have left, you use your palm to clean up some of the mess on his face.

As soon as you finish up, he holds your hand. His mouth on your palm with broad strokes of his tongue he licks the remaining of your juices clean. “Can't let it go to waste, my bird,” he whispered to you as he leaned down. His body caging yours or were you caging him down with your legs around his waist? He pressed a kiss to your cheek. Sweet and gentle, and so unlike him but you don't dare question his affections. May it be sweet or savory, you accept it with your arms wide open.

“Want you,” you whispered to him. “You'll have me when I see fit,” he replied, his mouth pressing open-mouthed kisses to your neck before they reached the flesh of your breasts. One of his hands squeezed your breast and his thumb rubbed circles on your nipple. His lips paid attention to the underside of it, licking the skin around the round flesh before his teeth sank in making you gasp. He sucks harshly, his hold on your breast getting rougher as he forms the mark on your skin. When he's assured that a hickey will be formed, his lips pull back and he presses a kiss to the mark.

“You're mine,” he whispered, his lips brushing against your skin before he takes a nipple into his mouth and sucks just as harshly as before. You moan, “Yours, Snow!” Your hands on his shoulders, your nails digging into his flesh. His fingers play and squeeze your other breast while he continues to suck your bud. Your cunt despite having a previous earthsharing orgasm begins to pulse with need. You whimper, “Corio, please!”

Coryo pulls away, his eyebrows etched in annoyance, as much as he likes to hear you beg, he would rather focus on his task of marking you up. He leans up and presses his lips to you. You moan into his mouth as you taste yourself on his tongue. Your fingers tangling themselves into his curls bringing him even closer to you. He breaks the kiss, “I'll teach you to be obedient later, my pet.”

You let out a whimper when he pressed a hard kiss against your lips. His hands travel down to your hips. “Get ready,” he whispered to you, “I meant my words.” I'll fuck you until you can't remember your name. Remembering his earlier words, you whine loudly, “Please!”

His hand grips your hip tightly as his other hand holds his hard cock and guides it to your entrance. Just to be a little tease, he swipes his mushroom tip all over your cunt, his cockhead bumping your swollen clit making you arch your back and your nails dig into his flesh harder, making him moan as well.

He finally pressed his tip into your slit, his cock gliding in smoothly because of how wet you were. He groans as his dick gets sucked into warmth. His head is between the space of your shoulder. He was panting, his hot breath hitting your skin as he pushed in inch by inch. Your hands are on his back, your legs around his waist as you encourage him to go deeper into you with your soft moans.

His teeth sink into your neck to stop a groan, as his cock reaches your deepest spot. While your nails drag themselves across his back to create red lines. Both of you finding ways to anchor yourself to reality, to not go insane with the pleasure you find in each other.

“Move,” you plead, “Please, Coryo, need you to fuck me. Need you!” Snow decided to have mercy on you both, his hips began to move shallowly, and he refused to completely pull back. He refused the concept of depriving his dick of your sweet, wet pussy. “Faster,” you beg, his deep thrust hits at your every spot, some you didn't even know existed. It fried at your senses, your mind going haywire, your body getting desperate for another release.

“No,” he barks near your ear, his mouth biting your earlobe before he begins to kiss your jaw and then to your collarbone. His lips suck purple and blue bruises on your skin while his hips grind into you. Making you go dizzy and insane with how his cockhead kept grazing your g-spot.

“Please, please,” you babble, “You're fucking me so good, Coryo! I can't take it, please! Fuck me harder, love!” His hips had stopped moving as he heard your words. His head leaned up to you, his lips brushing against yours as he whispered, “What did you say?”

You looked straight into his eyes, not hiding the love you had for him, letting it flow through your words and your body. “Love,” you whispered, your lips pressing a delicate kiss that could shatter everything you had built with Snow. “I love you,” you whispered. One of your hands moves to his cheek, caressing him. “You don't have to do anything in return, just know that I love you.” You smile at him, knowing it's more likely that he won't ever return your feelings.

You prepared yourself for a harsh rejection but instead, his hips begin to move again. Harder, faster than before, his cockhead kissing your cervix with his thrusts, his fingers digging into your hips marking it. You won't be able to walk later but that didn't matter.

What mattered was how perfect Coriolanus had begun to fuck you. No, it wasn't a fuck. This was something more. Something changed with your confession, something changed and will remain changed for the rest of both of your lives.

One of his hands reached upward, his fingers snaking around your throat. He pressed it in, not enough to block your breathing but enough to make you lightheaded. Your pussy which was already tight, clenched around him further making him groan right against your ear.

“Lover indeed,” he whispered, his words that you nearly missed, your heart understood what he meant. You gasp, “Kiss me.” You knew that even without him saying those words, he could love you all the same.

Snow complies, his lips clashing with yours. His hips rutting into you as his hands guide your legs into the mating press position, making you cry out into the kiss as his cock reaches even deeper than before causing a small bump into your stomach that neither of you notices.

The kiss got open-mouthed, desperate with how his tongue tangled with yours. It was filth filled with the pathetic, insanity of love you both felt for each other. His thrusts got faster, and sloppier as he was close to his end. Your cunt pulsating around his length as you too were close to shattering again.

What it took for both of you to reach the end was him breaking the kiss to whisper, “I should kill you. I should kill you for making me a lovesick fool again.”

The words even when you know can mean your doom makes you cum like nothing else. Your lips cry out as your walls begin to milk his cock for what it's worth. He groans into your mouth, letting himself feel your fluttering cunt before he thrusts into you once, twice, and finds his release. His cock spilling into you, his cum painting your insides white, marking you.

He pulls out, his back covered with scratches, his curls clinging to his forehead and his lips swollen from the kisses. You looked just as much of a mess as he did, with marks all over your body.

He thinks to himself as he lies beside you. He wasn't going to kill you now. Not in ten years or fifty but your end would only be when he decides.

He loves you after all, in his twisted way.

tags : @stelleduarte @nowitsmissing @lifeonawhim @le-lena @justacaliforniandreamer

[artficlly]

smog & spirits: a favour for a friend (series)

Marvel 1920s Gangster/Peaky Blinders Inspired Fantasy AU

gangsterboss!bucky x witch!reader

Bucky Barnes, the leader of Sootstone's Smog Boys, needs a favour. A nasty curse has been cast on him, and he needs a witch to help him break it.

Warnings: 18+ content minors dni, fem reader, bit of smut, mention of forced pregnancy (not to reader), mention of sa (not to reader), abortion (not to reader), mention of medical procedures, hospitals, ghosts, past wounds, vague mentions of physical violence, angst, threats, some fluff, protective bucky, kissing, becca, bucky barnes had issues, so does becca tbh, criminals & crime, 1920s street gangs, witchcraft, vaguely british setting??, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 4.7k

A/N: hey! let me know your thoughts on this chapter! i'm hoping i can get this series wrapped up before i go back to uni. sorry for any typos - not proof read.

taglist: @nash-dara @sebastians-love @calwitch permanent taglist: @globetrotter28

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You were in an uncharacteristically good mood. 

Bucky had stayed the night, in fact, the gangster had stayed the night nearly every day that week. He didn’t seem eager to let you slip through his fingers after the Iron Rat incident. Not many words were exchanged between the two of you, rather a flurry of desperate energy. He would let himself into your small flat as usual, locate you and quickly coax you into bed. 

You’d awoken to the slow drag of his mouth between your thighs this morning, his stubble scratching your skin as he devoured you with a near-religious fervour. Even after you came undone beneath him, he hadn’t been satisfied, murmuring against your flushed skin, coaxing you through another wave of pleasure until you could barely breathe. When he finally kissed his way up your torso, his lips warm and insistent, you had run your hands over his back, fingers tracing the ridges of his scars. A small, twisted part of you found satisfaction in them, in the fact that no matter where he went, you would linger there, haunting him in ways he would never shake.

“Stay,” he had murmured against your skin, voice thick with sleep.

But you had peeled yourself from the bed, dragging yourself away with an exhale of regret. “I’ve got work.”

As much as you had wanted to stay and be claimed yet another time by the gangster, you had agreed to a job. Every few months, Sootstone Infirmary would hire you to walk through the wards, moving on any lost spirits who still clung to your realm. The hospital loomed at the edge of the Warrens, its old brick exterior weathered by time and neglect. High, arched windows with grime clouding the panes, ornate iron railings rusting along the balconies, and stone gargoyles perched atop the roof, their faces softened by decades of soot. Inside, the halls were dim, the air thick with the scents of antiseptic, sweat, and something older—something damp and decaying. Flickering gas lamps lined the corridors, casting long, wavering shadows that danced across peeling wallpaper and worn wooden floors.

Sootstone Infirmary’s ghostly inhabitants were an easy lot to deal with. Most required only the gentlest encouragement to cross beyond the veil, their restless spirits tethered by confusion rather than malice. It was always the same—the elderly, lost in the fog of forgotten memories, unaware they had slipped from the world of the living; the young, their passing so abrupt they had not yet understood it.

You had already coaxed more than a few of them, clearing the lingering echoes from dim-lit rooms and gloomy corridors. But there was still one final place on your list.

The maternity ward.

You descended the old stairwell, the wooden steps groaning beneath your weight, twisting down into the depths of the hospital like a spine curving inward. The maternity wing had been built as an addition to the main structure, its location carefully chosen to keep the screams of labour from disturbing the sick and the dying, those teetering between life and the unknown.

Pushing open the heavy wooden doors, you stepped inside, breathing deeply through your nose as your gaze swept the ward. The air was thick with something heavier than dust, layered with interwoven ghosts of sorrow and joy. But nothing obvious stood out—not at first.

You lifted a hand, fingers parting the air as you reached for the unseen.

Nothing.

You stretched further, sinking into the veil, allowing its delicate strands to brush against you like spider silk. A web of impressions surrounded you, but none bore the telltale pulse of a lingering spirit—only the faint hum of your presence.

Still, you waded deeper.

Then—

A tug.

Small, almost imperceptible, but there.

Your breath hitched as you latched onto the invisible thread, fingers curling around the sensation. It sent tingles up your spine, a spreading warmth over your scalp. A soul reaching out.

You followed its vibration, weaving through the dim corridors, past closed doors and muted cries of labour. Your boots barely made a sound against the scuffed tile floor as you moved through the labyrinth. Then, rounding a final corner, you halted.

The thread in your grasp wavered—then snapped.

The woman before you was no spirit.

She sat slumped against the wall, shoulders trembling, fingers twisting into the fabric of her skirt as though she could anchor herself to something solid. The dim light caught the sheen of dark hair. She was familiar even before she turned her head.

Not a ghost. Not a restless soul in need of passage.

But very much alive.

You exhaled sharply, the weight of your inner vision dissolving as you let go of the veil. The world around you came back into sharp focus—the cold air, the distant wail of a newborn, the damp streaks of tears on the woman’s pale cheeks.

Your voice was quiet, almost hesitant. "Becca?"

Becca’s head snapped, gaze locking with yours in an instant. Panic crossed her features, but she quickly masked it with something else—rage. She used the back of her sleeve to wipe her tear-streaked face, settling into an eerie composure. 

“What’re you doin’ here? Are you spyin’ on me? Was meddlin’ in my brother’s life not enough for you?” She snarled at you, voice raising. A group of passing nurses glanced at you in horror, scuttling away as they realised who spoke. 

“No, I’m—I’m workin’.” The words came tumbling out in defence of yourself, and Becca lifted a brow in disbelief. “The hospital, they pay me to move on the spirits every few months.”

“You’re tellin’ me you just happen to be ‘ere on today of all days? Unbelievable.” She scoffed, you held your ground despite everything within you screaming for you to leave. 

“Are you…” You hesitated, unsure of how to breech the subject. “Are you okay?”

“Do I look fuckin’ okay?” Becca’s expression twisted, her mask cracking just enough to reveal the raw, festering wound beneath, and you recoiled with a slight flinch. 

You stood in silence a moment, chewing on your lip. Maybe it was best to… leave Becca to whatever this was. Her threats still hung heavy in your mind, her cool and calculating tone: you are nothing to us. That couldn’t be true, could it? Bucky had made it painfully clear how much he wanted you, how much he needed you. The way he reacted to what the Iron Rats had done to you—the possessiveness, the sheer rage—it wasn’t nothing. He had spent the last week between your legs, constant, needy, persistent. Though, one look at Becca, maybe it was best not to notify her of that. 

Then, as you were about to turn, whatever barrier Becca had built up shattered, emotions bubbling through. 

“They say they’ave to cut me open—open! Gods, I won’t survive this, will I? I thought I could just take a potion, a tea, be rid of it! But no they say it’s too far gone, that I either ‘ave to carry it or ‘ave it extracted! I’m gonna die in that theatre, aren’t I? I’m gonna die on that table, and they’ll all spit on my legacy, call me a whore—”

You were crouched down instantly, grasping her shaking hands as a fresh wave of tears rolled down her cheeks. “Woah. Just hold on—”

“—And how fuckin’ poetic that the only person I can tell this is an actual whore who has my brother under some kinda spell. It should be you in there, not me—”

“Hey!” Your sharp retort cut through the air, startling her into silence. A scowl pulled at your lips, frustration crackling through you.“First of all, don’t fuckin’ call me that. Secondly, I don’t know who ya spoke to, but ya don’t need to go under the knife!”

Becca stared at you, stunned into stillness. Then, she snapped her jaw shut, swallowing thickly. 

“And what the hells would you know? You’re a spirit-raiser,” she muttered, but there was something weaker in her voice now.

“How far along are ya?” you asked.

“I dunno.” She sniffed, rubbing her arm. “Few weeks. Missed my bleed this month.”

You let out a small, breathy laugh, shaking your head. “Gods, Becca. Ya don’t need surgery for that. I know a woman. A witch. She can help you without cutting you open.”

Becca’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t trust you.”

“I don’t blame ya,” you said, releasing her hand. “But if you want help, you’re gonna have to.”

She wiped at her face again, irritation flickering in her expression as she wrestled with the choice. Her tears had stopped now, replaced by that same indifferent sneer she wore the weeks previous—like she wanted to seem unaffected.

“The witch,” you continued, “she’ll give you herbs to drink. You’ll pass the fetus naturally. It’ll hurt a bit, you might feel sick, but you’ll be fine.”

Becca exhaled slowly, considering. “Who’s this witch?”

“Hester Malrow. She lives in the Warrens.”

Becca frowned. “Never heard of her.”

“She tries to keep a low profile,” you said. “What with all the coppers and Smog Boys about.”

Becca inhaled sharply, gripping the fabric of her skirt again as if trying to ground herself. “And we can go today?”

“Yes.” You met her gaze, firm and unwavering. “I can take you right now.”

—

Becca’s flat was nothing like you expected.

From the outside, it was just another shadowed doorway in the Warrens, tucked between crumbling brick and peeling plaster, the kind of place you had to know about to find. The streets below reeked of coal smoke and damp, the air thick with the scent of cheap gin and desperation. But inside—inside was something else entirely.

Warmth enveloped you the moment you stepped through the door, thick and perfumed with clove and orange, the remnants of an oil lamp flickering low on the side table. Heavy velvet curtains smothered the windows, blocking out the sickly glow of the gas lamps beyond. The walls were lined with dark wood panelling, rich and polished, the sheen catching in the golden lamplight. Framed photographs sat upon a mahogany sideboard, their black-and-white faces frozen in time, watching. You recognised Bucky nearly instantly, though a younger version of him. He was always frowning, a noticeable gap between him and his father, who donned a drunken grin, nose crooked from fighting.

A fireplace crackled at the heart of the room, casting restless shadows over a rug sprawled beneath your feet. The furniture was old but elegant—an overstuffed armchair with clawed wooden feet, a settee draped in an embroidered shawl, its fringe grazing the floor. A gramophone perched on a side table, half-covered by a lace doily, a stack of records resting beside it. 

Becca sat hunched on the settee, her elbows on her knees, fingers tangled in her own dark hair. She was pale, her lips pressed thin, her breath measured. The worst was yet to come. The witch had warned her of that—the pain, the cramping, the sickness that would follow—but for now, there was only waiting.

You hovered near the armchair, fingers grazing the brass handle of a cabinet filled with crystal decanters. You weren’t sure what to say.

“She said it would take a few hours,” Becca muttered, barely looking up.

You nodded, glancing toward the mantelpiece. A clock ticked steadily, its polished brass hands sweeping over blackened numerals. Beside it sat a delicate porcelain figurine of a woman holding a lamb—an odd, almost sentimental thing to find.

“I didn’t expect your place to look like this,” you admitted, the words slipping out before you could catch them.

Becca let out a dry, humourless chuckle. “What? Expected some rat-infested hole? Thought I slept on a pile of rags?”

You shrugged, meeting her eyes for the first time since you stepped inside. “I don’t know what I expected. Just not… this.”

Becca huffed but didn’t argue. She leaned back, tilting her head against the cushion, exhaling sharply.

"It was Bucky who bought it," Becca muttered, voice quieter now. “We sold the old family house, the one my father owned. Fuckin’ hated that place.”

Her gaze flicked toward the fire, where the flames licked at the soot-blackened bricks. The room had a warmth to it, a kind of fragile sanctuary nestled deep in the rot of the Warrens, but her words carried a coldness that seeped into your bones.

"I don’t blame you," you murmured before you could stop yourself. “I’ve heard your father weren’t the… kindest of men.”

Becca’s eyes snapped up to you, sharp as a blade catching candlelight. “An’ who told ya that?”

You hesitated, fighting against the sudden tightness in your throat. “Bucky.”

A flicker of surprise crossed her face, just for a second. You thought she might press you, demand to know why Bucky had confided such things, but instead, she swallowed whatever remark had been forming. Her jaw tensed as she shifted in her seat, one arm curling around her stomach. 

She exhaled through her nose, tilting her head back against the settee.

“I heard about your little Iron Rat ordeal,” she said, voice laced with something unreadable. “Made a big fuckin’ mess for us.”

“I didn’t ask for anyone to do… any of that,” you shot back, fidgeting where you stood.

“Sure.” Becca scoffed, her eyes dark with something like amusement—mean, biting amusement. “You’re still fuckin’ him, aren’t you? He probably fucked ya over the table in the warehouse after he butchered them Iron Rats. Totally his style.”

You stiffened, a heat rising up the back of your neck that had nothing to do with the fire. Becca grinned, sensing she had struck a nerve, but before you could gather the words to throw back at her, she continued.

“You know, you could’ve gotten away with it. Could’ve just slipped past the Sootline and been long gone. Was just unfortunate you ran into that priestess woman. Fuckin’ creepy, she was.” She let out a dry laugh, but there was something watchful in her expression as she said, “Don’t blame ya for tryin’ to avoid the church after what they did to your mother. But from what I’ve heard, they’ve had eyes on you since you was born.”

“You don’t know anythin’ about my mother,” you said, voice low, tight.

Becca’s smile didn’t fade. If anything, it sharpened. “I know a lot, actually. You’d be surprised.” 

She let her head loll against the back of the settee, staring at you through half-lidded eyes, as if considering how much she wanted to share. “I know a lot about your ‘father’ as well. He weren’t no saint, that’s for sure.”

Something about the way she said ‘father’ made your breath catch. There was an implication there, something just beneath the surface of her words. Your brows furrowed.

Becca watched you, then let out a scoff. “Tell me, did he fall into drink before or after he took your pregnant mother in out of pity?”

You blinked. “What?”

Every tale you had heard, every answer to your question, had always led to your father helping your mother escape the Church of Light. It was his one saving grace, the one reason why a part of your heart forgave him for all the cruelty he inflicted upon those he supposedly loved. 

Becca exhaled sharply, shifting against the settee, her discomfort momentarily forgotten. “What, you didn’t know?”

“Know what?”

“That he isn’t your real father.” Becca hesitated as if realising for the first time just how deep your ignorance ran. She tilted her head, observing you. Then, with the casual cruelty of someone who had nothing to lose, she spoke. 

“The church, they forcefully impregnated her. They thought they were fulfillin’ some grand prophecy, bringin’ about a child that could channel and control death itself, the light-bringer or some shit. Their idea of rapture—how do you not know any of this?” She rolled her eyes, then winced slightly as another wave of pain twisted through her. 

The room shrunk around you.

The words rang in your head, hollow and deafening. The fire crackled. The clock ticked. Somewhere outside, a dog barked. Your fingers curled around the wooden arm of the armchair to steady yourself.

Becca smirked at your silence, shaking her head. “Shit, your life’s more fucked up than I thought. More reason for you to keep this mess away from my brother—”

The front door rattled. A heavy, deliberate turn of the handle.

Your breath caught.

Becca’s eyes flicked to the door, her body tensing instinctively despite her pain. The room felt suddenly, unbearably warm.

The door swung open.

Bucky stepped inside, shaking the cold from his shoulders, the scent of the ocean and cigarettes trailing in with him. True to his nature, he had let himself into Becca’s flat without so much as a knock, moving with the easy confidence of someone who had long stopped asking for permission. The heavy door clicked shut behind him, sealing out the muffled noise of the Warrens’ streets.

His gaze swept the room, taking in the dim glow of the fire, the clutter of discarded blankets, the half-drained teacup on the side table. Then, his eyes landed on you, standing at the centre of it all, framed by the flickering light. His brows lifted in surprise, the ghost of an unspoken question forming on his lips. You could see the gears turning in his head, readying to demand an explanation.

But then he spotted Becca.

Slumped into the settee, half-curled over herself, her face ashen and drawn tight with pain. One hand gripped the armrest in a white-knuckled hold, the other resting against her stomach. The dim, golden light of the fire carved out the tension in her features, the sweat beading along her brow.

Bucky stilled. His jaw clenched, the muscles feathering beneath his stubble. His sharp eyes flickered between you and Becca with something unreadable—something that edged dangerously between concern and barely restrained frustration.

“The fuck’s goin’ on here?” His voice was low and rough, with that dangerous steadiness that came before a storm.

You barely had a moment to process before he cut through the space between you, his gaze hard and questioning.

“Since when did you two know each other?”

Becca beat you to answering. “Nat introduced us.” The lie left her lips smoothly, her voice betraying nothing.

Your stomach twisted at the quick cover story, but Bucky wasn’t buying it. His stare darkened, flicking between the two of you like he could sniff out the deception.

“Nat… introduced you?” His disbelief curled through every syllable, slow and measured, like he was waiting for one of you to slip up.

You remained frozen at the centre of the sitting room, torn between wanting to fade into the wallpaper and making a mad dash for the door. Standing here in the warmth of Becca’s flat felt intrusive, bearing witness to something you shouldn’t be a part of. For all the times Bucky had invaded your space, your home, why did it feel so much worse to be invading his?

“Yes,” Becca confirmed, still as unreadable as ever.

Bucky let out a dry, humourless chuckle, shaking his head. “Forgive me, but I don’t believe a single fuckin’ thing coming out of your mouth.”

“Fine, Jamie,” Becca huffed, dropping the pretence with a roll of her eyes. “We met earlier today at the infirmary. She was kind enough to escort me home.”

“Infirmary?” His gaze snapped back to her, his stance shifting slightly, energy tightening. “Why were you at the hospital? Why the fuck did you need escortin’? Did someone do somethin’ to ya—" his voice sharpened, fists clenching, "I swear to the gods, if it’s that Brackett kid—”

Becca cut him off with a scoff, pressing a hand to her stomach. “It’s woman problems, Jamie. I wouldn’t expect ya to understand.”

“Woman problems?” His voice was sceptical, but you could see the moment realisation dawned on him. His sharp blue eyes raked over her, truly looking at her this time—the paleness of her face, the sheen of cold sweat, the way her brows pinched subtly in pain, how her fingers hovered protectively over her stomach—

“That fucker knocked you up, didn’t he?”

His voice was a growl now, his whole body going rigid, ready for a fight.

Without thinking, you stepped forward, instinctively positioning yourself between him and Becca as his voice began to rise. “Leave her be, Barnes.”

His eyes veered to you, a fire burning behind them. “Oh, you’re one to fuckin’ talk. How did you get involved in this?” His voice was heated now, fast, frustrated. “Everywhere I look, everything I do, every fuckin’ thought I have—you’re always there.”

Becca exhaled sharply, an irritated sigh cutting through the tension. “Gods, you two are still fuckin’, ain’t you?”

Bucky’s head snapped toward her. “What’d’ya mean still?”

Becca arched a brow, unimpressed. “I ain’t stupid. I’ve known about this little… affair for a while now. I told her to stay away from you forever ago.” Her gaze darkened slightly. “Don’t need a repeat of the last witch you took a likin’ to, do we?”

Bucky’s expression shifted in an instant, his posture tightening. “I’m sorry? You did what—”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” you muttered, reaching for his coat sleeve before he could start tearing into Becca. “Outside. Let’s go on a walk and leave her be.”

Bucky barely had time to resist before you were ushering him toward the door, your hands pressing against the solid weight of him as you pushed him out into the cold. Becca’s dry laughter followed you, melodic and mocking, her sing-song ‘bye-bye!’ cut off sharply as Bucky slammed the door behind him with enough force to rattle the frame.

The air outside was crisp, biting against your skin, but it did little to cool the heat rolling off him. He was seething, his jaw clenched so tightly you swore you could hear his teeth grind. The tension in his frame coiled like a beast ready to pounce, his breath ragged, his fists flexing at his sides.

“What the fuck did she say to you?” His voice was low, rough with barely restrained fury.

You sighed, unimpressed, tugging him forward into the dimly lit streets, his boots scuffing against the uneven cobblestone as he followed. You had long since grown used to his moods. You might have quivered under his glare in the past, but now? You merely gave him a slow, nonchalant glance, your voice light with forced indifference.

“Vague threats of death,” you mused. “But considerin’ I’m standin’ here now, I didn’t exactly take it to heart.”

That did nothing to ease the tension in his frame. Instead, he moved fast—quicker than you could react—catching your chin between his fingers, forcing you to stop mid-step. His grip wasn’t cruel but firm, demanding your attention. His stormy blue eyes bore down into yours.

“Tell me the truth, doll.” His voice was gravelly and low, sending a shiver down your spine.

You exhaled heavily, gaze flicking away from his momentarily before finally admitting, “It was after… after I healed your back.” Your voice softened, uncertainty creeping in. “She said I ruined you, that I was dangerous. Didn’t want me near you after what happened with the last one.”

His expression twisted, eyes narrowing into something unreadable.

“That’s why you didn’t come to the family meetin’?”

Your gaze dropped, lips pressing into a thin line before you nodded. “Yes. Look, you left without saying a damn thing. How could I not have felt… unwelcome?” A bitter edge crept into your voice before you shook your head. “Then I went over to Grimrow for a change in scenery and—”

Bucky’s jaw ticked, his fingers smoothing over your cheek with an uncharacteristically gentle touch.

“You went over there? Because you were upset with me?” His voice was quieter now, but the sharpness remained.

“I wanted to disappear.” The confession left your lips in a whisper.

His brows pulled together, his grip on your wrist tightening for half a second before, without a word, he yanked you into a shadowed archway near the Sootline. The city noise dulled around you, swallowed by the secluded space. Before you could even catch your breath, his hands were on you as he cupped your face and crashed his lips onto yours.

His kiss was deep, desperate, tasting of cigarettes and something unmistakably him—a mix of salt and smoke, of whiskey lingering faintly on his tongue. His fingers tangled into your hair, pulling just enough to make you gasp, and he used the moment to deepen the kiss, pressing you back against the wall with the full weight of his body. His lips were warm, hungry. 

You could feel the tension in his frame, the way his fingers flexed against your waist as if trying to memorise the shape of you. His lips turned slower then, less frantic but just as consuming, his mouth tracing over yours with bruising intent, like he was afraid to let go. You sighed against him, hands trailing up his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his coat.

When he finally pulled away, his breath was ragged, his forehead pressing against yours for a lingering moment. But then he let out a low, dangerous growl, his fingers tightening possessively at your waist.

“I’m gonna kill my sister. Then that fucker Brackett for knockin’ her up—”

“No,” you cut in, shaking your head. “Don’t. I think… I think we’ve finally reached a hesitant peace.”

Bucky scoffed, unconvinced. “You obviously don’t know my sister.”

“No,” you admitted, tilting your head, “but she owes me now. Them fuckwits at the hospital wanted to cut her open. I just took her to get a potion—the sickness should pass inna few days. Have someone keep an eye on her.”

He grumbled in quiet acceptance, the tension in his frame softening slightly. His lips found yours again, this time slower, more deliberate. You hummed against his mouth, a soft smile pulling at the corners of your lips as you leaned into him.

“Well,” he murmured after a moment, his breath warm against your skin. “I was gonna drag Becca along with me to see Stark, but since she’s occupied, I’ll take you instead.”

You blinked up at him. “Stark?”

Bucky smirked, tugging you along the narrow streets. “He’s a mad scientist of sorts. His father and mine used to be in business.”

“And you’re visiting him because…?”

“I’m havin’ a party. Invitin’ half of fuckin’ Blackstone—includin’ you.” He sent you a sideways glance. “Thought I’d deliver his invitation myself. He gets all pissed off if I don’t pay him attention every couple of months like he’s some bird on my roster I gotta regularly fuck.”

You snorted. “You have a roster?”

His smirk widened. “Why you askin’? You jealous?”

You rolled your eyes, your voice dripping with sarcasm to hide the defensiveness that wished to worm into your reply. “No. Not like we’re married or some shit. For all you know, I could have a roster.”

In an instant, he had you backed against the brick wall again, his hands pressing firm against your waist. His expression darkened, his gaze dragging over you with slow deliberation.

“Keep talkin’ like that, and I will fuck you right up against this wall,” he warned, voice thick with something sinful.

A soft giggle escaped you, but you reached up, fingers brushing a stray strand of hair that had slipped from his slicked-back style, your head tilting as you studied him.

“Why a party?” Your voice was softer now, more inquisitive. “What are you plannin’?”

He pulled back slightly, his smirk twisting into something more unreadable. “Best I not say, doll.”

You searched his face, something gnawing at your gut. “You know you can talk to me, right?” Your voice dipped lower, more serious. “I know I’m just some bird on your roster, but… you know I can help you… and I keep my mouth shut, hm?”

His jaw tightened slightly, something unreadable flashing in his gaze. Then, after a pause, he exhaled, voice dropping into something far darker.

“Let’s just say I’ve got a very fuckin’ public lesson to teach.”

Your stomach twisted, but before you could question him further, he tugged you forward, his grip warm but firm.

“Now, come on,” he muttered. “We’re gonna be late.”

PART NINE

[smallpwbbles]

I was gonna ask more about the AU where MK turns into a big apider thingy like inkMK in S4 that you drew, I thought it was really cool and probably could be used for a lot of angst with the rest of the cast

I really like angsty stuff

Oh it’s part of an au I made when I was peak dehydrated and starved for LMK during the S4 hiatus

Basically at the end of S5 instead of going back and using the stones with everyone, MK uses the stones and basically rewrites the world to be perfect and erases everyone’s memories of the old world so they can live a perfect life. The decision to do that was horrible tho cause it’s breaking MK down physically and mentally like it did to Azure

Here’s the tag for the au

[pemguims]

hrpf fic recs!!!!!

hello hello! i have been meaning to do this for so long but i am finally here with my list! i've tried to keep some of the more 'obvious' choices off here (for example top kudos pieces like king and lionheart) but some will slip through bc. i like them <3

i will mention main trope / trigger warnings on each fic but read tags before u read etc etc etc

also i love ABO and generally prefer long fics so srry if that doesnt align w ur interests! i also will read any and every pairing under the sun, so a lot of these are just random pairings :3 also i haven't tagged th writers tumblr accounts bc that ? felt odd to do for some reason ? but if u would like to be tagged lmk !!!!!! <3

sidgeno:

the biblical sense by sevenfists - word count: 57,896 ✷Sid, I’m so—I’m sorry,” Geno said. “My stupid—I’m ruin everything, I—” “Shut up, Geno,” Sidney said, already intensely weary of listening to Geno’s self-recrimination. “You’ve barely even done anything.” Geno’s voice dropped what sounded like an entire octave. “But I want to.”✷ (ABO, canon setting)

th first hrpf fic i read which got me into hockey!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

leave the lights on by coricomile - word count: 17,692 ✷"Okay?" Geno asked groggily. Sid snapped out of it. Cold sweat broke out across the back of his neck. He inched away, tucking his hands under his thighs. He wouldn't have- Geno didn't deserve to be hurt. Sid would never- "Your head?" "Yeah," Sid choked out. Geno leaned forward and soothed a big hand over Sid's hair, his lips twisting at the corners. His eyes were painkiller bright, glazed over enough that they looked like marbles. He left his hand on Sid's head as his eyes slid shut. Sid sat still as Geno dozed and counted his breaths.✷ (TW: OCD, mental health issues. canon setting)

anything that touches by saysthemagpie - word count: 48,578 ✷Sid knew how to smile. He knew how to make the muscles work, how to soften his face into something less rigid. Geno liked him happy. If he wanted Sid easy and pleasant, here at the end, Sid could give him that. Geno asked so little of him.✷ (TW: Sexual assault, prostitution, abuse, trauma. canonish-AU)

probably one of my top 10 favourite fics ever ngl. so so good so beautiful so sad i have such a vivid memory of reading this for the first time at like 11pm hunched in bed trying to cry rlly quietly so i didnt wake my bf KSBDBKJ. one of th most harrowing pieces of literature i think i have ever read <3

blood from the stone by saysthemagpie - word count 80,903 ✷It wasn’t the prospect of pain that frightened him. Zhenya was a hockey player: he was used to pain, even to violence. But this wasn’t like a fight on the ice—tempers boiling over, hot rage spilling out everywhere—cathartic, necessary, even if it got him sent down the tunnel. This was different. There was nothing here to push back against, no way to assert his own will. In a little while Crosby would come to him, and Zhenya would open the door and let him in. Crosby would feed from him, taking what he wanted from Zhenya’s body. And then they would be bound.✷ (Vampires, forced bonding. canonish-AU)

another banger another harrowing tale!!!!!!!! sidney crosby u will suffer!!!!!

morning to wake you by oflights - word count: 54,104 ✷I've been calling this The Sexual Misadventures of Sidney Crosby forever, and that gives you an idea, but just in case: in which Sidney wins a gold medal, has sex (a lot), falls in love (twice), and breaks a bunch of rules.✷(canon setting)

swallow the fire by cascara_soda - word count: 6367 ✷“It’ll be okay. It’s my choice,” Sid said, and it was only sort of a lie. Or, the 1989 Super Series Winner’s Room AU.✷ (canon AU setting)

life is wine by coricomile - word count: 9414 ✷"I see you watch him," Geno says, leaned in so he's talking directly into Jamie's ear. Jamie tenses, but Geno doesn't move away. He drops his arm over Jamie's shoulders and it shouldn't feel like a trap, but it does, even if Geno doesn't do anything other than hold on. "Is hard not look, I know." Sometime after Jamie got distracted by Sidney's ass, Hags had left the booth and subsequently left Jaime alone with Geno, abandoned except for the clutter of empties.✷ (canon setting)

ache by pheobus - word count: 4079 ✷Sid wasn’t an omega, but just once he wanted to be selfish. Maybe Geno would realize that this wasn’t how things were meant to be, or that there was simply no way Sid could be anything other than who he was. His thoughts were all twisted up, stuck in overwhelming cycles of what-if. Sid liked who he was, what he was. He didn’t want to be an omega. But dear God, he wanted Geno to mount him like one.✷ (ABO)

more than anything by getoffmyhead - word count: 17,011 ✷Sid and Zhenya had been together—officially together—for three years when it happened. Three years of normal, committed relationship sex. They hooked up plenty before that, too, without ever veering into anything weird. They didn't have a sex dungeon. They didn't own nipple clamps. There was nothing in their history that could have prepared Zhenya for the thing that came out of his mouth the first time he and Sid slept together in Miami.✷(canon setting)

i think abt this fic all the time

mattdrai:

so is the longing by dog juice - word count: 44,669 ✷After being forced to take suppressants for a year, Matthew's body is a mess. He has an excruciatingly painful heat every two weeks, and there's no medication to help him.To make matters worse, he's been traded to the Edmonton Oilers. Now, not only does he have to deal with his collapsing body, he also has to contend with Draisaitl, who has made it pretty clear he hates Matthew's scent. If the universe could give him a fucking break, that'd be great.✷ (ABO)

mattdrai fic of all time. in my opinion.

sea change by andthreequarts - word count 33,596 ✷“Wait, is that what’s happening here?” Matthew pushes forward, gets close. “Is that why you were being weird?” “Shut up,” Draisaitl growls, backing up. “Oh no,” Matthew laughs. “This is the funniest thing I’ve heard all week. Leon Draisaitl, an alpha’s alpha. Who would have guessed it, you’re into an omega with barely any scent?”✷ (ABO)

misc:

vince dunn / adam larsson (seattle kraken) serenity in those deep waters by angry_geno_is_score - word count: 114,312 ✷In his second season playing for the Seattle Kraken, Vince Dunn becomes sick with drop withdrawal. When it comes out that he's lied on his paperwork and hasn't had a Dom for over a year, he has no choice but to accept being assigned to a Dom on the team or risk giving up hockey.✷ (TW: past abuse. BDSM AU)

love!!! i love bdsm au's so much!!! ive reread this fic multiple times :3

nicklas backstom / alexander ovechkin (washington capitals) you and me, drenched in green by xihale - word count: 17,710 ✷Nicky’s an omega with a heat problem. Ovi volunteers as tribute.✷ (ABO)

jamie drysdale / trevor zegras (anahiem ducks) caught up now by canary -word count: 20,261 ✷“I do want you to bite me,” Trevor corrected. “And I also want you to hit it raw.”✷ (ABO)

morgan barrson/josh morrissey (winnipeg jets) win some and lose some, baby by symphony7inAmajor - word count: 11,223 ✷“Morgan,” Josh says, his voice sharp and firm. There’s a glint in his eyes that Morgan doesn’t recognize. “Sit.” If Morgan thought his face was hot before, that’s nothing compared to the fire that scorches his cheeks now. Sit. Like—Like he’s a—✷ (canon setting)

this author has sm rlly good other fics as well!!

travis konecny/nolan patrick (flyers...i guess!) Someone Else's Solid Ground - Linsky - word count: 21,757 ✷Nolan’s body has never been his friend.✷ (canon setting)

matthew tkachuk / leon draisaitl / connor mcdavid i'll tell you when to stop - dog juice - word count: 39,640 ✷Matthew is too reckless to be responsible for his own heart. Fucking and falling for Leon? Stupid. Fucking and falling for Connor? Idiotic. Doing that one after the other without either Oiler knowing? Yeah. Matthew's fucked.✷ (canon setting)

rewired my brain a little ngl

gen - san jose sharks & washington capitals catch and release by McSpot - word count: 23,805 ✷If a player gets forced onto the opposing team's bench during play, that player officially becomes a member of their team. There's a whole system to catching players, with strategies determining who the prime targets are and the best way to catch them. Nobody expected Mario to be caught.✷ (canon AU setting)

how this fic doesnt have 100000 kudos and 1000000000 spin off fics i have no idea

sidney crosby / claude giroux unless you wanna come along by anonymous - word count: 8677 ✷"We beat you," Sid says, high on the sheer triumph of it. "Yeah, and how much of the game did you spend begging the refs for it?" Claude jeers, quiet and vicious. "Hardly a fucking win, when you've fucking acted like that, whining and bitching and moa—" Sid kisses him, cutting off the stream of venom.✷ (canon setting)

leon draisaitl / Artūrs Šilovs go ahead and try a little crazy on me by lagerlout - word count: 4062 ✷Leon huffs out a laugh before he can help himself. Goddamn, this fucking goalie is cute. He doesn’t know if he’s trying to be cute but he is.✷ (canon setting, winners room)

fic that makes me go YEEAAH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! also now has a sequel which slaps

jonathan drouin / nathan mackinnon (colorado avalanche) but this is how it is by bruinss - word count: 103,314 ✷The universe gives, and the universe takes, and Jo is left at the end of ten years with a lot less than when he’d started them.✷ (BDSM AU, canon setting)

this author has a lot of really very very very good jo / nate fics i recommend every single one of them !!

sidney crosby / jaromir jagr (pittsburgh penguins) summer to your heart by deastar - word count: 200,575 ✷When it seals, Jaromír feels the old, familiar tug of a soulbond for the first time in years. It feels like having a dislocated joint reduced: a relief, and a sense that something missing has been replaced. But terribly painful at the same time. Sidney is curled up into Jaromír’s side, sinking fast toward sleep. Some impulse Jaromír can’t explain makes him ask his new bondmate, “You feel the bond?” “Mm-hmm.” Sidney’s eyes are closed – his eyelashes look very dark and soft. “How does it feel?” “Good,” Sidney exhales, and just before he drops off, Jaromír catches a psychic whisper of It feels like not being lonely. “Oh, kick me in the balls, why don’t you,” Jaromír says under his breath.✷ (soul / psychic bond, canon AU )

hrpf of all time. i think. in my opinion. there is also a sidgeno fic set in the same kind of AU by this author which is very good but this one...........oaugh....

okay thats it bye!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[smilesatdawnmain]

ETERNAL LMK AU (Part 4) (Interactive Story)

Had some close ties last part :3 But we have gone with "STAND YOUR GROUND AND FIGHT!"

Lets continue this tragic story, shall we~?

The rules are simple.: I will give the written passage, and then at the bottom there will be a vote on how the characters act next!

Story: Eternal

Ships: Shadowpeach

Angst: You betcha

Fluff: With enough choices, maybe we'll get there.

Macaque smacked their hands away from.

“No! I’m not going anywhere with you!” he shouted, adrenaline choking his words into a hoarse rasp. He tried to call upon his power, to manifest his staff from nothingness, but all that greeted him was a suffocating void where his shadow should have been. He never had a time in his life where he didn’t have his very essence beside him. More than just an ally in combat, it was a piece of himself. To no longer have it to draw from was bone chilling.

Still, he was not going to the Diyu. Not today, not anytime soon. With no other option, he rolled his hands into fists and held them up. He wasn’t completely defenseless without a weapon. He would fight in any means he needed to, teeth and claws included.

“Desperation doesn’t suit you, Liu’er,” the first figure replied, tilting their head with feigned pity. “You’re merely prolonging the inevitable. Denial only deepens the pit that cling to your soul.”

Macaque’s heart twisted painfully in his chest—if it still beat, he wondered. “You don’t understand! I have to—”

“Have to what?” the second figure interrupted, their voice smooth as silk yet laced with a chilling edge. “Have to stay connected to that which caused you so much pain? What are you, Liu’er? A martyr? A ghost bound by grief?”

“I’m not a ghost!” he yelled back, fury igniting within him against the encroaching cold and despair. He did not have to explain himself to these two. He did not have to make justification for his actions. His reasonings were his own. To be denied life simply because he wanted to bring his Mate home- it was unfair. It was nothing but an injustice! And he wanted to be sure his Mate knew that.

“No, I am not a martyr,” Macaque spat, trembling as the weight of his fragmented memories pressed down on him. “I’m a warrior. My fate is not up for anyone but myself to decide.”

The figures exchanged glances, their expressions shifting from mockery to something resembling interest. “Ah,” the first remarked, voice dripping with mock delight. Many had attempted and failed such similar feats. Too many tried to cheat or deny death, and all were quick to realize that there was no parting from it. Dragging another soul down by force was any typical Monday for them.

“Listen, fella,” one drawled, “I’d rather not play this game. You’ll fight us, we’ll overpower you, yada yada-but in the end, I'm afraid you’ll still lose.” The figure’s amusement made Macaque’s eyebrow twitch.

He squared his jaw and prepared himself for whatever they might conjure next. “You think you know my fate? You think you know me?” he retorted, a fierce gleam in his eyes.

The second figure, taller and clad in shadow that flickered like flames, took a step forward, a smirk playing on their lips. “Lets get this over with, hmm? It’ll be the talk of the Diyu when we bring you in. One of the four demon Stone Monkeys, the Six Eared Macaque, the mate of Sun Wukong. The man who avoids death like a plague- yet sent his own beloved there with his own two hands.”

Macaque’s skin prickled, his eyes widening in fury as he lunged.

His fingers clawed through the emptiness, aiming for the smirk that enflamed his rage further. The first figure merely sidestepped, maneuvering with a grace that belied their insidious nature. Mocking, teasing, then standing with utter stillness. Goading Macaque to even try to take a swing.

When Macaque did, his fist connected with the man’s jaw. Expecting the man to recoil, to react- his stomach dropped when the man only smirk. The attack hadn’t even jerked the man’s head back, as if Macaque's punch were a gentle breeze ruffling through his hair. “Is that all you have?” he taunted, rubbing the corner of his mouth with a deliberate slowness. “Such power wasted on a hallow spirit.”

With a flick of his wrist, the figure conjured a dark mist that wrapped around Macaque's limbs like serpents, constricting him, pinning him to the spot. The icy grasp snaked up to his neck, squeezing just enough to steal away his breath. Panic set in, and he thrashed against the bonds.

What power did a spirit have. Nothing without a form. Nothing without a body to command.

“No!” Macaque gasped, fighting against the shadows coiling tighter, each breath a battle. Desperation clawed at his chest like a wild animal seeking freedom, making him writhe. It couldn’t end like this—not here, not now. He needed to- he wanted- there was so much he hadn’t done. So much he hadn’t said.

As he twisted, his gaze caught Wukong. Only but a few steps away, legs crossed and back straight as he meditated. Unaware, uncaring- even if he could see him now, would he even help him? “I-!” he choked up. He was home. He didn't want to be taken from it. He didn't want to continue to be forced to leave his home due to the will of another.

He was scared. Terrified. Perhaps it was just a natural thing to fear death. To fear what you did not know. He feared the cold, the pain he might experience down there.

The isolation and the inevitable punishment they were bound to give him for attacking the Great Monk Tripitaka. He had accepted this fact at the time, so he supposed had no one but himself to blame but... but still...

And more than anything- Wukong.

Did he want to yell at Wukong? Stay with him? End things? Reconcile? He didn't know! But he at least wanted the time to figure it out!

So close. Right there... He was right there...

Previous

next;

[starsfic]

Summaries:

Neutral option/I rewrite an old fic

When word of her long-thought dead brother being alive reaches her, Maria Robotnik hires Sonic and his crew to help her bust him out.

The world Maria wakes up in is not the world her grandfather promised her and Shadow. Shackled to their cousin Ivo, Maria is determined to free them in any way. That may come when the resistance leader, Sonic, is shoved into the throne room in a jester costume.

The minute Midoriya Izuku walks onto campus, the UA staff realizes that he and Nedzu can never meet.

Immortal Wielders: When Present Mic suggests an idea of a traitor, two of the new teachers, Kudo and Bruce, agree with him.

AU where newly powerful Sun Wukong gets way too into his innocent monkey prince act and gets courtnapped. Thankfully, his courtnapper, the Six-Eared Macaque, and his rescuer, celestial soldier Azure Lion, have some cool weapons that Wukong can steal.

A PI ends up under the knife when he digs too deep into the Bishop family.

Continuation of Early Stone Monkey, Sun Wukong, now trusted by Chef Zhu, babysits Qi Xiaotian, both to take the glamour off and let them adjust to their new form and to stake out whoever did this.

Caine is invited to the circus's game night, despite past attempts leading him to play like an AI. This time...he plays like a human.

Sun Wukong is dealing with memories of past cycles, past lives, after S5 and his already mixed feelings about Macaque get worse, unsure whether to hug him or kill him, because the same guy who was your first friend ever was also the Boogeyman who ate your grandchildren and hunted your children, and how fucked is it that you still care about him even though this is the only cycle where he's actually cared about you? Just a little bit, mind you. And he's making it hard to distinguish between this cycle with your past and the thousand other cycles?

When their new neighbor moves in, poly couple Sonic and Amy make a bet on who can ask him out first.

Four snippets on how the main romantic pairs- Yoshi and Draxum, Raph and Casey, Donnie and April, and Leo and Usagi- get together.

[mariiilume]

Lil sneak peak of Restart!lmk au

Premise:

When Nuwa collects Mk for his sacrifice, he ultimately rebels, refusing to see his friends destroyed and ‘reset’ as new beings. They are all fighters, he won’t loose them like this. But in his efforts to use the color stones to save his world, he’s only able to successfully steal one: The green stone (Meis stone). Nuwa is forced to recreate the new cycle without the green stone, creating a broken and unstable cycle, a cycle where Mk was never ‘born’. Mk is imprisoned in an in between limbo of the past cycle and the new cycle while his friends live their life without knowledge of him ever existing. Except for one particular green stone dragon girl… Mei. Mei has been having visions or memories of a strange boy she’s never met since she was young, they’ve only gotten worse in recent years as she watches her world fall victim to chaos and corruption. With Mks family all split off, and the world fallen into corruption with Mei being his only connection to the real world, Mks fears of his past mistakes begin to catch up to him.

Or in short: Mk refuses Nuwas cycle and steals the green stone aka Meis stone. However before he can steal the other stones, Nuwa restarts the cycle and Mk is imprisoned, forcing everyone to relive a world where Mk never existed and chaos leaks in. Everyone fights to survive, living a world without the great monkie kid… well all but Mei, who must try and find Mk and gather the rest of her forgotten friends back together.

Would anyone be interested in a discord roleplay server to help me branch out the plot 👁️👁️

You’d have to follow some lore guide lines but it’s mainly to help me brain Storm! You’d be able to apply for main characters etc etc

[strxbrymochi]

melting an ice heart | lmk

06. hockey boy

masterlist • previous • next

pairing: lee mark (nct) x fem!reader

genre & tropes: smau, mostly enemies to lovers but a little bit of fluff too don’t worry, sports au (hockey player x figure skater), grumpy x sunshine energy

chapter warnings: swearing, yn kinda mean oops, mentions of abuse but v minimal and indirect

synopsis: he’s the life of every party, the team heartthrob and mvp while she’s the stone cold ice-princess who will stop at nothing to get things her way. but when an accident intertwines the two more than they had hoped, will his fire be enough to melt the ice facade she’s built up or will they continue to clash and end up in ruins?

updates: mwf 8:00pm gmt+8 // 11:00pm gmt+11

taglist: open!

words: ~1.9k

inhale.

eyes closed, you suck in a breath. holding your breath, drowning the cheers around you and silencing the music.

exhale.

you visualize your routine in your head from start to finish. your triple axel that you've been perfecting for months landing perfectly. you picture the crowd as they clap, the judge panel as they nod writing down their scores.

you slowly open your eyes. you were y/n l/n. ice princess, that was what they called you. figure skating was your life, you've been doing it since you were 4 years old. the moment you first put on those little white boots and stepped on the ice, you knew. skating was going to be your life. you revolved around the sport. for 17 years now, you never skipped a day of training (or so you tried, with some unavoidable exceptions), you stayed on your diet, you had no time for distractions. this was what you've been waiting for. regionals, and then nationals, and then qualifiers. maybe one day, the olympics.

you had it all planned. you would represent your country by the time you were 25 wherever the olympics would be by then. you were on track. until you weren't. and it was all because of a hockey boy.

the hockey boy who made you feel like your world shattered whenever he was near. the hockey boy who made you feel safe when it seemed like the pressure was getting too much. the hockey boy who stayed late after his trainings to watch you in yours, cheering for you with the biggest smile on his face whenever you finished a run. "you're the best skater i know." he would tell you.

the same hockey boy who you now hate two years later. the hockey boy who made you put your life on hold because of how heartbroken you were. the hockey boy who made you move cross country because you couldn't bear look at the ice without remembering-- without remembering how he fucked your best friend and teammate in the same locker room he used to sneak into to wish you good luck.

you missed your state qualifiers that year when you called it off. your parents never forgave you for that. they pushed you harder. and you coped the only way you knew how to-- by isolating yourself and building up a wall around your heart so no one could hurt you again. you let a boy ruin your dreams once. you weren't going to let any other boy do that again. certainly not another hockey boy.

and that's how your hockey fued was born. they remind you of the pain, of the inferiority, of how helpless you felt finding him in that position. how cocky he was and didn't even bother apologizing. how he made it seem like it was your fault? yeah fuck him and his perfect little smile and his perfect mvp record.

you shake your head of the memory and muster up a smile. in your view you see your parents. as intimidating as they were, never seemed to let you forget how much they've invested to make you their golden child. to bring back glory into the family by making their dreams of a gold olympic figure skater a reality. what happens if you go against them? the scars on your back tell that story.

you straighten your posture. you take another breath. let another shake off. you turn to your left and see sunghoon sending a reassuring smile your way. his turn was a couple after yours. you try your best to echo it back to him. sunghoon was your closest friend on the team. he was there the moment you dated the hockey boy all the way til you ended it. he, other than your group of friends, were the only people who have seen you at your lowest. he was your rock and support in your team because he too knew what it felt like to live in a family with a legacy to carry on. everyone else you shut off. no one would ever understand what you're going through other than if they'd gone through it too, you would say.

with one final breath you put one foot forward and let yourself glide onto the ice. the cold wind hitting your face, calming you down, few strands of your hair moving with the wind. you do one lap around the rink, smiling and waving. you make eye contact with your mother, an expression you know all too well. you make your way to the center and get into position.

the moment the music begins, you feel your body move like it was automated. you were born to this. you let yourself move with with the notes. one jump, after another turn, after another jump. your face tells the story of the song, emotions taking over to fit the mood. you put your all in your performance. when you skate, it's only you. just you, the ice, the wind and the music. you let yourself get lost in your routine, body moving like clockwork. the climax builds up and you leap. spinning once, twice, thrice. a sigh of relief when you land your triple axel and finish your routine. you catch your mother's gaze. a satisfied nod and a small clap. you live another day.

"another round for our gold medalist because SHE'S GOING TO NATIONALS BABY!" yunjin announces at reverie. you give her a small smile before downing your shot.

after every competition, your parents give you one night to celebrate with drinks with your friends. one day to be a normal girl. well that's if you win gold. if you win anything short of gold, the scars on your leg tell another story.

your friends are at a small corner by the bar, laughing over something sunwoo had said. you look up and make eye contact with someone who had just walked in. you couldn't see his face properly, but you did make eye contact, for sure. he looked straight at you. well that was before a flood of girls circled him, taking him away from view. the new boy? you think.

you heard about this new boy. he was in one of your classes, or maybe a couple. you've seen him in the rink playing when you're glaring at the hockey team to finish their training quickly so you can get your ice time. you swear he's tried to give you a smile once in a while but you ignore him. he was the replacement for the position your cheater ex once held after he had graduated. he's probably like him. after all, hockey boys are all the same cocky, egotisitical maniacs. you never trusted another one of them again.

"you looking at the new boy?" eric's voice takes you back to reality.

"dude she's already glaring at him the moment he walked through that door." sunwoo remarks.

"you find him cute?" yunjin asks, smiling innocently. you roll your eyes at her.

"over my dead body." you scoff. taking another shot, you glance back at the crowd of people. maybe other hockey players were in the house too. they always seemed to attract attention wherever they went. "i'm just glaring at how they have to have a fan club everywhere they fucking go. it's annoying."

"i mean it's mark so..." eric says. what does that mean?

your look after he said that gives your thoughts away. "he's not called the hockey prodigy for no reason. kwangya ice won their first game with his first debut AND he won mvp. that's some talent right there." he continues.

you give another scoff, take another shot and glare again. you swear he probably saw you. talent, hmph. in your world, talent didn't exist. success was all on hard work and grit. you didn't make friends in the sport and kept your circle small because they would weigh you down. you were strategic.

you saw his smile. hockey players and their perfect smiles. the type any girl would see and immediately fall. you HATED those smiles. because it reminded you of your past. you weren't going down that road again.

"you know, not all hockey players are the same." yunjin says, carefully.

you shift your focus on her. "i'll believe it when i see it." you say, taking one last shot. you were tipsy, you could feel it.

"but you don't even talk to them, let alone let any hockey player within like 5km radius to you. how are you gonna believe it when you see it?" sunwoo asks.

you stand and grab your things. "exactly. guess we'll never know." you flash your friends a smile, a smile to show you've won the conversation, and you got it your way, again. "now if you'll excuse me, i have an early training start for nationals tomorrow. good night."

you make your way out the door and you bump into someone. you make a frustrated noise. "what the fuck? can you watch where you're going?" you glance up and see him. of course, the mvp, with his apologetic smile and the crowd of people following him, now circling you. great, this was definitely making it to suwon's freedom wall tomorrow.

your friends had approached due to the commotion but stayed on the side just in case you decided to launch something.

"i'm mark, i don't think we've met?" he says, offering his hand in a handshake.

his voice. something about it made your blood boil. you shift your glance from his outstretched hand to his face, he was waiting and you weren't gonna give him the satisfaction.

with a tight smile, you respond. "hi mark, no, i don't think we've met because it's none of your fucking business. this better be the first and last time i see you." and you storm out. your friends following close behind you just in case.

mark is left shocked at your response. but more confused than angry? that was a very unique answer, he's never heard of anything like that before and it intrigued him.

"dude i told you she's insane!" renjun says to him as they walk back to their table. "you should never have said anything, i bet she now has you on her kill list."

"yea bro, i'd watch my back if i were you." yangyang says, "hope she doesn't see you in the rink or you're dead meat!"

as the boys continue their conversation, mark can't stop thinking about you. the way you glared at him, the way your eye twitched when we introduced himself. what an interesting character, he thinks to himself.

meanwhile he's not the only one pondering on that brief encounter. already in an uber with yunjin on your way home your mind thinks back to him. his eyes glistening when he smiled, his little dimple when he spoke. the way your insides melted when he looked at you. your blood boiled because you were angry at how he made you feel. you closed your eyes and took a deep breath. no space for distraction. you remind yourself. he's just a hockey boy, and hockey boys cannot be trusted. and with that you flush any memory of this so called mark lee from your mind.

💌: @leefullsun @defzcl @ncityzenz @keemburley @syzavxy @doejaejung @softieluvsyou @leep0ems @nae-vm @hizhu @haechanielove @chezziy @excalibur-gone-missing @bluedbliss @girlwholoveslpreppyattire @planetkiimchi @swimmingismywholelife @cloudmrk @clean-soap @prettyrenjunn @yyangj3lly @kittydollzz @seunghancore @aerivrs @thisisnotjacinta

[soulcluster]

💕

Send 💕 and I will tell you some muses of ours I think could work as a ship.

I don't know some of your muses but I will give a couple thoughts

It is probably cause my link and lucina plushies spent a lot of time near each other for a bit but I'm ngl I kinda ship link and lucina. they have some similar themes, with time travel and losing people dear to them and such, so yeah the brain worms are There

for robin, my kratos from symphonia. either in a feh verse or him in awakening. he's had a hard, long life and he knows a bit about betrayal and feeling like you cant trust yourself and muddled memories and I just think...it'd be interesting

for zelda...I actually kinda think ephraim from sacred stones might be interesting. probably a fantasy au verse, but they're both royalty and both adventurous and I think it could be potentially very fun, I can already feel the brain worms sinking in

please lmk what you think, or if you have any thoughts!

[thenocturneofanightshade]

Wanted to mention I am open to asks about my MoS AU.

For those that don't know before the story starts Wukong traps DBK under the mountain because of an agreement they have with Heaven to Avoid DBK being executed. MK/Xiaotian is Sun Wukong & Liu'er Mihou/Macaque's kid though the latter is unaware(He's still killed by Wukong.) Wukong becomes trapped in a crystal/gem as MK searches for a cure, gaining a job at Pigsy's unintentionally and later lifting his Baba's staff. Nobody knows MK is Wukong's son and this AU has secret identity shenanigans involving MK(Human Disguise) and Xiaotian(Monkey/True form).

Most plot points are the same but one more thing to add is that Mei now has an Uncle who is Ao Lie's reincarnation and the rest of the Pilgrims remember their previous life.

But anyways, got any questions or Ideas for the Au lmk! I'll answer and try to write out a timeline though some of it will be Canon Divergent, mainly with Macaque's introduction and similar.

[taegularities]

silk & stones | kth (m)

Summary: “Taehyung was a writer… he was a writer indeed.”

Kim Taehyung knows his way around words – they cast a spell on your heart and mind, leave you gasping dangerously fast. Until the mystery behind his persona unveils and his touch, along with his words, becomes a vivid memory.

➳ pairing: Taehyung x reader ➳ rating: 18+ ➳ genre: strangers to lovers, writer!au; angst, fluff, smut ➳ warnings: writer + violinist tae 🥺 who’s a gentleman in the 19th century, brief mention of injuries/a mental institution, misunderstandings, heartbreak, secrets, grief, much poetry (and my attempt at writing a poem, pls spot), much disgoosting fluff, flirting and lots of sexual tension; explicit sexual content: 2 sex(y) scenes, fingering on a boat, choking, teasing, begging, praising, soft dom!tae, big dick!tae, tiddie fondling/sucking, some manhandling, dirty talk, they’re just so cute :((, oral (f. and m. receiving), some masturbation, oc is into neck kisses, some biting, fingering, hair pulling, asking for permission :(, multiple orgasms, unprotected sex (it’s the 19th century...), aftercare; there’s quite some angst ok; lmk if i forgot smth !! ➳ word count: 27k (💀) ➳ a/n: damn, this one was a lottt and i’m even somewhat proud i managed to post it cos i was dreading doing so LMAO. but my baby @hobisuniverse​ didn’t just beta it, but encouraged me so so much, too. i love you to the moon and back, my love 🥺 hope y’all enjoy !! as always, feel free to pop into my inbox and talk to me, it means the world to me <33

➳ listen to the S&S playlist for the full experience 🤍 

TAGLIST | MASTERLIST | WIPs

You thought there was insanity behind the idea of fate until you met Kim Taehyung.

You’ve never been big with words, despite being the proud owner of a dusty pile of books. Most of those, you must have read half a dozen times; a handful of those, you can recite by heart.

When you were little, your parents used to warn you that you might corrupt your mind if you read about fate, love and the drivel under the stars too much. That when you grew up, you’d not be able to distinguish between reality and wishful thinking anymore.

You always said that reality was too sour, too close, and that you couldn’t forget it if you indulged in the thickest novel known to humankind and never looked up from it again.

And anyway – fairytales aren’t real. And fate isn’t real. How could you grant those things much weight, connect them to reality when there was no actual proof of their existence?

At least that’s what you used to preach… but then came a day.

One you might even call fateful now that you think back.

THEN

Kim Taehyung was no artist, but he knew how to draw clean, dazzling lines on paper.

He’d always been big with words. Small and large ones; simple and fancy ones; verbal or written; loud or silent. The moment his eyes first caught yours, the words he whispered were quiet, a little hushed – nevertheless, chaotic. Like he’d collected all twenty-six letters on his tongue at once and rearranged them to describe whatever aura you emanated.

For Taehyung, nothing was truer or realer than fate.

With time, you’d come to realise that if you’d chosen a different branch of the fork on your road, the night would have turned out entirely different. Small happenings sometimes affect which drink you choose, or who you speak to, maybe even how your mood changes over the course of the event.

But this time, you might have found yourself elsewhere weeks later, had even one dust particle been out of place. Because you could have chosen a different path – easily.

Two hours of loneliness were catching up to you. One of your customers had recommended that you leave your house for a bit, informing you that the annual town hall festival was going to take place today.

“I wouldn’t have anyone to escort me to it,” you’d told her.

You couldn’t deny that you were crafting excuses to talk yourself out of it, but you knew she was right. Your days consisted of uneventful, quiet afternoons, and you worked your way through them until the horizon darkened and stars emerged again.

But your customer remained stubborn and convincing, wiggling a wrinkled finger as she said, “You don’t need to! Not every woman needs a man to court her. Try going alone. You will see the world with different eyes.”

And perhaps she was right about your confidence and your endurance; you did not need a man or woman to keep you entertained. But the event itself – if it had been more adventurous and not filled with guests who ogled you until you shrunk into yourself, you might have enjoyed it more.

You had your next thirty minutes already planned: find food, eat, leave. And with a hand on your rumbling stomach, you walked past the drunk, rich politicians and stopped at the table that portrayed an infinite line of finger food.

Then again, balanced harmony only remains so long.

You had barely decided which snack to pick up first when someone stepped next to you. Your eyes rocketed to the man, dressed fully in white. His trousers were blinding, a white shirt tucked in, an angelic coat draped over his shoulders; a contrast to the starry eyes and pitch black hair.

“Have you tried one of those?”

His voice chimed from the depths of his chest. Low and calm, inviting and rich. It almost didn’t suit his gentle face, and you opened your eyes further. Wondered if those words had actually come from him.

“I cannot even say what that is,” you answered, pointing to a small delicacy, covered in what you assumed was parsley. “I can’t name any of those.”

“Well, let me educate you. This is ham,” the man explained, lifting one of the snacks between two of his fingers. They were endless; long enough to capture your attention. “On… uhh… something.”

“Something, yes?”

You laughed when he did – his chuckle was strong, contagious and delightful. A man like him wasn’t easy to miss in an uninteresting crowd. Perhaps it was the bright attire he wore; but most of all, you couldn’t think of a single man you had ever laid eyes on, as beautiful as him.

And oddly enough, you couldn’t shake the feeling that you’d seen him before.

“It tastes impeccable, is all I know,” he continued, chatty and in a good mood, “and if you pour yourself a glass of rosé, it’s even better.” He paused, tilting his head in thought. “Actually. Let me pour you some.”

“Oh, I– I was going to eat a little and then go home.”

“Home? The night has barely started, though.”

“But,” you argued, shaking your head in disappointment, “I’m bored. There’s nothing to see here… or at least, nothing interests me.”

He laughed again, and your gaze froze on the small crinkles around his eyes for a moment. Then wandered to the rectangle grin. When he straightened his priorly tilted head, his fine, dark hair strands fell into place again, covering his sight, parted in the middle.

“Something is always happening. The question is just who’s interested in it,” he said, placing a snack on his tongue elegantly, twirling the glass of wine in his hand. “I’m Taehyung. But,” he winked, nodding, “don’t tell anyone.”

“Why not?”

Taehyung.

Taehyung?

Where did you know his name from?

“I like to wander around. See places. And it’s nice when people don’t recognise me right away,” he explained, looking around the golden lit room and into the cheerful crowd, “though some did ramble their hearts out to me tonight.”

You were confused – and curious. Hardly able to contain this very curiosity, you asked, “Recognise you? Are people supposed to?” Taehyung hesitated, blinking at you, so you added, “What’s your full name?”

“Uh.” He halted for a moment, peeking into his glass. Then, he flashed a smirk, looked into your eyes with newfound confidence and answered, “Kim Taehyung.”

“Kim Taehyung, do I know you?”

“I don’t know. Do you?” he questioned, cocking an eyebrow in amusement. “But I wrote some novels a few years back, though under a different name. Perhaps you have seen illustrations and photographs of me somewhere. To be honest,” he leaned in, laughing, “most people here haven’t really read my stuff, but they hear professional writer, and go mad.”

A writer. A novelist?

You reckoned that was why he seemed so familiar to you – and why every girl’s eyes lingered on him that passed by the table, tangled in someone else’s arm. Maybe you had seen his work in one of the bookstores you frequented.

“I’m sorry. You’re probably not used to clueless people like me,” you said, watching him walk to the other side of the table to pour you the same wine as him. “I came to this town a few years ago, but I don’t know that many people here. Thank you.”

You took the glass gratefully, disregarding the rule of the night that you weren’t going to drink. But the liquid courage tasted heavenly, like a piece of a garden dissolving on your tongue.

“You came here alone?”

“I did,” you answered, nodding, “for my education. But I never went back. I lived with my aunt, and she took care of me as long as she could, but… she didn’t make it past last year. So now I am here, in her house, still tending to her plants and dishes.”

“That’s remarkable,” Taehyung praised, fascinated and curious, “and what is it that you do?”

You couldn’t remember the last time a man had approached you with an interest like he did. Most of those you knew were straightforward, complimented your lips or your skin; hooded eyes that thought they were charming your feet off, but all they did was burn your skin alive.

Gulping, you turned to look at him, stepping back from the table when other guests flooded to the food in groups, “I used to work as a teacher. Taught children. But now I have a home-based thing where I stitch dresses.”

“Unusual,” Taehyung remarked, “but I like it.”

“My parents aren’t tied to community standards as much as they're expected to,” you clarified, suddenly missing your father’s words and your mother’s lullabies with a prominent ache, “they’re proud of what I do.”

“Then I am, too,” he joked, and your heart leapt, indulging in his saccharine voice. But then, he smirked and said, “Not everyone can stitch a dress that hugs a body this beautifully.”

Your shoulders and your hand dropped. If the glass hadn’t been empty already, you would’ve tainted his polished shoes. The corners of his lips fell when yours did, and you rolled your eyes, clicking your tongue before you said, “And when I thought you’re one of the decent ones.”

“What?”

You placed the glass on the table and wrapped your scarf around your shoulders. Shaking your head, you complained, “You’re handsome and amusing. And kind. So of course there would be a vice.”

“A vice?” Taehyung voiced, furrowing his eyebrows. His feet followed yours, eyes staring past you to realise that you were leaving the event. “What are you talking about?”

“It’s a man's world and we’re puppets. That’s alright. Men will receive compliments on their brains and their studies and how they built an entire business from scratch,” you continued, surprised when one of his big steps equaled your fast but small ones. “But we’re just bodies and pretty ones at that, and that’s all you will be able to compliment about m– oh, and I did not stitch this dress, by the wa–”

“Listen,” Taehyung stepped in front of you, barriering the entrance. You looked away, not quite fuming, but sufficiently irritated to seem so. “That was not what I meant at all. I told you you’re remarkable.”

“And that wasn’t to build up to the actual courting?”

He shook his head, clearly in disbelief and uttered, “Writers choose words carefully. Right? I wouldn’t say anything to you I don’t mean. Besides,” looking up and down, he shrugged his shoulders, folding his hands behind his back, “would it be so terrible if I courted you? For your beauty and for your brain?”

You pouted but felt the heat leave your head gradually, clutching your scarf as you mumbled, “Do you reckon I’m smart?”

“Of course I do.”

“Not just pretty?”

“Gorgeous. But not just that.”

You raised your chin, still careful but melting somewhere inside. You pressed your lips into a thin line before you let out an exhale, whispering, “Fine.”

Opting to walk away, you raised your dress, but he took the same step sideways as you, stopping you in your tracks once again.

“Listen…” he repeated, breathing in, “I can prove it to you. That I don’t only care about how you look.”

You sighed, relaxing your heart, your voice calmer and softer when you said, “It’s fine, Mister Kim. You don’t need to write me a novel or anything. We’re fine.”

“I didn’t want to. I haven’t written in a long time. Or well, I am working on something right now, but,” he sucked in another deep inhale, opening his palms, “the point is. Spend some time with me. I would enjoy getting to know more about you than your occupation. If you allow me?”

Regarding him with a suspicious look, you carved a crease between your eyebrows; endeared by the innocent dart of his tongue to wet his lips, but wary of his overall words and tone.

“I don’t know you,” you claimed, “I met you ten minutes ago.”

“I know, but,” he shifted from one leg to the other, laughing nervously, “every relationship, no matter between whom, starts with knowing them just for ten minutes.”

Squinting, you leaned closer; he couldn’t help but snicker at your childlike expression, and you leaned back with an even more magnificent pout as you inquired, “You won’t abduct me?”

“Abdu– do I look like–”

“Alright. I’ll allow it,” you said, finally gracing him with a smile. You looked kinder, softer when you wore a beam like this – like you couldn’t be feisty if you wanted to. But to know that you were, was luring him in a little more. “Where?”

“Hmmm.”

Taehyung bit the inside of his cheek, rummaging through his memories and places he had seen. And then, he clapped his large hands once, lighting up in enthusiasm.

“There is a massive architecture, very Roman or Greek. Numerous pillars.”

“Yes…?”

“Does Nary Hill sound good?”

Taehyung lived in a cube made of glass.

The walls of it were robust glass. The ceiling was unbreakable glass. The door was made of thick glass; and when he opened the windows, he did so carefully. The cube was sparsely decorated with barely any furniture inside – it lacked vibrancy, a monotone colour palette that only ever shone in different hues when Taehyung let the sun shine a bit.

So when you strolled to him on the agreed upon Sunday morning, he thought the glass of the cube broke a tiny crack. Instead, walls of firm wood grew around him, darkening the room – which was ironic and somewhat odd, because writers like himself usually refer to happiness and grace through brilliance and sunshine, don’t they?

But you didn’t feel like the sun and light to him.

In your own, gorgeous way, you resembled peaceful darkness. The kind that one closes their eyes to before falling asleep, when the world is quiet and serene, worries lift and the sun has set. You felt calmer and more comforting than bright, direct sunlight blinding his eyelids.

So when you looked at him with a shy, gentle smile, unsure how to greet a stranger you’d only talked to once, you gave his imaginary cube a more profound sense of home – with its new, steady, natural, wooden walls.

Your fingers, clutching and raising your lavender dress, released the fabric once you halted in front of him. Entwining them slowly, you nodded, flashing a bright smile as your calm voice spoke, “I would’ve been here sooner, but the carriage got stuck in–”

You stopped when Taehyung sucked in a deep breath, readying yourself for a gentlemanly scolding, wrapped in words kind enough to reprimand you softly. Instead, however, he stepped forwards, pushing his back off the pillar with a gentle, welcoming smile. 

The structure you stood under was familiar to you – it resembled a Greek temple, or a hidden sight of the town. Where you stood, the sun didn’t reach. Taehyung noticed that since you’d stepped into the shadow, your features had relaxed and your shoulders dropped, as though you were relieved that the heat wasn’t burning you up anymore.

Perhaps there was a reason you were more darkness to him than light.

“I don’t mind waiting,” he said, untamed dark hair hanging into his eyes, “I spent some time thinking.”

“Thinking? What about?”

Taehyung hummed in thought. His gaze wandered from your feet to the top of your head, taking in tiny bits of your appearance that differed so much from the very first time he’d seen you. You smiled a little more confidently today; there was no trace of timid quietness, and you didn’t look like you put a limit to what you wanted to say or think.

Just like him, you felt more comfortable in this environment.

“Have you ever heard of Mary Wortley Montagu?”

You parted your lips, scouring your memory for the name. But when nothing popped up, you shrugged your shoulders, responding, “I’m afraid I haven’t.”

Taehyung crossed his arms in front of his chest. It was the first time you noticed the undone buttons of his white linen shirt, casually tucked into dark trousers. You rarely saw men dress like him – most of them ran around in pompous suits and with big hats covering their heads.

But Taehyung didn’t seem to care much about the elegant choices you saw usual suitors of yours settle on. If they'd spotted him, they would've probably scrunched up their noses and shook their heads. To you, however, his little decision was more alluring than the sweaty men regarding you with cocky smirks and approaching you with revolting statements.

“Thou silver deity of secret night… direct my footsteps through the woodland shade,” Taehyung slowly recited.

You’d think a writer like him was confident, vain, and knew the effect he had on people around him. But there was softness in his words and his expressions, a smile utterly warm when he added, “It’s a poem by her… you reminded me of the moon when I saw you, so I thought of it.”

“I did?” you questioned, cocking an eyebrow.

Your dress might have been the most summer-esque clothing you could fish out of your closet. You kept your face free of additional beautifiers, your hair in a loose bun. Why you reminded him of the moon, you couldn’t quite say, but you could interpret the funny feeling in your guts just as less.

So you let your eyes drop so as to not showcase the ocean of flattery that claimed you, but Taehyung saw it anyway; knew you were taking his words as a gentle compliment. He was delighted – and perhaps a tiny bit enamoured. 

And when he invited you to a light walk down the hill you were standing on, you finally confirmed his foolish theory that you were indeed the glowing satellite rounding your world. Because your face contorted, your smile falling and morphing into a frown of fatigue.

“We can just,” Taehyung started. You looked sweet, so lost in thoughts, trying to come up with an excuse. “Stay here, too.”

You laughed lightly, your eyebrows furrowing in guilt as you answered, “If that’s alright with you. Walking is fine, too.”

“I’m open to anything.”

He pushed up the sleeves of his shirt, and your eyes shot to the veins adorning his arms. Kim Taehyung pulled off casual beauty so effortlessly; maybe you were wrong. Maybe the men you saw on other days wouldn’t have scrunched their noses after all, but burned in envy.

You hoisted up the hem of your dress carefully, delighted when the summer air blew onto your bare ankles. Taehyung took a seat on one of the steps leading up to the temple, waiting for you to join him; and when you did, you said, “I know this is boring of me, but I promise we can get up and walk around in a few minutes. The short way up the hill was just–”

“Don’t worry about it. Meeting you was about getting to know you, not about where we are or what we do.”

“So if we’d met at the noisy, stinky market?”

“We can go right now, and I’ll prove it to you.”

Taehyung moved, lifting half his body, but you were quick to pull him down again. You giggled in unison, and you shook your head, clarifying, “But I do like it here better. I enjoy it when it’s quiet.”

Of course you did.

“Do you have a favourite place then?” Taehyung wanted to know.

When you turned your head to him, you realised the gaping hole between the two of you. Your elbows and knees didn’t touch, and he didn’t attempt to close the distance, sitting on the steps with spread legs in contrast to your gracefully straight back and folded hands.

You’d never cared about manners much – but you hadn’t ever found lax behaviour this attractive either.

But despite the fact that you could fit another human being between you, his head was lowered, cupped in his palm, and the elbow resting on a step above balanced his torso. He was listening to you, intently, awaiting an answer.

His eyes were calm and dreamy – the kind that traps you, a mythical creature’s song who eats you alive once you give in.

You feared something about Kim Taehyung.

Clearing your throat, you raised your eyebrows, “Me?”

“Yes. You.”

The tender shyness he’d sported just a minute ago vanished when you caught him staring with an amused grin. Looked like he was enjoying himself with you, genuinely curious to know what floated in your foggy, little mind.

“Hmm,” you voiced, annoyed when your thoughts blanked. It was always when someone asked questions like these that you forgot every place you’d ever been to. “I think I like my garden.”

But Taehyung was having none of it; because he puffed out some air and rolled his eyes, sat up straight and wiggled his fingers – the full package of disapproval.

He admonished, “No, no! There must be something else.” He waited, thought for a moment, then added, “Think bigger, I’d say.”

Bigger than your garden?

“Something wrong with my favourite place?”

“Absolutely not,” he answered, but still shrugged his shoulders unconvinced, “but I feel like you just don’t want to think.”

Because you couldn’t think.

It was easy to lose your string of thoughts with him. He was a thief, trained to rob one of their sanity, it seemed.

But you tried for him anyway, giving his question another go until you smiled proudly and let him know, “Fine. So at the river. If you borrow a canoe and paddle south, you get to a bridge. And that bridge is tiny.”

Taehyung nodded enthusiastically, pointing at you knowingly, a deep but semi-loud voice chiming, “I think I know what you mean! A cream coloured, small bridge that’s barely broad enough for two people to walk on!”

“Yes! But high enough to let a boat through underneath it,” you confirmed, eyes widening in delight, “so, it has the look of a fairytale, almost Grimm like object, right? And it’s usually quiet there, too. There are pathways on either side of the river, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone walking along it.”

You shot him a quick look, checking whether you were boring him yet. But the corners of his lips were still frozen in place, elation and attention apparent, caused by nothing and no one less than you.

So you continued, “I sometimes feel like no one’s ever there because nature doesn’t allow interruption or to step onto steady grounds. It lets you admire it from afar… so I do. I like looking around or reading or– or doing nothing at all while the boat floats its way along the river.”

When you silenced, it dawned on you how loud you must have been. Because suddenly, you could hear the chirping of the birds and your rapid heartbeat again, could hear it knocking against your eardrums. It didn’t seem to bother Taehyung, though.

His eyes never left the features of your face. Looked to and fro, never truly settled on one spot or one of your moles, the curves of your lips or the curl of your eyelashes.

“That’s beautiful,” he finally said.

You drew a breath, studying his movements. They seemed elegant, calculated, but you doubted he thought about them much. Taehyung was graceful without trying; you had seen it the moment he spoke to you first. And you could see it now, too.

Lowering your voice, you let your eyelids flutter, hoping he paused to look at your tiny details the way you did. Whether you were succeeding, you couldn’t quite tell. “Why did you ask?”

“I just… I thought you were a closed mystery,” Taehyung laughed, rolling around a tiny stone with the tip of his finger, “for some reason. But you’re an open book, aren’t you?”

“Hmm. I don’t like reading mysteries, so why should I be one?”

Taehyung snickered. It was the first time you heard his baritone rise in volume this much, enchanting sparks falling out of the hearty laugh. Back then, you hadn’t known that the harmless melody of his voice carried a deadly quality of haunting your nights.

He was a walking power that could split a heart into two; back then, you hadn’t known.

“Fair point,” he admitted, full lips covering his blinding teeth again when the laughter ebbed down.

“So then,” you started, uncaring of your curved back, your tilted head, the fact that you were dirtying your palms by planting them on the dusty steps, “what’s your favourite place, Kim Taehyung?”

Taehyung didn’t waste moments sinking into thoughts the way you had, because apparently, he’d expected your question, answering readily, “A glass cube.”

Ah.

What?

“A what?”

“A cube made of glass that doesn’t let any noise or sorrow in,” he explained as though it could help him clear up anything at all. His hands formed an imaginary cube, and upon seeing your confused frown, he clarified further, “It’s a mental mantra that I invented. And I know it’s ridiculous, but it helps.”

“Helps?”

“It’s peaceful. It’s nice to be alone sometimes. No noise or voices. No one to judge. Just you and your thoughts and whatever the hell you want to do,” Taehyung retorted, emphasising his cursing, “and shit, you can’t tell me that doesn’t sound nice.”

You leaned forward and placed your elbows on your thighs, folding your hands under your chin as you teased, “You couldn’t find a better place to let your thoughts retreat to?”

Taehyung looked away from you and directly into the sun. It appeared as though he was searching for something, focused and unblinking; but then, he lifted his shoulders and let them fall, looking back into the shadow.

The shadow where you sat.

Serene darkness that soothed the blindness that the star had caused. Candy to his eyes.

“Yes,” he mumbled then, “I might have.”

You didn’t question what his new personal castle was. Taehyung's gaze had always been too intense; either begging to keep secrets locked in and veiled or asking you to reveal yours. You’d soon learn that it could throw you into an endless spiral, going deeper and deeper until you felt too dizzy and unbalanced to stand on two feet.

Today, it seemed to be the former – so you didn’t prod. Reckoned he’d tell you when the time was ripe, when he felt like he could entrust his deepest thoughts to you. Right now, it was clear that he didn’t want to elaborate.

“And how does my garden not count, but your cube does?”

“I didn’t say your garden doesn’t count!” Taehyung defended, feigning irritation. He shot up to his feet, staring down at you with his fists pressing into his hips. “I just meant there must be something else, something that brings you full and irreplaceable peace. And I was right!”

Sighing, you stood, joining his stance and leaned into him, squinting as you remarked, “Writers are odd, aren’t they?”

Taehyung imitated your tiny movement, and suddenly, he was close enough to breathe against your skin. His eyes wandered to your smirk before they stared back into the depths of your pupils; and for a moment, you considered tasting whatever lingered on his tongue.

But in your adventure with Taehyung, you had barely exited the first page. A bubbly feeling in your guts told you that your lips weren’t ready just yet; that patience was a virtue, that you needed to practice it to make the moment last longer.

And perhaps he thought so, too.

Because he leaned back and straightened his posture again, stepping out of the shadow and into the sun as he told you, “Writers like mysteries. You and I are different, sweetheart.”

He was right.

Maybe you were an open book, but Taehyung was an undecodable enigma. And you might not have liked mysteries – but you wanted to dip your toes into this one.

NOW

Whenever someone close to you, who has seen you rise and fall for Taehyung, who has watched you suffer and start anew, asks you whether you’d change how things worked out, you shake your head immediately.

Despite the ruins that Kim Taehyung left you in, you don’t think you could’ve ever mustered the strength to walk away from him, even if you could have. The night when he first talked to you. When you met him on the hill, leaning against a pillar of what seemed like Greek architecture.

When you kissed him for the first time, looked at him and knew. Things you’d never thought of, things that still seem unreal to you.

For nothing in this world, you’d give up the feelings and the pain he brought, the experiences you gathered, the trust you found in people. The realisation that not everything is the way it seems at first. That you were there, unwavering, ready to take his hand.

If you could travel to the past, relive a day and change something, it wouldn’t be the fact that you got to know him, but everything you told him.

Because then you might add to the numerous conversations, whisper to him what you always wished to whisper to him.

Perhaps, you think, he’d still be here today if you had.

THEN

“This doesn’t beat your cube?”

Taehyung’s hand functioned as a shell around his ear, trying to blend out the shrill noise that echoed through the little tavern. He told you it was his favourite place, but apparently, someone had gotten engaged, hence the tumult sounding around you as though Armageddon had started.

Bodies sashayed by you in a haze, dancing and drunk, laughing and making you join their contagious joy. You couldn’t say how Taehyung had managed to drag you here, or when you’d drunk enough to feel your cheeks warm.

But the inebriation felt less daunting with him across the table, patting your arm whenever he wished for your attention. It was a subtle touch, but you rather enjoyed it – looked away on purpose just to feel it again.

“Well, it might! Honestly,” he confessed, his face flushed and fingers wrapped around his drink.

“I get why you like it here.”

“Really?”

You nodded, grimacing when a loud cheer went through the crowd; you yelled with them, lifting your cup into the air, and when it was done, the music stopped for a minute. The voices calmed down. And no matter how fun the evening was, you were thankful.

Your head was thumping.

“It’s different from you,” you told him, comparing him to the calm image of himself in the shadows for the umpteenth time tonight, “like you’re trying to escape yourself.”

At least that was what you could tell from the last two or three times you’d had the honour to spend time with him. The renowned author had told you of the importance of his glass cube and its attributes, so you didn’t expect him to pull you into this old, sordid but cheerful tavern.

His smile faltered a little, and he granted his half touched meal a single look before he stared up at you again. Dark hair dishevelled, he brushed strands of it aside, rubbed a spot on his neck, red from the heat before he said, “I think we all do sometimes.”

Slight distress coloured his starry eyes, a contrast to the rosy hues on his cheek, but before you could blink again, he was suddenly smiling again.

Small wrinkles appeared around his eyes as he digressed, “Poetry. That’s another way to escape yourself. Time passes differently when you read, and maybe you’ll come back a different person once you close a book.”

Whichever topic he was trying to head to, you played along, eager to let the remnants of the sorrowful tension between you fade. “Might be one hell of a truth if I’ve ever heard one.”

“I want to write proper poetry one day. I’m a novelist, but I’m bad at poems.”

“You still haven’t given me a book of yours to read,” you interjected, rolling your eyes, “what’s worse is that I can’t find books under your name either. I need to pull some secrets out of you, mister.”

Taehyung shot you another one of the looks you’d grown accustomed to. The one that said, ”There’s something hidden in a cubicle of my heart, but I can’t tell you about it just yet.”

And you didn’t ponder. Instead, you listened to him as he spoke again, lifting a finger with closed eyes, “And maybe this is a deep sin. My fearful soul calls often with a shudder, and yet with passionate lingering.”

“Another poem?”

“One of my favourites. Not that popular, though.”

“Why this one today?”

But sneaky and teasing as Taehyung was, he shrugged his shoulders with a tight-lipped smile, announcing, “That’s for me to know and you to find out. You’re not getting more than that.”

“That’s cryptic. It tells me nothing.”

And then he nodded, as if to say, “Exactly!”, shaping his lips into a rectangle when you leaned back with crossed arms and a playful pout. Reassuring, he patted your elbow, close to where the curve of your breasts started, and you sucked in a sharp breath.

His fingers were far from touching you the way you’d started dreaming of – yet you couldn’t help but notice the tension, the sense of nervousness, and how on edge you were around him. You didn’t know in which ways you craved him, but you knew that he’d become a lingering presence in your mind.

“Don’t worry,” he sang-song, “I want to write you a poem one day.”

“Me?”

“Mhmmm… just write down whatever comes to mind. You make me want to write those.”

“Why?”

“Because,” Taehyung began, his deep voice falling deeper, your name rolling off his tongue before he said, “poetry is gorgeous. And you’re gorgeous. Inside and out.”

“Taehyung–”

The sentence you attempted to utter, of whatever stuttering mess it would’ve consisted of, vanished into thin air when another holler of his name sounded across the room. It overshadowed your whisper and made the man in question flinch, and he turned to find another one of his friends trudging over to your table.

In his calloused fingers lay a violin, used and old, though pieces of its gracefulness remained the way they always do with gentle instruments. The man sported a beard so thick that you could barely see his lips move, but the glimmer and glitter in his eyes were vibrant enough to showcase every trace of happiness he felt.

And as far as you could tell, he liked Taehyung.

“You haven’t played for us all night!” he said, and Taehyung’s eyes blew wide.

He looked back at you as if his friend had answered a riddle unsolved hitherto. But when you gasped, obviously thrilled, some of his worries seemed to fall, like he was waiting for your permission. Asking silently whether you were okay with it.

“You play the violin?!” you squealed, eyebrows raising and a hand slamming on the table.

“Well, I… a little.”

“A little,” the bearded man retorted, a slight mock in his mature voice, “Taehyung here is just like Snow White enchanting a whole forest.” He leaned in, winking as he mumbled to you, “He sings sometimes, too.”

“No way.” Close to jumping in your seat, you wrapped a hand around his wrist, excitement flooding through you like a high tide. “Just one piece. Please?”

You looked like a doe, staring into his eyes with tiny sparks; there was innocence in your gaze, not the slightest hint of anything evil. It seemed unreal, your being and its pureness, the unfaltering good that you portrayed.

How could he say no to you?

So he stood with a sigh, pointing an accusing finger at you as he warned, “You owe me.”

He snatched the violin from his friend’s hands, the man whose name you still didn’t know, and swayed to the front of the tavern. The fancy rooms your past rendezvous had taken place in couldn’t compare to this place, you were sure.

Because of the cheers and the clinking of cups, the whistling and cheer of Taehyung’s name – you couldn’t have met this level of merriment anywhere else.

But when Taehyung placed the violin on his shoulder, lifting the bow, everyone present fell silent as though they were witnessing the event of the century. Here and there, you heard a hissed “Psst”; could feel the intense pricking up of ears.

And when he played, you knew why.

Because the melody, full of melancholy and yearning, nostalgia and affection, reverberated through your body. It struck a chord you hadn’t known yet, a rhythm so wonderful that you caught yourself sighing half a dozen times.

Your fingers wrapped around the edge of the desk, keeping you steady; you didn’t know whether it was the beer or Taehyung’s skills that were pushing you into dizziness.

His eyes were closed, eyelashes brushing his cheeks. He was pouting, focused on the rich tones he played, the crease between his eyebrows appearing and vanishing every now and then. The piece, whether his original or not, was soft and gentle, similarly to him; yet powerful, touching.

You were used to the piano; growing up, you’d heard your mother play at least one morning a week, and you’d admired the soft flutter of her fingers over the keys throughout all those years. The violin was different. It was louder, shriller – but Taehyung managed to remind you of your mother’s gentle musical abilities within seconds.

The bow in his hand shook until it hit the last note; and when the music died down, thunderous applause replaced it momentarily.

You only noticed you’d stood up when his eyes shifted to yours and your knees almost buckled. You’d clapped your hands wound, loudly and smiling, your eyes damp from the emotions two or three mere minutes had evoked in you.

Taehyung touched you with his words… touched you with music. When you held his stare, sniffling and oddly proud, you wondered how he’d feel and what he’d say if he touched your skin, too.

Because… you thought his body would wrap around yours like a dream. You imagined the same tunes would play in the background when his lips roamed your shoulders, his hands on your waist, pulling you closer.

For a moment, you pretended that you were all he saw and knew, and that the man, desired by the whole room, was your acquaintance, yours for the night – and yours only. Which didn’t mean anyone else got the hint – because as soon as he stepped off the non-existent stage, greedy hands pulled him aside.

Giggling girls immediately threw questions and compliments his way, fingers fiddling with the fabric of his clothing. One of them brushed back his soft, dark hair – you’d never touched it before, no matter how much you’d desired to do so.

You didn’t think much of it – your gaze wandered low, your mind ridding itself of thoughts about their fingers roaming his body, planting charming offers into his head. But when you looked up again, he was staring back. Never looking away.

Like he was silently pleading to skip the moment and be in your proximity again.

It took him seconds that you counted to escape the greasy grips of the hungry pack of lionesses, and his feet carried him to you in a matter of moments as he offered, “Let’s go.”

The night was still young – but you ached to be alone with him. And judging the telling smirk in his face, you assumed that he’d had enough of the chaos, too.

You felt giddy, somewhat dazed when he offered his hand and pulled you out of the tavern. And though he let your palm go once outside, you didn’t miss the blur in his eyes either. Despite the mist, however, you thought you recognised firm hardness behind the gentle, sweet honey in his pupils.

You remembered the secrets he harboured; secrets that you thought he wanted to spill, secrets you wanted to know about. But detecting the hardness, you couldn’t quite shake the feeling there was something about him that might break your heart.

No matter how lovely he was, there was still overt caution in your movements and actions that he was steadily destroying. You wanted to heed the dangerous signals his mysterious being sent, but there was also an aura of comfort surrounding him that pulled you back.

The coldness, however…

“That was wonderful,” you told him as you walked down the path, straight to where your house stood.

“I’m happy you enjoyed it.”

“Everyone did.”

“They always do. But I played it for you.”

But you wondered, if he said that every night he went there – if there was a certain someone, or a new someone he played for each time he touched the violin. Why was he not as transparent as you? Why, with the puzzles his mind consisted of, did he unconsciously plant confusion in your head?

And why, with the despair that flashed each time you detected he was hiding something, did it seem like he was not only attempting to escape himself, but his own riddles, too?

You were sure that behind his chest, there was a stone instead of a heart. That in reality, it was fear, or perhaps numbness, and that he was desperately trying to fight it.

But when he’d touched your hand, dragged you outside, his skin had felt like silk. Soft, tender. Ambiguous, dual.

Overwhelmed and figuring out why your chest burned, you could barely breathe when he escorted you home. Your arms kept brushing, fabric between you rustling. His fingers ran through his tresses, and your heart raced some more; the fuzzy feeling in your stomach made you want to scream.

Did he have poems for this emotion, too?

And you hated it when you arrived at your door, darkness engulfing the quiet night. Stars shone onto you brightly, but they weren’t enough to function as proper light. But when he moved closer… forcing you backwards… hands behind his back – you reckoned you didn’t need to see him to go insane anyway.

“I want to see you again,” he whispered, speaking over the hooting of the owls, “will you let me see you again?”

You hadn’t hinted that this was your final night together even once. You didn’t know where his sudden worries came from, but you would’ve been a fool to not soothe them.

“Yes,” you answered, tipsy and nearly panting; sure that both your breaths were mingling. At least, you could feel his warmth brush your cheeks. “I want to see you again as well.”

“You do?”

Reflexively, your shaky hand travelled up his torso and settled on his chest when he inched closer – even though his clothes covered the entirety of his skin, he felt warm, his body broad. You wondered if your touch affected him at all. Lured him in more.

But he didn’t let you know of his inner turmoil, if there was any, or perhaps you were too tired and gone to notice. The only words you registered, sounding over the thump of your heart, were, “What did you think of tonight?”

“I… I loved it.”

“Good.”

“Did you, too?”

“I don’t know,” he murmured, tilting his head slowly, “I can’t remember doing anything but looking at you.”

His fingertips touched the back of your hand, still resting on his chest as if to keep a distance between you. You’d wanted him close all night – but now you thought that if his body moved towards you just a bit more, he’d feel your chest explode.

Taehyung didn’t attempt any more tonight, though.

He smiled the way he always did; brushed aside his hair once more; readied himself to walk away. And when the ringing in your ears finally stilled, you noticed a beat against your hand.

No stone underneath his ribs after all.

Taehyung was fond of Sunday mornings, and you soon learned why.

The world was sound asleep at those early hours. On a free day, when no work or education called, people tended to sleep in and dream some longer. But not Taehyung.

He always said that indulging in dreams didn’t mean a thing if your body didn’t move an inch off the bed. Taehyung pulled his dreams from his memory and gathered them in his palm; then, he blew them into the air like glitter and followed their traces.

He made reality his dreams and lived his days chasing whatever he declared beautiful and worthy enough to chase. And beauty truly did lay in the eye of the beholder – because he found dazzling perfection in things that you didn’t before.

In small alleyways. In thunderstorms. Dirty taverns, abandoned old homes, odd looking wildflowers.

By spending time with him, you’d learnt how to value tiny moments in life and how days were about being productive. Not that it was bad to do nothing sometimes, but pretty dreams were just pretty dreams after all – hard to let go but easy to forget. 

And the endless hours you walked around with him, letting him guide you through unknown places, showed you without fail that his words were memorable when he uttered them with both your eyes open. They locked into your memory easier than when he roamed your dreams, soon becoming one himself.

Those days… that was before he’d turned things into a nightmare.

“Who can say then exactly what I feel, and maybe this is a deep sin,” Taehyung murmured, breathing in, eyes lifted to the sun.

The canoe swayed lightly, following the path of the river, and your eyes darted from water lilies to his body. His back was pressed against the low walls of the wooden boat, legs stretched and crossed. He had his trousers rolled up and the collar of his shirt danced in the summer breeze.

This was the most relaxed you’d ever seen him – you wondered if he’d truly brought you here because you’d mentioned it or because it brought him a sense of peace, too.

You didn’t know what you enjoyed more: the tranquillity and clarity he wallowed in, utterly endearing and gorgeous, or the flutter of your heart he’d caused merely an hour ago. The fog in your mind had settled with intention to stay the moment you noticed where he’d taken you.

He’d told you to cover your eyes and pulled you into a random direction, insisting that you weren’t allowed to ruin the surprise. Only, the surprise wasn’t as random as you thought – and in all honesty, having recognised the bushes and tree lines at the beginning, you somewhat guessed where he was taking you.

And suddenly, you were here, stepping into a canoe with a gaping mouth; you shook your head in delight, squeezing his hand, and thanked him a thousand times for not only his attentiveness but for bringing you genuine happiness on this Sunday morning, too.

If there were ways to fall into the abyss that he was any deeper, then you’d found at least one of them. And you couldn’t climb to the surface anymore.

“You can’t end it here,” you told him, patting his ankles from the other side of the boat. “You need to give me the whole poem or nothing.”

“That’s half the fun, though. Take it as a riddle and find out about it,” Taehyung joked, turning the smile into a candied chuckle when he heard you groan. “Fine. I’ll give you a name. Sophie Albrecht. The rest is your problem.”

“You’re incredibly insufferable.”

“I must be doing something right if you’re still here, though,” he remarked, blinking before he shot you a look. He shut one of his eyes close again, squinting at you as a finger rubbed his eyelids. “I’m seeing stars.”

“Well, that’s because you’d been ignoring me for ten minutes.”

“I was not ignoring you,” Taehyung defended, playfully outraged and shocked, “I was thinking of you.”

His flattering words hit you like a brick every single time. They erupted out of nowhere, like lava from a volcano, flooded and burned your lungs and heart beyond recognition. Bashfully, you stared back at the fish in the water, questioning, “What could you be thinking about me?”

“Right now? How the poem fits you,” he answered, leaning forward, “you and me, both.”

“Oh.”

“But…” He hesitated, followed your gaze to the fish before he stared back and you met his eyes. “I catch myself thinking about you a lot… these days.” You thought he noticed the moment your heart jumped out of your chest – because something flickered in his eyes, mirroring danger and longing, and he whispered, “You’re like a damn fever.”

Taehyung’s personality, albeit captivating, was tinged with diffidence. It showed when he brought you to new places, nervous to gauge your reaction. You saw it when you walked towards him in the first few moments. And you knew about the timidness that sometimes surfaced when he recited his poems.

But when he let his heart speak and flattered you with whatever floated through his mind, most of his nervousness faded immediately. He never feared your reactions then, because he knew he had nothing to lose – instead, he made you lose your sanity.

The chirping of birds pulled you back into reality. Your surroundings cleared and the blur dispersed, though Taehyung still enjoyed your unwavering focus, building the centre of the image you were staring at.

Being with him was like a trance – you never noticed you’d slipped into it until something broke you out of it.

You cleared your throat and sucked in a breath between your teeth. You ran a finger along the edges of the boat, brushing against the paddle, and told him, “You didn’t have to do this, by the way.”

“Do what?”

You gestured to the trees and the water. “Bring me all the way out here.”

“It’s alright. I enjoy the view, too.”

But most of the time, he’d been looking at you.

“I…” you began, pulling your legs closer to your body to place your chin on your knees. “I was thinking. And I’d really love to read a book of yours.”

Taehyung’s face lit up for a moment, but then fell again. Unspoken emotions suddenly invaded his peace before he let his smile fall and said, “You won’t find any book by me.”

“Why not?”

This wasn’t the first time he was telling you that – but he never disclosed his reasoning either. Today, however, you leaned into him, still keeping a safe distance, touching his calves as you insisted, “Why not? Are you really a writer, Kim Taehyung?”

It was supposed to be a light-hearted joke; some of his forehead wrinkles disappeared, but he still seemed on edge. Teeth nibbled on his lower lip, hair covering his drooping eyes, and his head fell, eyes staring at the wooden ground of the boat between his legs.

And you decided to drop the topic once and for all before he suddenly admitted, “I… wrote under a different name. A pseudonym.”

The information hit you with full force.

You shouldn’t have been surprised – he was a mystery, an enigma, a puzzle, riddle; whatever you’d already used to describe him as. There were probably a gazillion things you didn’t know about him – but perhaps it was the change in identity that threw you off so suddenly.

Because to you, he was Kim Taehyung.

You couldn’t imagine him as anyone else – his words belonged to him. His face, his hands, his voice, his body. They were undoubtedly Kim Taehyung and no one else; but now, he was another persona?

“May I know?” you tried, quiet and unsure.

“Maybe one day.”

“That’s unfair, I–”

You didn’t get to defend your point of view or urge to read his thoughts any further – because without prior warning, the water left to your boat broke, the shimmering surface disturbed when waterlife meddled with your peace of day.

It was a fish bigger than your head, flapping through the air, aggressive and attacking, and had your boat not moved forward in the meantime, it would’ve landed either on your lap or in the boat. Flapping some more, grappling for air, so utterly stupid to jump out of the river in the first place.

With a yelp, you fell backwards awkwardly, close to waving the canoe goodbye when strong and firm hands wrapped around your waist and pulled you in. Struck with fear, you flailed your arms the way the fish’s body had, almost breaking Taehyung’s jaw and bringing the boat to a dangerous shake.

The water had long cleared and calmed down again when the carp, you assumed, had gone back to swim in the peaceful river. You steadied your stagnant breaths, letting your body go limp in his grip. And only when the temporary shock subsided, did you properly realise what was happening.

Taehyung was silent. Arms still around your waist, he didn’t make a move to let go just yet – instead, you stayed just like that, unconsciously pressing yourself into him. He took in your scent; brushed back the strands of hair that had escaped.

Then, he swallowed; and you couldn’t see his face, but you thought he sported a bewitching beam when he asked, “Are you hurt?”

You shook your head immediately, planting your palms on his hands, breathing, “No. I’m alright. Thank you…”

Taehyung’s lips roamed close to your heated cheek, fingers escaping from underneath your hands to play with more loose hair strands of yours. His heartbeat hammered against your back and synchronised with your own sometimes; rapid in one moment, seemingly still as the water in the next.

And you didn’t understand your surroundings or recognised them as what they were until he whispered into your ear, “The bridge you love.”

With the way his fingertips explored clothed parts of your body, ghosting over your sides and your clavicles, you couldn’t keep your deepest desires veiled as you had until now. The goosebumps on your bare wrists and underarms were too telling, your shaky breaths and gasps too obvious.

You looked up into his face, eyes locking on his lips, and caught him staring back. His mouth was parted and his gaze hooded, darker than usual; the waters in it weren’t as calm as the ones surrounding you.

“Taehyung,” you mumbled, and he almost missed it, your voice timid and thin. “Tae–”

You whimpered when his hand travelled along your neck before it came to a halt on your jaw. The boat swayed, though remaining steady, but there was a tumult raging in your heart that made you dig your nails into his arms.

Hissing, he brought his free fingers down your body, touching your stomach and your hip over your dress. Tugged at the fabric until he revealed your legs, up to your knees, enraptured by your skin and your trembling limbs.

“May I?”

The deep baritone of his voice vibrated against your temple, lips barely touching your hair. You couldn’t recall how long you’d been waiting for this moment; when the profound yearning had started. 

But as you closed your eyes, a smile spread on your face and a fire expanded in your stomach. It burned the butterflies and gave way to seething pleasure and longing; and seeking salvation, you nodded, whispering a single, “Yes.”

The pads of his digits pressed into your thigh immediately, and you sighed, attempting your best to trace his movements with your eyes. But they kept fluttering shut, giving into whatever he was doing or trying to do.

He painted circles and other forms onto your skin, wandering the way up to where your most sensitive part lay covered. Taehyung moved slowly – but you wiggled in his grip, eagerly and silently begging.

The image of you, pliant in his grasp, had floated in his craving mind for longer than today. He couldn’t remember what he’d imagined or what he’d fallen asleep to. You had become his new cube, a new imaginary paradise to retreat to; that’s all he truly knew.

But this.

You.

Outside of the fantasies he indulged in under the sheets, alone in his dark bedroom, feeling the phantom touch of your hands all over him.

And his hands all over you.

He didn’t have a clue how, but you were astonishing beyond belief, right here in the real world. And for possibly the first time in his life, he muttered, “I don’t know what to say.”

Your breath hitched when he pushed against your soaked panties; and then your heart stilled when he pushed them aside slowly. You bit your lower lip, dizzy from the motions of the boat, dizzy from his touch; but somehow, you still managed to remark, “You… you always know what to say.”

“Not with you.” A pause, and then quieter, lower, “Not right now.”

“You call yourself… a writer.”

“No… a fool.”

His hands pushed your legs apart, holding your panties to the side, before his fingers touched your dampness ever-so-slightly. You could barely feel them ghosting over your heat, humming and crazed; but when he pressed a digit between your nether lips and dove into the wet sensation carefully, you thought you were losing your mind.

“Taehyung,” you repeated, and he pulled your body up, further into his lap. “I–”

“Yes.”

“I’ve been wanting this.”

“Me too.”

“Ever since I first saw you.”

Shit. Fuck. 

What was he supposed to tell you? That you were a haunting demon, stalking his dreams and thoughts and mind every waking second? That he couldn’t stop thinking of you, of your smile, your body, your touch?

That whenever he closed his eyes, he wondered how you tasted, how you felt under him, trapped and pinned; his lips on your shoulder, your neck, your mouth. That there were so many things he needed to tell you, but that would never topple off his tongue, because he was scared.

Scared that you’d fall deeper. That he’d fall deeper. Scared of how far you’d dig to learn things about him. Scared of what you’d think once you found out.

“Please,” you suddenly pleaded, looking at him, guiding his hand to the bundle of nerves with the same innocence written in your eyes as always.

To Taehyung, you were the most sensual and most ironic free verse poem ever written.

“Please.”

“God, the patience,” he said, two endlessly long fingers rubbing your clit before they found their way back to the entrance – and pushed in, “you have none of it.”

You gasped and moaned, pushing yourself up some more, entirely delirious when you felt his arm close in around your chest. He held you pressed against his body, and the hand not shoving his fingers into you snuck its way up to your neck. Pressed into your skin.

Then moved down, eyes falling at your dekolleté as he tugged at the strings bound to a bow. With your dress loosened around your chest, he explored the warmth of your flesh further, digging underneath the clothing until he let his fingers pinch your erect nipples.

He was too much… his hands cupping your breasts, kneading and scratching, enjoying the feeling of you… you were perishing inside.

“I’ve more than you know,” you cried out.

His fingers pushed in and out of you tenderly, the sounds hot and lewd; he curled them and rubbed the same spot over and over again, moaning in unison with you. His thumb soon settled on your aching nub, circling it slowly – you were astounded and surprised.

None of your previous flames or affair had ever known to handle a woman like this. Taehyung knew what he was doing; and it filled you with jealousy, intrigue and contentment.

“Untrue,” he contradicted, dying a small death each time you winced and moaned, “you’re always in such a hurry.”

“I’m… I’m not.”

“Pity. So what if I left you high and dry?” he questioned, biting into your earlobe before soothing the ache with a kiss. “If I just…”

And suddenly, you were empty, his fingers gone, and you protested, close to tears. “No. I… please, finish it, I’m–”

“You’re… what?” Taehyung teased, kissing your temple. “What do you want?”

“What I want?” you asked, mock apparent in your voice, mixed with a hint of irritation and frustration. “What do you think?” The volume of your voice grew, and you spat your next words, “What do you think have I wanted from the very freaking begi–”

This time, you didn’t get a warning.

This time, you gasped for air, surprised by the hand wrapping around your throat like a necklace. He pushed your head back and up, against his shoulder, wet kisses landing on your jaw; his tongue was hot and dizzying against your skin, calming in contrast to his light nips.

He shoved his fingers into you with a welcoming yet unforeseen force, pumping harshly, watching your body lift from his lap and fall back repeatedly. Sometime during your sins on the river, you felt the hardness of his length poke against your bottom, throbbing and hungry.

And you didn’t need to guess what he was thinking, because he told you, “If I could… I’d ruin you thoroughly. Take you until the sun sets and rises again…” He paused, breathing heavily, relishing your mewls and constant squirms. “God, you’re so fucking beautiful.”

Your waterline dampened and your chin trembled; pleas fell out of your mouth – and before you could count to five, your whole body was quivering, your voice rising. You bit your fist to muffle your noises as every inch of your body collapsed.

Limbs turned weightless and the knot in your stomach dissolved, and as your eyes rolled back in utmost pleasure, you heard him say, “Told you… no patience.”

Only when your shiver calmed down, did he let you go. The hand on your neck fell, fingers drenched in arousal painting a crude trail along your thighs.

You didn’t move off his lap, savouring the moment some more. A fantastical amount of joy coursed your body when the godless lust passed by and gave way to fondness and honey.

Because when his arms wrapped around yours, there was no wicked intention behind it; your dress was long covering your legs again. Instead, you heard nature sing its songs, the river flowing for what felt like hours as his embrace lifted every evil worry you’d ever encountered in your life.

You couldn’t overthink and analyse the situation until the night ended. When he brought you home and left again, tinted cheeks smiling at you as his fingers tucked your hair behind your ears.

Your beam was bright when you let your door shut behind you tonight – and your knees were weak, so weak that you dropped against the heavy door, enraptured and falling.

This was the point of no return.

NOW

There had never been a point of return.

In retrospect, you were doomed when you saw him for the first time. You should’ve known that he was going to end you thoroughly, that you would never be able to go back to how your life was before you knew him.

Sometimes, you ask yourself if you should’ve been more incessant. If you should’ve prodded more, demanded answers to your questions, not let him keep his damned mysterious mask on that he loved so much.

You wipe the dust off your old poetry book, combing the pages for the words you have memorised by now. Taehyung was right – he couldn’t tell you what more Sophie Albrecht’s poem consisted of. Because if he had, you’d known what had bubbled in his heart.

Because the poetess spoke about drunken love; fervent kisses; yearning and pining and longing, intense and torturous… magnificent and beautiful.

And yet with passionate lingering, my mouth stays glowing at your lips.

You shut the book and let your eyes drift over the pile you pulled out of your shelf. You place the poetry next to a novel; one that you have probably read a couple hundred times. The name of the author calls upon a burning, piercing sting; today, of course, you understand why he’d never told you his pseudonym, but his birth name.

You laugh.

The only truth he ever told you voluntarily, without you having to pull it out of him, was his name.

Kim Taehyung.

You were the only one who knew that he’d been born as Kim Taehyung. The only thing he ever confessed to you so blatantly.

And other than that… Why couldn’t he confide in you? And why did he disappear, left you in your melancholy, everlingering and everstaying.

Taehyung… this can’t be what your wonderful phenomenon of fate had written out for the both of you.

THEN

The first time Taehyung opened the gate to his little, humble home, he led you into his office holding your hands gently. 

Your fingers were wounded and aching from stitching several dresses yesterday, and had he not taken your palm into his, greeting you with a tender kiss on the back of your hand, you might not have said anything at all.

But he had top notch remedies to soothe the sting your needles caused; and while he came up with the idea, he used his medical kit as the ultimate excuse to keep you closer to him. In his own four walls, showing you where he slept and ate. To him, this was a sense of intimacy – because it wasn’t as though he brought home a girl every day.

Or at least, not anymore.

“I’m fine,” you assured, slowing down your steps. He was walking backwards and close to you, squeezing your hand, drowning in your eyes. “We can go anywhere you want. I know you despise being at home.”

“I don’t mind,” he said, the same as usual, “and it feels a bit more like home with you in it.”

Your cheeks heated up and you giggled like a child, tilting your head as you fell for him harder, deeper. He let your hands go once inside his office, and the shadows in his face darkened, merely dim rays of the sun shining between his curtains and into the room.

His touch, however, didn’t leave your body just yet – because within a second, he had you pulled into his body, one hand on your back, the other palm on the side of your neck.

Since you knew Taehyung, your lips had never touched his. But after the incident on the boat, something between you had cracked. Like every semblance of courage was suddenly roaming free. The way he hugged you, the way he touched you.

It wasn’t what good acquaintances did.

But you two… not quite friends. Not quite lovers.

”The utmost share of my desire shall be… only to kiss the air that–”

“That lately kissed thee,” you finished, proud and satisfied, “I have read this one for once.”

Taehyung laughed airily, and you saw his soul floating and jumping behind his eyes. Stars twinkled in his pupils once again, bringing night at bright noon. You felt enamoured and faint – you’d never considered that a warm hand on your neck could twist your guts like this.

“I missed you all night,” Taehyung whispered; you didn’t know which night he meant. You hadn’t seen or talked to him in a week. But he clarified, “I missed you every night. And every day. Every damn moment, even when I slept.”

Taehyung was a writer… he was a writer indeed.

And he sucked you in the way your favourite novels did.

Your breaths accelerated as though you had run up a hill – nearly panting, unsteady, anticipating. His nose brushed yours as he moved closer, his mouth parting and eyes shooting daggers of affection into yours.

“Do you ever miss me, too?”

Did you miss him?

Do stars miss the moon when it’s not full? Does the shore survive without waves? Did a life without Kim Taehyung still exist, still sound imaginable?

Did you ever miss him, too?

“Taehyung,” you mumbled, hands on his chest, fumbling with the two open buttons of his shirt, “does anyone ever escape you?”

“I always want to escape myself,” he admitted. You still didn’t quite know what he meant; those statements weren’t rare, but you still couldn’t make him lay open his heart entirely. “But I don’t want you to escape me.”

Taehyung wasn’t made of stones. His body didn’t consist of a cold rock; behind his chest, a bleeding heart pounded.

Taehyung was all cotton and silk.

All cotton and silk.

“I don’t want to either.”

And then, he closed in.

Brushed his lips against yours. Hardly breathing, feeling your fingers curl into fists against his chest.

But before his mouth could finally meet yours, a sudden triple knock pulled you out of your red coloured box of affection. You flinched the same moment he did, and your heads shot to the entrance, perplexed and questioning.

Next to the open door, a girl in a nightgown appeared slowly. She had her arms crossed in front of her chest, and her expression was somehow trist. But then she smiled, and you reckoned, the melancholy only inhabited her eyes – that she was young, perhaps twenty years old and that everyone carries a sense of despair at that age.

Drawing a breath, Taehyung’s eyes flickered between her and you, and you were confused – didn’t know why a girl stood in the middle of his room. His place. Pretty and young, smiling, matching his ethereal glow even in a nightgown.

“I think I know who you are,” her almost juvenile voice chimed, and she leaned against the doorframe, her feet bare and her legs crossed. She called your name, dragged and stretched it out. “I didn’t think I’d ever get to know you. Or that he’d bring you home.”

You searched for answers in the room, looking at her with a squint and then at him with wide eyes. What is happening? you were seeming to ask, and Taehyung, albeit hesitant, soon provided an answer.

“She’s my cousin. My mother’s sister’s daughter,” Taehyung explained, fingers still curled into yours, though the warmth of his body had left yours, “her name’s Hana.”

Hana. Another secret he’d kept from you effectively.

“I didn’t know,” you told her, smiling softly. “It’s good to meet you, Hana.”

In some ways, Taehyung and Hana looked alike. She had the same nose as him. The same dark eyes, soft black hair, full lips that turned into rectangles when she grinned the way she did right now.

“I would’ve been surprised if you had known. Taehyung enjoys being a mystery.”

If this wasn’t the truest declaration you’d ever heard.

“Don’t you have studies to do?” Taehyung scolded, hissing through gritted teeth. He was riled up. Not as calm as he usually was. “Or anything else.”

“Yes. Christ,” Hana rolled her eyes, pushing herself off the wall, “I just wanted to come and wish you a good day. I’m gone.”

And then she stepped out, throwing her untamed hair back, announcing one last thing that you didn’t fully understand. But your focus soon shifted to the relieved exhale Taehyung left out, eyes staring at you in apology before he told you, “I will get you something for your fingers.”

“Thank you…”

Why was all of this so odd? Why did the picture of her face, of her and him together, bring a hidden memory or déjà-vu to the surface that was too blurry to make out?

Something chewed at your brain, and you couldn’t help but feel confused.

You pushed the irritating perplexity aside and stepped into the middle of the room to refocus. Turning in a slow circle, you scanned the room in a 360-view, admiring the set-up of his office.

The room was as organised as Taehyung’s thoughts were, every piece of furniture at its place neatly. A chimney stood in front of the sofa, and under the latter, you detected a carpet of dark but soothing colours.

As you walked around in tiny steps, fingers crossed behind your back, you realised how undoubtedly the interior of Taehyung’s place mirrored his personality. Calm, quiet, comforting.

The only misplaced object that disrupted the peace lay on the chair in front of his desk, opened at a random page and its spine worn out. You leaned closer, picking it up to read the first sentences on the page.

Initially, a smile grew on your face, baffled and impressed by the otherworldly metaphors and writing style. The words felt pleasant on your tongue as you whispered them, flowing like the calm river water you loved.

You turned the book and peeked at the title; you didn’t recognise it, but the author’s name seemed familiar to you. The concept of the novel was a lost memory itself, but looking at the cover, you thought you could still remember having read this very novel years ago.

But the realisation of its background didn’t hit you until you skimmed the next three pages, diving into the lives of a couple who fell in love and fell apart. A famous author who met the woman of his dreams; the page that you’d opened described their separation, tear-filled, desperate and heartbreaking.

The name of the characters; the sunset the girl gazed into; her movements, her words, his goodbyes.

You knew about them.

You never jumped on the train of bestselling novels much. You preferred underrated writers who no one had heard of, stories hidden in the back of a bookstore that you made your own; deemed your very own world.

Big, supposedly groundbreaking books never captured your attention for too long, so you forgot about them fast.

This one however? How had you forgotten about it? Considering its aftermath… you should’ve recognised things earlier.

But since the confessions written on the yellowed pages had caught your attention, broken pieces of a story you’d heard at gatherings returned. Back when you would go out more, meet couples for coffee and tea, hearing them tattle about people far away.

A stranger country. A writer in an affair with a woman who had gone mad. Claiming the novel was about him and her. An obsession dangerous enough to invade his home and confront him about it.

And he had reacted in a way no author should – no authorities were involved until the woman rested on the ground with closed eyes and a bleeding head. A dish used as a weapon in the writer’s hand.

“I found it.”

The cheerfulness in his voice shattered your heart. You hated that you couldn’t despise him – hated that you’d learned of emotions that you’d never felt before. That despite everything his past consisted of, you couldn’t shake the feeling that Kim Taehyung was a different person from the one you remembered.

Remembering before you had even ever spoken to him.

“You were brave to get so close to me,” you mumbled.

You didn’t know what more to say – you were too scared, your voice too strained, to tell him straightforwardly what you’d seen.

“What?” Taehyung asked, stepping closer.

His hand sunk, his fist closing around whatever he was holding for you. You shook your head, taking a step back, bumping against his table as you held up the book and told him, “Cha Yujin.”

And that was… that was when he froze. Like an ice sculpture, halting in the middle of his steps, gulping with eyes so wide you thought they’d fall out of their sockets.

“How could I not remember?” you reprimanded yourself, sniffling, feeling a hot tear trail down your cheek. “The novel that caused all your problems. And Cha Yujin. You’re… absolutely…”

He called your name, stretching out a hand as he whispered, “Let me explain it to you.”

“You’re revolting. And you touched me. Almost kissed me, for God’s sake, and made me fall for… what, a criminal?”

“No.”

“No?”

”No,” he exclaimed, and you shrunk, dropping the book on the table before you wrapped your arms around your chest and made a move to step out.

Walking past him, however, proved to be the biggest task, much as expected. Because his arm shot out and his fingers wrapped around your wrist, tugging you back to his body before his sad eyes fell on yours.

Kim Taehyung had a wistful and sombre gaze. Even when he was happy, there were hints of dreaminess and quietude. Usually, those skills of his eyes enchanted you. Today, they scared the hell out of you.

“Let me go,” you ordered, fighting out of his grip, but he was stubborn.

“I need to explain…”

“You can’t possibly explain this.”

“I’m not…” he started, jabbing holes of desperation into you, “please, I wouldn’t hurt you, I promise, I–”

You stilled, crying, out of your mind and fearing the worst.

“I could never hurt you.”

“But you would and could hurt someone else,” you argued, pulling back once his fingers loosened, “you did hurt someone else.”

But he was still shaking his head when you backed away. When you closed the distance between you and the door, eager to walk out, scared beyond sanity. And the fright in your head only grew once he mumbled, “I’m sorry.”

And to yourself, your heart, the time you’d wasted… you were sorry, too.

It had rained last night.

The pavement was still damp and drying, and clouds still hung over the town gloomily. Today was a little colder than you were used to from the summer, and you rubbed the skin of your wrist, wearing a thin dress that had already earned you some questioning stares.

Or perhaps, it was your tears.

Your form sat on a bench in a stranger park, ignoring every single body passing by you in slow motion. You couldn’t register the way they were regarding you; there were bigger clefts in your world. Ones that you were trying so desperately to mend.

It was absurd to expect instantaneous relief; but what else could you hope for with the constant cuts injuring your heart?

You couldn’t remember anymore when you’d run away. When you’d left his neighbourhood behind and found this very bench. When it had become so cold, or how long you’d been crying and pitying yourself.

All you knew was that the steps approaching came way too fast. And you wanted them gone; you weren’t ready for further grief, couldn’t take whatever they needed you to hear.

“Did he tell you to come?” you asked, your voice breaking and fragile. “To lie more for him.”

“No,” Hana said, calm and firm. She had her hands folded in front of her body, her movements careful. “He didn’t want me to come here because of what happened.”

“This is ridiculous and you both kno–”

“What is? What’s ridiculous?” Hana inched closer, shrugging her shoulders with a pained expression on her face. “That he’s trying to start a new life? That he found you on the way? That I’ve never seen him this happy… or falling this hard.”

Your tears returned in full force, and you wiped them away with the back of your hand – to no avail, because there were too many of them, endless and stinging. You took a deep breath, rubbing your wet cheeks, and slowly, quietly, said, “I can’t hear this. I don’t…”

“And I cannot let you tap in the dark. Or let you keep asking yourself why he did what he did, because you will never find peace like that,” Hana stated, and you despised how much sense her logic made. “He didn’t want me to come because he’d rather you hate him than me.”

“I don’t… I don’t know you, Hana.”

“And you don’t need to.” She flattened her dress and tucked it under her legs before she took a seat next to you, placing a hand on your shoulder that you almost shook off again. “But listen to me.”

Your head was spinning by the time she attempted to start her story. Your body felt as though it was physically moving in circles, and you held onto your head, letting it fall between your shoulders.

“Cha Yujin didn’t die.”

Hana’s voice was faint, echoing. It mingled with your surroundings; the chirping of birds and the quiet chatter of passengers. But her words were sharp, cutting through your mind, widening your eyes.

Your head shot up in a sudden motion, too fast for its liking and it still spun and swirled when you murmured, “What?”

“Yujin is alive. And she’s not the victim that the police and newspaper made her out to be.”

“Where… what happened?”

“She was a reader of his. Knew every word of the novel he’d written. But she was also one of the secret affairs he’d had.”

Something about her tone and her revelation threw your heart into a pit. To all the things you thought you knew, this information didn’t belong. You wondered if anyone knew – wondered if whatever had happened years ago had ever reached at least part of the public eye.

“Taehyung used to enjoy a lot of women’s company. Back when his name was still known all over the country, it was easy for him to find the next bed to jump into. And Yujin was similar… just. Went on for a longer time.”

You listened intently, though your brain begged and urged you to blend it out. You didn’t know what hurt more – the partial truth in the crime story, Taehyung’s old habits or the assumption that you might have been another one of his… pleasures.

And you didn’t know which thought to focus on.

“And Yujin was convinced that the novel… a romantic one at that… was about him and her,” Hana continued, fiddling with her fingers, visibly nervous. “So she came to our home. Long after my parents had died, and I’d started living under Taehyung’s wing. She came to our home and claimed she just wanted to talk.”

She shook her head, sucking in a shaky breath, eyes drooping in exhaustion, “And they did talk. He told her no woman had inspired the novel. She couldn’t accept that… to the point that she started yelling and throwing things, and Taehyung had to build a barrier of chairs so she wouldn’t hurt him.”

In the middle of the narrative, she silenced, swallowing the knot of distress, and in a moment of odd solidarity, you put a warm hand on her knee and spurred her on, “And then?”

And then.

Hana elaborated on the curses and threats Yujin had thrown Taehyung’s way. Described the scars and harmless wounds he’d shown his cousin after everything had ended. They weren’t deep, but they reminded him of the night for days; not that there was any reality in which he could forget anyway.

Yujin had physically opted to attack Taehyung, and he had never lifted a finger against her, enduring because he was certain she would have had enough in just a second. But when the anger advanced, and the girl slipped into incurable mania, Hana stepped out of the room that she’d promised to not leave.

No matter what happened.

“But I couldn’t just let her hurt him,” her voice was quivering, and she kept repeating her sentences, calming her mind and her nerves, “and I saw this… this kettle standing on the dining table. I swear I didn’t want to knock her out like that, but I didn’t know what to do and I promise it was just self defence, so–”

You rubbed her knee in reassurance, cooing at her, but she couldn’t help the tears that started flowing. They collected on her chin and fell in droplets, eyelashes wet and long – strangely, you couldn’t muster the strength to cry.

Not now. Not when the whole story was ridiculous, bewildering.

Was she making it up?

She didn’t look like it.

“What happened to Yujin then?” you asked softly. You didn’t know if empathy outweighed your curiosity – but you needed the truth.

“Mental institution…” is all Hana mumbled, stopping for a minute as she stared at a distant fleck in the sky.

Terror had spread across her face and her chest; she said that even today, she sometimes felt her fingers tremble the way they had that day. When they had seen the unconscious body on the ground, half breathing, somewhat alive.

You wondered whether she was thinking about it now, too. Whether you were supposed to shake her out of her grief and fears.

“Taehyung never let me tell anyone the truth. Took the blame and was considered guilty without testifying. He was barely allowed to defend himself, because the police in our town were corrupt. Which was ridiculous, because Taehyung wouldn’t hurt a fly,” Hana continued, still shaken by her story and memories, “Yujin’s family is richer than any of Taehyung’s books could make him.”

“He took the blame for you?”

“He said he’d promised to take care of me. He decided to do it this way.”

“I don’t understand,” you said, rubbing your forehead, processing whatever you’d heard and gotten told, “how did the both of you get here then?”

Hana smiled, but her eyes portrayed different emotions. Her tears had subsided, her stare tired; she looked exactly how you presumed she felt.

Like someone who had carried the weight of sorrow for years, and now voiced parts of it – unfathomable feelings that had gathered in a ball of stress had been released into the open. You couldn’t imagine how fatigued she felt.

“We… we fled. Before they could capture us.” You drew the pleasant evening air to stop the whirling of your mind, not believing what you had gotten yourself into. She looked at the horror in your face, defending, “You don’t understand. They would have jailed him and tortured him. They loved Yujin’s family and would have killed Taehyung if they’d wanted that.”

The thoughts and possibilities she listed were scarring. Even though they weren’t real, just what could have been, what never had been – they gutted you, stabbing your heart, entangling your thoughts.

“The public did not talk about his birth name. They knew his ridiculous pseudonym, so coming here, living his life as Kim Taehyung… even if he barely spoke about his identity… was an easy way out.”

Now that she pointed out all these things, you realised that it hadn’t been his name that you’d found familiar when he’d introduced himself to you. It was his face, and you’d most likely seen it somewhere when his story blew up, in passing.

“I know… It’s why he never lets me read his books…”

She blinked at you in slight disbelief – you couldn’t tell why. But the emotion vanished as soon as it had emerged, and you ignored the short flicker of it when she continued.

“I suppose so. We came a long way,” Hana concluded, sniffling and wiping her eyes, “from a place far away. None of us can risk anything. And… I know it’s a lot to ask, and I don’t hold any expectations from you. But I would do anything for you to… to not spread our secrets.”

You removed your hand from her knee, entwining your fingers to keep them from digging into your palm. “I am not sure what to tell you.”

“Nothing… I just…”

The wind blew and chilled your bones – it had gotten even colder without you noticing, and despite nature’s warning to get home soon, you didn’t move an inch. Instead, you heard her speak on.

“Back then… Taehyung, he saw it all, but– he never speaks about it. Just keeps taking the blame,” Hana added in a whisper, and you leaned in, perking up your ears, “I can sometimes hear him whimper in his sleep. But those nightmares…”

In the beginning, Taehyung had told you that he didn’t like to dream. That he enjoyed walking into the world and around the globe, seeing places, speaking to people, watching the sun set and rise, gazing at the stars and the moon, observing the slow floating of the clouds.

You never considered the presence of nightmares as a trigger – but then again, he had begun listing his dreams more often these days. As though he had found a liking in them, discovered a corner of his brain that didn’t conjure grotesque images of his past.

“They are less frequent now,” Hana continued. Her eyebrows furrowed; she looked at you as if her mind was lighting up with an epiphany. As if she had grasped something she hadn’t quite thought about before. “Since he started spending time with you.”

But you shook your head, flinching at the sudden clump in your throat. It constricted, and you swallowed, sighing before you said, “Hana, I’m… I can’t be hopeful with th–”

“I mean it,” she interrupted, her gentle words accompanied by the subtle rustling of the trees, “it doesn’t wake me up at night anymore. I don’t have to leave my bed to wrap my arms around him anymore. And I cannot remember the last time I stayed awake talking to him.”

“Hana…”

“Think about it.” Her fingers wandered to your shoulder and she pulled you in, her tone still calm but keener now. “Taehyung doesn’t just talk about himself to anyone. He didn’t just open up to you, even somewhat, but he brought you home, too. Why?”

You were clueless; or perhaps you weren’t. Perhaps a voice inside your mind, behind your jumbled thoughts, knew what Hana meant, and was telling you what it was, but you were scared of hope. Of love and heartbreak.

So she spelled it out for you.

“Because there must be a reason why he trusted you like that. Maybe he knew you’d find out one day… maybe he wanted you to know, just not yet. Maybe he saw something in you, and he knew you would understand when the time was right. That he would stay with you or fall in love with you. Keep you by his side.”

Falling in love? Love. Love.

At this moment, it was equal to fear.

“I suppose we didn’t get this far.”

“Yet. That’s why you need to stay… that’s what it means. Ensuring someone’s trust. Telling them everything. That he didn’t yet doesn’t show a lack of trust, but fear. Absolute horror,” Hana explained, calling your name, “because you mean something to him, he fears what you might think of this. And of him.”

When does love’s blindness turn into insanity?

Some years ago, your logical side would have known what decision to settle on, who to speak to and where to go. Rethinking all recent events, you thought that you would have taken the mature path even a few months ago.

When you hadn’t known him. When his name meant nothing to you and the string of your memories wasn’t filled with his smile and touch.

But now…

“What should I do?” you whispered into the world, blinking away the dampness in your eyes. “I don’t know.”

“I think you do,” Hana argued. She stood and dusted off her dress, preparing to walk away. “I think you absolutely know what to do. Whenever you feel ready.”

The house’s furniture was elegant and delicate.

Various patterns adorned the wooden pieces; paintings of landscapes and gardens hung in the anteroom; everywhere you looked, the flame of candles flickered gently.

The rooms were coloured golden, laying quiet and still. From afar, you heard fire crackle, and you followed the sound as you’d been told to. Hana assured you it would be fine to walk in unannounced.

But as you neared the office, your steps small and slow, you felt restlessness wrap around your neck. You didn’t know what to say – hadn’t thought of a speech you wanted to deliver, emotions you wanted to confess.

All you knew was that you were shivering. That the last three days you’d gone to sleep, woken up, worked, eaten and fallen asleep again had been cold. The clouds still hung in the dark sky, restricting the view to the stars. The world felt gloomy and your heart stone hard.

Three days of thinking, rethinking, overthinking.

Of yearning and crying, unsure what to say or to do. You still couldn’t believe you were here. Could barely trust your eyes when you entered the office and saw his form, hidden under a blanket.

Not on the davenport, but sitting in front of it, feeling the warmth of the chimney.

You called his name, crossing the room, quick to crouch next to him to improvise the next minutes. But when you looked at him, he was sound asleep. He had pulled the blanket up to his nose, breathing in a peaceful slumber.

His dark hair fell into his face the way it always did, a silver earring dangling from his earlobe and his skin drenched in a homely orange. In front of him lay an open book – the same novel you had touched. You wondered if he’d chosen to read it again, relive whatever it evoked in him.

Closing it, you took a seat next to him, leaning against the sofa. You put your head on his shoulder, cheeks warmed by the blanket; but Taehyung, as you found out, was a light sleeper. Because the moment you touched him, he flinched, eyes shooting up to inspect his surroundings.

And when they found you, his eyelids fluttered until he adjusted to the sight of you.

“Hana spoke to me,” you told him, biting into the inside of your cheek, “she told me the truth about this,” you pointed to the book, “about everything.”

Taehyung nodded, as if he already knew. Hana must have told him before you arrived.

He held your stare until he suddenly looked away. Like you’d burned him with your eyes; like something had told him he wasn’t allowed to stare at you.

“May I?” you asked, pointing at the blanket.

And when he nodded, though with slight hesitation, you smiled in reassurance, wrapping the blanket around your body before you pressed your shoulder against his. “I believe you. Hana and you, both.”

You heard Taehyung’s gulp without looking at him; and pieces of your heart hurt and steamed when he spoke, his voice hoarse, but still so tender, “She said you did.”

A minute of unspoken questions and answers passed in silence, and when you spoke again, you felt the smile on your face, “I may not know you inside out, Kim Taehyung,” your gaze met his and fingers sought his cautiously, “but I know you well enough to understand that you aren’t a bad person.”

His eyes were glassy, drooping; he still appeared to be dreaming. Half asleep.

Your free hand lifted under the blanket, shuddering, and you watched as his eyes closed when your fingertips brushed the skin of his jaw. You traced the sharp line and touched his earring; wandering on until your palm was resting on his cheek, cupping his face.

“We didn’t mean to bring anyone pain,” Taehyung whispered, aching and breaking, “we always considered ourselves good people.”

“You are,” you spoke up, rubbing your thumb against his face, leaning in, “you are. You’re the best man I know.”

“Do you mean that? Are you saying that? Actually saying that?” He leaned into your touch, his chin quivering, and before you knew it, a single drop of tear escaped his eye and landed in your hand. “Or am I hallucinating? Still dreaming…”

“I am here. Right here.”

Taehyung called your name, his deep voice fragile and crumbling. His body seemed limp, as frail as his heart; you had never seen him like this before. You wanted to mend the pain, wanted to assure that you weren’t walking away.

But before you could speak, he whispered your name again, a hand travelling to your waist, towing you closer. His eyes searched for something in your irises, darting up and down, from left to right. Busy hands touched the warmth of your body, squeezing your waist and brushing back your hair.

And then, a new surge of determination inundated his chest; still crying, he promised, “If you ever forgive me… I will try to be better.” He sniffled, breathing heavily, and you could barely believe that you were witnessing the cracking of his soul – seeing what you meant to him. “I will make everything right. I am so sorry, sweetheart.”

“We will find a solution one day��� and I’ll be here,” you cooed, shushing his winces; brushing an alleviating hand through his hair. “Do you understand?”

It was too late to escape now. Of course you would stay – ready to live and die by his side. To your past self who hadn’t spoken to him yet, your decision might have appeared comical. Your past self might have taken the other path that night; gone home without approaching any finger food or wine.

Left the event and fallen asleep.

If the flutter of a single butterfly’s wings had been any different… but it hadn’t. And that was alright.

More apologies fell out of Taehyung, accompanied by diminishing tears. Your foreheads collided, him holding you close. Honeyed breaths, steadying, fell against your face, eyes closed.

You didn’t fathom that you were crying until Taehyung wiped your salty grief away, his nose grazing the tip of yours as he – slowly, carefully, suddenly – verbalised, “Your… your fingertips fire cannons made of needles; you puncture my soul, my heart, my bleeding skin.”

Hands tugged you in.

Lips caressed your mouth.

His whisper grew quieter.

”Yet, I remain an utter fool, drowning and blind; seeking the sting of your lips, the most ravishing sin.”

Something about the return of his habit cracked your heart open; like a gush of your usual emotions invaded your heart, everyday conversations breaking the grief and mournful nights. The familiarity threw you back to better days.

When you watched river water flow by and a bridge approach, trapped in his arms, whimpering pleas and his name.

So you cried more, closing your eyes when his lips moved to caress your cheekbones, and you asked, “Who wrote this one?”

Taehyung pecked your cheek, left a line down your face until he was back where your mouth parted. Sweetly and sickening, he admitted, “I did… for you.” His furrowed eyebrows relaxed, and his eyes opened for a moment; his soul was lost and found as he repeated, “I did, for you.”

And that was it.

The final words before he closed the distance. His lips fell on yours like they belonged there; like a puzzle had fallen into pieces. You locked your mouths in place and threw away the key. Weak from the way his plush lips moved, miniscule noises falling out of his throat.

He sighed and gasped against your face, tilting his head to deepen the kiss. Your heart leapt and frolicked when he pulled you flush against his chest. He pushed the air out of your lungs; dug his fingernails into your waist and hips.

The kiss was all you registered, and all you lived for, though it was killing you.

Because the touch was intense, laced with passion unmatched. A slow, steady rhythm that only broke when he opened your mouth, whispered your name and let his tongue slither in. You were a labyrinth to him, you noticed – because he lost his way somewhere, then found himself in the core of your being, but never moved past it to the exit.

“Taehyung–” you muttered when he moved to your neck, leaving a series of damp kisses.

“Don’t speak,” he interjected, leaning back, his eyes hungry and sober, “no more talking for tonight.”

So you obliged.

You let him wear out your name; his embrace was the leading compass that night. You allowed him to dive back in, capture your lips, tugging and nibbling at them, tongues dancing.

You drowned in the fever he caused as your back fell against the carpet, the fireplace still flaring and his arms trapping you. The fingers of his hand locked with yours, lips kissing their way to your clavicles and back to your mouth.

And that’s how you remained: clothed, chaste, crazed.

Kissing each other through the night.

Falling, falling, perpetually falling.

NOW

Candle-lit and golden – it was one of the last nights in which reality as you knew it made sense.

You still feel the touch of his lips on your skin. His hands holding your waist, his voice whispering words and promises that must have been fairytales.

The days you spent after this fateful night proceeded just as feverishly. There seemed no border between you, no restrictions and limits. The possibilities, dreams and touches; you remember them all too well.

A hand on your back leading you down a path in the forest; conversations held beside river shores as you nibbled on fruit; your body caged between walls or trees and him. A mouth kissing your neck and your jaw, discovering more of your sounds.

You spent your mornings talking, afternoons drowsy, nights lost in each other. You hadn’t known happiness this unconditional before; and it felt real. Tangible.

Perhaps you should’ve remembered every moment, smile and kiss better.

Because nothing made sense after that.

THEN

Taehyung and you abandoned your rule of weekly strolls through the town and soon advanced them to regular occurrences.

Lovesick and watching through a tinted version, you opened your business earlier in the morning and closed it earlier in the evenings. You would wrap up work to meet him at a previously determined time and place. Or you would visit him at home.

He would visit you at home.

So it didn’t come as a shock when he knocked at your door one night; you’d indulged in a long, warm bath and didn’t expect the interruption tonight. Especially not so long after the sun had set.

Freshly wrapped in a nightgown, you opened the door, greeting a version of Taehyung you’d never seen before.

He was smiling; the way he always did. But his eyes looked distracted and strange, tainted with something you recognised quicker than he probably intended.

“What’s wrong?”

Your immediate worry lit up a nerve in him – because he opened his mouth to speak, his expression baffled for a fraction of a moment before it calmed again. He removed his hand from the frame of your door, stretching his arm.

“Let me come in,” he ordered, albeit softly, kindly as he watched you place your palm in his. But the demand was still different from his usual requests for permission. “Please.”

You nodded and stepped aside, eyebrows still furrowed as you played out the different reasons why he might be here. But as soon as he entered your house, he seemed like a different person.

Or rather, his true self.

Dreamy eyes looked at you, pulling you into his body, and you chuckled, cheeks warming as he said, “I was missing you.”

“Really? That’s why you’re here?”

You swayed lightly in his arm, dancing to music that wasn’t there. His lips barely touched your forehead, taking in your scent, and he uttered, “Mmmh. Just hate being anywhere else.”

“Anywhere else?”

“Anywhere that’s not with you.”

“You’re so…” you thought for a moment, staring up with a playful smirk, “gushy again today.”

Taehyung laughed, his nose touching yours, and you knew he was close to kissing you but not quite. He enjoyed the teases before he dived in; loved to hear your breathing stagnate until he stole it entirely.

“So,” you breathed, your hands settling on either side of his neck, “what have you got for me today?”

He knew immediately what you meant; he smiled, and perhaps, he would’ve broken into hearty laughter too if your eyes hadn’t pushed his attention to them. He stared into your pupils intently, alternating between letting his eyelids flutter open and shut.

That’s why you could never let go of him. Why he mesmerised you so ardently.

Because Taehyung was a tender lover. Lost in dreams, caught up above clouds. He carried a galaxy in his heart and an ocean in his mind – vast and wide; soft and calm. 

If you hadn’t felt his touch a hundred times before, you would’ve deemed him a fantasy.

You thought he’d bring you Shakespeare today – you’d talked about him just a few days ago. Or perhaps Jane Austen. But instead, he tangled your thoughts into a tight knot as he leaned in, pecking the corner of your lips, and whispered, “You drive me crazy.”

Being with him… you had gotten used to elegant confessions and a love language manifesting in rhythmic, poetic words. And when he opted for such a mundane confession instead, you felt your heart leap into your throat.

Perhaps because the feeling of having pushed him into speechlessness filled you with pride. Or because of the way he was looking at you.

“This might sound blunt,” Taehyung started, gulping, “but can I stay here tonight? 

Taehyung was always unpredictable – today, however, he sounded more suspicious. You wondered if you could pull his thoughts out of him.

“Of course you can. Of course,” you permitted, burying your fingers in the tresses in the nape of his neck, “anything for you.”

The mouth that ghosted over yours closed in, teeth capturing your lower lip before he pulled lightly, let go again and echoed, “Anything for me.”

He didn’t endure for long tonight. His thumb traced the apple of your cheek, the touch affectionate, careful. He began a gentle backward stroll of your bodies, urging you into a specific direction until you’d entered your bedroom.

“What are you doing?” you asked, bewildered by his gaze. “Kim Taehyung, you–”

Your speech broke when the back of your knees hit your bed, and with his weight pushing against you, you fell, his body following suit. His knees dug into the mattress on either side of your thighs, and he leaned in, seeking something in your eyes.

“I just want to touch you,” he responded quietly, palms pressing into your bed, “just want to keep touching you tonight.”

And so he did – as if he was touching you for the first and last time.

His digits brushed back your stray hair before his arm snuck under you, holding onto you, pinning you down with his chest. His free hand brushed along your bare arm, raising it slowly until it was in his firm grip, immobile next to your head.

He kissed the sensitive patch under your ear, loving and captivating. The intimacy was new to you; you didn’t know yet how his bare skin against yours felt. The thought of his burning body on yours, with nothing in between, joggled your heart and left it beating harder.

But no matter how hot his touch, you couldn’t shake the feeling of suspicious unease.

“Is something wrong?” you questioned as he left barely-there kisses on your jaw.

He looked up, blinking at you; and then moved his head from left to right and back, the movement subtle and miniscule. “No,” he answered, his breath warm on your cheek, “absolutely not. This is perfect.”

His words sounded definite and certain, so you stopped questioning his intentions. If he wasn’t ready to lay open the content of his heart or had truly no sorrow to hide, then you weren’t going to push him.

Instead, you let his mouth and hands explore your body. In one moment, he’d hold your wrist tight, and in the next, you’d feel his slender fingers on your chin, embarking on a journey down to your chest. His lips traced your jaw and your neck before they found home on your own again, seeking your tongue and your taste.

Teeth bit your lower lip and pulled at the soft flesh, and you frisked your mind for something to say before he beat you to it and confessed, “Every moment without you has started feeling like…”

Like an empty void. Like advanced boredom. Like a cumulation of silent yearning, heartache and loneliness.

“Not living.” And this. “I feel more alive with you.”

You didn’t grow up with sappy words and deep love confessions. Infatuation never bothered you, and you were proud to say that you were able to move on quickly. You didn’t think, however, that you possessed the power to leave him behind.

“Is that alright?” he asked as his hands tugged at the sleeves of your nightgown.

He slipped one side off your shoulder, baring your skin, and taking in the hint, you nodded eagerly; told him a single hushed, “Yes.”

Eager digits freed you of your clothing; you raised your body to aid him in his quest, shutting your eyes tight, unsure what he might think or say. But to your pleasure, boosting your ego, he pressed a flat hand on your cheek, commanding, “Look at me.”

You obliged cautiously, but didn’t freeze in your movements, turning your insecurities into confidence as you began unbuttoning his shirt. Ripped half open, it hung off one of his shoulders, showcasing his golden chest; glowing, soft, comforting.

Ridding him of his trousers, your eyes locked on the bulge growing under his drawers. You brushed a hand along its confines and outline, hearing a gasp from above, and he retracted; put a distance between you and stood, even if only to kick off the garments.

“You’re making this hard for me,” Taehyung said to you, shaking his head. “So incredibly hard.”

At least that was what you thought you heard – you couldn’t focus much anyway. Your attention had shifted to his veiny hands as they glided along his thighs and cupped the length that had sprung out. Endless fingers wrapped around his shaft, pumping twice, and then he let go again.

“God… Tae…” you mumbled, crawling closer hungrily, thirst burning up your chest.

“Don’t look at me like that…” he said, his voice strained, as though he’d delivered an hour long speech before coming to you. “You can’t dismiss your own beauty and then admire me.”

“Why can I not? You’re…”

But he’d never find out what he was, because in the very next moment, you were kneeling at the edge of your bed. You gripped his cock, looking up at him with a tender expression before you gulped and brought your lips closer to the head of his member.

You gathered a trivial amount of saliva on your tongue, letting it escape through the gape of your lips as he cursed, “Oh… fuck. My dreams could never compare to this.”

“Hmm?”

“I have… thought of this so often.”

You took the last moment to respond with a nearly inaudible, “I have, too” before you began swirling your tongue around his head. He enjoyed the eye contact, going crazy as you sucked in the precum; toying with the sensitive skin.

Your fist, wrapped around his cock, moved up and down, your wrist twisting. For just a moment, you slowed down, tracing the protruding veins, aware of each one of them as you imagined what they’d feel like inside you.

The vivid picture made you shudder, your walls clenching and dripping, and you brought your hand resting on his thigh to your clit. Slow rubs adjusted to the pace of your mouth, bobbing back and forth, taking in his girthy and impressing length as much as your throat allowed.

Breathing hot against his cock, you drew a deep inhale before you dived back in, letting your tongue do its work until spit ran down your chin. Taehyung cherished the small details of your actions; the swish of your tongue over his ridges, slow and focused, and the way your hand wandered up and down his erection before it stilled to toy with his balls.

Taehyung detected your subtle self-pleasuring movements late – but he did. They elicited a light shake of his head, and the fingers previously buried in your hair pushed your body back, eyes watching the string of saliva connecting your mouth and his slit break.

As he observed your breathless form, his hands pried your legs apart, pinning them against the mattress in a sudden motion as he whispered, “I wanna taste you, too.”

But instead of moving straight south, he half fell onto you again; naked this time, nothing separated your skin. And when his body touched yours, it felt like flames colliding; you were burning up like the summer sun at noon.

He settled between your legs, hardness rutting against your slick folds; he listened to your moans with lips kissing a trail across your face. Roughly, he pulled your legs over his waist, holding your limbs there as he commented, “I saw an angel so beautiful…”

An immediate giggle erupted from your chest, amused at the dramatic choice of his words, and he chuckled with you before he silenced your echoing joy. Open mouthed kisses landed on your neck, wet and crude.

Dazy and dizzy, you mewled, clenching your hands to fists against his back as you told him, “Feels so good… feels so damn good.”

Proud and satisfied, he started moving down until his tongue circled your nipples. His mouth alternated between each of your breasts, but he never left one side without attention; gripping it, digging in, squeezing and kneading.

He cupped your mounds, pushing them up, pinching your perked nipples before he bit into them lightly. Travelled down teasingly, clearly aware of his unwavering effect on you.

When he paused above your pelvis, you sighed, opening your eyes that you didn’t realise you had closed. You looked at him, pushing his hair back, and revealed, “I don’t want you to stop.”

“I’m not going to stop,” he assured, taking in your scent and placing a kiss on your aching nub, “I’m not.”

“Don’t…”

“Anything for you, sweetheart.”

You didn’t get time to grow used to the endearment, surprised when he pulled you down the bed, placing one of your legs on his shoulder and the other against the mattress. He kept your thighs apart vehemently, his tongue darting out to taste your lust for the very first time.

Licking a stripe between your folds, he repeated his action before he made home above your clit. The wet muscle driving you mad flicked over your clit, slowly raising its pace before he closed his lips around it. Kissing, indulging in you, dark hair strands hanging low and tickling your skin.

He granted you with all of his attention, eyes closed, relishing your fragrance and flavour. Two of his fingers soon joined the pleasure he gifted you, pushing in with expected ease. Accompanied by the heated making out, his deft digits pushing in and out made you wiggle under him, your leg slipping off his shoulder and down his arm.

Your eyes rolled back further in their sockets, passionate moans and groans falling out of your mouth, and barely articulating a sentence, you mumbled, “Mmmfuck, Tae… please do–”

He hummed against you, understanding your language without its coherency; the tremble of your legs and hands in his hair told him more than enough.

So he engulfed your tits with a large hand, scarring your flesh with his nails; his tongue fastened, fingers fucking into you deeper, more impatiently. And then – it was over as soon as it’d begun.

He aided you through your high, could almost see the way high waves of pleasure flooded the pit of your stomach, untying the tight knot. You relaxed – or fell, he couldn’t quite say. The arched back flattened, fingers around the sheets loosened, and your body went limp.

“Was that good enough?” you suddenly heard him ask, his voice way closer than before. Your head still spun when you met his eyes, his face floating above yours as he muttered, “You look… incredible.”

Staring up at him with gentle, pure eyes, the same sweet innocence pulling him to heaven. Or dragging him to hell. You were the only person he knew who could surpass the devilish gates and still remained virtuous.

Because despite the honey in your heart, the fog in your eyes was sinful.

Split a part of his soul, tainting his mind, colouring it in new, vivid hues. A sky blue when you comforted him; but a bright red when you filled him with undying lust.

“You…” he began, but stopped, his pupils flickering. “You know how much you mean to me, right?”

The centre of your stomach fluttered, spreading across your body; after all those times he’d kissed you, looked at you, showered you in poems, you still couldn’t believe that you were the object of his affection. 

You.

Not anyone else who existed in this wide, vast world. No… you. Right under him, naked, aching.

“Tell me.” You skimmed his flushed cheek, your insides screaming when his chest pressed against yours. “Please.”

You kept begging tonight – he wondered if he knew you didn’t need to. That he was ready to cross oceans and run through wildfires to get to you; if the world had allowed, he would’ve even fought the lesser devils of the world to stay with you.

But…

He shook his head free of intrusive thoughts, rubbing himself against you and admitted, “No… I feel out of words today.”

And then, his length, still standing tall and hard, aligned itself with your entrance, pushing in for just a fraction of a second. The moment was miniscule, but you gasped at the thickness already filling you, and threw your head back.

But he caught your face momentarily, bringing it back to him. Teary eyes gazed into his as his cock returned to your leaking mess, and breathing roughly through his nose, he spoke against your lips, “I’ll show you instead.”

And when he kissed you this time, his motions were more urging, more fervent. Your noses collided, your act aggressive. In the midst of the dance his tongue performed with yours, he pushed in fully, and you yelped into his mouth, sharp nails digging scars into his back.

A million and trillion fuzzy feelings coursed through your torso and down to where you connected; you were falling in love so fast and hard, it almost hurt.

Full and soft lips left yours to kiss your neck and clavicles again, suckling before he buried his face in your skin. He fucked you gently, increasing his pace slowly without unleashing cardinal, harsh lust just yet.

“Are you alright, baby?” he checked for the umpteenth time tonight, and you nodded wildly, whimpering and whining.

He felt as heavenly as you’d pictured. Passionate, zealous and fiery. He filled you to the brim, his length curved, hitting a spot you felt bloom for the first time ever.

As he raised his head and aligned your gazes, you saw him melt clearly.

Because he looked at you like the world was devoid of any existence but yours. Stared into your soul, deep moans vibrating in your eardrums; you recognised that he wasn’t writing but reading you tonight.

With connected foreheads, he asked, “It doesn’t hurt?”

“No… no,” you managed, panting as he pushed into you deep, pressed against you, “it feels so good. You're so good… so beautiful.”

“You,” he returned, hips pulling back before slamming back in, “are beautiful. Can’t stop thinking of you,” he waited, fucking you more passionately, and you held onto him, sweaty bodies colliding, “ever.”

The misty scene of lust and romance, laced with worries you tried to abandon, brought upon a thousand emotions in you.

Endless pleasure from his touch and the way the ridges of his cock rubbed against your nerves. A swarm of butterflies from his words invading your insides. The ardour eliciting goosebumps, making you shiver. 

A nagging voice in the back of your mind, because he was too… too intense.

Or perhaps, that was actually what he felt for you. The vigour, the unmatched ferocity of his fondness.

“Tae…?”

You didn’t know what you wanted to say. Maybe you wanted to wear out his name; you weren’t sure. But as he heard your whisper, he pushed a large hand under your head, fingers in your hair, palm settling on your scalp.

He raised you to his lips, his jaw clenched. His motions slowed down, allowing you to feel him better, more intense, because he pulled out almost entirely before he hammered back in.

Patiently, he stared at you, waiting for your words, but when he realised that your mind was empty of everything but his name, his lips crashed against yours. You moaned and hummed against his tongue, and he swallowed your sounds, tilting his head.

You were still trapped between him and the bed, but his unoccupied fingers still somehow found their way between your bodies and to your clit. You lost your mind steadily, holding onto him as he fucked you, pushing you up to the headboard.

He pressed a quick peck onto your mouth, and then said, “I don’t know how to–”

But he stopped, distracted by your keen cries as you unwinded again. Your eyes were damp, and your arms tightened around his neck. And once you were done, shaking and sniffling, he tried again, “I don’t know how to live without you.”

A quiet tear rolled down your face; he caught it with his thumb, his hand falling from your head and sneaking to your shoulder blades. He pulled you into him, leaving not an inch of you untouched, and started thrusting into you so devotedly that you dropped all sense of time and space.

“Then don’t,” you pleaded, your voice weak and drowning in your other sounds, “stay.”

His eyes scared you. They carried a presentiment; you didn’t know what to do with it. All you could do is beg and wait, hope he told you what storm twirled inside him.

“Shit, you,” he began, chasing his high, groaning deeply, his tone dropping a dozen octaves, “you make me fall… so damn deep for you.”

And that was the last thing he uttered before he shot ropes of his hot arousal into you, moulding your lips with his once more.

Both your bodies shook from the impact your night together brought; his breathing was heavy, his skin glistening in sweat. His hair stuck damp against his forehead, and you brushed it aside, taking in the universe in his eyes; a mirror that reflected your face.

He dove in for another kiss on your cheek, his exhales igniting your skin. Mumbling something else you didn’t understand, he pulled out of you, staying on top of you for some minutes before he raised his body slowly.

The lack of touch felt cold on your perspiring skin, but he didn’t leave you without it for long before he pulled you up and walked you to the bath. You sat at the edge of the small tub for a while as it filled, his hands brushing the knots from your hair and rubbing your aching thighs.

Once you settled in the water, hypnotised by the scrub of his hands on your scalp, you dozed off before you could realise. The gentle, wet back of a hand woke you up after what felt like an eternity, and you mumbled an apology under your breath.

“Everything is fine, my darling,” Taehyung cooed, soothing your worries.

He let you wrap your arms around his neck and carried you into your bed with a slight, exhausted groan. Laid you down, tucked you in, appearing next to you within a few seconds.

Pulling you into him, you took in his odour, burning it into your memory. You were half asleep, kissing his chest, never finding out that he was swooning, smiling, hiding half his face in your hair.

Sometimes, you think that if you’d known, you would’ve fought harder. Or perhaps ran away, not given in to the foolish act you’d indulged in tonight.

But then, you reckon, you would still do the same thing again today if you could. Naive and in love, being reborn and dying with every word he uttered and every of his touch you felt.

As you drifted off, you thought you heard him say something to you. And then, Taehyung closed his eyes with you in his arms for the last time; wordlessly.

The night proceeded thunderously. The rain didn’t start until you were fast asleep, and it kept you in dreamland until the first lightning struck.

It was early morning by the time the storm shook you awake. You realised the weather wasn’t the only thing raging; because within a moment, your heart bled, too. The thick liquid erupted like a volcano spitting lava that had been laying silent for so long.

You knew something had been wrong – that when you’d been worried, you’d been right.

Because.

When you woke up, he was gone. The other side of the bed was cold and empty, a yawning silence not only in your and his own home, but in your cavernous and splitting heart, too.

After Taehyung left your bed and life, you realised for the very first time how colossal and vast your town truly was.

The first few days, you spent every single second searching high and low for him. You left no stone unturned, tracing back his presence until your feet ached and bled. The taverns, the hills, the river. The market, the hospital, all bookstores in your proximity.

His house.

Taehyung was nowhere to be found.

The incessant knocking on his door was never answered, and he didn’t send a letter, didn’t come back, never granted you a hint of what had happened.

And you barely slept. Revisited memories of his eyes and his touch; the way he had spoken to you merely a few nights ago. His lips haunted you when his face didn’t, and oftentimes, uneasy sleep would only pull you in once you had cried yourself tired.

A week later, you still didn’t know what had gone down. You didn’t know why you couldn’t find him – why everyone around you acted as though he was just a mirage who’d touched your imagination for a transient moment.

You didn’t even know what questions to ask.

You were angry. That was all you were aware of; the fury boiled hot and clear, transparent.

But the anger morphed into a new stage of grief when two weeks had passed. The trigger emerged in the form of a displeased bang on your door. You didn’t expect a guest, and didn’t expect anyone to make sure you were doing fine. No one knew about it anyway.

The hopes buried deep within your heart, however, sparked and lit up like the lights of a Christmas tree; your feet carried you to the entrance, new tears falling. But once you ripped the door open, your pumping organ fell quiet and dark again.

It wasn’t him.

“Good evening.”

The stranger was wearing a half-decent smile; she was clothed in a dress and coat way too warm for this season, balancing her weight on one leg, then the other. Half her face was hiding under a hat, so you could barely make out her eyes, considering that she was a good chunk shorter than you.

“Good evening,” you greeted back. “Do I know you? How can I help you?”

“I…” She was nervous, gulping, averting your eyes. “I was…”

But you were not patient enough to wait for her explanations and questions. Not today. Sighing, you clutched the door, telling her, “I apologise, I am currently closed. And I don’t want to buy anything if that is what you–”

“No,” she chipped in, shaking her head before her hand lifted to the hat, taking it off. You still didn’t recognise her face when she finally looked at you properly. “I’m here to speak about Kim Taehyung.”

The silence in your room hid the fact that you weren’t alone in your house. It was more prominent than when you were, pressing and numbing, uncomfortable to a degree that you felt your body tremble.

“Would you like some coffee? Or tea. Warm milk is an op–”

The woman, sporting dark circles under her eyes, much like you, shook her head at your suggestions. She managed a small smile, and you nodded, leaning back in your chair, legs pulled in.

If you weren’t holding onto your knees, pressing them against your crumbling chest, you might have broken down.

“I don’t understand,” you whispered, licking your lips, “you’re Yujin’s mother. You came to talk to Tae. But I don’t understand why that made him leave. And why you’re here now.”

“I am afraid it’s not that easy. He didn’t leave because I came all the way to talk,” she clarified, staring at a pattern on your carpet, “when I arrived at his house, I was angry. Out of my mind. He thought I was going to hurt him the way my girl did, but… I never had the intention to.”

Your eyes blew wide, fearing the guilt in her voice, and you pulled your limbs in more, questioning, “Did you… did you hurt him?”

“No! No, I couldn’t. I couldn’t.” She shifted in her seat, her back straight, but her face full of tortured emotions. “I just wanted an explanation. I wanted to know why all of this even happened. I didn’t know about their affair, you know? I didn’t come for revenge but for closure.”

A desperate attempt to find out what had happened that night, because Yujin had never told the whole truth. You were sure of it.

“Your daughter tried to kill him,” you said, your voice growing monotone and dropping empathy. “And he did whatever he needed to do, so he could come out of this unscathed. Yujin never–”

“I’m aware now,” she cuts in, staring into your eyes with a glassy look, “Taehyung explained it to me. Hana added onto it some more… and perhaps it’s easier for me, after all those years of taking care of my daughter, to believe it and to forgive him for the sins he didn’t commit.”

She waited, shaking her head again. An apologetic expression crept upon her face, and in a careful whisper, she added, “But the police won’t.”

Sinking behind your legs, you must have looked to her as though you already knew about this. As if you expected this, unable to act surprised anymore. But in truth, you were shrinking into yourself, holding onto your broken pieces.

Because words, as alleviating as they can be, have the power to disrupt a peaceful mind, too.

Since Taehyung had come into your life, you had witnessed the force with which words could make your heartbeat skyrocket. Despite the bookworm that you were, you hadn’t paid much attention to the effect a sentence could cause.

Now, you did all the more.

She called your name, and you looked up into her face with puffy eyes, limbs shaking as you asked, “They know where he is, don’t they?”

“Not now, they don’t. It’s why he left… they might not be able to find him very soon again. It took them years even now.”

“Excuse me,” you mumbled with a faint voice, standing on wobbly legs. You wiped the tears off your face, and braced yourself for your next reckless act as you said, “I need to go somewhere. You… you know where the exit is, yes?”

You clearly didn’t know a thing about this woman. But theft didn’t scare you anymore; you couldn’t care less if she was to take any belongings from your humble home. A ridiculous and foolish thought – but she couldn’t take more from you anymore.

But she stood, clearing her throat. “I think,” she started, so quietly you could barely make it out. Seemed that she was just as exhausted as you. “I think I will be leaving as well. I’m not sure what to do here anymore.”

You were quick to encourage her decision, draping a light coat over your shoulders before you stepped out with her in tow. The season was warm, but the weather fluctuated; your hand was unsteady as you locked your door and waved goodbye to the stranger.

She had become the embodiment of triggering memories in less than an hour; you were fine with the thought of never seeing her again.

As she stepped away from you with idle steps, you approached the busy streets, waiting for a hansom cab to take you with it and where your heart resided.

You weren’t sure what you were doing. It wasn’t as though you were expecting anything where you went. You were breaking yourself, you were certain – but as you watched the clouds gather into one grey form, hiding the sun, you abolished thoughts of what might await you.

You clung onto hope. It was stupid; it was nonexistent at this point. Taehyung’s mood wasn’t as fickle as the weather.

And you still did.

But the path to his house was empty. The park nearby, the streets, his house’s porch. They were all vacant, letting the wind howl through the desolation as you wandered along the line of trees.

His house stood small and inconspicuous at the end of the road. It was beautiful – painted a tender light beige-brown, fitting the colours of his personality. Homely, sweet, carrying his touch and preferences.

But right now, it looked ominous. Haunted. Like souls floated along its walls. You reckoned it was the remnants of his life he’d left that lured you in. Somehow, his voice always called to you; you just wished it’d shut up for a moment.

Your eyes swished between the doorknob and creaky ground. Nothing was here for you; that was what your logic whispered. But another voice, less prominent, more concealed, urged you to step forwards. As if there was something left of him. As if logic was a blunt liar.

So you came close to the wooden door, raising a fist, and knocked lightly at first. The cry of the wind buried the sound of your action; and you took a deep breath, steadying your spinning mind before you knocked again, harder this time.

“Is someone here?” you questioned, bringing your mouth close to the door, your ask maniac.

You tried to knock once more, but came out blank.

“Tae?”

Your voice muttered the syllable faintly and feebly.

His name had started feeling unreal; had you truly known someone who reacted to Kim Taehyung? Or had you just repeated the word so often that it had begun sounding unnatural and strange to you?

“You wouldn’t hurt me, you told me,” you said, pressing your forehead against the door, “you broke your promise like every novel about lovers describes.”

You laughed at the irony of your story; when had you become the suffering character in a tragedy? Who was writing your fate like this?

“Officers?” you tried again, blinking. “If you’re here, you might want to talk to me first before…” You gulped, raising your voice. “Kim Taehyung isn’t here anymore.”

And then it dawned on you.

That.

Kim Taehyung was gone.

Kim Taehyung had left.

And also.

“Kim Taehyung isn’t coming back anymore,” you yelled louder, slamming your fist against the entrance again, “so you might as well stop looking altogether.”

You sniffled from the cold, closing your eyes. You rubbed your eyelids with parted lips, noticing the racing of your heart. Agony was catching up to you again, and you didn’t think you could do this again, right here, right now.

But life didn’t allow you to catch a break.

“Ask me. I know he’s gone,” you exclaimed, ripping your eyes open and hands ready to yank the door open the same way.

You wondered how many kicks could break it; or if any number of kicks even could. Who cared anyway? Not you – too lost, too crazed.

“Fucking open, because there’s nothing for you,” you spat, full-on hammering against the door now, probably bruising your hand, “there’s not even anything for me, so you can’t be, can’t be more privileged than me.”

Yet, nothing happened. The silence proceeded, and you couldn’t do anything to beat it.

You turned on the spot, your vision blurry. You slid down the door with a quavering chin, pressing the heels of your palms against your eyes until they hurt. The ground in front of his house was cold, shivering, bushes rustling and the gust of the wind howling between leaves.

Yet again, the baleful, sinister scene returned, out of a thrilling novel; it didn’t feel like the romance anymore that your story had started as.

You weren’t sure how long you sat there, relying on the warmth of your dress, your face freezing and tears drying. Your head was still turning in circles, and you didn’t trust your legs to carry you home safely just yet.

So you waited until the world stilled – with no avail.

Instead, a door opened. Next to you, a blurry figure appeared; dressed in a nightgown you recognised, holding the door tight, hair dishevelled and flowing over her shoulders.

She was calling your name, but you only heard it faintly – yet, you understood enough to realise who she was.

This time, he didn’t even take her with him. He left all alone, with nothing but his battered heart and cotton touch. How must he have felt, all lonely and without company? After years of close help, this was the first time he found himself thrown into the desert that the world was.

How was he doing? Was he thinking of you? Missing you? 

Would he escape the authorities for long enough, just until you found a way to bring him back? Or would he return by his own sheer will?

You didn’t know. You didn’t know.

Hana inched closer, crouching next to you, placing a hand on your face to make you look at her before she said, “I’ll be here.”

Red-rimmed eyes stared back at her, and she wiped at your tears, shaking her head as you asked, “Why?”

“Because he decided to fight alone this time. Because I was never wanted by the police the way he was. I just,” she dropped her hand, touching her knee, “need to leave this place. Find somewhere else to be, so I don’t get dragged back for fleeing the country.”

She smiled at you in reassurance; a feeble attempt to lift the tension. But you knew she was hurting as much as you were – if not a thousandfold. She was like a sister to him after all. They had taken care of each other when no one else could.

You and her – you shared the pain. She was all you had left of him. You were all she had left of him.

“How could this happen?”

Your voice was weak and hoarse when you spoke, and she rubbed her forehead, controlling her emotions. The slight flinches in her face revealed her true feelings, but neither you nor she elaborated on them.

“I’m not certain,” Hana answered, helpless and mourning, “but whatever it was, it wasn’t a selfish thing. I just know.” She paused and looked into your eyes, clearing her throat. “He left me a note. Nothing big, but… it’s all I got.”

The burning sting in your chest grew further. It spread across your body and boiled your insides; you didn’t know how much you still wanted to take. How much you could take before you collapsed.

“I… I didn’t get any,” you admitted, burying your face between your torso and your legs.

But Hana clicked her tongue, heaving a sigh as she stated, “I’m sure you did. You know him… he has a knack for the mysterious.”

So much he became a mystery, too.

“You just need to know where to look,” she continued, “and… even if he didn’t… I’m very sure he left pieces of his heart with you instead.”

You didn’t know what to answer. She didn’t know how to bring you solace.

So when you’d stopped staring into each other’s eyes, seeking peace or comfort in the fact that you shared your misery, she helped you up and sent you home eventually. You were quick to decline the offer to come in.

You couldn’t bear being in the rooms he’d been in. Hearing his voice, feeling the presence that was gone.

And your mind was whirring – too focused on whatever you could find. So you opened the door, left your shoes on, sprinted to your living room and scoured the bookshelf your aunt had gifted you years ago.

You pulled out your favourite books; ones you knew you had talked about to him. You leafed through the pages, turning the novels upside down. It took you four tries to finally find a piece of paper between one of the pages; and it was a bookmark.

Two more tries until another tiny letter floated to the ground, no bookmark or irrelevant document this time.

In a gentle, curved font, long fingers had written a note, for you to find whenever and in whichever way. You wondered if he’d expected for you to discover it this quickly. He always praised your intelligence – you hoped he still held onto it.

You unfolded the paper to reveal the last few words. Your eyes swelled with more tears; you were sick of crying, tired and devastated.

And then…

The hands of fate led me to you. Quietly and softly. And one day, they ought to drag me back to you, my angel… back to where my heart resides and my soul floats.

Or alternatively…

Alternatively.

You blinked at the paper, unsure what to do with it. Those were the only words he’d granted you, ripping you apart; where his heart resided and his soul floated. It sounded like a promise – like something to flood you with hope.

But hope was…

“Absurd,” you whispered, holding your forehead, fingers pressing into your temples.

You read the lines over and over again – alternatively, alternatively, alternatively.

And you didn’t understand until you turned the paper around, realising that he’d put more at the back, inconspicuous and small. Perhaps that was the breaking point. When you tumbled down with no way to recover.

Because.

I love you.

Hana was wrong.

He hadn’t left pieces of his heart with you. He’d left all of it there.

NOW

You still cherish the pumping organ he placed in your palms years ago.

Though, defective days bring defective thoughts.

In your lowest moments, you sometimes wonder whether he truly loved you. Did he write it down on some piece of paper and then just leave? No intention behind it, empty words and nothing more?

Why did he leave? Why do you still think of him?

He was just a man. Just a writer.

Just… just Kim Taehyung.

“What are you looking at?” a familiar voice calls from behind, and your eyes, dry and unfocused, blink rapidly.

“Just… the same as usual.”

You fold the newspaper into half. You can’t remember the headlines you read or what the printed letters speak about.

Lately, you’ve been drifting fast. When Taehyung left, you fell into a dark pit that showed no possibility to climb to the top again – you kept tapping in the dark. Then, things seemed to normalise – Hana told you it was denial, but you think you were progressing.

Then, last year, his existence crept up on you again, like a nasty bug impossible to shake off. Not that he’d ever left. But since then, he has lingered, haunted you, dark tresses and darker eyes chasing your thoughts, awake or asleep.

Speaking of which…

“Hana,” you call, dropping your eyes to a word in the newspaper, “have you heard anything about Yujin?”

Hana, gathering small and dirty clothes from the floor, freezes mid-action, looking up at your form on the chair before she sighs and admits, “Not since last year. Since… you know.”

None of you ever dares to say his name. He was a constant in both your lives, even if just for a fleeting moment for you; but he has become a ghost now. Sometimes, you wonder if he truly existed. He feels like a figment of your imagination on the worst days.

But last year marked an important event for you, and more for him.

In a quiet moment on a cold winter morning, you received unexpected news about his past yet most relevant affair. Yujin had apparently fought her way out of the mental institution, strolled to the police – with or without her family’s knowing, you still don’t know – and admitted her wrongdoings on a night of utter devastation.

According to herself, written in an apologetic letter, she’d broken down in a weak moment of guilt, unable to live with her mistakes. She wasn’t a bad person, she promised; she was certain that her younger self would have wanted her to admit her sins and stand up for them.

So she did. Put herself in the position of the big bad wolf and Taehyung out of it.

No matter what her family’s deal with the police was, she’d broken the bond when she’d begged and pleaded the officers to stop hunting him like an innocent doe. Tears were never sufficient, of course – but once she had come back with a fortune big enough to swoon them, they’d been silenced once and for all.

The happenings were surreal and sudden. None of you expected them to unfold like this – not after all those years, not with you involved in this equation.

But the worst thing was that the information reached you easily; but never him. Never the man in question, seeing the world alone; and no one but him could tell if he was even alive or not.

“You’re regressing,” Hana interrupts your thoughts, suddenly next to you and taking half a seat on the armchair, “and I don’t know what to do.”

“I’m not regressing,” you defend, leaning back with a sigh.

She mumbles your name, a hand on your shoulder as she says, “I know what he meant to you. And he was… is my cousin, too. But you need to start fighting your demons.”

But he’s your biggest one. And once possessed, how does one get rid of a demon?

If it’s Kim Taehyung… probably never.

“I just don’t understand, Hana,” you mutter, rubbing your tired eyelids, “why is he not coming back if Yujin opened up?”

“He might not know.”

“But this is a big thing. He would keep up with such information.” You’re desperate and hurting – it’s no secret. But your voice, strained, could tell a stranger that your heart is cracked, unable to heal. “I sometimes feel like I made him up.”

Hana’s ears perk up. It’s not the first time you’re confessing such a thing – at times like these, even Hana cannot help but agree, admitting that he has started feeling too far away from her.

If her existence right here in this town, next to you, didn’t prove that he had truly been here, she might have concluded along with you that he hadn’t been real.

“Like he never touched me. Never spoke to me or loved me. Or like he never left me with the last crucial piece of him,” you continue, your chest and head heavy, “and I hate feeling insane.”

“I know… I know.”

You wait, grieving through the silence with her. And when you find your voice and courage again, you state, “This is going to stay. Forever. I just don’t know if I have the strength to endure it.”

“There is no way for you to move on, is there?”

You contemplate.

Is there?

Not when certain things still remind you of him every single day. When he impacted your life to a burning, menacing degree.

Long ago, he entered your life like a sudden fresh gust of air. The time you spent in his company, reminiscing about your favourite novels and his dearest poems, wasn’t just an evanescent mingling of your souls.

He was here for a moment. Kim Taehyung.

He turned your world upside down… Kim Taehyung.

Hana knows. And Hana understands. The emotion you share the most with her is the love you both felt towards him. She still sees the agony in your eyes; how could she not?

Fiddling with her fingers, she looks away, uncertainty lacing her voice out of the blue as she begins, “I didn’t want to do this, because I felt like it’d damage you long term,” she pauses, and you stare up at her, a million question marks written in your eyes, “but I think I need to show something.”

A trait you have seen in both her and her lost cousin is the ability of sudden confessions. You think you have gotten fairly used to them; but at this moment, your mouth still drops and stays agape, and you can’t possibly guess what she’s talking about.

“What is it?”

Hana hesitates, wrapping the thin scarf around her shoulder that she threw on your coffee table haphazardly before. “I think it’s easier to just show you.”

And you guess, the less questions you ask, the faster you’d get to the mystery she was hinting at. 

She gives you no more than ten minutes to dress, so you can embark on your journey – her eyes flicker impatiently, her limbs restless. In a matter of minutes, her demeanour changes; and suddenly, she’s nervous, chewing on her lips, vehemently urging you to hurry up.

“We should take Sora with us,” Hana suggests, though there is purpose in her tone, like it’s part of a plan, “she should show her face sometimes anyway.”

“She needed to go to the neighbours.”

“Needed to.”

In the years without Taehyung and on your own, more people have entered your life out of the blue. They left and came back, never a constant, mercurial change of mind dragging them away and back to you.

Sora never left your side. She was a constant. You think that if Taehyung had waited, taken the chance to meet her, he would’ve loved her just as much as you do.

If not more than you ever would.

So you knock at the neighbour’s door, asking whether she is still here, and when she walks out, happy and excited as always, you listen intently. She always has a lot to say.

Her rambling distracts you from the adventure you have decided to live through, smiling whenever she builds up to the peak of a story. She likes Hana – is a dearer friend to her than to you sometimes.

And for once, you don’t fight for her attention in the playful manner you have gotten used to, glad that she’s indulging in teases and jokes with Hana. Because the moment you pass a newspaper stand on your way to a carriage, you hear something so peculiar that you come to a halt.

“Did you hear that?” you turn, staring at Hana who looks back at you with enormous doe eyes.

“Hear what?”

“The name he just said. He said something like… him singing in a tavern.”

Singers of ballads and operas in taverns aren’t rare. The conversation could be about anyone, talking about any tavern – but despite your growing insanity, you’re sure you didn’t mishear.

You waste more of your and your companions’ time, stepping closer to the seller, and his focus shifts from the casual conversation with a passenger to you. He smiles, joyfully and in a good mood, a hand on his knee as he asks, “Can I help you, pretty lady?”

You ignore the comment, shaking off your confusion and asking, “Who were you talking about?”

“Who was I talking about?” he questions back, his voice way too loud as he laughs.

Have you become cynical, irritated or is there actually no joke behind his response?

“You just mentioned a name.”

“I mean,” he barks, leaning forwards, “I say a lot of names every day.”

If you could just fight through your fears and mention his name. They are three syllables, harmless words; they shouldn’t block your language and lock your mouth like this. But when the knot of your tongue doesn’t let you utter his name, you feel heat rise to your face.

“You just said a freaking name. One single,” you step closer, furious; deep down, frustrated and hurt, “name. And it means something.”

“A young lady like yourself should not be cursi–”

“I apologise deeply,” Hana interferes, pulling you away.

You shake off the fingers wrapped around your bicep, taking a deep breath. More swears fall out of your mouth, irritation spreading through your mind and chest. Hope doesn’t exist anymore – you need to stop holding onto it.

Stop, stop, stop.

The rest of the way passes silently. The tension caused in the middle of the street still lingers when you enter the carriage. You still don’t speak when the buildings, houses and busy markets of the town vanish and quiet down.

As the greenery expands and nature showcases wide fields, sunflowers facing the bright yellow star in the sky, you begin to realise what way you might be heading. The canopy of trees and the empty paths… you have seen all of them before.

And when you leave the carriage, good thirty minutes later, and stare into the peaceful forest adorned by various families of plants, you confirm your gut feeling to be true.

Somewhere not far from you, there must be a river flowing softly.

And when you hear it, your mind turns upside down.

Water splatters from afar. Combined with the songs of the birds and the stillness of the place, a melodious sound; peaceful, resembling a fairytale. You clutch Sora’s hand on your right, smiling reassuringly. Hiding a heart beating in your throat proves harder than expected.

But the task reaches its peak on the mountain of impossibility when the pathway ends, giving way to the riverbank. The usually silent and empty stream is hidden behind a figure you spot today.

The person, a stranger on the first glance, sits on the grass with one leg angled up, propping an arm on it while the other hand presses against the ground. He is staring into the sun, though always a lover of darkness and shadows, and his hair strands sway in the light summer breeze.

You shoot a look at Hana, shaking your head, your waterline damp as your eyes ask, “How am I here? How is he here?”

The heart beating in your throat escapes through your mouth and floats through the air, making a bee-line straight to his feet where it drops.

On its knees for him.

He still loves to wear white, you realise. From your point of view and angle, dark raven hair hangs in his eyes, a miniature feather dangling from one of his earlobes. You think you recognise the earring, even now.

In front of the blue river water and light green nature, he looks like an angel sent from above. Like a scene from Garden Eden. Or Greek mythology. Like he was painted by Michelangelo himself.

As a dozen times before, you wonder if you’re hallucinating; stepping closer, but scared to touch him. He might dissolve – who truly knows? 

Your hands are a trembling and sweaty mess, and you let go of Sora, ignoring the pleas of your knees to buckle with all your willpower. You only realise that you’re crying when his voice chimes through the silence of the forest. Still so sweet; still so soft.

“A second visit in just two days?”

And then, he turns around.

You freeze on your spot the moment he does. A rectangle smile, blinding teeth flashing, falls when he detects you, contemplating whether he’s dreaming. Whether you’re made of dust particles that have taken your form to deceive, close to fading.

Behind you, you hear Hana speak up, her voice timid but loving as she remarks, “I knew you’d be here.”

But Taehyung doesn’t answer. You barely register it. Sora looks back and forth between the three of you, unsure what is going on, but not courageous enough to ask just yet. Instead, she leans against the tree, nibbling at her fingernails as she watches the scene unfold.

You can’t blame her for her confusion – she’s just a child after all.

“Since when…?” you mutter, looking at him, but speaking to Hana.

You’re utterly unable to look away; and he stays unblinking, too. Both your fingers twitch and ache for an embrace, your lips parted, a million thoughts and words begging to come out.

“Just a few days,” Hana clarifies; she sounds a little like she feels guilty, “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before.”

“Why…” you gulp, your voice unsteady, “why didn’t you?”

For a moment, it’s quiet. Then, you hear steps come closer, slowly and patiently; and before you can turn to her, she places a hand on your shoulder, her mouth close to your ear, so you’re sure he can’t hear much of what she utters.

“Because… it takes time and patience to get over heartbreak,” she explains further and you shake your head again. “Especially in the company of the same person who broke you. And you…”

She pauses, grabbing your chin softly to turn you towards her, making you look at him. “Do you think you are able to deal with all the memories? To relive them with him and talk through them?”

Is there much to talk about?

Much to say except the repeated words of how incomplete you felt? Cut in half with a dirty knife. Infected wounds, pushing you into a murky fever.

“I love him,” is all you argue; your eyes are filled with sadness, carrying a tinge of hurt and disappointment that she didn’t tell you when you needed it.

You move your head again to look at him, and he’s still sitting, though less lax than before. His body looks like it’s about to lift itself off the ground every moment now, but he’s petrified; you imagine his limbs must feel as heavy as yours.

Three small steps bring you close to him, and you finally drop to your knees, uncaring about the dirt and the new state of your cream-coloured dress. Together, you must look like a couple from paradise. If all the dark plot points of your lives weren’t still so fresh, you might feel the same.

Years ago, when you met, you think you felt the same.

“I loved… love you,” you repeat, finding your voice amidst the tumult your heart causes, “I still do.”

There are scars on your heart, and he’s still written in them. He cut you open wide – and his face right in front of yours flicks at least an inch of the wound.

He whispers your name… lifts his palm, shaking and nervous, letting a tear escape his eyes.

Taehyung still looks the same. On his forehead, there might be one or two more wrinkles. His skin has changed a little, the lines of his features sharper.

But he’s still him.

Taehyung.

Your Taehyung – a steady memory.

Warm fingers, as soft, soothing and devoid of calluses as a writer’s hand, graze your damp cheek and your jaw. You close your eyes for a moment, inhaling a sharp, shrill breath; your sobs splinter and smash his heart.

In all those years, he kept your existence alive by engraving your smile into his mind. That he’d meet the opposite emotion when you’d see him again was much expected; but it doesn’t pain him any less.

“Where did you go?” you whisper, your palm sneaking to his arm. “One night and that was it? How could you–”

“I just–” God. Whenever he speaks, you fall a bit more. “I needed to keep you safe… And…”

“And yourself.”

“And myse–”

“Do you have any idea how hard it was to–”

“I’m so sorry,” he mumbles, your words overlapping in constant interruptions, and soon you’re not sure what either of you is saying.

You hear his apologies – he hears yours, whatever they stand for. And a moment later, your hand rests at the nape of his neck, his buried in your hair, and you’re both crying in the middle of a forest, disrupting nature’s piece with your very own tragedy.

“I never stopped thinking of you,” he confesses, his voice quiet and hitching, “not… not one second.”

You breathe in through the nose, sniffling and still moving your head from the left to right, for whatever unknown reason. In a second of silence, Taehyung looks past you and from his sister to the child.

When your gazes meet again, you recognise sadness in his eyes, an unspoken question asking, “Ours?”

And you nod.

In his stance and sobs, his words and touch, you understand that he’s still filled with confusion you’ll need to clear. Just as much as you’ll need to comprehend the years he spent apart from you, only to walk in a circle and land back in your arms.

You’re not certain what the future might hold for you. With Yujin’s confession and Taehyung’s innocence, a logical voice tells you that hurdles have finally vanished; but you can’t quite say just yet how much weight to give this hope. Pain doesn’t just fade.

You can barely believe your eyes just yet.

But there are a few truths in this world that are universal. No matter what life throws at you, they won’t change.

One – you could never find the strength to unlove Taehyung.

Two – his touches are still soft as silk, like the thin scarf bound around his wrist; comforting to an ethereal degree.

And three – you used to think that behind his chest, no heart hammered but a stone rested. Despite his clear affection, he seemed hard to break until he did; your early days were laced with doubt and confusion.

Today, his eyes still look like stones.

But this time, they might be gems; onyxes.

okay, so i was kinda unsure about this fic, but did love writing it, so i hope you guys at least enjoyed it, too !! 🥺 i fell for this tae hard :((

also, please do support me/this fic by liking, commenting/leaving feedback, and most importantly, reblogging (even if it’s without a review)! it takes just a second and means a lot and it’s cool to do it hehe !! 🥺 also, feel free to talk to meee, i’m curiously awaiting anything y’all have to say 🥰 

thank you so much for reading, loves <333

[real-sun-wukong-fan01]

yes i will be posting headcanons, ideas, drawings and probably AUs!

Thank you !

current AUs:

- burned monkey AU: AU where wukong is the one who has the samadhi fire instead of Ao lie. when the ritual was completed, he turns out to be the fourth ring.

- small hero AU: this AU takes place during the past, where MK along with Zhu bajie, or pigsy, Sha wujing, or sandy and tang find a odd fur cat, who is actually the Monkey king, Sun Wukong in disguise to check on his future successor, MK.

- a trio but it's the same person suffering in three different ways: small AU where sun wukong, while being possessed meets his past version from the journey to the west, and meets his version from the burned monkey AU.

- insanity AU:

AU where wukong is stuck on a loop of all the three seasons of LMK, he soon starts going insane and losing hope.

- fuck it we ball AU:

Another crack AU where Wukong while being possessed is roommate with Macaque, also half possessed, the lady bone demon and the Mayor.

Occasionally also Mei, stuck as a popsicle with the samadhi fire.

- time Swap AU:

The roles are swapped.

Sun Wukong, son of the reincarnation of Tang, Tripitaka, is the new hero in town.

Successor of the almighty monkey kid, saving his city by demons with the help of his friends, while also trying not to get killed. Goodbye young one, is a timeline of the time swap AU.

- amnesia rules AU

Macaque looses his memories, and is back into being Liu'er, and wukong will help him regain his memories along with his successor and co.

- master swap AU

Where sun wukong and macaque switch places.

- the 12 pains of the year:

Au shared with @moondrop39-dovewing70

Main headcanons:

- stone monkeys headcanons : headcanon about the stone monkey spiece.

- wukong not so visible friend: manifestation of wukong mind, also the one who will be taking the role of the six eared macaque. (Only in this headcanon.)

- wujing and wukong relationship:

you can easily find posts about me talking of the headcanon of wukong and wujing have a great relationship, acting like older and younger brother.

But here's the list.

- Macaque and the generals:

how i see Macaque and Wukong relationship (obviously mixed with jttw) and wukong generals!

[dragonborne-writer]

Ok, I'm just gonna put this out there for funsies.

My own lmk au I'm calling Lost Prince. In which Xiaotian is the child of Monkey king and Macaque, born from stone. With golden fur, 2 pairs of ears and blue eyes the rival the sky, he was a child loved by everyone on the mountain. His parents pride and joy. In this Au Monkey king stayed away from heaven and still had a close relationship with the demon kings, purely so I can make Red son and Xiaotian friends. This peace came to a halt when Xiaotian was abducted by a demon. Wukong and Macaque searched everywhere to no avail. Their sun was gone. This is because when Xiaotian was injured in the abduction, he went into a stone hibernation state and remained that way for several hundred years. He would eventually wake up having lost all his memories and end up stumbling into pigsys shop, and this is where it begins. Mk is still Wukongs successor, Wukong and Macaque are together, dbk wasn't sealed away, the samadhi ring thing still happens for different reasons. And that's what I have so far. I'll probably post more about it if anyones interested, and feel free to share your own thoughts.

[talesofsonicasura]

Masterlist

Oneshots

Fallen Royalty (Blue Exorcist/AHIT)

Spooky Gratitude (Digimon/DMC)

Balan's Promise(BWW/P5)

Erase the Future (Pokemon/DMC) (Being reworked)

Unappreciated Hunter (MH/AHIT) (Being reworked/Lost original documents ☹️)

Stone Dove (Knack/JJBA)

Keeper of Dreams (Kirby/DMC)

Requiem of Love (Pokemon/JJBA)

Guardian of the Forest (AOT/Digimon)

His Past (JTTW/Yu-Gi-Oh)

Sage's Vow (LMK/Persona)

Reader Imagines

Joestar Misadventures- Sun Wukong: Starter, 1, 2

Corazon with a Monster Hunter s/o: Starter

Jotaro Kujo with a Cyber Sleuth s/o: Starter

Eddie Brock/Venom with a Pokemon Trainer s/o: Starter,

Ichigo Kurosaki/Zangetsu/Hichigo with a Pokemon Trainer s/o: Starter, 1

LMK characters first meeting their s/o (Manners Maketh Man): P1

Hero is Back!Sun Wukong with a Stand User s/o: Starter

Glamrock Freddy and Gregory's Special Assistance: 1, 2

JTTW 96!Sun Wukong with a Cyber Sleuth s/o: Starter, 1

Hank with a Devil Hunter s/o?!: Starter,

LMK Characters with a Comic Artist s/o: P1

MKR! Sun Wukong with a Persona User s/o: Starter, 1

Nevada's Oasis:

Gardener- Starter

DSB Sun Wukong with a Duelist s/o: Starter, 1, 2

Ryomen Sukuna and Ghostbuster!Reader: Starter

LMK Sun Wukong and Macaque with MK's Guardian: Starter,

Saiyuki Sun Wukong with a Game Designer s/o: Starter

Black Seastone Route- 1

By The Sea, There He'll Be/ Mer HIB!Sun Wukong x Reader: Starter, 1

Emmet and Digimon!Reader: Starter, 1

Sun Wukong and Macaque with MK's Parent: Starter , 1, 2

MKR Sun Wukong with a Time Lord s/o: Starter

Crocodile Rock/ Mer!MKR Sun Wukong x Reader: Starter, 1

Axolotl Dreams: Starter, 1

Josuke Higashikata with a Grunt s/o: Starter

AUs

Broken Toys

Monkie Kid: Venomous Tales

Fell Guardian

Inner Demons

Fast Shadows

Sticks and Stones

Taming Madness

Price of Power

Boy and his Beasts

Re:Destiny

Wrathful Idol

Theories/Personal Headcanons

Order and Chaos: Safi'Jiiva and Altreon

Six Eared Macaque and Blood Monkeys

Sun Wukong's actions in Lego Monkie Kid

Sun Wukongs I know

Jak and Daxter Time Travel

Fierce Deity Mini Theory

What ifs/Ideas

What if Ichigo got the powers of Sun Wukong?

Josuke Higashikata (P4) meeting and being trained by LMK's Macaque

MK finding and raising 2020 Sonic

Eddie Brock and Venom have a makeshift family drop on them: 1

Random Scenarios: 1

Sonic's Warp Ring Glitch Misadventures: 1, 2

New Species: Glitch

Worldbuilding: ReNexus,

Writing Challenges: Starter

Curses: DigiEcho

Fierce Mergence

Stories

Diamonds and Voodoo(JJBA/Crash Bandicoot: Pro., 1

Wonderful Hunter(BWW/MH): Pro.,

Stone Novas(Pokemon/LMK): Pro., 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6

Origami Dreams(Jujutsu Kaisen/Paper Mario): Pro.,

Thief's Ambition(P5/Digimon): Pro.,

Crossroads(Jujutsu Kaisen/Pokemon): Pro.,

Stand Needed(JJBA/AHIT): Pro.,

Sonic May Cry (being reworked)

Shadow of Iron(LMK/Iron Man): Pro,

Trip Down Memory Lane(Venom/BWW): Pro,

Updates:

Prologue and Chapter 1 of Stone Novas has proper terms for Yaoguai added.

Excerpts added to Fell Guardian AU.

Glitch updated.

Part 2 of Sun Wukong and Macaque with MK's Parent now has a link to ReNexus.

Next part of Wrathful Idol has been added.

Next part of Madness New World has been added.

Link to MK's assassin uniform has been added to Wrathful Idol.

Madness New World been moved to Masterlist 2.

Jotaro Kujo with a Cyber Sleuth s/o is now a mini index. Can find the rest of the parts in Starter.

Next part to Clowning Around has been added.

Hank with a Devil Hunter s/o and Eddie Brock/Venom with a Pokemon Trainer are now a mini index. Rest of the parts are in Starter.

Sun Wukong and Macaque with MK's Guardian is now a mini index. Parts can be found in Starter.

Majora's Bane has been added to Wrathful Idol AU on the main masterlist.

Prologue has been to the Wrathful Idol AU on the main masterlist.

Chapter 2 and 3 of Stone Novas has been updated.

Chapter 1 for Madness Reborn has been updated and links been added on the main masterlist's Wrathful Idol AU. (Just know that writing at the butt crack of night isn't a good posting time.)