#kae's discord

[petrichorium]

also on my hands and knees dying to know about ur divorce (and perhaps reconciliation maybe…) with sir croc

Firstly I wanna say croc is THE reason for the divorced tier I had everyone in the husband/fiance/bf (and cusp + complicated) tiers I had the list downloaded and then I looked at croc in the husband tier and I was like no. Divorced………

Anyway I think you’re a marriage of convenience at first. Crocodile needs a wife to look more like An Upstanding Citizen Ready To Settle Down for his plans in Alabasta, you need the stability and rapport for your own reasons. A deal was struck (including a nice shiny prenup and an easy way out for both of you), the wedding goes off without a hitch, and now you’re cohabitating.

You’re all but a stranger, truthfully, though he’ll admit you were one of the most beautiful brides he’s seen walking down the aisle. And he finds your presence in his home less distracting than expected—you stay out of his way mostly, though the pair of you eat meals together and sleep in the same bed and you are always expected to be on his arm for formal occasions. You’re more than decent company, slowly warming to him and growing more open; willing to give advice on occasion, even, and it’s good advice he’s prone to heeding.

Which is why he’s blindsided when you drop the papers on his desk. There’s little he can do—they were practically already signed before the wedding, and in the surprise he can’t compose himself enough to think up a proper protest. All he can do is fold his hands together as you turn to leave, clear his throat, and call out, “Might I ask why?”

You shrug. It almost seems sad. “I want something more. You’re a very busy man, I don’t think you can give that to me.”

And those words haunt him, all the more because every trace of you is gone in the span of a few days. He lays in his bed, alone, pondering how much you truly lived in his home and how much he truly had to give you. He thought he made sure you wanted for nothing—but, clearly, that wasn’t the case. And if he’d known you’d be gone in the span of a few years…

In hindsight perhaps he’d been a bit distant. His work took up the vast majority of his time. All those meals were more often than not spent in silence, with Crocodile leaving long before you finished your food; you were often asleep before he came to bed, still slumbering when he woke; he’d arrive to those formal events with you on his arm and part ways almost immediately, drawn to meet with some politician or another and leaving you on your own.

The bed feels empty.

And then he gets a report about Nefertari Vivi. It all goes downhill from there. The empire he spent years building crumbles beneath his feet, toppled by that godforsaken princess and the upstart pirate with a straw hat. And as he’s carted off to Impel Down… he still thinks of you.

It’s perhaps a good thing that you left when you did. In a certain sense it saved you, severing ties with him when you did. But foolishly he wonders about the timing—wonders if it would have happened at all if you’d stayed. Logically he knows the rationale is anything but sound.

Instinctively… whenever he gets out, whatever he intends to do next, he thinks he needs you at his side again.

So when the break-out happens, and Crocodile is given a freedom he’d nearly given up on, the first thing he does is begin to track you down.

It takes more than he thought it would. His web of informants isn’t half of what it once was, and his name no longer pulls as much weight, forced to remain in the shadows as he now is. You, meanwhile, catch onto the mystery person trying to keep tabs on you far too quickly for his liking—flighty thing, never quite setting down roots, quick to flee at the first sign of danger. A trait that has only seemed to worsen in his absence, it seems.

But it’s only a matter of time. He’s Sir Crocodile after all, back from banishment to the depths of the ocean, sure to see the sun again. His men close in on you within a year as he builds up his numbers again, but Crocodile ensures he’s the first to make contact.

He intends to show you immediately how things will be different this time.

You’ve made temporary home on a quaint little island, sharing a house with a little old granny who lets him in eagerly when he presents a bouquet and says it’s for you. There he waits, served tea and biscuits that he doesn’t taste.

And then the door opens. You pause when you see him, eyes wide—donning a breezy sundress you’d never have worn for him in Alabasta, your hair wind-tousled so unlike the meticulous updos he always saw you in, with a basket of produce under arm—and the sight of you has his chest unwinding. It’s like he can breathe again.

Not that he had any intentions to before, but the smell of your familiar perfume steels his resolve to never let you disappear again.

[ccaptain]

If you see this post, you care he.

[frozenambiguity]

«Gifting flowers and having romantic dates is the bare minimum».

[jackshiccup]

Sparklcccc :))

KAE MY GOOB .. likewise :(( <3 !!!!

[pseudomonacarriea]

Also I expect hands to be thrown from the Shimousa and Apocrypha folks so

Come hither

Especially the Siegs

[ayyy-pee]

𝕆𝕌𝕋𝕃𝔸𝕎

Discord 18+ - Twitter - Part Two of Outlaw Series

Pairing: Outlaw!Suguru Geto x Female Reader Genre: Western AU WC: 8.7k Summary:

“Gettin’ train tickets ain’t easy. Where ya headed?” “Just a few towns over. Goin’ to visit family,” you explain, now more relaxed with him. Something about the way he was able to soothe your nerves makes Suguru feel proud. It also is making him clearly insane, because some sick part of Suguru begins to think he could be your family. If you’ll let him. “What about you?” His brows shoot up in surprise. Why would you want to know about him? “Me?” You nod quickly. “I know you’re…” You lean forward and Suguru mirrors the action as shivers race up his spine when you whisper scandalously, “...an outlaw.”

Story Warning: Train robbery, hostage situation, lying and scheming, profanity bc bitch it's me??, dub-con, Suguru has a corruption kink, needy downbad Suguru, "virgin" reader, guns, smut, blowjob, riding, fingering, spit, thinking about spitting, i love spit, dirty fantasies, titty sucking probably, using ropes, hair pulling (lmfaooooo), threats of violence, dirty talk, inexperienced reader, spit!, overstimulation, humiliation kink, Suguru is kinda pathetic, actually real pathetic, don't get your hopes up idk

Artist Credit: @/tsumusbeloved (on twitter)

A/N: FINALLYYYYY. This has been sitting in my drafts for like 3 months!!! I hope yall enjoy!!!

Tags: @syubseokie @yasu-1234 @cassayeee @glmpsfs @struxkbylightning @aotdump @oidloid @sunnysdiarythoughts @stillseren @lovebittenbyevans @avaatara @elliesndg @luv-kae @megtheebimbo @buttercupblu143 @toffeebrat @kaqua@moggleatlife @candy-s72 @sukunadckrider @xixflower @apchmon

It’s the shrill screech of the metal meeting metal on the train tracks that Suguru enjoys most about his work. How this massive tank of metal carrying so many people can just fly across the country, providing beautiful views of miles and miles of desert sands and mountains. The wildlife roams free on the frontier without a care in the world. And the train just keeps going, filling the sky with thick curls of black smoke.

Yeah, this train has many people on it.

Which means, this train has plenty of goods that will soon be his.

“Ah, you dropped your hat, boss.” A smooth voice speaks behind Suguru, holding open the train door as one other clambers in. Suguru kindly grabs his hat from the man, placing it atop his head as he watches his partner take the last person’s hand, lifting them inside.

It’s a woman, small and with strawberry blonde hair. She grabs onto the man before her. The disgust is clear on her face as her eyes roam along his body.

“Couldn’t pick another day to wear no shirt, Larue?” She complains, spreading a small cloud of dust as she brushes her clothes off.

Larue shrugs, chuckling lightly while he closes the train door. The rushing roar of the winds finally subsides. “It’s hot as all hell outside, Manami. Why not be shirtless? Besides, it gives everyone something spectacular to gawk at.” He motions towards his chest where his new set of ink lies – two hearts, one where each of his nipples are.

“A drunken bet gone right, if you ask me,” Larue had said the night after. “They’re gonna love these at the whorehouse.”

“If you two’re finished…” Suguru begins. Both Larue and Manami straighten up. “I wanna get in ‘n outta here. No funny business. Larue, take the back of the train. Better for you to be there in case the conductor gets any ideas. Grab what ‘ya can get your hands on – jewels, shoes, money. Don’t matter.” Suguru taps his chin in thought, running through his mental list to make sure he hasn’t forgotten anything. “Oh! And don’t forget to check the bars for any spoons or forks. Y’know what that silver’s worth. Me ‘n Manami will take the front of the train.”

Larue nods, no further instruction needed and Manami smiles next to him excitedly. She quickly shuffles over to Suguru’s side, looping her arm through his and Suguru rolls his eyes before slipping his arm out of her hold. Manami shoots him a pouty look before she quickly recovers, folding her arms over her chest.

“Alright, Boss. I’m ready.” She says with a hushed tone. Larue gives one more nod before he turns around and heads the opposite way. He slides the door slightly ajar, peering inside and just after he enters and the door has been shut and locked, Suguru and Manami hear the muffled shrieks of the passengers in the car.

“Hands in the fucking air! This is a stick up!”

Suguru peers down at Manami who is already staring up at him with eager eyes. And it takes everything in Suguru to not roll his eyes in response. She really gets on his last nerve.

‘I gotta get rid of her after this one,’ he thinks as he moves past the woman and into the opposite end of the train.

He slips through the door, closing it quietly behind Manami once she’s in. No one bothers to look up when they come in and Suguru counts his lucky stars that this will be easier than he anticipated. They make their way along the aisle, offering soft smiles to the passengers that happen to look up as they pass. Suguru thinks there’s nothing but a bunch of carefree monkeys too relaxed and stupid as all hell on this train. They don’t even know what’s coming and if they know what’s good for them, they won’t bother to fight back when they find out.

He lets Manami do the work of maintaining a mental checklist of every item worth its salt in this train car. This is where he’ll leave Manami to do her part. Then Suguru will take the final car where the stragglers usually reside. Larue is already taking care of everything in the back. When he’s done, he’ll pile up all the goods in an empty car and then make his rounds to grab what Manami and Suguru collect.

When they reach the end of the current car, Suguru turns to Manami who is already reaching into her blouse. She beams, eyes locked on Suguru as she slowly pulls out a pretty little Colt’s revolver. Her lips pull up at the corners, a sly grin on her face. If it’s meant to be alluring to Suguru, it’s not working. In fact it’s having the opposite effect. It’s so annoying, the way her pupils dilate when she looks at him. It’s only been a few months since Manami joined their group, but it’s only getting worse for Suguru. She spends half her time trying to seduce him and failing. And it’s not that Manami is unattractive. She’s a very beautiful woman, but she’s not exactly Suguru’s type.

He’s looking for someone a bit more…inexperienced when it comes to this life of crime. Someone he can mold into his ideal woman, untouched by the roughness that west has to offer. Manami has been doing this for far too long, and already has habits that consistently get under Suguru’s skin. She’d never interest him that way.

The pink haired woman flashes Suguru her gun, pointing her chin towards the last car as a signal for him to go on. Suguru nods, spinning on his heel and heading towards his destination. And just in time too, because he hears the door on the other end of the train car close and he knows Larue has finished and has come to assist Manami.

The train car slides shut behind Suguru right as he hears the passengers scream in the car behind him. It’s louder than the first instance and catches the attention of the passengers in his car who now stare at him with wide eyes, mouths agape like a sea of fish.

Suguru rubs the nape of his neck, frowning. Then, offering a goofy grin, he mutters, “Ah well…” He reaches behind him, wrapping his nimble fingers around the cool, wooden handle tucked into his waistband. He whips out his revolver, the sun glaring off of the fancy gold weapon as Suguru aims it at the passengers who all shriek in terror. The women clutch their jewels. The men hold onto their women. And Suguru? He laughs raucously before he barks out, “Put ‘em up!”

- - - - - -

It’s a little surprising how easily the heist goes, but Suguru tries not to give it too much thought. You start thinking something’s gonna go wrong and it damn sure will. While Manami is guiding passengers into the back cars, Larue has the conductor held hostage, locked away with threats of a bullet to his skull unless he continues driving. He’d only shown his face and quickly hid away in his cabin when Suguru told him to use his fucking brain unless he wanted it splattered across the window.

Now, Suguru finds himself roaming the cabin to see if there are any stragglers. And there is one. A very beautiful woman, at that. There you sit, in the last seat of the train car. He slowly makes his way over to you. Suguru thinks you must be some type of saloon girl. Your pretty little dress and waist neatly cinched in a leather corset is the giveaway. He glances over his shoulder, just to be sure this cabin is empty, only to find that it truly is only himself and you left. He hates having to wrangle the stragglers. That’s Manami and Larue’s job. And Suguru hates it even more when they’re not doing it.

He tightens the grip on his gun, turning to give you an earful until his eyes meet yours. They’re so wide and glistening, like you’re on the verge of tears. Your lips are quivering, your bottom lip protruding in a pout. It reminds him of the look Manami gave him just before the heist started. Except when coming from you, for some reason, it’s bringing out a different reaction. 

His heart rate quickens, and Suguru’s hands suddenly feel clammy and not from the heat in this train car. He can feel sweat beginning to bead on his forehead and he has to swallow to quell the dryness that’s forming in his throat. Then he’s tucking his weapon away into his holster and moving towards you.

“I beg your pardon, ma’am,” Suguru speaks calmly as he takes the seat in front of you. You peer up at him, with apparent fear in your eyes and he wants nothing more than to see that look disappear. Usually, he’d use force to get you out and rounded up with the rest of the passengers. He’s not sure why, but there’s something about you that makes Suguru want to take care of you. “Why didn’t you leave with the rest of the crowd?” He questions.

You’re fidgeting with the fabric of your dress in your lap, visibly shaken even as Suguru removes his hat and sets it on the seat in front of you before he sits down.

“I–” you clear your throat and bite down on your lip, seemingly to calm your nerves. 

“I’m not gonna hurt ya, ma’am,” he tells you softly, reassuring you. “Just wonderin’.” Suguru takes this time to drink in your features – how soft you look, the way your body so beautifully fills that dress of yours, how you’ve got a face that will be burned into his memory long after this encounter.

And for some reason, it also feels as if it was burned into his memory long before this encounter. There’s a familiarity about you that Suguru can’t quite place. He’s certain he’s seen your face somewhere. He had been through many saloons and brothels in his time traveling the frontier. Perhaps he had run into you in one of the many establishments he frequented? 

No. No, Suguru would remember if he saw a woman who looked like you in any of those places. You would have easily stood out in the crowd. He would have called you up to his room on any of those nights. 

You bite down on your lip as you stare at Suguru. As afraid as you look, you don’t break eye contact. To see you so stricken with fear, and yet you steadily look him in the eye without blinking. You show courage even when faced with danger, and it does something to him. 

The look on your face has him picturing all sorts of things about you and he doesn’t even know your name.

“I was afraid,” you mutter quietly. 

Thankfully so, because Suguru was just about to begin imagining a life outside of crime with you. Which is shocking in and of itself. Three minutes of simply staring at you had him visualizing a future on the prairie hanging laundry on the line while you fed the cattle.

‘Keep it together.’

“Don’t be scared. I’m not gonna hurt nobody,” Suguru reassures you again. He tries to calm your nerves with a smile which seems to work because he sees you visibly exhale. You return his gesture with a small smile of your own, and his imagination runs wild once more.

“Promise?” You ask, Suguru’s smile widens. 

‘Cute,’ he thinks. He wants to see more of those. “I promise, sweetheart.”

He can hear the way you huff, something between a laugh and a sigh of relief. And Suguru finds himself becoming more and more infatuated with you as he keeps the conversation going.

“Gettin’ train tickets ain’t easy. Where ya headed?”

“Just a few towns over. Goin’ to visit family,” you explain, now more relaxed with him. Something about the way he was able to soothe your nerves makes Suguru feel proud.

It also is making him clearly insane, because some sick part of Suguru begins to think he could be your family. If you’ll let him.

“What about you?”

His brows shoot up in surprise. Why would you want to know about him? “Me?”

You nod quickly. “I know you’re…” You lean forward and Suguru mirrors the action as shivers race up his spine when you whisper scandalously, “...an outlaw.”

He leans back, rubbing his chin thoughtfully while he purses his lips together. His gaze is locked onto you because he wonders if you’re up to something. If you’re not as sweet and innocent as you look. But when you lean back and flutter your lashes at him, he begins to doubt it. That sweet face of yours is a rare one to see on this side of the wild west; beautiful and unscarred. You don’t look like you’ve been exposed to anything more dangerous than a thunderstorm. And it’s arousing. The air of innocence that you carry has Suguru shifting in his seat, his pants suddenly feeling tighter.

This is exactly what he’s been wanting. Someone opposite of Manami, someone who is interested in his life, but not involved with crime in the least. As far as he can tell, you’re clean as a whistle. And Suguru likes to think he’s good at reading people.

“Never seen a outlaw before?” He drawls. You shake your head, back to messing around nervously with your dress.

“Never,” you answer softly, batting those pretty, long lashes at him. “Only seen ‘em on signs. Wanted…dead, or alive.”

Oh, you really are sheltered.

“Well, now you’ve seen one in person.” Suguru combs his fingers through his dark tresses, grinning like his criminal status is one to be proud of. To him, he supposes it is. “What d’ya think?”

You do that lip biting thing that Suguru is beginning to realize he finds cute. Maybe it’s a nervous tick, but this time it seems it’s to be you holding back a smile. Everything you do is cute to him. Everything you do is sweet, innocent, arousing.

“I…” You lean forward in your seat again, and whether you realize it or not, it gives Suguru a perfect view of the swell of your breasts. It’s a struggle to keep his focus on your face when your skin looks so smooth, and unmarred, perfect. Those plush lips of yours whisper, “...I think it’s exciting.”

He can only think one thought in this moment.

He wants to ruin you.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“What’s excitin’ about it?” He asks, though he has an idea what it is. The travel, not being tied down to anyone or anything, the freedom this life provides. It’s what they all say when they try to make small talk. “Pretty girl like you can’t possibly know nothin’ about this life.”

You inhale deeply, leaning back in your seat and Suguru watches closely, the way your chest rises and falls with the breath. “Well, I never seen a outlaw in person. Surely never spoke to one. And…” You purse your lips together, like you’re contemplating if you should say the next thing. But you do anyway. “I just never thought a outlaw could be so pretty.”

His eyes widen, the corners of his lips rising with a goofy grin. “Pretty?” He chuckles, combing his fingers through his hair again. “You really think so?”

He’s been called a lot of things, but pretty is not one of them.

“Yep. Look at ya.” You stand, moving quickly to cross the small gap between you both and take a seat next to him. You reach for his arm, then hesitate, pulling back for a second. You peer up at Suguru, silently asking permission and he nods. Your fingers ghost along his forearm, over his bicep, along his neck where his Adam's apple bobs with a gulp, and then your hand is cupping his cheek. Your trail leaves behind a trail of goosebumps.

And Suguru’s pants grow tighter.

Suguru has had his fair share of women and men alike during his time as a felon. But you’re particularly tempting. He’s not sure he’s ever wanted someone as badly as he wants you right now and it’s been all of ten minutes in this train car together. But any minute now, his crew is going to come through those doors and tell him they’re ready to go. And then Suguru will have to leave and the chances of him seeing you ever again are slim to none. 

But on the bright side, the chances of him seeing you again are slim to none. It’s a little sudden, but you seem like you want him with the way you’re feeling him up right about now. Maybe you'd let him bury his cock as deep as he can go, fuck you until you’re screaming his name, begging and crying on his cock. Then he’ll fill you with his seed, maybe leave a baby in you to remember him by if you’re lucky and then he’ll grab his spoils with Larue and the rest and go. Then he'll never see you again. 

This desert is far and wide. He’d have you today, then never have to face you again for the rest of his life. A woman like you? You'll be just fine. A pretty face and an even prettier smile. Though he thinks you're a bit naive. Have to be to be sitting here chatting with him like he’s some gentleman you met on a leisurely trip to see your relatives. Regardless, there will be some poor fool out there that'll be happy to have you after he's had his way with you.

‘Weren’t you just daydreaming about settling down with this woman?’

“Pretty eyes,” you hum, pulling Suguru from his filthy fantasies. “Nice skin, pretty lips. Just…very pretty.” Your thumb caresses his skin and his eyes can't help but notice the way your gaze is locked to his lips. He pokes his tongue out, watching your eyes widen just slightly at the motion, as he runs the wet muscle along his lips. And he’s right back in his head, thinking of all the ways he could have you.

There’s no mistaking the thick tension filling the room at this moment. Like a lightning bolt hitting the same spot repeatedly. Each stroke of your fingers along his cheek only intensifies the mood. Suguru’s lips curl into a teasing smirk, and yours into one that matches. “Why do I feel like you're trouble?” He says.

Your smile widens, and like a magnet, Suguru finds himself slowly being drawn closer and closer to you. Even as a soft laugh falls from your lips, his mind is wiped clean of all thoughts that don't consist of you.

“Me? That’s funny comin’ from a outlaw like yourself,” you mutter just as you close the distance between you, pressing your lips teasingly to Suguru's. They barely touch, truly a ghost of a touch but Suguru still has to swallow down the moan that damn near bursts from his chest the second your mouth was close enough to his.

You pull away suddenly, covering your lips as you lean away, your eyes wide with worry. “‘m sorry.”

“What are you apologizin’ for?” Suguru asks, scooting closer.

“I don’t know what’s gotten into me…I just…” You’re back to fidgeting with your dress again, and Suguru places a large hand over yours to stop the movement. “You’re a criminal, and I’m just me. I shouldn’t even be talkin’ to you.” You stare up at him with wide eyes, and fuck he wants you.

You look so sweet, so pure looking at him like that. And he feels a little like a piece of shit because while you’re looking at him with probably innocent thoughts floating around in your head, he’s thinking about how he’d love nothing more than to cover your face in his seed.

“I’m not a bad guy,” Suguru lies easily. “Have I done bad things?” He shrugs, because he’s done way too many terrible things to count. Better not to give a real answer to that one. “But I’m enjoyin’ our conversation. The kiss was just a perk. Wouldn’t mind it if it happened again. I’d gladly accept it.”

“But…I don’t even know you…”

‘All the better,’ is what he wants to say, but instead, he tells you, “And that’s fine. Listen–” he squeezes your hand gently. “Best part of bein’ a criminal is that I just do what I want. Don’t gotta ask permission for nothin’.”

Your eyes swim with curiosity. “It’s that easy?”

“Yep. Do what makes ya feel good, sweetheart.”

You still don’t look convinced, and if this next question doesn’t work, Suguru will have no choice but to tie you up and dump you in the other train car with the rest of the hostages. He doesn’t have much time to waste trying to get you just to kiss him.

“Lemme ask ya…did you like kissin’ me?”

He knows he should be worrying about the heist, not some pretty face distracting him from the job. But when you speak again, he tells himself the job can go to hell.

“Yes…but…I got scared. I– I’ve only done some things with a man…” you admit quietly. “And I’m not too good at it.”

Fuck. He has to have you.

“That’s not a problem, sweetheart,” he reassures you, and you beam.

Your hand grasps onto Suguru’s, squeezing tightly. “Really?”

He nods. “I don’t got much time before I gotta leave, but I can show ya some things real quick.”

“You’ll show me? How to do things?” Your voice is eager, so ready. Suguru is finding it hard to contain how much you’re turning him on right now. “Like kissin’ and…y’know other stuff?”

“What kinda stuff?” He asks, because he wants you to say it. Wants to know how far you’re willing to go if you’ve never done a damn thing before. You pinch your lips together, turning your head away shyly. But Suguru gently cups your chin, turning you to look at him again.

“What kinda stuff?” He repeats. “Tell me.”

“Stuff…that makes a man…y’know…”

He grins, tauntingly. “Enlighten me,” he whispers.

“Stuff to make a man…” you worry your lip between your teeth. “...feel good.”

Oh hell. 

What type of good deeds has Suguru done to find himself here? With someone as virtuous as you, who is asking him of all people to show you how to please him? He has half a mind to tell you no. He’s got shit to do and his partners are bound to come looking for him any minute. But his cock is screaming within the confines of his pants to get into those undergarments of yours. And there’s no argument to be had here. 

He’s listening to his dick.

Suguru crashes his lips to yours, swallowing up the yelp that escapes you from the sudden kiss. “I’ll teach ya whatever ya want, pretty girl.” He groans into your mouth. 

He kisses you hard, but slowly, giving you time to catch up. You’re a little slow to pick up, but you get there. Your lips slot against his, fingers slipping into his hair and holding on tight, making Suguru groan into the kiss once more.

“We don’t got a lotta time,” he breathes against you.

You nod, pulling away to look up at him. “What d’ya want?”

You.

He needs you – bent over the passenger seat and holding onto the bar sitting atop it while he fucks you from behind. He needs you sitting on his face, needs your hand around his length. But he’s looking at your face again, so desperate for instruction. Looks at your lips, swollen from the little bit of kissing you’ve been doing. And he knows exactly what he needs in this moment.

“Ever had a cock in your mouth?” He shifts, sitting back against the seat.

You shake your head.

“Ever touched one?”

Another shake of your head.

“What have you done?”

You hum, thinking only for a short time before you answer. “Kissed.”

What fucking luck.

Doesn’t matter what they score off the train today. This is the biggest reward of all.

“Good,” Suguru says, tugging your hand until you stand. With a grin, he guides you to the floor until you’re sitting up on your knees. “There won’t be another man who’s had ya then. I’ll show ya how to please me, make me feel good.” 

You nod, and Suguru can’t believe how easy this was as he fumbles with his belt, quickly undoing the buckle. He yanks his pants down, along with his underwear. Only to his knees. He wants to be able to get up quickly if needed. Suguru’s dick sits against his stomach, fat and long, with a harsh red tip that leaks with precum. He peers down at you, your eyes honed in on his length.

“Touch it,” he whispers encouragingly.

Your eyes meet as you move, your hands wrapping around Suguru tenderly, pulling a hiss from him. You hold his length like it’s a foreign object, and he supposes it is to you since it’s the first time you’ve done. Suguru grits his teeth, bringing a hand up to your fist. You’re simply touching him and his dick is throbbing in your grip.

“Move your hand…up ‘n down,” he tells you. “Like this.” He guides you, helping to move your hand in slow and light pumps until you’ve found a rhythm that works. His head falls back as the pleasure takes over. “Ahhh–shit, just like that, pretty girl.”

“It’s so big…” you sigh, licking your lips as you stroke his cock slowly.

From here, Suguru is certain he has a perfect view of you. Eyes wide and curious while you observe every ridge and vein running along his length. It turns him on beyond measure, his hips jerking upward in your grasp. 

“Damn,” he moans, fucking himself into your hands. For someone with no experience, you hold his dick just right. He never knew a woman’s touch could feel this good, but you’re a natural talent. You stroke him so good, his mouth falls slack as he lets himself enjoy the feeling of your hands around him. But you surprise him, just as you’ve been doing all this time, his eyes snapping open just in time to watch you lick from the base of his length all the way to the tip, teasing the slit with your tongue and lapping up the bead of precum that sits there.

“It’s salty,” you giggle before you kiss down his shaft, bringing your attention to his balls, kissing and licking the two orbs teasingly. Suguru inhales sharply, eyes rolling to the back of his head as the sensation makes his head swim with pleasure. Especially when your hand wraps around Suguru’s length again, pumping him up and down, slowly as you continue to lap at his balls.

“You’re already so good at this,” Suguru pants heavily.

“I am?” 

He can hear the excitement in your voice, so eager to please him. It turns him on knowing that you’re trying so hard to make him feel good. He wonders if you can feel his cock throb in your hands.

“So fucking good,” he praises you, loving the way you hum against him.

“Can I put it in my mouth?” You ask sweetly, squeezing your hands around his cock.

“God, please.”

When you take Suguru into the warmth of your mouth, you hum around him, and the vibrations make him shiver, back arching off of the seat. His palm finds the back of your head, his hips rolling up so he can shove his cock as far as possible without hurting you. He’s gentle at first. You’ve never done this before, after all. He wants to give you the time you need to adjust, though he can’t afford to give you too much. Which seems to be just fine, because just like before, you catch on quickly. You take his cock damn near to the base, and you take it so well, relaxing your throat for him so it’s easy. 

“Could fuck this pretty little mouth all day,” Suguru grunts, pumping into you. “So goddamn good.” The sound of his balls slapping against your chin as he fucks your face has his legs trembling, pleasure shooting straight up his spine. He wants to grab your head and push you down further, make you swallow all of him until he blows his load down your throat, then make you swallow that, too. But he doesn’t want to cum just yet.

He craves more from you. He needs more from you.

You hum again, sending another vibration through him as your fingers come up, caressing his balls. And Suguru squeezes his eyes shut, trying so hard not to cum. “Ah– shit, shit!” He pushes at your shoulders, forcing you off of him with a loud and wet pop. You look rather pleased with yourself, smiling when you see his red cheeks and the way he rapidly tries to catch his breath.

Like he noted before. You’re trouble.

“Fuck, you’re fuckin’ perfect,” he gasps, staring at your chin dripping with saliva and his juices. Suguru watches through hooded eyes as you swipe it away. He could watch you on your knees all day, taking his cock down your throat time and time again. But unfortunately, time is not on his side today. He needs to hurry it up.

“C’mere, pretty,” he calls for you, taking your hand. You stand, waiting for your next instruction as Suguru leans forward in his seat. His hands find your waist, pulling you close enough that he can press a kiss to your stomach before he leans back again. “Pull up your skirt for me.”

“Okay…” you agree, shakily. You reach for the hem of your skirt, pulling the layers of fabric as high as it’ll go. Suguru always hated these damn dresses. It’s like digging for gold trying to get through every damn piece of clothing. But eventually, you get to the end, revealing your bare thighs to him. Soft, plush, beautiful. But what he’s truly interested in remains concealed by your underwear.

Suguru swallows hard before he drags his finger along your clothed pussy, grinning when your thighs tremble just barely. His gaze glides back up your form until they rest on your face, watching as your mouth falls open with a silent moan. 

Hard to believe you’ve never been touched here. Also, so very arousing to think you’ve never been touched here. He thanks his lucky stars that you’re allowing him to be the first.

He slips his finger into the fabric, his slender fingers quickly finding your slit and sliding along your folds. He sucks in a sharp breath when he feels how soaked you are. He briefly brushes a finger against your entrance, pausing when he feels you tense up.

“Might hurt a little,” he warns as softly as he can manage right now. But you whisper, “go ahead”, hands coming to rest on his shoulders as he dips his finger into your pussy, biting back a moan when he feels your soft walls clench down on his hand. It’s tight, as expected but he moves slowly, pulling back every so often to work his way further.

You whimper above him, squeezing his shoulders as your breaths come rapidly while Suguru pumps his finger in and out of your hole. Your bottom lip sits between your teeth, and your brows are knitted together.

You’re enjoying this. 

And he’s enjoying watching you.

Suguru presses his thumb to your clit, slowly circling the sensitive nub. Dark eyes lock with yours as his other hand finds the top of your dress where he hooks his fingers into the cups and pulls it down. Your breasts spill out of the fabric and your breath hitches when the air caresses your nipples. Suguru kneads the soft flesh, his thumb swiping across one of the hardened buds. 

“Ahhh, yes,” you moan, your voice barely above a whisper. Your head falls back with a loud gasp as Suguru slips another finger into you. 

“Bein’ real good for me,” he coos. His dick grows painfully harder as he slowly thrusts his fingers inside of you, while his thumb stimulates your clit. He’s panting trying to hold himself together while he preps you for what he wants next. Your hips move on their own, riding Suguru’s hand, chasing your high. 

“Feel good?” He grunts, fingers slipping into you over and over, curling inside, and hitting your sweet spot and you can’t help but to gasp quietly each time Suguru touches it. 

“Y-yes, feels incredible,” you whine.

Suguru’s eyes are locked on your center where he watches his fingers disappear into your cunt over and over, your slick coating his hand more with each thrust. It only adds to Suguru’s struggle to keep it together as he ignores the pulsing need of his cock. Your pleasured moans and the squelching sound of your dripping pussy fill the space of the train car.

“I’m–” you breathe harshly against him and he feels your walls squeeze down on his digits. You’re close already.

“Gonna cum, sweetheart?” Suguru’s fingers dip into you faster. His eyes linger on your face as his thumb rubs tight circles on the sensitive bud between your legs. Your eyes flutter closed, mouth hanging open as a delicious moan rushes past your lips, your grip on Suguru’s shoulders tightening so much it stings. But he loves it, loves feeling your pussy squeezing down on his fingers, sucking them deeper as your release crashes over you until he can feel your cum dripping down his fingers and into his palm as he keeps pumping into you.

Suguru sighs as he stares at his fingers, slowly pulling them from you. He licks his lips, admiring his slick covered hand.

He’s never taken the time to just enjoy the moment with anyone. Never cared much to please a woman. It’s easier for him to just get himself off and high tail it out of there. No attachment to these ladies, no reason to stick around. But what is it about you that makes him want to see all the ways your body is capable of falling apart? Because it’s a beautiful sight to behold. 

“Outlaw…” you murmur, slipping your undergarments down your legs until you’re able to kick them off. You push Suguru back by the shoulders, lifting your skirt so that you can easily maneuver into his lap. His hands find your hips beneath your dress as you straddle him, and his thumbs caress the soft skin gently.

“Yeah, beautiful?”

So beautiful. He can’t stop staring at you and your eyes, glazed over with desire. You lean forward, the heat from between your legs making Suguru’s length twitch. It lightly taps your core and you gasp. Your hands clutch onto the bar that runs along the top of the train seat, one on each side of his head. Suguru’s palms glide around to your backside, squeezing the flesh of your ass. You brush your nose against his, soft breaths mingling with his as you whisper, “make love to me, outlaw…” just before your lips touch.

And Suguru’s groaning into your mouth, because this kiss is different. It’s hungry, hot, full of want and need. It’s sloppy and rushed, because you’re both aware of the time crunch you’re in. It’s intoxicating, addicting, the way he never wants to stop kissing you. To hell with the heist.

“Ready for me, pretty girl?” Suguru pants, a hand gripping his cock. He can feel the heat of your pussy radiating off of you and it makes him all the more eager to have you.

Your eyes are wide, filled with something Suguru thinks may be excitement. He’s not sure he sees any hesitation or fear behind your eyes. You want him badly, it’s clear as day. He wants you just as badly, if not more. So he positions himself at your entrance, nudging your hole gently with his tip. 

A small whimper slips past your lips, and Suguru kisses you sweetly. “It’s only gonna hurt for a second,” he coos. “Promise…”

He kisses you again, muttering, “I’m pushin’ in…” against your lips.

You close your eyes, teeth digging into your bottom lip as Suguru rolls his hips forward, slowly sinking his tip into your pussy, only stopping when you let out a harsh breath.

“‘S a tight fit,” he murmurs through gritted teeth. An understatement. Your pussy is gripping him with so much force, he’s struggling to breathe. You’re holding him hostage within your walls and the feeling has him tightening his hold on your ass. “You alright?”

Because he wants to make sure it feels good for you, too. Your pleasure is his. Which is a whole new feeling for him in and of itself. He’s aware of how the tables have turned. What started as him wanting to show you ways to please him, turned into him desperate to please you. But he likes it that way.

You nod, moaning quietly when Suguru keeps moving forward. “Ohhh…” 

“God, this pussy is so fuckin’ –” he can’t even finish his sentence. He needs to focus all his attention on not cumming already.

You take him all the way to the base, moaning loudly when you fully sink onto him. Your grip tightens around the bar, steadying yourself as Suguru lifts you by your ass before pulling you back down on him, so slowly. “Fuuuck–” he groans. He thrusts into you at a leisurely pace, slow and controlled, giving you time to adjust to his size. 

But his kisses…they’re rough. Such a contrast to the way he’s fucking you right now. The pleasure is overwhelming to Suguru, and when your tongue slips into his mouth, it’s him that’s whimpering now, thrusting just a little faster, a little harder.

“Damn, you take my cock so good, pretty girl–” he growls into your mouth. “Love the way you ride me.” He smacks your ass hard, eyes falling to your breast, bouncing up and down with the rhythm of his thrusts. He takes one into his mouth, greedily lapping at your nipple, nipping and sucking and loving the way your cries get louder.

“Oh my god, fuck!”

“Ride my cock, pretty. You already do it so good. Wanna see you ride me.” Suguru groans. He releases his hold on you, hands coming up to play with your breasts while you bounce wildly on his dick. He lifts your dress, relishing the view of his length, glistening with your slick, vanishes into your tight cunt over and over. “Shiiiitttt…”

You slip a hand into his tresses, pulling hard and forcing him away from your nipples. You pull so hard Suguru has to close his eyes because the sensation sends goosebumps igniting across his body. That, combined with the way you keep taking him to the tip before slamming down on his cock repeatedly. Fuck, you’re a quick learner.

Your pussy is what it feels like every single time he pulls off a heist successfully. Like fucking heaven. And he never wants to leave it.

His eyes flutter open, just enough to see your breasts bouncing with every rise and fall of your hips. Your velvety walls hug him tight, so fucking good, Suguru thinks he'd like to be able to have you all the time. Hell, he has half a mind to take you with him once they’re off this damned train. Being able to have you like this any time he wants, watch your body come undone under him, on top of him, in any position you’ll let him have you. He’d even give up this outlaw life if you wanted him to. Settle down, start a family if that’s what you wanted. The thought of it makes Suguru more excited than he’ll ever admit.

Each time your pussy sucks him back in, begging for him to cum, he can suddenly picture a life outside of this. Each time those sexy little noises fall from your sweet lips, he can suddenly envision raising a family with you, building himself a life where he's able to hear those sounds any time he desires. 

He lets his mind drift to these fantasies while he can, enjoying the feeling of you and the sounds you gift him with. 

There's a fire pooling in his belly, growing hotter each time his balls meet your ass. He's gonna blow his load here any second. And he can't wait. He wants to cum inside your walls, wants to thrust himself so deep into you that there's no way you're not carrying his child when he's done. Least you'll have something to remember him by if you tell him you don’t want shit to do with him after this. A sweet woman like you with a wanted felon? Of course you’d prefer to get your rocks off while you can and move on. Which is fine.

Because Suguru is gonna remember you, anyway. He’ll remember the way you squeeze around him, the way you moan the little nickname you’ve given him, the way your cunt feels fucking unlike any other woman’s. You’ve got him mesmerized. 

So much so, that he doesn't even notice the cool press of steel against the center of his forehead. 

“Ohhh,” you moan, whimpering, “Please…please…will you put a baby inside me, outlaw?” 

It’s like you read his mind, and Suguru’s eyes snap open, balls tightening as his release threatens to come at any moment. But then his eyes see the stiffness in your arm, see the glimmer of metal as the sunlight reflects off it through the windows, and he finally realizes you've got his gun to his head, and maybe that’s actually why his balls are tightening. You’ve got this wicked grin on your flushed face as you keep riding him. Hard, fast, walls squeezing him in a vice grip. And he can't do shit but let his eyes roll to the back of his head, let his pleasure race straight down his spine and into his balls as his release shoots from his cock before he has a chance to get ahold of himself.

But you don’t let him get a drop inside, lifting yourself smoothly off his lap just as fat, hot streams of cum land messily in his lap and on his stomach. Suguru’s gasping for air, still struggling to figure out what the fuck is going on. And you don’t give him a second to catch his breath, to let his mind catch up before you’re wrapping your hand around his cock again, squeezing and stroking his length until he’s so overstimulated his jaw is cramping up from how hard he’s gritting his teeth to keep from crying out.

“What the fuck are you ahhh–” you run your thumb over his leaking tip, your eyes alight with joy when his hips buck up automatically, legs trembling as you keep pumping him, though his balls are beyond empty. 

You tsk, shaking your head as you press the barrel of the gun harder against his skin. “Where’s that sweet outlaw from before?” You drawl.

Your voice has changed. No longer soft spoken, shy and sweet. The hardness of your tone tells Suguru all he needs to know. The memories come flooding back. And now he realizes why you looked so familiar when he first laid eyes on you. 

Your face has been plastered on wanted posters in damn near every town he and his partners have stopped in. Murder, robbery, drunkenness, prison escape, cheating at cards. All the crimes that should have you in the town square hanging, you’re wanted for. Somehow, you’ve managed to never get caught.

How could he have let his guard down? How could he have fucked up this badly?

‘Thinking with your dick. That’s how.’

“Guess it takes an outlaw to know one,” He grits out, nostrils flared with fury. He can only hope his crew comes through those doors soon, though it’ll be fucking humiliating to be caught in this position.

A giggle spills from your lips and the sound makes Suguru sick to his stomach. You don’t even sound like the same person from before. “Y’all are pretty easy to spot. ‘Specially when all y’all think with your cocks–” You echo his thoughts, emphasizing the word by squeezing Suguru’s slowly softening length in your hand. You frown, releasing your hold on him. “Huh, thought you’d be able to gimme another one.”

He inhales deeply, shakily, narrowing his eyes at the woman – the stranger – that stands before him. “Everything you said was a lie, then.”

It’s not a question. He knows. Because you’re just like him. Maybe even worse.

Laughter bursts from deep within, like what he said was the funniest thing you’ve ever heard. “It really is easy to fool y’all men. Just gotta make our pussies feel reallllll tight and wet and y’all don’t question nothin’.”

You climb off of the seat, taking the gun off his head while you fix your undergarments, unbothered and careless. And Suguru decides to act fast, takes this moment to lunge for you. But he doesn’t make it far, because his head is yanked back roughly the moment he jumps forward. His scalp burns, and he reaches back, feeling a thick knot tied around the metal bar that sits atop the train seats. The same metal bar you were just holding onto moments ago.

“You fuckin’ tied my hair to the seat?!” He growls.

And you chuckle, shifting your dress around until you’re decent again. The gun is pointed back at Suguru’s face, and he puts his hands back down, not daring to try and free himself when you’ve got a revolver ready to blow his brains out.

“And your hands are next,” you promise in a sing-song voice. You keep your word, spinning around briefly to reach between the wall and your original seat, where you’d apparently hidden a small rope. You make quick work of tying Suguru’s hands behind his back, leaning a little too close to him as you finish the knot. 

He can feel your breaths against his neck, and right now, if he’s being honest with himself – which he may as well be since he could very well be dead soon – it’s confusing him. Because he feels like he fucking hates you, is repulsed by you, could spit in your face right now. Oh, he really fucking wants to. But something tells him you’d like that anyway. And the thought of your face, depraved and covered in his saliva is making his still exposed length hard again. Even when you tug harshly on the rope for good measure, chuckling low in Suguru’s ear when you hear him hiss in pain, his cock stiffens further.

And of course you notice, your eyes glancing down to his lap, where the sticky mess you left him with lies. “Sure you don’t wanna go again?” You tease, laughing when Suguru scowls. 

You like him upset, and probably a little pathetic, because you press your lips to his pout, kissing him hungrily. And apparently, Suguru is as pathetic as he looks, because – and it’s a surprise to him, too – he kisses you back! Your tongues tangle during this brief meeting of your lips, fighting for dominance, though it’s apparent who’s the one in control here. 

The filthy moans between you are interrupted when Suguru feels that damned gun under his chin now, applying enough pressure to push him back. Only a line of your mixed saliva connects you two as you stare down at him in amusement.

“Like I said…” you peer down quickly at Suguru’s lap before whispering. “Aaaalways thinkin’ with your cock.” You step back, pointing the gun at him once again.

“What do ya want?” He asks, pulling at his restraints to no avail. He’d love nothing more than to wipe that cocky smile off your face and flip the tables on you, but it’s not looking good for him.

“What I want…” You wiggle the gun in his face, tauntingly. “...is already mine, outlaw.” There’s humor in your tone, and your body language is relaxed. You couldn’t see Suguru as less of a threat if you tried.

You piss him off.

And make him so fucking hard.

He’s confused!

The noise of the doors to the train cabin opening can be heard and Suguru grins. You’re fucked now. Larue is going to put a bullet between your eyes and sure, Suguru’ll be sad about it. But better you than him. You were a great fuck, he’ll admit. And yes, he entertained the idea of giving you a kid or two, maybe getting a little cabin out in the prairie. But that fantasy’s as dead as you’re about to be. Sad that he won’t be–

“The guy with the nipples and the girl have been taken care of, boss!” A chipper voice sings. 

That…is not Larue.

Suguru couldn’t turn his head if he tried, courtesy of this goddamn knot, but he can see the smirk on your face as you nod. “Great work, Hime. And the goods?”

“Already on the move with the others. Just gotta get on the horses when you’re ready.”

You turn your head, staring out the window and nodding again. Out of his peripheral, Suguru can just barely make out the form of two horses, racing alongside the train and he knows he’s screwed.

You sigh, shrugging while feigning sadness as you pout. “Well, outlaw…looks like this is the end of the line.”

Suguru tugs at his ropes again, struggling against the holds. “You gonna leave me here like this?” He gestures with his chin at his…situation. You must be forgetting his entire dick is out for the world to see. And that you’ve tied his hands up. Not to mention his fucking hair! If he has to cut his hair because of this…

You hum, like you’re actually giving deep thought to his question. You’re not.

“Yeah, actually. Think I am.” You lift your dress, not even pretending to be as innocent as you presented yourself to be when Suguru first laid eyes on you. You tuck his gun into the waistband of your undergarments, patting it affectionately. “Thanks for a grand ol’ time, outlaw. If you manage to survive this, we can do it again.”

You shoot him a wink before you lean over him, leaving him with one final kiss on the lips. It’s gentle this time, soft, save for a light nip to his bottom lip that embarrassingly enough, manages to arouse Suguru yet again. 

“At least tell me your name,” Suguru grits out through heavy breaths. “So I can be sure to repay the favor.”

It’s a threat, but you don’t take it as one. You simply smile. It’s warm, almost reminiscent of the woman he met just earlier. The woman he thought you were. But that look is gone as soon as it appeared. You pat his face gently, reaching across the seat to grab his hat that he had set aside when he’d first sat down. You sit it atop your head, wearing it like some sort of crown, and without another word, you leave.

The train cars open, the roaring rush of the wind filling the space for just a moment before they’re shut again, and Suguru is left with nothing but his thoughts and his dick literally out. He leans his head back against the seat, closing his eyes to calm his racing heart and honestly to stifle the pain of his untouched erection.

This has been the wildest ride of his life. Definitely the worst heist he’s ever done. And if he does survive this, does manage to somehow talk his way out of charges and prison time, he’s going to find you. Fuck the robberies. Fuck the brothels. Fuck gambling and drinking all day. Yeah, if he manages to survive this, he will make it his life’s mission to find you again.

Because even after all is said and done, Suguru thinks he might fucking love you.

[jaakunxkaze]

pseudomonarkaerenea asked: “Do you hate me?”

It's a rhetorical question, but Douman asks it anyway while making Kotaro look at him with the shinobi's chin between his thumb and pointer.

Send “Do you hate me?” for my muse’s response. 

✦ ─ ━ Ѕһɩɴоβɩ There was a tired glance from the shinobi hearing that question coming from Douman there. The answer should be obvious, he has kept all that boiling rage in check as it wouldn't help the situation at this point.

❝You and I both know the answer to that question. Take your hands off me, I'm in no mood to play your little games at this stage.❞

@pseudomonarkaerenea

[shinysobi]

chunhyangjeon redux

If I had time, I would learn to love him in a softer way, perhaps, where my hands are bloodied and bruised from trying to hold on too hard.

☆ historical!au jihoon x reader

☆ word count: 17.8k

☆ rating: M

☆ genre/warnings: historical, major character death, period-typical sexism, physical violence (not between jihoon and mc) angst, so much goddamn angst, fluff if you squint, but mostly angst

☆ notes: look i had a thought about guqin player lee jihoon, yapped to people, and that's it, this happened. many many thanks to @gyubakeries for beta'ing this, and @imujings for encouraging my delusions. dedicated to kae @ylangelegy, because I yapped in her dms about this first, and then this baby happened. banner from here. love you loads, everyone.

playlist: what kind of future, woozi | interlude: dawn, agust d | don't, eaeon ft. rm | blue side, j-hope | jashn-e-baharaa, a.r rahaman | shokhi bhabona kahare bole, rabindranath tagore (jayati bhattacharya)

The string breaks off with a discordant twang, and everyone winces, including the gardener, who's been weeding on the opposite side of the yard from me. I scowl, and Songhwa, my maid, offers me a drink of water. It does nothing to calm me down. My fury is great, and my present agony even greater. There's absolutely nothing that can stop me from breaking the instrument, my own arms,  or someone else's leg in the process.  

“Young lady,” Songhwa manages to whisper with a pitiful look, but I'm already on the warpath, angrily pushing the offending instrument away from my lap, and standing up to stomp around the yard. The gardener takes several steps away. “Young lady,  please,” she pleads again, to my better sensibilities (I have none) “you shouldn't get angry, you're still weak—”

“If you say ‘weak’ one more time, I'm going to jump in the well with a grindstone tied to my leg,” I threaten, before flopping down in an entirely unladylike manner, my hands threatening to rip out my entire braid, “they're going to hate me. Why did my mother go ahead and boast about me being good at the guqin? I hate the instrument, I've never played it. Why couldn't she tell them I'm good at the gayageum?”

“Well, you see—”

“And now I have to perform for the whole family. My would-be husband’s family. Does this make any sense to you, Songhwa?” I moan, before sitting up and glaring at the offensive instrument, “I'm going to burn it. I'm going to burn it and die.”

“Well, that would be inadvisable, lady,” Songhwa says, ever the picture of serenity. Good for her. She's not the one being sold into marriage, “the Master did say that you have one month to prepare for it.” 

“And one month is too little!” I stand up, determined to go into theatrics,  because then, at least, I'll have the privilege of being termed as a madwoman, and get out of this mess. “They've already delayed the marriage by years, not months, mind you, Songhwa,  but years, and then they tell me to perform for them? What do they think I am? A monkey?”

“Your father and mother both agreed to this marriage arrangement, Miss.”

“My father and mother are not the ones learning an entirely unfamiliar instrument a month before having to play it in front of an audience consisting of the Minister of War, so I don't much care about their opinions.” I mutter darkly, “Their opinions matter little to me.”

Songhwa now looks abjectly terrified, “do you mean the marriage, miss?”

“Not the marriage, of course,” I wave a hand, “I've always known I'm going to be married to someone I didn't know and wouldn't care about. I've known since I was sixteen, that I would be married to the third son of the Minister of War, whenever they saw fit. I'm talking about the absolutely unconscionable decision of making me learn the guqin in a month. And when my mother knows, that I'm proficient on the gayageum! This is insanity, Songhwa, insanity, I say.”

“Well, they're both zithers, so—” Songhwa begins to say something,  but shuts up immediately when I glare at her, “Very well. You require help, then.”

“I require a hammer, so that I may destroy this monstrosity and go back to playing my gayageum. Anything less than that is not acceptable,  I'm afraid.” A large fruit falls from the tree outside the yard as if on cue. How impudent. Do I need to consult with a shaman after all? “Tell my father that I shall not be playing the guqin for the Minister of War’s family. And if they insist on hearing me play, well, they’ll have to be satisfied with hearing me play the gayageum.”

“You see, Miss, that is the problem,” Songhwa grimaces, “the Madam said that the War Minister's wife said that playing the gayageum was—” she squints, avoiding my eyes, “was beneath the station of a minister’s daughter.”

“Ha!” two crows fly across the sky, “and as if she, with all her love for the Great Ming, has managed to make any kind of meaningful contribution to society save bullying her second son’s widow to death? Has she? And she comes to talk to me about the station I should maintain? She should learn how to shut up!”

“Miss,” Songhwa is close to tears now, “miss, you must not be so loud. What if the Madam hears you? What will happen to you then?”

“I’ll die,” I say, seriously, and she huffs, “No, I’m serious. I’ll die, and then I will haunt this house until the end of time.”

With that, I flop down next to the imported guqin, brought in only the other day by a trader from the Imperial Ming, and go silent. Songhwa takes this as a sign to bring me something to eat, and returns momentarily with a couple of candied orange slices, no doubt swiped from the kitchen, and the two of us sit in the late morning sun, in companionable silence. There are two songbirds on the tree, and the sun is mild; it's early autumn, and the biting chill of winter will come much later. For now, they are happy, content in their own world, trying to survive yet another day. 

It's Songhwa who breaks the silence first. “Miss,” she turns to me, a serious look on her face, “do you really want to get married to the son of the War Minister? You have been betrothed to him for so long, and he kept delaying the marriage on account of his examinations. Then he delayed it because he had to deal with bandits near the village he governed. He keeps delaying it, and there are rumors of him being a womanizer, going to gisaeng houses, and being one of the worst kinds of man possible. Do you really want to spend the rest of your life with him?”

I sigh. Songhwa is fiercely loyal and has been ever since the day I bought her freedom and gave her a name instead of the plaque that had hung around her neck, with a number instead of a name, but her loyalty makes her a danger to herself. I knew. I had been anticipating this ever since the news came of the confirmation of the wedding date, but one thing I had failed to calculate was how much Songhwa hated the idea of me marrying that man. 

“You must not repeat anything of what you just said, to me or to anyone else,” I say, and her face drops, “you know why I’m telling you this, Songhwa. Your life is just as expendable to these people as mine is, even less so because you are a servant.”

“Miss—” Songhwa begins, and I wave to cut her off. 

“It’s not about what kind of person he is, or what are the things he is known or rumored to be doing. He is a man, and therefore, he has no sins. I’ve always known my duty is to be married well, to be an asset to my parent’s reputations, and to move away from my home. It sounds difficult to you, Songhwa, because you are so young,” she makes a face at that, “but a woman’s duty is always more important than her own self. Even more so when you’re a member of the nobility. Then they’ll force the ideas of imaginary respect into your mind, and it’ll grow so big that you would not be able to walk properly.”

Songhwa giggles, “Would you like to go to the market, miss?”

I clap my hands, “Excellent.”

—

The market is a sensory nightmare. Vendors selling everything, from expensive silks to cheap norigae flock to the streets, calling out their wares. Songhwa moves closer to me as we move through the crowds, she keeps a firm hold on my skirts, afraid of getting lost in the throng of people. Usually, the marketplace is for me to savor what remains of my freedom, roaming amidst the people who are, ostensibly, less privileged than I am, but at the same time, freer than I can ever imagine becoming. I come to the market in a masochistic bid to remind myself that my station is fleeting; my freedom is imaginary, and that being a woman has essentially destroyed my prospects of ever being free. 

But not today. Today, as fate would have it, I have a mission to carry out. This is the reason why the day finds Songhwa and me at the gates of the Plum Flower House, and Songhwa is tapping her foot impatiently, both out of fear and frustration. On either side of us, there are brightly-colored pavilions, with streamers of colorful paper waving in the air, and tranquil ponds where fish lazily swim by. It’s a picture of happiness and serenity. I hate this place. The facade breaks as easily as ripping apart one of those colorful banners hanging from the eaves, and all one can find underneath is the growing rot that has captured Joseon society. I hate how I have to tolerate this monstrosity, and how we have made its existence into a part of our daily lives. Songhwa, beside me, is uncomfortable, frustration etched on her features. Your betrothed comes here almost daily, she had said, why do you still want to go through with the marriage? 

Truth is, there’s nothing that I can do, as a woman. I have to put up with a womanizer of a husband and an overbearing family, all to protect the honor of my father—a concept that I have been taught, but one that eludes me at every step. 

“Miss,” Songhwa moans from  my side, hands fisted into my skirts, “do we really have to be here?”

“Yes, Songhwa, we kind of have to,” I reply sweetly, “since we’re about to ask for help from someone, it’s only fair that we go and ask them directly, instead of making them come to us for it.”

“I—you’re asking for help? From who?” Songhwa almost shrieks, and three women in colorful hanboks stare at the two of us. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I knew you’d disapprove,” I reply, looking around, “and despite what you have to say about the music scene in Hanyang, there’s one thing that is always true.”

“Which is?”

“You can never really remain anonymous.” I give her a large smile, one that she does not return, “Songhwa, do you mean to tell me you really have no idea about the new player at the Plum Flower House?”

“New player?” Songhwa narrows her eyes in an effort to be intimidating, which falls adorably flat, “Miss, have you been sneaking out again? You know, if the master gets to hear about this, he is not going to let you go out anymore, he’s already reduced your trips to the market, Miss. We had to lie to your mother and almost sneak out of the house, Miss. You cannot be meeting men outside of the house.”

“So I should have brought him into the house?” I raise an eyebrow, dragging her away, “listen. The music is coming from that pavilion.”

Songhwa wants to open her mouth and ask me exactly what it is that I have been looking for—when the two of us are forced to stand still, because, from the pavilion in front of us, with overhanging branches of plum trees that obscure our vision, comes the most beautiful music. Songhwa stands, transfixed. I pick up my skirt and walk closer to the source. 

The player is sitting with his back to us, but his guqin is on his lap, and he’s plucking the string carefully, slowly, while coaxing a familiar melody out of it. It’s an old song from the Great Ming, one that I had heard being played by an ambassador to the King, once, five years ago. I have remembered it ever since. If I close my eyes, I can imagine the calmness of the piece, flowing over me in a serenade that is almost otherworldly. I've wanted to learn this piece on the gayageum for a long time, and I've failed every single time. And yet, he's here, playing the piece with an ease that comes from years of practice and innate talent, almost monstrous in its simplicity. 

“What's the piece that he's playing?” Songhwa asks, voice a low murmur. I guess even she's mesmerized by the playing. 

“The ambassador from Ming told me the piece is called Mist and Clouds over the Xiang River,” I say, picking up my skirt and stepping into the pavilion, “that was a great performance, Lee Jihoon.” 

The player stops and glares at me. He's dressed in a pale blue hanbok, his shoes and hat set aside. His hair is gathered in a knot at the back of his head, wisps of black hair falling to his shoulders.  He keeps his hair much shorter than usual, I notice idly. It makes him look wild, and in the right light, I can imagine a faint glow coming off of him.  

“Why is the youngest daughter of the Minister of Rites in the Plum Flower House?” he asks, setting the guqin down, “Miss, you shouldn't be in a den of iniquity like this one.” His voice is sharp, a contrast from the gentle music floating from the instrument earlier, and the ends of his sentences fray, making him sound like a caged wild animal, being presented to a nobleman to satisfy their curiosity. 

“I don't think I should be taking advice from the main player of the said den of iniquity,” I say, settling down in front of him, “Or is it because of your father that you're here?” 

His face takes on a hard look, and he stands up, his hair falling in a curtain around his face, “if you want to talk about my father, I'd suggest you leave. Immediately.”

“Take a seat, Lee Jihoon,” I say, “I have not come here to talk about your father, although I could spend an afternoon and an evening talking about him. I’ve come to you with a proposition.”

“A proposition? Made to a player in a den of sin?” his voice is dripping with sarcasm even as he resumes his seat before me, “I’ll assume that you’ve lost your way. Please see yourself out, Madam. As you know, it will be inappropriate of me to accompany you to the gates.”

I scowl, despite marveling at how easily he has managed to get under my skin, “I am not a madam.”

“Ah, but you will be, soon, won’t you?” He smiles, “We here at the Plum Flower House get to hear things too, especially when it concerns such an important client of ours.”

I sigh. Of course, that is why they know. They all know, someone in my mind tells me, they all know your fiance comes here every night when he’s in Hanyang. “It seems people are aware of my betrothed and his—indiscretions,” I reply through gritted teeth, “however, this does not concern him. I come here to seek counsel for an entirely different matter.”

“Then why are you here, Miss? I doubt very much that spending time with someone who plays the guqin at a kisaeng house is high on your list of things to do.”

“It does not,” I reply, and he raises an eyebrow, “it concerns the instrument you were playing.”

His eyebrows remain raised, but he has a curious smile tugging at the corner of his lips, “the guqin? You want to buy my instrument?”

“I don’t want to buy it from you,” I roll my eyes, “teach me how to play the guqin.”

He stares for a beat too long, and I’m compelled to return his gaze, needlessly piercing, almost as if he wants to commit me to memory, and I ignore his gaze to focus on my hands instead, fisting them in my skirt. All of a sudden, he laughs, loud, melodic, completely at odds with his voice from even a moment earlier, and I’m taken aback because his laugh is a departure from his voice, so on edge, sharp and brittle enough to cut glass. His laughter is high-pitched, free in a way I had never thought of him being. He laughs and laughs until Songhwa is itching to get away, and I am considering just walking away from the pavilion. Who does he think he is? Laughing as though it did not take me a whole afternoon to pick up the courage to ask him for his help. I would not be sitting here, forcing myself to be subjected to this, if he was not as good as he was. 

“Forgive me, Lady,” he says, mock-respect evident in his tone, “I seem to have forgotten about my manners.”

“You don’t say,” I murmur, watching him compose himself. Infuriating. 

“I am merely wondering at the turn of events which would have the daughter of the Minister of Rites come to me, the player of a courtesan house, for his help in playing the guqin,” he says, “you can get anyone to teach you how to play, Lady.”

“No one is as good as you are,” I say simply, hoping that the boost to his ego will make him agree to this arrangement, “I want to learn from the best. And the word is, you’re the best in Hanyang. A fact that was corroborated by the playing I just heard. Xiang River, right?”

“You know the piece,” he says, half to himself, as though he cannot bring himself to believe me, “I’m sorry, Lady, I cannot help you.”

He stands up, picks up the instrument, and prepares to walk away from me. It’s your one chance,  a voice tells me, you’re never going to get back this opportunity to make the damn Minister of War pay. And unfortunately, it’s right. If I manage to fail at this task, they might actually break off the engagement, something that will make me happy, it ensures that my father will never be respected, for as long as he lives. Who would respect a man who could not control his daughter, the one person he was supposed to have full control over? 

“Would you prefer it if I go to your father, then?” I say, loud enough for him to turn back and glare at me, “I wonder how they would react, to having their long-lost son come back from the Great Ming, only to have him become a player in a courtesan house.”

“You would be greatly advised to keep that mouth of yours shut, Lady,” he practically runs up the steps to where I am seated, “I’m afraid going to my father would be difficult if one finds themselves dead, right here.”

Oh, he has claws. I smile, extracting a hairpin from my head. It's my grandmother’s gold dwikkoji, bequeathed to me on her deathbed—something I have never let out of my sight. Encrusted with rubies from the Kingdoms in the South Seas, with a large pearl set in the middle of it, bought from an Arab trader who traded it for spices in the Indian Sea, it is ostentatious, suited perfectly to my grandmother’s tastes, who never let anyone forget that she was a daughter of the Joseon King, given away to my grandfather who then became the Right State Councillor. It is only fair then, that I am trading away this memorabilia, to the disgraced son of a concubine. Lee Jihoon stares at it, the meaning of the gesture plain as day in front of him. I could not have been more clear even if I had slapped a box containing ten gold nyangs in front of him. 

“Are you trying to bribe me, Princess?” he mocks, picking up the headpiece and admiring it nevertheless, “a keepsake of the Late Princess Jeonggun. Almost offensive in its flamboyance. Why are you giving it to me, Princess?”

“Consider it payment, Lee Jihoon,” I say, standing up so that I can stare directly at him, “if you want, I will provide provenance of it. It is payment for teaching me the ways of the guqin.”

He laughs, and again, I am caught by how strange it sounds. In the middle of a gisaeng house, hearing this laugh should be illegal, almost—and shakes his head, “And if I refuse?”

“Then I go to the Minister of War,” I smile, relishing in how it drops just slightly, “and I tell him all about his son.”

With that, and a flourish of my skirt, I stride off of the pavilion, holding Songhwa by the arm, “Let’s go, shall we?”

We have not taken three steps when there’s that loud, sharp voice, calling out from behind me, “Wait!”

I turn around, “really? This fast?” 

Jihoon strides up to me, holding the hairpiece in his hand, a lazy smirk playing on his face. “You win, Princess. I’ll teach you.”

I raise an eyebrow, “you will?”

“Be here tomorrow, in the afternoon,” he turns around, “don’t be late, Princess.”

“Why, that little—” Songhwa makes a run towards him, but I stop her, gesturing to just go back. He’s been defeated, Songhwa, I tell myself as we make our way through the crowded streets, he’s finally been defeated in something by someone. And he has to teach me how to play. 

—

Unfortunately, as I had expected, Songhwa does not let me off easily. She corners me as soon as we step foot into my family’s home, quickly sliding the doors shut behind her as I collapse onto the silk bedding, fixing me with an impressive glare that would have even my mother running for her life, “Did you really have to give him the keepsake from your grandmother?”

I fix her with a look but say nothing, choosing to pull the hairpins out of my hair, and settling down on the bedding. Songhwa, emboldened by my silence, rages on, “What if the Master comes and asks for it? Why did you have to give away the most expensive piece of jewelry in your possession? What if you have a need for it later on? What will you do then?”

“I’m not such a fool to give him my most expensive hairpin without a thought as to how it might affect me, Songhwa,” I say, sternly, and she shuts her mouth, “neither my father nor my mother is aware of the gift grandmother gave me, mostly because she never told them of it. To her, it was something to be disposed of in secret, and the only witness to this was the nurse who stayed with her till the day she died.”

“And me.” Songhwa points to herself, “I’m aware.”

“You know what happened to the nurse who was there with Grandmother when she was sick?” I say, voice light, but Songhwa sees it for what it is, and sighs, evidently put-upon, and takes a seat on the floor, “You should stop threatening to kill me if you want to ensure that I never open my mouth.”

“It’s better that you don’t know, Songhwa,” I reply, “you do know what happened to the nurse who stayed with my grandmother when she was ill. She was killed three months after my grandmother died, presumably by people who thought the old, infirm woman was holding state secrets. I do not understand why you insist on knowing my family’s secrets even though you will most definitely get killed in the process.”

“It’s a testament to how much I respect you, Miss,” Songhwa says, seriously, lighting a candle in the semi-dark room, “it is already killing me that I cannot accompany you to your in-law’s house. What do they want, refusing to allow servants to be sent from your childhood home? It’s decidedly unfashionable, people are already talking about it.”

I know why they have made that demand, but I wisely keep my mouth shut. I don’t think we need to investigate the death of a minister so close to my wedding, but Songhwa is fully capable of eviscerating the Minister of War and his entire household, sentries be damned. She does not pick up on why I am silent, instead raging about the apparent lack of respect shown towards me, and I watch her amusedly as she pulls out the books that I will not be allowed to take with me when I leave my home. 

“Easy, Songhwa,” I smile, “one would think you were my mother, instead of being my companion.”

“I am your maid, Miss, there’s a difference.” Songhwa sighs, “Do you still think asking that man was the best course of action? You could have received help from anyone you want.”

“He’s still the best in Hanyang, no matter how much we try to ignore his existence,” I say, pickling at the seams on my bedding, “even you saw how good he was. That’s not just hard work, it’s also talent. And that kind of talent should not be languishing in a—in a courtesan house, of all places.”

Songhwa nods, “You also brought up his father when he didn’t agree to teach you.”

I smile, “That’s because I know a little secret about him.”

—

As promised, I make my way to the pavilion at the Plum Flower House, leaving Songhwa behind, the guqin heavy on my back as I manage to haul it across the marketplace. Lee Jihoon stands in the middle of the pavilion, smiling as I walk up to him, out of breath and bent over at the waist, perspiration dotting my forehead. He raises his eyebrows as I make my way up the stairs, flaunting a wide grin as I set the instrument at my feet, “you’re late. I did specifically say afternoon, did I not?”

“Apologies, for I do not own a water clock,” I breeze, unwrapping the linen coverings of my guqin, “and I think it would be treasonous to own one.”

He laughs loudly, again, before settling down, “I hear you are proficient at the gayageum. Why can you not play that for your in-laws? You can always play the gayageum for them, instead of learning an entirely new instrument.”

“That new instrument is what my prospective mother-in-law is partial to,” I give him a wry smile, running my hands over the silken strings of the guqin, “my preferred gayageum is too lowly for her, it would seem.”

 Jihoon observes my dress, plain pink and blue cotton hanbok, nothing of the pale blue silk that I had worn to the House the previous day. My braid falls over my shoulder, short but neatly tied off with a ribbon at the end. I had foregone the usual norigae at my waist too, opting for a slightly longer jacket instead. This way, I look like a maid, someone unimportant who came here to take lessons from a master. Not the daughter of a powerful man. As far as disguises go, I could have done better. 

“You look like a maid,” he smiles at me, and even someone like me, who has no idea about social cues, can understand that it's all mockery—as usual—and he continues, with that annoying smile fixed on his face, “it seems a little inappropriate, teaching you out here.”

I stare at him, because we are in the open, in the middle of the day, with no one to misconstrue what we are doing, and he thinks it is inappropriate. I want to take my offensive guqin and whack him around the head. He points to his clothes, and then to mine, “I dressed up for you. Now I think I should have borrowed one of the work costumes of the many people who come here to work for the gisaengs.”

I scowl. He’s wearing a pale green hanbok today, with his hair gathered in an elegant topknot, the wide headband sitting prettily against his skin, making for a sharp contrast. Strange man, I tell myself, as he settles in at a comfortable (more importantly, respectable) distance from me, and picks up his instrument. When he bends his head, I can see his copper sangtu, wisps of his hair peeking out from within. It reminds me of the first time I had seen him, his hair wild and untamed, and it's a shame how beautiful he could be, if only for the unfortunate accident of his parentage. 

Still, as he begins to teach me the basics of how to play the guqin (in a manner entirely different from what I am used to), I find myself thinking less about how disagreeable he was and more about his talent. If I were a lesser woman, I would have been jealous. All I could think about was how solemn his hands looked as he plucked the strings, instructing me to follow his lead. 

—

Songhwa waits at the back of the house as I hurry back in, ushering me into the yard as soon as the curfew bells ring. 

“How was the first lesson?” she demands, as soon as I place the guqin on the floor, picking out the plain hairstyle I had fashioned it in, “you never wear this one outside of the house.”

“Thought I should try my best to fit in,” I groaned, lying down on the bedding, “never thought learning an instrument would be so difficult.”

Songhwa raises an eyebrow, “I thought you said he was a genius.”

“He is, which makes it even more difficult,” I groan, suddenly overtaken by a fit of childishness, “it was as if I had been forced to come to terms with the fact that I was in fact, not a genius, and that all my efforts, monumental though they might have been, were actually no match in front of an actual, real, genius.”

She laughs, “You seem taken in by him.”

I bolt upright in bed, “I am not. He is annoying, as he is allowed to be—I am merely commenting upon the fact that he is a genius, and I am not, no matter how much I would love to be.”

Songhwa sighs, before sitting down in front of me, “Miss, I do think you’re a genius.”

“Nice of you to spare my feelings, Songhwa, but I’ve seen him perform. Twice, in fact. And there’s no way I, or anyone, even the legendary Bo Ya, could measure up to his skill. His hands—” I turn to look at her, eyes narrowed, “what do you want me to say?”

She raises an eyebrow, “You seemed to have found his hands interesting.”

“Enough!” I clap my hands, shaking the embarrassment away in what must have been a formidable challenge, and usher Songhwa out of the room, “I wish to sleep now. Tell the maids to send my meal to my room, please.”

After Songhwa leaves, I fall back onto the bed, waiting for the maids to bring me my dinner, trying my best to expel the image of Lee Jihoon playing the guqin, his long, elegant fingers coaxing the slow tunes out of the instrument, a testament to my utter lack of genius. And yet, I can’t find to bring myself to be jealous, because I am not a lesser woman. I am, shamefully though it might be, aware of the limitations of my talent. Besides, I am almost twenty years old. I’m not a child who might get jealous at the prospect of facing the fact that I might not be the genius that I once thought I was. 

And yet—and yet I spend more than a fashionable amount of time that night, thinking about his hands, moving across the strings. 

—

Surprisingly, it gets easier after that first day. The both of us talk less about our choice of clothing and more about how to play the guqin, and I can feel myself improving daily. Jihoon doesn’t make it a secret about how much he absolutely hates the idea of teaching me, but this too, I’ve managed to take it in stride now. 

“How long will you be pestering me to teach you?” he asks, barely a fortnight into teaching me, “I doubt you want to establish a new qin school in the middle of Hanyang. And I don't want to spend my days teaching a noble lady how to play my instrument.”

I pull a face, “Can't you just focus on teaching me?”

He pulls a wry smile,  “Maybe I wish to be rid of you.”

“Too difficult for you, Teacher,” I smile, before returning to pluck the strings, coaxing a melody (a slow, halting one, but a melody nonetheless) out of the guqin. It's almost spring, I notice, as the plum trees all around us have burst into bloom. Soon, the cherry trees will be in bloom. And as soon as the azaleas bloom on Biseulsan, I will be sent to the home of the Minister of War. I hate to be reminded of it, because all I can think of is that I have no time at all. None to enjoy the final few days of my girlhood. 

Still, Jihoon seems to be warming up to the idea of teaching me, and I can take a strange sense of pride in that, having the once-prickly Lee Jihoon teach me with a ghost of a smile on his face. 

—

“Miss,” Songhwa pokes her nose in my room  one evening as I change into a much more respectable outfit, “there are gifts.”

I roll my eyes, huff, and stand up, “Already? They only sent the official letter last month!”

“I know. They seem like they want to speed up the process,” Songhwa waves a dismissive hand. “The minister himself is here, giving the gifts to your father.”

“The minister of War himself?” I tie the knot to my jacket, lifting my skirt, “now I need to see this.”

My father’s rooms are in another part of the yard, differentiated from the women’s quarters by a gate. Songhwa and I slip easily past the gates, and servants largely ignore us as we make our way to the other, more secluded side of my father’s rooms, where the large boiler sits, making the air too hot for anyone to remain in for more than three minutes. I sit as close to the doors as possible, and for good measure, poke a hole into the paper, for ease of listening. One can never be too careful. 

“Miss,” Songhwa opens her mouth to say something, and I silence her because there are voices coming from inside the room, “fine.”

“—Of course, the lady will be an important part of the household, as she is expected to take on the duties of the madam of her own house in the future,” a voice that I know belongs to the Minister of War, says, “I have heard that the lady is playing the guqin diligently? My wife does indeed adore the guqin. It is one of her only comforts.”

Yes, I would bet anyone ten gold nyangs she holds it and goes to sleep at night when you are whoring around in gisaeng houses, you pox-ridden idiot, I think to myself, but it is the next voice that takes me by surprise. It is my father speaking, low and clear, the voice I had once adored as a small child, “Of course, minister. This is no longer her home now. She is to be a part of your family, and we will ensure that she is aware of her duties and responsibilities.”

Oh. 

Oh. 

They go on to say more things—about the state of the economy, how they are going to manage their farmlands in the coming year, how they think the harvest will be, how the virtues of the King have always been steady in steering the nation, but I understand nothing. I am nothing. And to hear that from my father—my father whom I had looked up to all my life, my father who had adored me, once upon a time, in a parallel history, puts it all into perspective. 

I stand up, feet shaking, whether due to the heat coming from the boiler or from the words I have just been privy to, I do not know. I do not remember walking to my room, I do not remember lying down on the bed. All I can think of are my father’s words. This is no longer her home now. I am no one. 

—

“You did not come for lessons these past three days,” Jihoon says, as soon as I climb up the stairs to the pavilion, guqin strapped to my back, “I was beginning to think you had stopped wanting to play altogether.”

I sigh, “I was sick, sorry. I should have sent word, except Songhwa was busy making medicines for me. I’m here now, though, right as rain.”

Jihoon still has his back to me, an insufferable trait that he refuses to correct, and I shake my head, setting the qin on the ground. “Shall we begin?”

My tone is clipped, and angry, which makes him turn towards me, an eyebrow raised. He pauses for a moment, then grabs a hold of the edge of my sleeve, pulling me closer to him. I avoid his gaze dutifully, but Lee Jihoon is nothing if not relentless, a fact of life that I am becoming increasingly familiar with, as much as I hate it. 

“Something’s wrong,” he says, after staring at me for what feels like an eternity, “you’re not normally this way.”

I glare, “Do you want me to hit you? I’m fine.”

“You’re clearly not fine,” he replies, standing up and walking out of the pavilion, “not if that look on your face has anything to say about it. You’re suffering.”

I roll my eyes, but he is not wrong. He is not wrong at all, which makes me nervous, because if Lee Jihoon of all people could read me this well, what does that mean for my parents? The people who are supposed to know me the best, the people who are supposed to take care of me without question, what does it mean, that they saw me like this, and said nothing at all?

It’s not their fault. I’ve been repeating this throughout the week, it’s not their fault. Even though I had refused to come out of my room and had been laid up with a fever, only my mother had come to see me, and that too from a distance. It’s not their fault. They gave birth to a girl, and now they have to take care of her, for as long as they can. 

And really, who am I to complain? I am the daughter of a minister, one of the highest positions in Joseon. I should know my place, I should know my duty. Even if it meant leaving my home and settling down in a house where I knew no one, and no one cared about me beyond my abilities to provide an heir. 

Songhwa had, of course, refused to let me out of her sight, nursing me through the days I was bedridden with a fever, even insisting on coming along for the lesson, something I had taken pains to dissuade her from. 

“Maybe this will help,” Jihoon says, walking back into my line of sight, “you told me you played the gayageum.”

In his hands, is a gayageum, made out of the finest paulownia wood, and he pushes away the guqin currently in my lap, placing it in my hands instead. “You look like you have some feelings to work through, and I have always found solace in playing my music.”

I stare at him, “Are you quite mad? You want me to play for you right now?”

He shrugs, “I think it would be a good exercise for you since you always seem uncomfortable with the qin. Hence, the instrument that you are most comfortable with.” As if to prove his point further, he makes a ‘here you go’ motion with his hands, opening them wide for me to take in the look of the gayageum in front of me. 

I should not. This is madness, someone whispers inside my head, why are you playing for him when the only people who have heard you play before are your parents? Is this not inappropriate? What will your husband’s family say, when they hear about you showing off your skills at the gayageum to an unfamiliar man, who has no ties to you? Will they approve?

I grow more irritated at that. Perhaps I am tired of thinking about my husband’s family, before myself. 

“I don’t think I should be doing this,” I mutter, picking it up and running my hands over the silk strings, “it is tuned already.”

“Thought you’d prefer if I took that out of the way for you,” he smiles, “in truth, I would be lying to you if I said that I had not been interested and curious about your playing, even before you stepped foot in the Plum Flower House. Everyone knows that the youngest daughter of the Minister of Rites is proficient at the gayageum. I had kept this around—”

I cut him off with a sharp twang, and he goes back to his seat, eagerly waiting. It has been a long time since I played for another person who was not Songhwa, but the gayageum opens up eagerly underneath my fingers, much easier than the qin, but this is an instrument I have been playing since I knew how to walk. Still, the instrument itself is unfamiliar, but I can soon find it humming delightfully underneath my hands. This is what I want to do. I want to play this instrument for as long as I can live. 

This is no longer her home now. 

My hands grow erratic, and the gayageum follows suit, the music thundering as I chase it around, the strings keening underneath the sheer force of my hands, no longer the calm, composed tunes I have been accustomed to playing. This is no longer tranquil, this is something else entirely, the force of my rage, condensed and consolidated into a single moment in time, larger than life, hotter than the sun. 

After a long time, I stop, and Jihoon’s eyes are sparkling, something I never thought I would see, not on another person, not as a reaction to my playing. He’s smiling, broad, and genuine, grabbing me by the shoulder and shaking me, so hard and fast that I can barely distinguish my surroundings. Whatever remains, is the feeling of his eyes on me, as though he was seeing me for the first time. 

“You’re a revelation,” he smiles, “I’ve always been curious about your playing but this—this is brilliant. A genius.”

“Hah,” I scoff mildly, even though it does not hold any real venom or malice, “a genius, that’s a new sort of lie.”

However, as I lay in my bed that night, all I could think of were his eyes, steadfast on me, sparkling, as though he had seen a miracle, and his voice, the same sharp tone that I hated so much, saying, over and over again, you are a revelation. A revelation. A revelation, he had said. 

I slept comfortably that night. 

—

Apart from the gayageum, the only other thing I'm confident in, at least marginally, is my sewing. Like every other girl in Joseon, I've been taught needlework and embroidery ever since I could pick up a needle without hurting myself.  Embroidery was a non-negotiable skill, especially when compared to playing instruments, because of course who did not know that the honor and prestige of a noble family relied solely on the sewing skills of their youngest daughter? 

I’m exaggerating. I’ve been taught to take pride in my creations, and I do actually like it when people find happiness in it, whether it be through music or something else. 

“Miss,” Songhwa lets out another of her long-suffering sighs, holding up an unfinished gwanbok, “you’re supposed to finish this by yourself, not have it done by seamstresses.”

“Don’t want to, not particularly,” I pout, trying to balance a brush on my forehead, “besides, were you not the one who was the most against this match? Why are you so adamant on me making his ceremonial dress, that probably would not be up to his standards?”

“It’s because I hate him and I am firmly against this match that I am in support of this,” she says, folding the unfinished clothing into a box, “are you going to make your fiance a handkerchief too?”

“What?” I sit up, brush clattering onto the floor, “what do you mean?”

Songhwa holds up a piece of silk, and I stare at it. Just a piece of deep blue silk, plain and unassuming, evidently cut out from one of the pre-wedding gifts sent over by my husband’s family previously. It’s obvious, with the smooth edges from where I cut out the fabric, that it was meant for something else. “Oh, that,” I try my best to remain nonchalant, “I’m thinking of making something for myself.”

Songhwa narrows her eyes, “You refuse to pick up the needle for anything other than what is strictly necessary.”

“I’m just trying to be a better wife, and since sewing is a required skill, I thought I should brush up on my embroidery,” I say, trying my best to maintain Songhwa’s gaze, “nothing special, really.”

“Miss, you know that you cannot fool me, right?” she says, hands on her hips, “I know exactly what you plan on doing with this silk.”

I turn to her, shocked, “You do?”

Songhwa sighs, “How many times do I have to tell you, miss, that you have enough hair ribbons to last a lifetime? Even the princesses of this country do not have as many hair ribbons as you do, and you’re going to make another one? That too from the expensive silk the Minister of War sent over for pre-wedding gifts?” She sighs again, running her hands over her face, “I do not know what to do here. I hate him, but also, making a ribbon out of the cloth sent over for you to make your husband a hanbok will not be accepted. Well, it’s not as though we are going to tell people, but at least, don’t let your mother know about this.”

“You think I tell my mother anything?” I ask, my eyebrows raised high, “she is the one who finds out everything about me. I don’t tell her anything!”

“No, you don’t, you just act too secretive, and she finds out anyway,” Songhwa throws me a dirty look, opening the door with a foot, hands full of clothes, “Do try and come back home early tonight, because the owner of this house is coming home early too.”

“He is?” I groan, “I’ll keep it in mind.” 

—

I lied to Songhwa. It is not something I feel particularly bad about, since she keeps her own secrets from me too, regarding all the numerous admirers she has (If I knew, I would be forced to tell my mother about it, and she would be out of a job). The silk was not for a hair ribbon, not by any stretch of anyone’s imagination. It is, however, for something far worse. 

“Lee Jihoon,” I say, half out of breath, setting down my qin, “you like the color a lot, I see.”

“Aren’t you a little too interested in fashion for someone who has to exercise the virtues of frugality from the moment you understood the Five Classics? Or am I to understand that the Minister of Rites did not teach his daughter the basics of a Confucian education?”

I roll my eyes, and Jihoon laughs, a sound I have become frequently acquainted with, ever since that afternoon. He’s wearing a dark blue jacket over his white hanbok, a color he has worn the most since I met him for the first time. “Just answer the question, please.”

“You should pay me more respect, you know, since I am your teacher,” Jihoon sighs, “yes, I do like blue, in fact, I wear it all the time—what are you doing?”

I had been listening intently, but I was not going to tell him that, “I was just listening.”

He scowls, “You’re very annoying, has anyone ever told you that?”

“All the time, actually, they can’t seem to get enough of telling me off,” I say, my voice a tad bit too sharp for normal conversation, and he retreats, “Never mind, I have come to the realization that I do not know you at all. If I am to respect you as my teacher, should I not know at least some details about you?”

He raises an eyebrow, “Need I remind you that you threatened me to teach you, using my father’s name?”

“Not that,” I wave, “you know, the little things. The details.”

“I’m not going to tell you details about my life.”

“Nothing? Not even about any ladies that you might be courting?”

He stares at me, and it is very strange, how his eyes resemble a cat I used to feed when I was a child, wary, as though I am going to find out all his weaknesses, “Why do you want to know so much about my love life?”

And really, why did I want to know? 

“Just wondering if I should be on the lookout for any angry woman accosting me in the marketplace, demanding that I stay away from her beloved,” I reply, and he scowls again, “I’m being serious!”

“No, there aren’t. And even if there were, why would I tell you?”

“You’re no fun at all,” I grumble, “at least tell me something silly.”

“Like?” It’s funny, how he is on edge, even at a normal question like this, “I don’t have a birth flower.”

“At least tell me your favorite one, then,” I grin, “if you want to know, my birth flower is the daisy. It is said to be a symbol of a pure heart.”

He snorts, “Pure heart? I would take it up with the fortune-teller. You are one of the most aggravating people I know. Pure heart?”

“You’re avoiding the question,” I roll my eyes. 

Jihoon sighs “If you have to know, my favorite flower is the barberry. They bloom even in the worst of winters, and I’d like to think I am that sort of person.”

“It symbolizes skill if you want to know.”

“I did not.”

I groan, before picking up my qin, “I’ve been improving at this, haven’t I?”

“You sound less horrible than you did before,” Jihoon acquiesces that much. “You are a genius at the gayageum; I don’t know why you must insist on playing the qin is beyond me. Instead of breaking your back to learn the one thing that you hate so much, just focus your energies on honing the skills that you already have. It is rare to see someone so talented at the gayageum outside a gisaeng house. You have all the talent in the world to be proficient at this one instrument, and yet, you are here, taking classes from me, in order to appease your fiance’s family. Why are you doing this to yourself?”

“I will answer that question another day,” I reply, trying my very best to remain nonchalant, “not today, I am afraid.”

—

I have been avoiding my father ever since that night when I eavesdropped on his conversation with the War Minister. Try as I might, I cannot look him in the eye anymore, not when I know the exact dimensions of my identity as his daughter. This is no longer her home. I have been raised for this since I was a child, but knowing that your father no longer considers you as a part of his household, or that the family you have known for all your life is no longer yours, is a bitter pill to swallow for anyone. 

This is why it is a surprise to see my father, the Minister of Rites, walk into my room right as I put the final touches of a small embroidered daisy on a piece of blue silk. The door slides open, and my father steps into the room, dressed casually, with his wire hat high on his forehead. I scramble, setting aside my 

sewing and offering him my seat in front of the silk screen. It is not even a conscious decision, my feet move of their own accord, forcing me to sit across my father as he takes his seat. There is a book open on the varnished table, a study on how to play the guqin. I have not managed to read more than three pages. 

“It is wonderful to see you so applied to your studies,” Father says, looking approvingly at the book, “I have heard you play these past few weeks. You have managed to improve a great deal indeed.”

“Thank you, Father.” I bow my head, “I have been practicing my best not to let our family down.”

“Of course, of course,” he shakes his head, “the War Minister, along with his son, will visit next month, to finalize the preparations for the wedding. I hope you will be able to maintain the honor of this family.”

“I shall try my very best, Sir.” I reply, “I shall play for the Minister of War, as requested.”

“It is not a request,” he says, “the honor of this family depends on you being able to make a prosperous match, one that will ensure the social standing of your family and your fiance’s, as you were raised to do. It is your filial duty.”

“Yes, Father.”

He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose, steadying himself, “While you might think this marriage is disadvantageous to you, this ensures the survival of this family. Your brother and sisters are depending on you to make this marriage work.”

“My oldest sister is one of the concubines of the King,” I reply, “I rather doubt that we are in any danger of survival, given that my oldest sister is the mother of a princess.”

“The birth of a princess to a concubine is nothing to be proud of!” my father slams a palm onto the desk, “if you had any sense of political knowledge, you would know that. All we have to show for our efforts is a weak slip of a girl who will not survive beyond her first five years!” 

“I’m afraid you are talking disrespectfully about a princess of Joseon, Father,” I say, calm enough for my voice to remain steady in a display of impressive brashness. “Even if you are the grandfather of the Princess, speaking ill of her could be tantamount to treason. She is the daughter of one of the primary consorts of the King, chosen directly from the gantaek.”

My father sighs, pushing the conversation away from my sister, “Do not forget about your duties as the daughter-in-law of the Minister of War.”

“And live as the meek wife of a man who will never be faithful to me?” I cannot help myself now, and the words come tumbling out of me, sharper than anything I have ever said to my father, the man who raised me, “Is that the life you want me to live? You, of all people, should know about the character of the Minister of War, and how his third son behaves in society.”

“How do you know about the Minister of War or his third son?”

“Everyone knows!” I throw up my hands, “everyone knows. Everyone who comes to my house and knows about my marriage, tells me about their behavior. The Minister of War sent away his son because he could not stand the sight of him, and his third son is no better! Even I, a person with no contact with outside society, even I am aware of who my fiance is. And yet, you choose to ignore everything and push me into this marriage, when you know I shall be unhappy at the very best, and mistreated at the worst. Is that what you want? To force me into—”

I hear the sound of it before I can feel the pain, but it spreads soon enough, stinging across my left cheek, and I turn my attention to my father, whose hand is still raised, “—you want to force your daughter into servitude?”

“You will cease those thoughts at once!” his hand is still raised, “You will be married to the third son of the Minister of War because we need his political power to stay alive. You will play the part of the dutiful daughter, and you will provide his son with an heir because that is what you have been born to do. No more talk of who the Minister is or who his son is. Prepare for your wedding.”

“You cannot do this to me.” I whisper, swaying at the spot where I stand, “I am your child, you cannot do this to me.”

“I’ve raised you with all the freedoms you should have been given, because of your station, but do not forget your purpose.” He runs a hand over his face, “I should have married you off as soon as I could have, instead of waiting around for the Minister of War to make a proper decision.”

And with that, he walks out of the room, leaving me standing in the middle of an empty space, wondering how long I have before everything goes to hell. 

“Miss,” Songhwa runs into the room, “I heard shouting.”

“Never mind that, Songhwa,” I wave away my thoughts, “there is much left to do. Will the seamstresses finish the ceremonial dress by the wedding? Who’s making my wedding dress? The preparations have to be perfect, Songhwa, you know this is the only time I will get to have a wedding.” I laugh at that last sentence, “never mind that.”

“Miss,” Songhwa is insistent, “are you all right?”

“Perfect.” I mutter, picking up my needle and thread, “Just need to finish making my fiance an assorted number of trinkets for our good marital fortune, and I will be done.”

“Miss,” Songhwa sits down in front of me, “I know people, you know.”

I narrow my eyes, “Of course, you do. We all know people, Songhwa.”

“No,” she huffs, “I don’t mean that. I know people, my lady.”

“And who might these ‘people’ be?” I ask, smiling, “Don’t tell me you’re keeping in touch with bandits or something like that.”

“Well, you’re not entirely wrong.” She shrugs, “Do you want me to have him killed?”

“Killed—Songhwa, Might I remind you that violence is not always the answer?” I sputter, almost poking myself in the hand with my needle, “I do not want you to kill my fiance.”

“Fiance, fiance, I hate the way you speak about him!” Songhwa exclaims, “Every time you speak about him, it is as though it physically pains you to do so.”

“That's not important, Songhwa.” I protest. 

“This has gone on for long enough,” She ignores me, “Ever since they pushed the wedding, you have been like this. The only time in the past year that you have truly felt alive, has been these past few weeks when you have been going to the gisaeng house to learn how to play. Do you really think that is normal,  Miss?”

I sigh, abandoning my sewing, because she is not wrong. What do I even tell her? In a way, Songhwa is far more free than I could ever hope to become, simply because she has no family whose reputations and honor she has to protect. Over these past few weeks, I have been looking forward to learning the qin, merely because it has given me a sense of purpose beyond getting married and beyond having heirs. 

That's wrong, someone whispers in my ears, that is not the only reason why you have been looking forward to those lessons. 

“Miss,” Songhwa takes my silence as acceptance, “I don't like that man.”

“You don't like any man, Songhwa,” I laugh, “but who are you talking about?”

“Lee Jihoon. The man who teaches you the qin,” she mutters, looking more like her fourteen years, “I don't like him. He's not someone you should be associating with, given your status.”

“I did not think you were someone who cared much about status.”

“I do, it's just who we are, but even I can't ignore the fact that he is the one who makes you feel alive. You're wasting away here, and it pains me to see it.”

I don't say anything because what do I even say to her? She is right, as she always is because the subject of my marriage weighs heavily on my mind despite how much I prepare my mind for it. I no longer want anything to do with my marriage, and not just because of my fiance. My fiance could have been the Crown Prince, and I would still hate it as much as I do now. I hate that I no longer have any agency over my choices in life. I hate that I have to listen to my father arrange my marriage with a beast of a man simply because it will give him the boost he has so desperately wanted in his political career. I hate that I will have to spend the rest of my living days in a family whose head of household sent away one of his sons after the death of his mother, simply because he could not bear the sight of an illegitimate offspring. I hate it all. Most of all, I hate the fact that I cannot do anything to change my situation. I might want what Jihoon symbolizes with all my heart, but at the end of the day, I will have to shut my mouth and do what my parents want of me. 

“Miss, should we talk to Madam?” Songhwa asks, “Maybe she could talk to the Master.”

“My mother has no interest in me beyond what purpose I can serve. She would tell me to suck it up and endure it, as other women have before me, and as women will, as long as there are men on this earth,” I laugh, “I’m not delusional, Songhwa. I know I am living a privileged life, something that is not afforded to a majority of women in this country. I just wish—that we had some freedom.”

“We have whatever they give us,” She replies, picking up my abandoned handkerchief, “were you embroidering the daisy on here?”

“And the barberry flower.” I groan, before realizing what I had just said. 

“The barberry flower?” Songhwa narrows her eyes, “did not know you were so fond of perennial herbs this way.”

“Just saw a particularly beautiful sketch of it the other day, and wanted to put it in my handkerchief,” I lie, “nothing else.”

Songhwa sighs, “I just wish you were a bit more careful, Miss, I do not want to see you in trouble.”

—

Jihoon had not even taken his seat at the pavilion the next day, when I brandished my closed fist in front of him. “Close your eyes,” I say, “I have a present for you.”

He looks at me warily, and then at my closed fists, “I feel like this is a trap made specifically for you to punch my face.”

I scowl, “And here I am, trying to give you a token of my appreciation.”

Jihoon rolls his eyes, but complies with my request anyway, and I retrieve the finished handkerchief from inside my jacket, “Here you go!”

He opens his eyes, looking at the piece of cloth held in my hands, “What is this?”

“It's a handkerchief, obviously,” I roll my eyes, “look, I even embroidered your favorite flower on there, just because you told me.”

“I do not remember asking you to make me a handkerchief,” Jihoon says, dry as always, but he takes the handkerchief out of my hands, inspecting it, “there is a daisy on there. I never asked for a daisy.”

“I put it on every one of my embroidered pieces,” I say, offering an explanation, “it feels like a signature of mine.”

“Is this what you spend your time doing, instead of making your marriage dress?” He stares at me, “My god, you are going to look very ugly in your wedding dress.”

“Why would you say that?” I ask, irritated, “I am going to look very nice in my wedding dress. And as you can see, my embroidery skills are top-notch. If you must know, I have had one of the best educations that could be given to Joseon ladies.”

“The work is shabby, and I would not be using it at all,” Jihoon makes a show of inspecting the handkerchief again, “why did you even put the daisy in there? It looks so—plain.”

And really, I should not have done this. Because all I can feel right now is shame, white-hot shame spreading to the roots of my hair. Why did I even make a handkerchief for a man who does not want anything to do with me? Really, I feel so ashamed. I should not have even wanted anything. 

“Give that back,” I hold out my hand, “if it is so offensive to you, then give it back. I’ll destroy it.”

Jihoon whips it out of my reach, “Who said I am going to give it back? You gave it to me, now it is mine.”

“I made it, so it is mine,” I grind out, “give it back to me.”

He stands up, leaning on the wooden railing of the pavilion, “Don’t think so, Princess. This was given to me, so now it is mine. You’ll get it back if you can take it from me.”

The nerve of this man. I stand up, walk over to where he stands, and hold out my hand, “Give it back, Lee Jihoon.”

Instead of giving my work back to me, he holds it high above both our heads, a taunting smile on his face, “Too bad you won’t be getting your way this time, Princess.”

I try and swipe it out of his hands, but he reacts faster, swinging it out of my reach, over and over again, until I am heaving from the exertion, the skirt of my hanbok twisted and crumpled, as I hold myself up against the railing, “are you quite done playing with my hard work?”

Jihoon says nothing, just twirls the cloth in his hand, “You made this in blue, too. How did you know I preferred this color? Tell me, Princess, are you in the habit of making elaborate presents for all your teachers?”

I grab hold of his wrist with one hand, my other gripping my handkerchief, “I do not like being made fun of, Lee Jihoon. Give back my work.”

“Did not realize your work was so important to you that you grabbed hold of my hand, Princess,” He smiles, and it is less than a smile, it is a smirk, almost, as if he enjoys the feeling of my hands on his skin. I drop my hand, but he catches it, holding my hand in his. 

And—god. My skin is a furnace, and Jihoon is hellfire, his thumb moving slowly across the inside of my wrist, fingers leaving a trail of what can only be described as fire. I’ve never held a man’s hand before, never even thought of initiating touch with someone who is not my husband, but I want this. 

“The Princess of the Minister of Rites, holding a man’s hand, who is not a relation, nor is her intended,” Jihoon smiles, “are you being influenced by this place, Princess?”

I move  to extricate my hand from his grip, but he holds fast, still smiling, “It appears that the Plum Flower House has been having an effect on you, Princess.” 

I should try to pull my hand out of his grip. If anyone sees me standing here, my hands in his, there will be hell to pay. My father cannot find out about the lessons. I am, for all intents and purposes, playing with fire. 

But Jihoon’s fingertips are callused, and even if I try, I cannot move my hand out of his grip. “Unhand me right now,” I say, “How dare you be so familiar with me.”

“It feels as though you are the one being familiar with me, Princess,” He’s just smiling at me, “I am not holding on to your hand, you are the one who’s keeping it in my grasp.”

I pull my hand out of his, and he moves to grab it again, but stops halfway, “Why are you doing this, Princess?”

“What?” I stare at him. 

“The handkerchief. The embroidered flowers. Holding my hand. You’re the princess of the Minister of Rites. Of all people, you should know better, then why are you acting like a flighty girl—”

“Because I’m tired!” It’s the same thing as with the gayageum the previous day, and Jihoon is the same, watching as my self-control snaps, “I’m tired of this lie, waiting for someone else to make my decisions, and live according to other’s wishes. I refuse to do it.”

Jihoon stares at me for a heartbeat, “And I am what, your idea of a petty rebellion? The illegitimate son of a minister, perfect for a plaything? Oh, you must have loved getting lessons from me and then going back to your perfect little home, waiting for your wedding, like the perfect little princess that you are.”

“Do not presume to know me,” I spit out, “I have never once thought of you as a plaything. Nor is this my petty rebellion.”

“Oh, but it is,” Jihoon seethes, “that is why you sought me out in the first place, didn’t you, princess? The illegitimate son of the Minister of War, your fiance’s half-brother. Do you even know how it feels, to see him walk in here and spend entire fortunes as though it means nothing? You will never know how it feels—”

I slap him across the face. The crack of it sends a bird skittering from a nearby tree, and Jihoon steps back, holding his cheek. 

“It is my fiance who steps inside this brothel every night,” I say, “he is the man I am engaged to be married to, he is the man whose bed I will share until I die. And he is out here, dragging my name through the mud at every opportunity.” Jihoon says nothing, so I continue, “Everyone knows about our engagement, and everyone knows about his proclivities.”

“Did you grow up in the same household as him?” Jihoon sneers, “he was obnoxious to the point of being impossible to be around. He made every day of my childhood a living hell!”

“And he will do the same to me, for the rest of my life, too!” I snap,  “At least the Minister of War sent you to Ming. At least you get to make your own identity apart from that of your birth. I will be someone’s daughter or someone’s wife, until the day I die. So, forgive me, if I tried to dream of something else.”

“Something else?” 

It’s strange watching him look at me. The same way that he did when I played for him, and somehow different. The same look, as though he was seeing me for the first time. It is no longer uncomfortable, and I hold his gaze as he puts the puzzle together.

“You don’t mean that.” He whispers, stepping closer to me, so close that I can feel his breath on my skin, so close that if I reach out, I can kiss him, “Tell me you don’t mean that, Princess.”

“You have no idea what I mean,” my voice comes out in a strangled whisper, “You have no idea what I want.”

“Tell me.” His voice is a ghost; chasing me, “Tell me what you want, Princess.”

If I want, I can kiss him right now. I can take a nebulous hold of my father’s honor, values, and morals and crush it in the palm of my hand. If I want to. The man standing next to me, with his skin flushed and with his eyes that contained a whole universe within them, this man can be my salvation. If I took a step forward. One step would do. Even if it means nothing, I will be free. 

Unfortunately, I am a coward of the highest measure, and so I step away, shaking my head, “Think about it, Lee Jihoon. Think about what I might want from you.”

—

That night, when the lights were snuffed out, I think of the way Jihoon had looked at me as if he could not believe his eyes or his luck, as if I was the only person who mattered in this world. His skin flushed, his eyes glistening. If I had stepped forward, he would have reciprocated; even I could understand that. He knew I wanted him, and on some level, he wanted me too. And whatever form my desire would take, he would have followed my lead. 

But why do you want him,  a voice asks in my mind, why is it that you are going to such reckless lengths, for the mere illegitimate son of your fiance’s father? Someone who would not have even been on your radar, and yet, here he is, seducing you to dream of a life away from this place. 

Bigger than all these questions is one that I ask myself every day: where will this end?

—

“There is someone here to see you, Miss,” Songhwa says, while I am in the middle of sewing my wedding dress, “he says it is important.”

“I will be taking no visitors, Songhwa,” I say, not taking my eyes off of my work, “I cannot meet any man while still unmarried.”

“Miss,” Songhwa pleads, and I look up at her, standing awkwardly in the middle of my room, hands twisting in the fabric of her skirt, “it’s—”

“Who is it, Songhwa?” I ask, already on edge, “There are very few people who would reduce you to that state.”

“It’s the youngest son of the Minister of War, Miss,” Songhwa says, eyes shifting, “he says he wants to meet you.”

I sigh, “My father?”

“He has gone to the palace, Miss.”

“Mother?”

“Tea, with the Left State Councillor’s wife.”

“Very well,” I stood up, abandoning my sewing, “take him to my father’s room.”

My father’s room stands in the Eastern corner of the outside yard, its roofs higher than the rooms in the inner courtyard where we live. I cross the yard quickly before the man who is supposed to be married to me even steps a foot into the yard. Inside the room, Songhwa has hung a sheer curtain from the rafters to allow us to have a conversation and still obscure my face. I suppress a laugh. All these measures against a man who is supposed to be my husband. What is the point of it anyway? If he is going to see my face after a few months, it does not make sense for him to be separated from me before the wedding. 

He enters through the door, his hat obscuring his face, and I have the distinct feeling that I am not the only one who is maintaining a disguise against the other person. Songhwa sets down a platter of tea in front of us, and I gesture for him to help himself. 

“Is it not custom for a woman to serve her fiance?” He asks, his voice almost the same as his half-brother’s, except it’s sharper, like an open sword, brandished right at my throat, “I thought that the daughter of the Minister of Rites would be learned in all the arts of how to serve one’s husband.”

“You are not yet my husband, my lord,” I reply, “and I am not obliged to serve you tea in my own household.”

“Very well,” He leans back, observing me through the curtain, “when they told me I had to go meet my fiancee, I did not expect to meet such a spirited woman, of all people.”

“How long have you been in Hanyang, my lord?” I ask mildly, “Was it your mother who told you to pay me a visit, or your father?”

“Neither of them, actually,” He smirks, and I can see his face vaguely through the curtain, and it is a cruel one, hard and rugged all the same, but cruel, in a way that makes a cold sweat break out across my skin, “if you knew who told me to pay you a visit, I do not think you would like it a lot.”

“Was it one of the ladies at the Plum Flower House, my lord?” The words come out of my mouth before I can stop myself, and his face darkens, the undercurrent of which is a dark thing I do not know about. But he does nothing, merely sits more comfortably in his seat, observing me. 

“I was not aware that you had such extensive contacts, Princess.” He says smoothly, “do the whispers at Plum Flower House reach the hallowed halls of the Minister of Rites’ home? I did not think so.”

I sit, transfixed. Anyone else in my position would have their gazes trained on him, of all the transgressions he has committed against me, but all I can think about is that word. 

Princess. 

Only one person called me that, had called me that, until a minute ago. And now, there is a strange man, in my home, in my father’s room, using the same term of mock endearment, except his eyes do not have any warmth behind them. 

“It is common knowledge, if one puts in a little effort, my lord,” I manage to reply, “Hanyang does not afford great people to have secrets.”

“They afford people like you to keep their secrets, you mean,” he replies, “because try as I might, I could not find anything about you apart from what I already knew.” 

“That is because I do not have anything to hide, my lord,” I say, as smoothly as I can. 

He says nothing, simply observing me from his seat. 

There are a lot of similarities, if I look closely. There should be, since they’re born of the same father, but this man is miles apart from the Lee Jihoon that I know. Jihoon doesn’t have the same cruel turn of mouth, doesn’t have that same way of sitting that can only come from a lifetime of an aristocratic upbringing. His smiles might be wary, but they are freer, with no hidden intent underneath them. He sits upright, almost afraid of his seat being taken away. In comparison, this man, his half-brother, sits in the main room of a stranger's house of a stranger, as if he owns it. It makes me uncomfortable having him here. I do not want to sit with him any longer. Not here, not now, not in the future. 

And yet I cannot run to Jihoon anymore, because what do I actually want? 

Tell me you don’t mean that, Princess. He had looked so small at that moment, begging me to say something else, to say that I did not want anything to do with him, to push him away. For a moment, it had seemed to me as though he was begging me to walk away. I should not have stepped away. 

Stop this wishful thinking, I scold myself,  focus on how to get this man out of here. 

“No secrets, you say?” He finally breaks the silence, “I have found that everyone, no matter how pure they might look on the outside, harbors at least one secret.”

I roll my eyes behind the curtain, something which goes unnoticed, “My lord, I am sorry, but we shall have to end this conversation here,” I stand up, waving to the door, “you will be shown out of the house by someone.”

I had expected him to fight me on this, to stand his ground and refuse to leave until he met my father, but he didn't say anything, just stood up, looking at me with those unsettling eyes, and turned around. Before sweeping out of the room in his expensive pale pink silk hanbok, he looks at me, through the screen, “I look forward to having you in my home, Princess.”

And he’s gone. Leaving me standing in the middle of the room behind a silk screen, uncomfortable and wishing I had never really agreed to this marriage in the first place. No, even beyond marriage, it makes me wish I had never been born in this world in the first place. Not the daughter of a minister, not someone who had to deal with the endless noise of honor and dignity and respect since the moment she could walk. 

I lay my head on the pillow, and I allow myself to dream of a better world. 

It’s a habit of mine, dreaming. Useless things—a better dinner, a free day, moments of stolen happiness in between buying trinkets at the market, I dream of them. On the day my grandmother died, the old dragon of a woman, I dreamt of a white canvas, white as far as I my eyes could see. There was nothing else in that landscape, save myself. This time, the dream is different. 

This is a different Joseon—one without all the differences between social classes, one without the restrictions imposed on women, a space where I can think without being condemned for it. Somewhere where I don’t have to imagine a hundred threats before taking a single step. A place where, if I met Jihoon, I would be able to stand in front of him, without the chasm of societal rules separating us. A place where I can look into his eyes and tell him that I love him, without fearing for both our lives. 

Maybe this is not our time. 

Maybe. 

“I’m leaving,” I call out to no one in particular, slipping out from the back door of the house, still in my expensive hanbok that makes people look at me as I half-run, half-walk towards the thrice-damned brothel that landed me in this position in the first place. Brightly-dressed women throw strange looks at me, walking past them, so obviously noble that it would take a miracle for this to not be reported to my father by tomorrow morning. 

I grabbed hold of a young servant girl, clearly new to the place, “show me where Lee Jihoon is.”

She opens her mouth to say something, but I’ve moved on, to the same pavilion where I had met him for the first time, because he’s playing the same song he played on that day. I ran up a few steps, “You.”

Jihoon stops, abrupt, but not discordant, a picture of wide-eyed innocence, “Princess.”

I pause. Now that I am here, standing in front of him, words have apparently decided to fail me, keeping me rooted to the spot, looking back at Jihoon’s eyes, expectant and warm, as if he’s steeling himself against a harsh scolding. 

“I was not joking.” I manage to say after a while, and immediately want to kick myself. 

“What?” 

I sigh, pushing through the shame, “I did not joke, the previous day. I’m still not joking. I love—”

It would be lying, if I said that I never imagined anything. I’ve read enough romance novels and bribed enough maids to know some things. But this—I had never imagined this. Jihoon’s mouth is gentle, hesitant against mine, as if he’s scared I’m not real. 

He pauses, coming up for breath, “I’m sorry, Princess. I didn’t want to hear you saying you love someone else. Not when I’m here in front of you.”

“You didn’t have to be scared,” I mutter, holding onto him, “you are the only one I would cross a line for.”

His eyes widen, and finally, after what seems like a lifetime of waiting, Jihoon smiles at me, radiant, blinding, something that makes me hold desperately on to the belief that we will survive this. That my wedding does not loom on the horizon, that we can spend an eternity here, amidst the falling cherry blossoms, enveloped in each other. I love him in a human way, desperately, because I have never known love, not like this. If I had time, I would learn to love him in a softer way, perhaps, where my hands are bloodied and bruised from trying to hold on too hard, and I can map the exact way the errant hair falls over his face, framing his forehead, the smile of his, one that I have grown to crave. 

But we don’t have time, and my hands are bloody. 

“My wedding is in two weeks,” I say, and his face pales, “I cannot evade the man who is going to be my husband.”

“I know him well.”

“Then you should know how cruel he is.”

“Yes, I know, but—” Jihoon sighs, and grasps my hand, “Run away with me.”

I stare at him, “And when the Minister of War comes knocking on my father’s door and demanding his dues, then what? Who will pay up?”

“Your father!” his anger is palpable, “The man who has sold you off to the cruelest man and his equally horrible son, that man will pay for his sins! Let him!”

“He’s still my father, Jihoon.” I step away from his embrace, “even if he did all those things, he is still my father, the person who raised me all my life. I cannot simply give up on the memories because of his decision regarding my marriage.”

“Then will you marry him? The man who used to be my worst nightmare as a child, who is still the worst nightmare of the courtesans here? Do you know how many of the women here spend a night with him, only to be found bruised and beaten the next morning? And you will willingly go to his bed, have his heir?”

“I don’t know all that!” I yell at him, and he stops, dumbstruck, “I just know that I don’t want to spend the rest of my life knowing that I let love slip out of my fingers because I was a fool for honor. If I could, I would have spent the rest of my life with you, but I cannot, and therefore I have to make the most of my life while it is still mine.”

Jihoon stares at me, “Two weeks, then? Is that all the time you will be mine for?”

I sigh, “Yes. Two weeks. Then I will be married, and I will be no one’s anymore.”

“But never mine.” His regretful tone spills over into my hands, and I can feel the tears spilling onto my hands, “Princess, I think I’ll die if you’re only mine once and not forever.”

“You’re not allowed to die, Lee Jihoon.” I smile, “Write a song for me.”

“For the gayageum?”

“A song we can play together. For the gayageum and the guqin.” I reply, “Even if I cannot be there with you for this life, there will be a song for us.”

He nods, wrapping me up in his arms, “There will be a song for us, Princess.”

—

Happiness is fleeting. It is incandescent, and it is fleeting, and I will hold on to it for as long as I can. 

“Show me the song,” I say, curled up against Jihoon’s chest, the soft rays of the dawn sunlight illuminating the room, “you’ve been working on that song for a week now, I want to see how it has shaped up.”

“I’ll give it to you on your wedding day,” Jihoon replies, yawning, “Oh, look, it’s almost dawn. I should be going.”

“So soon?” I sit up, “The sun is barely out, and you’re leaving me.”

“Princess,” Jihoon pulls me close, “I don’t want anyone to see me here. And that means I have to be out of here before anyone sees.”

“And leave me here to do embroidery on my wedding dress,” I grumble, “I’m better off making a shroud for myself.”

He says nothing, and leaves. Although it’s required for Jihoon to leave me alone, I hate it. I hate the fact that I have to pretend to be excited for this farce of a wedding, when my heart belongs to another person. I hate the fact that my father has never once bothered to see me for who I am, instead seeing me for the political advantage I could bring. Amidst all this, I am simply a pawn in my family’s schemes. To be bought and sold off to whoever pays the highest price. In this case, the Minister of War. 

“Miss,” Songhwa steps inside the room with a bowl of water, “I’ve brought water for you to wash your face.”

“I don’t want it,” I grumble, “what will happen if I don’t wash my face?”

“You’ll hate it.” Songhwa says, far too gently for my liking, “here, it’s warm enough that you like it.”

The water is indeed warm, far too warm for anyone else, but I like it this way, and Songhwa wipes my face with a soft linen towel, before saying, “I saw that man, this morning.”

I pause, “Which man?”

“Lee Jihoon,” she replies, still calm, “he was leaving from the back gate.”

I say nothing. 

“Miss,” Songhwa says, softly, “I know you don’t like this marriage, but there is no time for you to—”

“Don’t, Songhwa.”

She stops. It's the first time I’ve used this tone with her. 

I take a breath, before opening my mouth again, “I know what I have to do, but for the one week that I have left—let me—let me have this one thing, Songhwa. I’ll have to give it up anyway, once I get married. Until I step into that home, let me have this one thing, please.”

“Miss,” I turn to look at her, “I will not tell anyone. You can be assured of that, at least.”

I don’t know what to say. And what do I have to say to her, the girl who has served me for so long? The tears come hard and fast, and I cling to her sleeves as I cry enough to drench her jacket. I hate this place, and yet I cannot manage to break myself out of it. This is a prison of my own making, a prison I have unfortunately fallen in love with. 

“Miss,” Songhwa shakes me lightly, “you know you’re getting married soon, right?”

I nod.  I hate everything about time, I wish I could stop it. 

“Have you been laying with him?” 

“Songhwa!” Even through my tears, I burst out an indignant squawk, “how—how dare you suggest that!”

She shrugs, “I asked a question.”

“Do you want my first time being with a man to be with that—that brute of a man?”

“All men are brutes, my lady,” Songhwa tucks a lock of my hair behind my ear, “just in different ways. I’m merely asking, do you know why you’re going there?”

“To make him an heir,” I say, so quietly that Songhwa leans forward to catch my words, “the Minister of War wants an heir from me.”

“And that man is someone’s son, I presume.”

I squint my eyes, the sunlight too glaring for my eyes, “How did you know?”

Songhwa rolls her eyes, “I’m not blind, you know. Even an old man could see the resemblance between him and your fiance. The question I want to ask is, did you approach him knowing this fact?”

“Yes.”

Songhwa sighs, “Miss, are you determined to kill me?”

“Songhwa, it’s not as bad as you think.”

“Of course it is as bad as I think!” Songhwa paces around the room, clutching at her hair, “now if they find out you have been having—”

“Songhwa!” I yell, “there could be people listening!”

“There are always people listening, Miss, you told me this,” she sits down on the blanket, “what if you end up with child?”

“Child?” I squawk, unladylike, “what do you mean by that?”

“This is not the first time I’ve seen him come out of your room at an ungodly hour,”” Songhwa gives me an unimpressed look, “you think I’m the only person who has seen him walk out of this house?”

I groan, and Songhwa presses on, “So, I’m asking, what would you do if you found out tomorrow, that you were with his child?”

“Better his than that man’s,” I reply instantly, “if I was having that man’s child, I would kill it and then kill myself.”

Songhwa nods, grim lines set into the corners of her mouth, “You know what you have to do, right?”

“Just pretend,” I sigh, “yeah, a week from now, I have to pretend that the thought of being that man’s wife does not turn my stomach.”

“I’ll help you, Miss,” Songhwa says, “whatever they say, I do not like that man, and I will not let you have his child.”

—

Two days until the wedding. 

I put the finishing touches on my wedding dress, holding it up to the light. It’s a repurposed hwarot, previously owned by my grandmother, and I’ve adorned it with embroidery all throughout the fabric. Hidden amidst cranes and duck medallions, are flowers, flowers that I have embroidered overnight, small, hardy bunches of barberry flowers, entwined with daisies. Over and over again. The thread shimmers in the lamplight, almost invisible unless one pays particular attention.

“Is that the dress?” Jihoon’s voice breaks my concentration, “you did look royally pissed off when observing it. Did they make you do the embroidery yourself?”

“I’ve spent hours doing this godforsaken embroidery,” I groan, “it’s a pretty old dress. Belonged to my grandmother.”

“Explains why it is so gaudy.” He smiles, and I scowl, “well, it looks very beautiful.”

“It was already beautiful to begin with,” I replied, “do you want to see me wear it?”

Jihoon walks over to me, lightly kissing the tip of my nose, “I doubt it would be appropriate to let anyone else but your husband see you in your wedding dress.”

“The entire neighborhood is going to see me in my dress,” I grumble, “besides, I want to marry you. If it were up to me, you would be the one I’d be taking as my husband, not him.”

Jihoon smiles, something permanently broken in that gesture, and wordlessly slides off my jacket to pull on the wedding dress in its place. It’s heavy, weighed down with endless silk, the sleeves are too long, and I don’t know how to walk about wearing it, but he looks at me as though I hung the moon in the sky for him. How do I leave this man behind? In two days, I will marry his half-brother, a man known less for his name, and more for his cruelty. And in his place, I will have to leave behind this man with stars in his eyes, this man who would do anything for me, this man who holds my heart in his hand, a bloody, mangled mess that I willingly handed over to him. 

“Beautiful,” He whispers, “I love you, Princess.”

“Oh, Jihoon,” My tears are salty on both our lips, “I love you too.”

This is not our time, I think to myself, as Jihoon pulls me closer and silences any other complaints I might have, this is not our time. 

—

Night before the wedding. 

I stare at myself, my blurry reflection blinking at myself from the polished metal. What am I even doing here? The door is open, I should run away, I can run away, far from this place, to a mountain town, where Jihoon and I would live, tending to our crops, playing our instruments in the night. I do not want to stay here, I do not want to have a wedding night with a man who is to be my torturer, I do not want to spend the rest of my life with him. 

I stand up, stuffing my clothes and my jewelry into a cloth bag, pulling on my traveling clothes. Expensive hairpins, rings made of jade from the empire, everything bundled up with silk hanboks, tied together in a haphazard pile. I need to leave. Right now. 

“Are you going somewhere?” Songhwa asks, closing the door behind her, “I’ve brought a guest.”

I look up, frantic, “Songhwa, I cannot—I cannot go through with this wedding. I need to go, I need to go to Jihoon. Right now—” and it is Jihoon who steps out from behind Songhwa, wearing a pained expression on his face, tears threatening to fall, “—Songhwa, let me go to him, please.”

Jihoon rushes to my side, wrapping me up in his arms, as I sob, all over the front of his robe, “Please, Princess.”

“I cannot do this, Jihoon,” I whisper, “How will I stand there and take someone else as my husband when my heart belongs to you?”

“Miss,” Songhwa breaks the tense thread of silence, “I don’t know how to give you a present for your wedding. But I can give you one thing.”

She sets down a flask in front of us, ceremonial wine, and a simple gourd, and says, “you don’t have to be married in front of a whole house of people to be married, Miss. I haven't done anything for you, let me at least do this.”

I stare at her, blinking once, twice, before it dawns on me what she wants us to do. If the courtyard of this house is to be the execution ground of your dreams, let this room be its final refuge, her eyes seem to say, I’ll help you have this one night for you, my lady.

The wine is sweet, as it goes down my throat, and Jihoon drinks after me, never once letting his eyes drift. He knows, as well as I, what we are doing. The world will be angry with us, I know, but even as I bow down to Jihoon, my forehead touching the warm wood of my floor, I cannot bring myself to care about the world. The world will hate me, but I cannot look at the world when he is in front of me. 

“If there is a next life, Lee Jihoon,” I say, as he wipes the corner of my mouth with the handkerchief I had given him, “I hope we can meet there.”

“Promise me you won't forget me, Princess?” 

“I’d remember you across lifetimes, Jihoon,” I smile, kissing his knuckles, “even if all you do is hurt me, I would like to meet you again.”

This is my wedding night, I tell myself, as Jihoon extinguishes the lamp, no matter what happens tomorrow, this is the night I want to honor. All my lessons of honor and dignity have led me to this moment; in this moment, Jihoon is mine, and he is the highest honor I can dream of possessing. 

“You’ve rendered me entirely useless, Princess,” Jihoon says, in the end, when I am desperately clinging on to him to commit this warmth to memory, “I used to be useful before, you know. Now all I can think about is you.”

I say nothing, merely cling to him harder. If he notices, he does not say anything. 

Before I drift off to fitful, dreamless sleep, and Jihoon leaves my side for the last time, I wonder to myself, if the gods approve of this union, they will give me a child. A child that does not belong to the man I am supposed to marry, a child of my own, who will grow up to be just like their father. 

This is not our time. Maybe in another life. 

—

Epilogue

Jihoon steps down from the carriage in front of the house that he had left as a child, vowing to never return. And yet, here he was, raising a hand to knock on the door. 

He can barely knock once before the door heaves open, and it is the young girl who used to be her maid, Songhwa, looking at him with tears in her eyes, and for a second, he fears he is too late, too late to see her face for one final time, too see the spark in her eyes that had entranced him since the moment she stepped foot into his space. 

“How is—” He manages to stammer out half his sentence, when she grabs him by the cuff, and drags him to a small chamber across the yard, standing separate from the rest of the house. Jihon resists the urge to laugh. So much seclusion, even though they have sent her off to the hills to give birth by herself. 

“The man thinks it’s his child,” Songhwa says, gathering warm water and strips of boiled cotton in her arms, “both the lady and I know better, of course.”

Jihoon gapes at her, “You mean to say—”, but before he can finish his words, a low, pained groan reaches his ears, and then they are both running, into the humid room, where—

It's her. 

After so many years, Jihoon cannot help but stop in his tracks, because she has always managed to render him speechless. Even now—emaciated, in pain, and clearly dying, she still manages to look more beautiful than even the famed beauties of Ming. 

“Princess,” He whispers, stepping into the room, “you’re still as beautiful as I first saw you.”

“Flirt.” She laughs, and immediately curls up into herself, groaning in pain. 

“Sir,” Songhwa hands him a bowl of cotton cloth, boiled and cleaned, “she has a fever, you’ll need to cool her down.”

“No doctor?” He asks, placing a cold compress on her forehead, her pale forehead that now had a sheen of death on it, “did they leave her here to die?”

“The doctor is coming,” Songhwa clarifies, working quickly, “my lady, it’s almost over.”

“Ugh,” she groans in his arms, and he can see how her collarbones rise, stark against her skin, and he knows why Songhwa has called him here. She’s dying. She has no hope of surviving this childbirth, and she’s going to die. In his arms, as he looks on, hopeless. 

“Miss,” Songhwa urges, tearing up strips of cloth with her bloody hands, “miss, just one push, please, miss.”

“I can’t,” she breathes, her head falling back onto his arms, “I really can’t, Songhwa. I’ll die.”

“You won’t die,” He says firmly, “you can do it, Princess. I know you can.”

She shakes her head, convulsing violently, screaming bloody murder, but Jihoon has the ocean rushing in his ears, and all he can envision is a different reality; the two of them, with their own little family, in a place far, far away from here. He would never let go of her ever again. Please let me hold on to her, he had begged on their wedding night, I don’t want to ever let anything go again. 

All of a sudden, she breathes heavily, and the room lights up, with a newborn’s first cry. Songhwa holds the baby in her arms, deftly swaddling it, and places it in her arms. The cries of a newborn echoes throughout the room, and Jihoon—

Jihoon cannot look at anyone but her. 

Emaciated, she looks so small in his arms, a far cry from the woman who had captivated him, but he finds himself arrested by her gaze anyway, looking at her—at their child, with so much love he does not think there is a vessel big enough to contain it. 

“It’s a boy, my lady,” Songhwa says, and she nods, “congratulations.”

Her breaths are coming fast and hard now, a sign of her diminishing life, and Jihoon hates himself, hates the world that has made her this way, but most of all, he hates this child, who took her so cruelly from him. He has so much to tell her, so many things to do for her. He wants her to live a long life, to live a full life. Except life is fleeting, and she is dying, right in front of him. 

She looks up at him, the same bright gaze, glazed over with the pain of childbirth, “Name him.”

Jihoon stares. Even now, even now, when she is dying, all she can think about is her child. Their child, if the gods were so merciful. At this moment, he hates the gods. 

“He’s your son, Princess,” he replies softly, undoing the heavy braid that must have been so painful for her, “name him for the both of us.”

She nods, cradling the crying infant, “Woo-ju. The universe.”

The universe. A fitting name, for a child who has had everything taken away from him the moment he was born. “Woo-ju,” Jihoon nods, “our universe, Princess.”

She nods, and before he can say anything in reply, make a joke to lighten the mood, her body begins convulsing, her breaths coming rapid and shallow. The beginning of the end, Jihoon thinks, an end he cannot do anything save endure. 

Songhwa moves faster than him, picking up the crying infant from her arms and walking out of the room. She says nothing, but Jihoon knows, can hear her sob outside of the door. It’s a small mercy that Songhwa has gifted him, of being close to her in the final moments of her life. 

“Princess,” He lightly taps her cheek, and her eyes open, “Princess, I made a song for you.”

“A song,” she says, voice faint, “play it for me sometime, Lee Jihoon.”

“I’ll play it for you tomorrow, Princess,” He sobs, holding her close, “you’ll be fine, you’ll be fine.”

“Jihoon.”

He looks up at her face, the same one that had held so much pain and love in it, “Lee Jihoon. In my next life, if you meet me—”

“Yes, Princess?”

“Come say hello to me once.” She smiles, “so I can tell you how much I love you, one more time.”

He sobs, “You’re delusional if you think I am ever letting go of you, Princess.”

She laughs, and oh how much he has craved to hear it, the same carefree, careless laughter of her youth, “I love you, Lee Jihoon.”

The sheets of music remain in his pocket until the sunrise. 

—

Songhwa comes in minutes later, to find them both curled up within each other, Jihoon’s sobs tapering into quiet whimpers as he holds her close. She says nothing, cries silently as she braids her lady’s hair for one last time. 

Jihoon tucks in a handkerchief inside her jacket, before he leaves the house. 

taglist: @hisnowbie2 @cherry-zip @facethesunflower

[diamonddaze01]

📣Calling all Corporate Carats!📣

The spotlight is ruthless, and the boardroom? Even worse. Rival media moguls The Carat Company and Sebong Corporation are battling it out for the throne of the entertainment world. 

Talent managers Tara ( @diamonddaze01 ) and Kae ( @ylangelegy ) invite you to dive into the high-stakes world of SEVENTEEN’s corporate lives in our new collab, That’s Showbiz, Baby! 

Got what it takes to make the cut? Sign up here to pitch your ideas to the top of the industry!

TRIAL BY MEDIA. 

📽 The tentative posting period for everyone's work will be JUNE 2025, with dates set for the drops of synopsis, etc. These will be discussed in full in the server. 

📽 All fics must be at least 1,000 words. No maximum word count.

📽 Your work can be SFW or NSFW, but the following topics are off the table: Assault, abuse, ED, non-con, rape, self harm. 

📽 You must be willing to join our Discord server. We envision this to be collaborative to the extent that you want, and the server will also contain important announcements/guidelines about the project. 

NOTE: The roles for each members are pre-assigned; everything after that is free game. We're open to discuss changes in members' roles once you've been tapped to write for them.

[gyubakeries]

hi there!! since 2024’s gonna be over soooonn, i see almost everybody asking abt their wrapped for their posts and all but what abt moots?

like new moots, old moots, moots u love the most, ppl u would wanna be moots with… or do i sound crazy hahaa…?

hi anon!! u totally dont sound crazy dw <3 thanks for asking!

(sorry for the tag guys please feel free to ignore! also if i did miss out on anyone ITS BECAUSE OF MY TRASH MEMORY. I LOVE U ALL)

since i only started writing here this september, i can only talk about my lovely moots from over these last 3 months!

kie ( @k1eev ) [thank u for spamming me with reaction pics i loved them! hope to talk to u more next year <3]

skye ( @etherealyoungk ) [we literally started talking only bcs of the halloween boop thing BUT IM SO GLAD WE DID!! love u <3]

renee ( @min-imum ) [i love talking to you about mingyu sm. love your writing too and i cant wait to read more!]

elle ( @hearts4hee ) [WE CLICKED RIGHT AWAYYYY so glad to have met you here. spam me with haechan pics whenever ur online again!!!!]

sousy ( @sousydive ) [love brainstorming with you on discord. i'd love to get closer to u in 2025!]

kyii ( @yiichan ) [that one day we were chatting on discord about that one bot.... its one of my fav memories. you're really funny and im so glad to be ur moot!]

juliana ( @horangieszhosh ) [we only spoke for the first time a few weeks ago but you're so sweet! can't wait to read more of your writing and get closer next year <3]

kae ( @ylangelegy ) [your writing will never fail to absolutely blow my mind 😵‍💫 you're amazing and i hope we get closer next year too!]

@seungkwansflower [we havent interacted a lot, but you've always supported my writing and im really thankful for it! thank you for reading <333]

maple ( @maplegyu ) [i WILL write that mingyu fic for u!! thanks for reading my writing! you're really sweet <333]

no favoritism bcs i love all my moots equally 🥰🥰. and im hoping to interact with more writers/blogs in the coming year!

also all anons who have requested, big hugs for you guys too. (ESPECIALLY the first anon who requested for scoups fluff, which led me to write opposites. ill always remember you)

thank you to ALLLL the lovely people i've interacted with! even if i havent mentioned you here im still grateful to all of you <3

[thoughts-ofawriter]

Introduction Post

About:

Hi! Call me Kae (they/she), and I write (sometimes). Mostly, I joke around. I write mostly contemporary stories, but sometimes I experiment with new genres. I also love photography, anything nerdy, and trying to be funny. This blog started as a way to mess around and have some fun while I was procrastinating on my writing.

Find me in the universe:

You can read my free stories on Wattpad if you feel so inclined. I also have a carrd for my other accounts in various social places. If you'd like to tip, my kofi helps me be able to continue writing in my free time. Now with a Discord server, too, for chatting about my works.

Thank you for being here on this blog! My inbox is open if you'd like to chat, and this is my (long overdue) way of expressing my desire to keep interacting with you all!

[kingdoms-and-empires]

I have a few questions out of curiosity if it's not too much trouble.

First, can our MC have more than one spouse and if so how many we marry?

second, how many kids can we have and would they see the other spouse or spouses as their parents as well?

And third, which characters are okay (or even thrilled) about being in a poly/harem relationship?

Sorry for the inconvenience I just love the story thus far and can see it becoming really popular and thank you for your hard work and dedication to creating this wonderful story ☺

No, just the one.

Not answering that as im not focused on that at the moment. My story isnt like Lord's of Aswick where the draw of the game is living a feudal life, it's more character driven and not so sandbox. Hence the difficulty in answering that question!

None are thrilled, and all would hate you. Unless of course you have consent from Edward and Cheris, because of the Lavender Marriage. But Kingdoms and Harems however...

(Kingdoms and Harems is a KaE Discord community inside joke where I make the MC overpowered, dominate everyone, and bang everyone.)

[itskaeee]

HEY GUYS

i can proudly present you a project that's been in the making for some time now: a discord server run by @reptarian-live and me!! feel free to join! I would love to see you all there!!

[frozenambiguity]

Redheaded, rich war criminals with a little taste for violence a little feisty attitude but who have an actual gentle heart, a lot of passion, strong values, and unique moral codes truly are one of a kind…

[realmofstupid]

Yaayy Genshin Impact discord server!

This server has two core themes, which are Genshin Impact OCs, and Genshin Impact ships, but many other subjects can be talked about in various channels.

NOTES:

- Aether and Lumine are canonically adults and can be included in the shipping.

- However, shipping siblings or child/adult is not allowed in this server. This includes kae*luc.

- Shipping wars are not allowed. Someone in this server will ship things you don't ship, or characters you're jealous of. Don't fight over it.

[pseudomonacarriea]

Kama and Deva playing whack-a-mole but it’s with Kiara. 

I’m craving death tbh