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orchidyoonkook · 5 months

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To What We Were Before, And All The Things After | JJK | Ch. 6 | M

Title: Eastern Arrivals and Unwanted Doubt

Pairing: Prince!College Student!JK x Fine Arts Major!(F)!Reader

Series Rating//Genre: (M) | College AU, Mild Royalty AU, Smut, Angst, Fluff, S2F2L, Indiffernce to lovers, sloooowwww ass burn

Summary: Nel's here for the week and you couldn't be more excited!! Jungkook's another story though...

Warnings: M, fluff, smut, swearing, drinking, pining, angsstt, slight boundary pushing (not sexual), unwanted/ unneeded overprotectiveness, jealousy, lying, [reader eats bacon and eggs but it's not specified what kind or where it's from, just bacon and eggs, so whether that means veggie, vegan or normal is up to you], intentional pissing off of Nel, a little spat between major characters, sex as a plot device.

Mature warnings under the cut.

Word Count: 6,945

Release Date: April 20, 2:00PM

A/N 1: 6 months later and we have chapter 6! slow updates, but they will be written and they will be posted. I have no plans to abandon this, I just, very unfortunately, have a bit of an outernet life now. So not a lot of free time to be creative which I hate. But it's here!!

Series: Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four | Chapter Five

Mature Warnings: Consensual sex x 2, both reader with Nel and JK with Ady -> sorry not sorry cuz it's plot sex. We got us some: kissing, protected sex (as we should), missionary, fingering, oral (f. rec), tiny bit of groping (consenual), multiple orgasms, loud sex, like annoyingly, sex as a terrible coping mechanism (imo), fantasizing.

Bouncing lightly from foot to foot, you’re buzzing after finally receiving the text you were waiting on a few minutes ago.

Nelly <3 [10:10pm]: Landed. See you soon 😘

He’s almost here. He’s almost here!

Just a few more seconds until—

The gates slide open. A flood of people in a mixture of sweats and business casual wear with luggage of all sizes and neck pillows walk through. You hold up the sign above your head with both hands, a smile that could outshine the sun plastered on your face, and search.

Where is he? Where is he, where is he, where is he, you think as you scour the bodies filing out of the automatic doors. You can’t see him. He’s none of the nameless faces that pass you by as they find their family, friends or rides.

Is this even the right group of people? What if his luggage got lost and he won’t be out with this group. What if he got taken aside for some reason, and now he’s being held in some dusty room being asked a bunch of stupid questions he doesn’t know how to answer? What if he’s fig—

But then there’s a gap in the crowd, and the boy you’ve spent the last half decade of your life with comes into perfect, crystalline view. His lips pulled taught, teeth beautifully bared as he sets his sights on your sign high in the air, then down to you.

And you're running.

You’re running and dodging and swerving until you’re jumping into Nels arms as he abandons his suitcase in favour of keeping you both up right. He buries his face into your neck, holding you so tightly you think he’ll never let go. And that’s just fine with you as you hold on just as tight, taking in a big breath of him too.

He smells like airplane and coastal breeze and most importantly, home.

Nel smells like home.

A muffled, “Ohhhhhhh, I missed you,” greets your ears, and you melt into him even more if that's even possible.

“I missed you too,” you say, pulling back and kissing him. You don’t really care if there’s an audience or not right now. Not when Nel’s here, and he’s in your arms, and he’s yours for a whole 9 days and life is as it should be once again.

He releases his hold slightly, but your arms don’t leave his shoulders. The sign still clutched, now crushed and crinkled, in one hand.

“Car?” he asks, a kiss to your nose.

“This way,” you lead, releasing your hold.

Luckily, his suitcase is small, so he forgoes rolling it, instead gripping the handle at the top and carrying it in one hand. Your own reaching for his other and not letting go. He’s going to have to peel you off him if he wants space right now.

Nel’s wearing his usual fall attire; a dark green school sweater that has ‘ECAD’ written over the chest in a large, academic looking mustard yellow font, regular old blue jeans, and dark brown lace up boots. His short, dirty blond hair's covered by a hat you’d gotten him as a highschool graduation present, and his ocean blue eyes remain as gorgeous as they were the day you met.

Passing through doors to the outside and back to lot J, you hop in the car as he puts his bag in the trunk.

“How have you been? What’s new? What’s not? Tell me everything,” he asks as he climbs in and sits beside you, hand finding yours again.

Never gone for too long. You relish in the comfort and happiness that alone brings you.

He’s finally here. You finally have him back.

“I’m great. Yuri’s still Yuri, classes are only a little more challenging this year, but I’m still at the top of them,” Nel slips in a ‘not surprised’ and you smile brighter as you continue. “They’re already telling us to start brainstorming ideas for our thesis show next year,” you have no idea what you’re going to do, but you’re working on it. “Campus is the same, dorms are the same, the cafe’s the same. Though, they have the egg tarts I like in more, which is awesome for my taste buds and terrible for my bank account.”

Vivian stayed true to her word, and now they had the tarts in every week.

“I can only imagine,” Nel jokes.

“Uhhmm, what else…” a thought pops up, and you guess you can tell him. It doesn’t reveal anything the whole world doesn’t already know. “The prince is dating Adaline Dupree.”

His eyebrows raise, remembering, “Oh yeah, that’s right, the prince goes to your school now.”

“Yep.”

“Have you met him?”

Is he seriously not completely shocked at the prince dating Adaline? You only bitched about her to him all the time.

“Uhhh… yep, once or twice, I guess.”

You hate it. You hate lying, especially to Nel. You hate it so much, but it’s for the greater good. It’s to keep the peace. But that doesn’t stop the burning feeling in your chest nor the roil in your belly.

“The day he arrived Yuri dragged me down to see him speak. She made us sit front row because Yuri,” Nel nods, knowing exactly what you mean. “He had everyone assemble to hear why he was at school and tell us not to treat him like a prince. He wants to be able to study without his title getting in the way.”

You hit your blinker, making a one handed left turn.

“Makes sense. Is he nice at least?” Nel doesn’t sound at all suspicious, and why should he? You’ve never given him reason to not believe you at your word before. Never lied to him before.

Fuck you hate this so much. It was so much easier when he was 5000 miles away. But now that he's right beside you? This week may end up being more difficult than you thought.

“He was very princely. Tried to kiss my hand like he did like every other girl there, but I made it a handshake instead. Figured if he wants to be treated like everyone else, I would liste—Oh!” you laugh before you can even get the words out.

“What?” he asks, intrigued but confused.

You can barely speak coherently. “You should have seen Yuri’s face when I called him Jungkook and not Prince or Your Highness...her eyes nearly fell out of her head,” tears are starting to form from laughing so hard. “It was great.”

“He didn’t mind?” Nel asks and you shake your head. Yuri’s face that day will forever be seared into your brain for whenever you need a pick-me-up.

“No, he was grateful actually. I was the first person that had addressed him like that, the way he’d asked to be.” Stopping at a red light, you're finally regaining yourself.

“Well,” he squeezes your hand, “you always were good at first impressions,” and looks at you so softly you can’t help but smile into the kiss you give him.

He remembers that school art fair just as fondly as you do.

Nel pulls away first with a thought. “Is Yuri with us this time?”

Yuri hadn’t been able to go home last year, her parents too busy on a work trip, so she stayed back and kicked it with you two, but also gave you your space when needed.

Lots and lots of space.

“Nope! Parents welcomed her with open arms this afternoon, I’m sure. They’re all on some tropical island down south. She’s bringing me an ocean bottle though, so I’m excited for that. It’s been a while since I’ve been able to add a new one.”

Everytime you travelled somewhere with a beach you got a glass bottle and filled it with half sand, half water, added in some shells or rocks and labelled it. Instead of towels, keychains, or magnets, you did ocean bottles. They lined a shelf in your room back home.

You probably have at least fifteen of them by now. Your mum likes to travel and make sure you experience the world around you, not just your little corner of it.

“Oh that’s great babe! I know how much you love those.”

“Yeah, it is.” You lean your head on his shoulder, basking in his presence for as long as the light remains red.

He’s here. He’s yours.

You only have to do this for a couple more years and then you’ll be together all the time. God you can’t wait. But you are nothing if not disciplined.

And it’s going to be so worth it in the end.

The rest of the ride to your dorm goes by quickly.

Some more red lights, some more kisses. You point out the same things you always do on the way back, and Nel acts like it’s the first time he’s seen them, just like he always does.

His hand never leaves yours over the center console.

Soon enough, you find yourselves flopping down on your bed. Bags, jackets and shoes, scattered. Nel pulls you into him, his head on your pillow, yours lying on his chest. True peace settling in for the first time in months.

“I can't wait until we’re done school and I have more than four and a half months with you a year,” he sighs. “It’s not enough. I want more. Need more.”

“Me too. But good things come to those who wait.”

“Yeah…I’m just really sick of waiting.”

“Me too,” you repeat in a yawn.

Nel’s breathing slowly evens out as you lie there, content to be in your arms again. And you look up to see his eyes closed, warm exhales brushing over your face from his nose.

You can’t blame him for being so tired. He’d had an early morning exam before flying out, even brought his suitcase to it so he could leave the second he was done. Then, the flight alone was ten hours, plus travel times to and from the airports was about an hour each way, and the wait time before boarding was another two.

Shit, he’s probably been awake for around eighteen hours straight at this point because he’s also the type that can’t sleep on planes no matter what he tries.

Oh, Nel...Of course he’s exhausted.

Giving him a squeeze before getting up, you take off his socks and jeans carefully, then tuck him into bed as much as you can. You’d try the sweater, but it involved too many working parts and you didn’t want to wake him, so you figure it’s best to have the window open tonight instead.

Grabbing your phone, you tiptoe to the bathroom and do your night time routine. It’s not an overly complicated one, just brushing your teeth, washing your face and a simple 3 step skincare routine of cleanser, toner and moisturizer. Short and sweet, but it does the job.

Halfway through brushing, you do your friend due diligence and send Yuri a ‘back safe’ text, just like she’d sent you her own ‘here safe’ when she’d landed.

You spit and rinse, moving onto washing your face and applying cleanser.

Teeth clean and face moisturized, you sneak into your room again. Nel's still out cold.

You sneak out of habit—your mom wakes at the sound of a pin dropping. But absolutely nothing could wake Nel now outside of his mother’s voice and his morning alarm. It’s a talent of his you’ve always been jealous of.

Removing today's clothes and tossing them in your overflowing hamper—reminder to self: do laundry—you slide on your pjs and climb into bed beside him, plugging in your phone and setting it down.

A thought pops into your head and you pick it back up, shooting a quick text before you can think twice.

You [11:26pm]: home safe

It pings not seconds later.

PJK [11:26pm]: Thanks Picasso PJK [11:27pm]: glad ur home safe

Your heart beats a little louder at the nickname, and you chalk it up to the excitement still in you at having Nel here and being tired.

But you sleep better that night than you have in a long time.

A short, repetitive, rhythmic vibration.

Picasso [11:26pm]: home safe

Jungkook is still standing in the same corner by the wall, Adaline somewhere in the crowd in front of him dancing with her friends. She asked him to join her, but he declined. He doesn’t need to see himself more than half drunk and dancing on the cover of tomorrow’s news cycles. Not to mention his security team would shut the party down the second a camera flashed.

His guards are carefully stationed throughout the house, all dressed down in casual wear, a few with empty cups in their hands. One is watching some sort of beer pong like game in the corner, another is mingling with some guys over in the kitchen. Three he can’t immediately see. And he knows his head guard is outside in a black car ready to get him out at a moment's notice.

Nobody can tell they aren’t here for the party, not unless they’re sober enough to notice watchful eyes continually making their way over the crowd as the night goes on.

Your text woke him from the stillness he’s adapted from standing so long, trying hard not to draw attention to himself.

You were home safe. Home safe from the airport. Home safe from picking up Cornelius.

Your boyfriend.

Cornelius, your boyfriend.

He doesn’t acknowledge his teeth grinding.

You were home from picking up your beau but even then, you’d texted him to let him know you were back on campus safely. To let him know you were okay.

It’s the first thing that makes him smile all night.

So he sends back, a bit to quickly:

Me [11:26pm]: Thanks Picasso Me [11:26pm]: glad ur home safe

Because it means something to him that you deem him close enough to send a ‘home safe’ text too.

That you want him to know you’re back.

Want him to know you’re safe.

Whether you know it or not, your safety means a lot to Jungkook, so that little two word text makes his heart lurch.

He needs to leave.

He needs to get out of this fucking house and back to his dorm. He came, he drank, he observed, he fulfilled his boyfriend duty.

That’s enough for him.

He shoots Adaline a text that says he isn’t feeling well and gets out as fast as he possibly can, dodging bodies left and right and doing his best to hide his face.

Once he’s out, security team in tow, the cooling midnight air does him some good.

“Someone make sure she gets back to her dorm safe,” he says in their general direction, brain too muddled to be polite in this exact moment, but it’s nothing they haven’t seen before.

This is going to be such a long week.

He can’t wait till it’s over. Till he doesn’t have to share anymore.

He was never very good at it anyway.

The smell of bacon wakes you.

And toast, and…

Eggs?

You think, at least. Since when do you have bacon? Or eggs? Toast is a given, it’s part of your life’s blood.

Opening your eyes, you blindly reach for your phone, successfully unplugging it and bringing it to your face.

The screen is too bright but you suffer through it, squinting.

9:27am.

9:27?

You slept for ten hours!?

You can’t remember the last time you slept more than 6 consecutively, aside from recovery nights, and even then it was fitful.

Nel comes in with two plates, his full with a very Eastern breakfast of pancakes, scrambled eggs and bacon. Yours with two pieces of toast, lots of bacon, a bit of eggs and some fruit. Where did he—?

He smiles at your confusion, “You have a cafeteria that sells breakfast food, you know.”

You know that.

“I know that.”

“Do you? Because the look on your face says otherwise.”

You flop back down and pull the pillow over your head, mumbling incoherent nonsense. You rarely used the dorm cafeteria for breakfast. Much preferring the greenhouse cafe or simple toast and juice that you can make in your dorm.

He chuckles. “Two breakfasts for me then, okay, if you insist,” Nel moves to leave but you screech, uncovering your face.

“Noo! I want it. Please, sweet nutrition,” he hands the plate over when you sit up, arms out stretched, and you dig in.

After a piece of bacon, you ask, “How long have you been up?”

Nel’s sitting with his legs crossed at the end of your bed, munching away, “Long enough to get changed, grab my wallet, get food and come back.”

The bacon is really good. You’ve never been so glad he knew you so well as you grab another piece from the dwindling pile.

“You slept well then, too? That’s good, I’m glad. You needed the rest.”

“Having you around always makes it easier to fall asleep,” he nudges your knee with his elbow.

Even after five years he can still make you blush.

“I know the feeling.”

You two fall into step, starting your weeks in advance prepared plans, the rest of your day passing quickly.

Too quickly.

And so does the next day, and the next, and the next.

All of your activities are going great. The zoo, picnics, study dates, restaurant dates, historical, artistic and architectural museum tours. Even a swim at the school’s indoor pool, and there’s plenty more to come.

Things slip back into being easy, just as they always have been with Nel, ever since that first day back in tenth grade.

He knows you like the back of his hand and predicts your moves before you make them, just like you do for him.

You know his favourite foods, and where he prefers to park when driving—always avoiding open curbs—you know his dream travel destinations, and who his favourite musicians are. You know his favourite pencils to design with and his favourite pencils to shade with, that he always put on his right sock first, then right shoe, then left sock and left shoe. You know that his drink order is an iced coffee with two cream and two sugar, that he prefers loose shirts over fitted ones, and that his favourite colour is orange.

It’s a pretty orange too, not just any orange. You wonder if it’s anything like Jungkook's–

Wait.

You search your memory for the information, going through favourite foods, drinks, music—all discussed previously, because you know their answers. But colour?

Nothing.

How have you never asked what Jungkook’s favourite colour is?

Isn’t that usually one of the first things people ask when they’re trying to get to know one another? Funny. Guess you’ll have to inquire the next time you see him.

Anyways, just like you know everything there is to know about Nel, he knows everything about you too, including your routines.

Which is why at twelve noon every day, he starts getting ready to go to the greenhouse for your afternoon study session.

Including today.

Your week’s already half over and you hate it. Time always moves far to fast when all you want it to do is slow the fuck down.

You only have five days left. Five days.

You’re lucky the greenhouse cafe is open during break, some places on campus are required to stay open for the students who can’t make it home, but greenhouse chooses to.

As you and Nel turn the corner you see a familiar figure sitting in his old spot at the back of the patio. The same hat, mask and hoodie, now paired with a leather jacket on top due to the weather starting to cool down.

You can tell Jungkook wasn’t expecting to see you by the way he stiffens before those all too familiar brown eyes of his meet your own. Which is fair, your schedule shifts a bit when you’re on break, he isn’t used to you being here at twelve on Wednesdays.

But as quickly as he sees you, his gaze is back on his laptop, like he never saw you in the first place.

Like you asked him to do.

And a sharp pain stings inside your chest.

When you and Nel get to your table, he sits in the seat opposite to where you always do, leaving where Jungkook usually sits beside you, empty.

A part of you is grateful for that, though you can’t figure out why and table that self discussion for a later date.

Setting down your things, you ask Nel if he wants coffee. He answers yes, like always, and after a quick visit with Viv, you're pulling out your chair and setting down your cups. Your back faces Jungkook. It’s a small mercy you can’t see him. Maybe you can forget he’s here and actually focus on your work.

But it’s also exactly because of your position, that you can’t see as Jungkook subtly watches you over the rim of his laptop while you and Nel talk quietly and study.

Nel can though.

It feels weird to ignore him. To pretend you don’t know one another when for the better part of the last seven weeks all you’ve done is talk, hang out, study or a mixture of the three, every day.

When having him sit behind you and not beside you feels so wrong and so foreign.

But this is your own doing, you caused this. So you need to suck it up and get used to it.

This is exactly what you asked for all those weeks ago. The perfect solution to your problem.

No one can know.

Not Nel.

Not anyone.

But fuck, if it didn’t absolutely suck in practice.

Setting some of your books out around you and on the table Jungkook usually uses, you dig into your business homework. Having a major and a minor are great for job prospects, on paper, and in practice after you’ve completed them.

But getting them? It takes years of hard work and dedication with no distractions.

None.

You spend almost every free moment you have doing homework or practicing, trying to get ahead, trying to stay on top.

…Trying to beat Adaline.

But you just use that as fuel for your drive to be better. To be the best.

Competition is healthy. Especially when you’re winning against the rich brat who’s used to getting what she wants.

Not that you're petty.

Ehh…You are. But only a little bit. At least you can admit it.

Nel gets to work as well, the sunlight from his spot is great for drawing. He’s working on a rough version of his thesis project that’s due at the end of the year. He has to have multiple completed renderings as well as a scale model, and he’s been brainstorming since last year about what he wants to do.

Currently, he’s drawing up an airport, trying to design so that it’s not confusing and complicated for first time users.

However, his occasional swearing and muttering to himself makes you think he’s having a tough time with it.

You try not to laugh, but a small giggle slips out.

“What,” Nel asks, a little distracted.

“Nothing.”

“No really, what’s up? I could use a laugh right now,” he insists, eyes on you at first. But then something behind you steals their attention every few seconds.

Someone.

“You just…you still make funny sounds when you're frustrated with a drawing. It’s endearing.” You reach to place your hand on his knee, trying to gain back his full attention.

Ignore him, Nel. Please ignore him.

“Yeah...” he exhales. “I guess airports are out,” his hand covers yours quickly and you hear a faint chair screech from behind you. Nel doesn’t miss it as he says. “But I do have a much bigger appreciation and understanding for all those who came before me,” pupils now unmoving from their target behind you.

Fine.

You’ll acknowledge it.

“Is everything okay? You keep looking at something? Is there an animal or…” You know what he’s looking at, but go so far as to turn anyway, playing up the ‘confused girlfriend’ role. But Nel squeezes your hand, stopping you.

He leans in, placing a fake mask of serene on and lowers his voice. “That guy keeps looking at us, moreso you. And he looks pissed off.”

Fuck, think of something.

Anything. Anythi—Oh!

You lean in too, so close your noses almost touch. “He’s probably just upset we’re talking. The greenhouse cafe is usually a quiet place to work,” good enough, you think. That’s believable, right?. “It’ll be fine. Let’s just ignore him and get back to work.”

You place a quick kiss on his lips but Nel isn’t letting up on his unnecessary vigilance. But then again, he doesn’t know that Jungkook is the opposite of a threat to you. So you reassure him, in your own way.

“Babe, seriously. If you’re going to be all protective or whatever, don’t. I come here everyday when you're not here and I’m still alive and unharmed. Go get a sandwich or a refill to get your head off of it and say hi to Viv. She’s still here, and I’m betting she remembers you. You’re kinda hard to forget.”

You can tell Nel’s about to reject the idea when you insist. “I’ll be fine, Nel. Promise. Three years and not a scratch on me.”

He sighs through his nose, but relents.

Placing his drawing pad on the table, he gets up, but not before placing another kiss to your forehead and mumbling, “Scream ‘cumquat’ if you’re in danger and I’ll come running, okay?”

You laugh outright at that. “Will do.”

You watch him as he goes, and the second he’s inside, you’re racing for your phone, typing at an astounding speed.

You [1:45pm]: Didn’t your royal upbringing teach you not to stare so blatantly!??? Nel caught you

You hear a quiet ping from behind you followed by a small exhale that sounds more like a disguised chuckle.

PJK [1:45pm]: Yes.

You [1:45pm]: So you intentionally got caught?

PJK [1:45pm]: Maybe

You [1:45pm]: Shithead

PJK [1:46pm]: Rude

You [1:46pm]: You deserve it

PJK [1:46pm]: I know. I’m just making sure he’s treating you right. PJK [1:47pm]: and trying to see if he acts differently when he knows he’s being watched. He’s very protective you know

Jungkook saw the second Nel noticed he was watching you.

His posture changed from easy going to on alert. His hand went so quickly to yours on his knee and his public displays of affection increased significantly.

It was pathetic, really. It went above a normal amount of protection. Nel was claiming his ‘property’, making sure Jungkook knew not to touch.

And the nasty look Nel gave him as he entered the cafe—gratefully still unrecognizable in his disguise—was another silent way to say back off, stay away, and don’t try anything or you’ll regret it.

It was a red flag in Jungkook's mind. A small one, but it’s still there because his efforts are completely unneeded. After five years together, Nel should know that you can handle yourself.

Hell, Jungkook knows that and it’s only been two months.

You [1:47pm]: yes I know he is, and I already told you he treats me well because he always. Does. Not just in public or under watchful eyes You [1:48pm]: and since when does my boyfriend of half a decade need your ~princely~ seal approval?

He ignores the small jab. You only ever brought up his title when you were mocking or upset with him. And he knows that in this case it's the latter.

PJK [1:48pm]: Since now PJK [1:49pm]: And it’s not that I don’t trust you at your word, but I usually like to decide for myself

That has you reeling.

Where does he get the audacity to think he has any say in or about your relationship? Your very solidly built, five years strong, healthy, happy relationship?

Because he’s the Prince? You’re pretty sure you established on day one that you didn’t and still don’t give a fuck about his birthright.

If he thinks he gets an opinion on any of this he’s got another thing coming the second he asks you anything about Adaline again.

You’re in the middle of typing out a paragraph explaining all of this when another text comes in.

PJK [1:49pm]: Because I’ve seen far too many women in love who are blind to certain things PJK [1:50pm]: And far too many hurt in the end because of it.

You pause. Fingers frozen mid swipe.

Blind to what?

How many women did he know that were in love but missing something about their partner? Surely there couldn't be that many. Right?

But this was Jungkook you were talking to, he’s lived numerous lifetimes already. That fancy birthright of his you don’t care about having given him far too many life experiences to have at his age. And they’re only going to increase from here.

So instead of hitting send and cursing him out quite spectacularly, you stop and think for a moment.

What did he see that they didn’t?

That you might… not?

You’re a decent judge of character if your record tracks. And it does.

So your curiosity gets the better of you as you delete your rage paragraph and settle for a simple two word question instead.

You [1:50pm]: Like what?

You can see that he’s typing out a response but the bell on the cafe door rings and you put your phone down. It buzzes with his response a few seconds after.

You’ll check it later.

Nel takes his seat again, and you notice he has his sandwich, but also that he’s moved his chair and starts sketching from the new position giving him a direct eye line with Jungkook.

You internally scoff at that.

Nel has always been protective. But he was raised that way and you don’t mind too much. You don’t expect him to change his core values for you, just like he never expects you to change yours for him, even when a couple of his are just the slightest bit overbearing.

But that’s part of a relationship. Give and take and compromise. No one person is going to be perfect for another. It’s healthy to have differences.

That being said, Nel doesn’t change positions for the rest of the hour. Even as Jungkook packs up and leaves, Nel eyeballs him until he’s out of sight.

That night while Nel is brushing his teeth and you're lying in bed, you check the text from Jungkook.

PJK [1:51pm]: Like if they’re getting treated the way they should be or if they’re settling for the best they think they can get or for the first guy that showed interest. The one who hasn’t grown up even though time has passed. The one who’s holding her back by not setting her free

You stare at your phone. At the text. At his words.

And dismiss it.

You aren’t one of those women.

You know yourself.

You know what you deserve and how you should be treated. You didn’t settle, you just happened to find your love at a young age. That’s something special and rare and should be protected. And Nel has most certainly grown up as time passed.

Jungkook is being ridiculous for absolutely no reason. Surely he’ll have seen that today. Seen how Nel loves you, treats you how you deserve to be treated, holds you up. Supports you.

You’re confident he’ll be eating his words soon enough.

Finished brushing, Nel comes back to the bedroom and snuggles up behind you and you put down your phone.

He cuddles you for a minute before placing a kiss at your neck. Then another. And another before he’s mouthing up your neck, and sliding a hand up your thigh and to your waist. It pauses on your stomach with teasing caresses, before dipping lower and lower, beneath the fabric of your sleep shorts, and under the elastic of your underwear.

A small moan sounds in your throat at the touch. His fingers meeting your folds and the sensitive bundle of nerves at their apex.

You wanted this.

Need it.

He’s grown, you think; as a finger slips in you and you gasp at the stretch, legs opening wider for him. A second finger plunges in and you can feel yourself getting wetter and wetter with every thrust. Just like you can feel a bulge forming behind you.

You know what you deserve; as he uses them to scissor you open, making sure you’re ready. You roll over, now on your back with Nel over you as he pulls your shorts and underwear down to get better access, your own hands removing your shirt.

You’re not settling; as Nel moves down, tongue making a couple swipes at your entrance and you hiss in pleasure before he’s reaching over, grabbing a condom from the nightstand drawer and sliding it on, length hard and dripping at the sight of you bared before him.

Nel wasn’t the first guy who’d shown interest, just the first you’d said yes to; and he slides in. Both of you moaning at the snug fit.

“Fuck...” he says and you nod, agreeing, before pulling him down into a deep kiss.

He eases into a slow, steady rhythm that has you breathy and his abs tensing.

But it’s not enough. You need more. You need to erase these past two months without him, and take enough to last for the next two. It’s never enough, but you try.

“Faster baby,” you beg, “Please…faster.”

Nel isn’t holding you back. Jungkook doesn’t know what the fuck he’s talking about.

Nel picks up the pace and you start moaning, louder like you know he likes. Likes to hear he’s doing a good job. He’s grabbing your breast and sucking in a nipple, tongue swirling and you're bringing your hips to meet his with every thrust.

It feels good. It always feels good with Nel.

He was your first everything. First kiss, first intimate touch, first love.

Only love.

And he makes you feel good with that love. That touch. His kiss.

He makes you feel safe, inside and out.

Jungkook can go eat grass. He doesn’t know your relationship. Doesn’t know the first thing about it.

“There, right there!” you whine as Nel hits your sweet spot once and you arch. He tries again but misses, continuing faster, his peak coming quickly.

Jungkook can never understand what you two have. What you two have built in these five years. The understanding and security that comes with it.

He’s being an unrightfully opinionated ass on something he knows nothing about and—

Fuck! Why are you thinking about Jungkook? You’re having sex with Nel. You shouldn’t be thinking about anything or anyone other than that.

Than him.

So why can’t you get what Jungkook said out of your fucking head?

“Ahhh… oh fuck. I’m cumming.” Nel’s hips stutter, his face contorting in pleasure as he releases, filling the condom.

You kiss him passionately to rid yourself of your princely plagued thoughts, the ones filling you with unwanted and unnecessary doubt. You want them gone, gone, gone. Nothing but Nel in their place.

And you slip an, “I love you,” in between kisses for good measure.

Jungkook could never understand.

Nel kisses you back just as hard, dramatically slowing his thrusts, drawing out his high for as long as possible.

“I love you too.”

Jungkook doesn’t know anything.

Nel groans into your lips when it becomes too much and pulls out.

Removing and tying off the condom, Nel goes to the washroom to throw it out and starts the shower he knows you’ll be joining him for when you're done.

A routine you’re all too familiar with.

One you created.

He knows you need a few minutes to get yourself off.

You’ve never been able to cum from sex with a partner. No matter how hard you tried. No matter what you did.

Most would think Nel wasn’t a good lover or wasn’t trying enough, but it was through years of constantly trying anything and everything that you learned you just…couldn’t.

No amount of fingering or oral or penetration from your partner could make you orgasm.

So Nel knows to wait for you in the shower as you finish yourself off, your own fingers making quick work of it, because you always could for some reason.

It isn’t your ideal situation, and it isn’t anyone’s fault. But it works. You both get the intimacy you crave and you accepted a long time ago that you were just one of the unlucky few.

Screams fill Jungkook’s ears as a hand finds his hair and nails rake against his scalp.

Adaline isn’t a quiet receiver.

“Ohmygod!” She shouts for the twentieth time. “Yes! There…so goo-oohhhh,” the last syllable turning into a loud moan.

He’s holding her downwith a forearm by her pelvis, mouth full as he brings out her third orgasm of the night, juices flooding his tongue.

He’s working out earlier frustrations and proving a point to himself in this fucked up version of self therapy.

He shouldn’t be.

But he does.

Has to.

Seeing you today with Cornelius spurred feelings within him that he didn’t know he had. Sure, there were bits and pieces of something stirring he refused to name, but today?

They were in a whole different ballpark. Different than anything else he’s ever felt before, brewing inside him, bubbling up to the surface even though he’s been trying his best to pop them and shove them down.

Anger?

Feelings he doesn’t want to have.

Jealousy?

Does have.

Wanting you to look at him the way you look at Nel?

Can’t have.

Not for…

He admits he provoked Nel because he could. Dick move, but it was because Jungkook knew just by looking at him that giving you any form of attention would piss him off. He seemed the type.

Overly possessive, overprotective.

Overbearingly so.

Suffocatingly so.

Because Nel knows how lucky he is. That you chose him. That you still choose him.

He knows he has to keep others away.

Knows he isn’t good enough for you, holds you back. But keeps you anyway.

The selfish prick.

So Jungkook eyed you up and down, leisurely, and for as long as he wanted. Purely out of the need to prove to himself he was right about his little assessment of your boyfriend. At least that’s what he told himself.

Was it childish and unnecessary?

Yes.

But he was right. And that felt good.

He could see in your posture and your hushed words you didn’t want Nel’s protection, didn’t need it, and that Nel ignored that wish of yours. Did what he wanted to instead of respecting your ability to make decisions for yourself. Bulldozed your opinions.

It pissed Jungkook off.

He’d left a little while after sending you that text to read, but you never did. At least not since the last time he checked. And so he’d made plans with Adaline the second he was out of your earshot. Calling her up and setting a time for what’s currently taking up his primary focus.

Because even though it was Adaline underneath him, for the very first time, that’s not who he imagined it was.

Not who he just dragged a fourth orgasm out of with his fingers because he could.

Because he would. He would be so much better. Give so much more. If only…

Fuck.

Jungkook stands and drags his cock over Adaline’s entrance, whacking it against her clit a couple times before running the tip through her folds and pushing in. He hisses at the feeling. At who he was sinking into in his head, splayed out in front of him. Skin glistening with sweat mixed with arousal. Mouth open, slack jawed in pleasure.

Adaline moans loudly and it dissolves his visual.

His tattooed hand moves to hold her hands above her head, the other silences her mouth.

“Quiet now,” he whispers, low and deep. A bead of sweat dripping off his brow, hair sticking to his neck and temple.

He intends it to be sexy for her, but in reality, he’s just sick of hearing her. It’s ruining his mental image. Not that she’ll ever know that though.

To Adaline, this session is all about her and making her feel good.

But constant screams and loud, pornographic moans aren’t appealing to him in the slightest. They're taking him out of the mood. Making him soft.

Once or twice when it’s genuine? Sure. But the constant assault she loves to give his eardrums? Not even a little bit.

He sets a fast, rough pace, and Adaline’s eyes roll back in pleasure, screams finally subsiding in white hot bliss, replaced by bitten lips and smothered whimpers.

He is going to prove this point to himself over and over again. All night if he has to.

And he has to.

To get whatever it is he’s feeling for you out of his system.

To keep his sanity.

To forget.

And while it’s Adaline’s name is on his lips when he cums.

It’s not the name he repeats in his head like a prayer.

Chapter Seven: Hard Goodbyes and Favourite Colours

A/N 2: Thanks for waiting for this chapter. I'll try my best to have 7 out as soon as I can get it. I promise.

A/N 3: As always, Thank you for reading, loves. Xoxo - Yoon <3

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nmakii · 5 months

Text

TILL I RUN DRY!

— alastor x hypersexual ace!reader

— warning: gn!reader (i wrote with fem in mind) sex, hyper-sexuality, intrusive thoughts, abuse, sexualization, body dysmorphia, implied ed (anorexia), self-harm

unapologetically me x alastor bc were married! and um we like to hold hands sooo like deal w it 🤷‍♂️🤷‍♂️🤷‍♂️ kinda messy hc list too. sfter writing the tw list im worried for myself sheeshhh

he honestly at first did not quite like you. his only experience with hypersexuality has been with angel dust. and, that has been uncomfortable to say the least.

though he starts seeing that behind that mask, you’re hiding something. as a man who hides his intentions most of the time, he can tell you’re covering some part of yourself up. and when you finally let down that mask of yours, whether by accident or on purpose, alastor finds it confusing.

alastor’s original understanding of hypersexuality had been that they were nymphomaniacs who always desired sex. he was confused with your identity, “hypersexual asexual”. it was an oxymoron!

but, now that he’s developed a bond with you, he’s starting understand that there was… some difference between drive and attraction. the line is still a bit faint to him.

now that alastor has gotten to know you better, he starts to see that both of you are fairly similar, at least when it comes to the lack of sexual attraction. and now that he knows you act this way for a reason, he doesn’t shame you like he does with angel dust. (not that angel isn’t valid, alastor just doesn’t wish to talk to him) and after learning that these sexual remarks of your’s are compulsive, he tries to tolerate them to the best of his abilities.

whenever you have these hypersexual episodes and start to cope, alastor doesn’t prefer to ‘help’ you. he’ll leave you to your own devices until it’s over. but, he’s perfectly fine cleaning you up. whether it be setting up a bath, or bandaging a scar. he doesn’t intend on stopping you since… he doesn’t exactly know how to. all that he does know is how to comfort you after they happen.

he’d feel sympathetic if you started feeling disgusted with yourself after an episode. he generally also feels sympathetic for you if the trauma that had wired your mind like this had been inflicted by older men, or someone you thought was your friend.

sometimes, when it’s late into the day, alastor’ll catch you bedrotting because you feel disgusted with yourself. he doesn’t say anything though, because if he did, it’d be a lie. if you noticed it and got upset, alastor would probably say something along the lines of “yes, i won’t deny that you’re a bit… twisted in the head, dear. but, i’ll still be here for you. you’re quite dear to me, i wouldn’t just leave you!”

he’s often confused when you wear revealing clothing and try to sexualize yourself whilst not even wanting to have sex. and, when you say that you’re trying to prove to yourself that you’re pretty enough to sexualize, he’s speechless to say the least. he’s never met someone like you before, nor does he tend to even try to help.

there are times alastor finds you staring in the mirror and observing your body. he can tell in your eyes that you’re judging your figure on how appealing it is, and that you’re thinking of how to make yourself look ‘better’. and to distract your thoughts, he hugs you from behind, and puts all the attention on him. he’d say something like “what ever are you doing, sweetheart? i can’t deny how gorgeous you are, but you’ll go crosseyed if you keep staring like that!”

and knowing you, judging your figure would probably lead to something like starving yourself. so, he observes how much you eat, and tries to encourage you to eat more.

alastor would still get incredibly uncomfortable if you started forcing yourself onto him and trying to seduce him. he doesn’t want to do that, but he wouldn’t want to hurt your fragile state either. when he denies you, he can see that you get upset. so, he explains that he wouldn’t want to take advantage of you like other unruly men have before, and that it doesn’t have anything to do with how attractive you are.

he’d also get a bit irritated during these dramatic moments of yours where you push everyone away. you start to get much more depressed during these moments, and he can’t help wondering about your well-being. it doesn’t matter if you’re pushing him away, he’s still lurking somewhere in the shadows to make sure you’re safe.

if you ever got close enough to alastor to confess the darker parts of your hypersexuality, like a need to be abused to feel loved, he’d feel sick to his stomach. why on earth would you want such a thing? to feel as if you’re attractive? he’d let you confess these thoughts to him, you’re trusting him with a dark part of yourself after all. but, if you were to seek it out in real life, he’d absolutely stop you. he’d never realistically allow you to get hurt while he’s still with you.

he finds it you to be a very unfortunate individual. he still tries to be there for you when he can, even if it made him mildly uncomfortable.

#hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel x reader #alastor #alastor x reader #alastor hazbin hotel #hazbin alastor #hazbin hotel alastor #hasbin alastor #alastor hazbin x reader #alastor hc #alastor headcanons #alastor the radio demon #hazbin hotel smut

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uhohdad · 1 year

Text

EXPERIMENTAL - Konig Fic Pt 3

Summary: Konig helps Researcher!Reader with a new technology they’ve been developing.

Warnings: Sexual Content, NSFW, bondage, DOM!Konig, size kink, light spanking, unprotected sex, possessive!konig, praise kink, the mask stays on 😈, Reader x Konig, injury, needle torture, PTSD, talk of standard war stuff, Non-con Voyeurism. No use of y/n,

Reader gender/sex is incomprehensible cause I do it for the girls, the gays, and the theys

Word Count: 10,2k

(tbh you probably don’t need to read the first two parts so if you just wanna read this slutty chapter it should be fine lol but if you do i’ll link them)

AO3

PART ONE

PART TWO

NSFW under the cut

You’re praying that he’s getting this.

There’s a million things that could go wrong - Konig not being near his device and you’re just streaming into an empty room. Or Ghost’s device wasn’t the one that was synced with Konig’s, maybe one of the matching copies or an earlier prototype. Or worse - Konig found out about the video and leaves you to your demise as he rightfully should.

You swallow as you watch Mohawk put the his phone away in his pocket, hoping his screen wasn’t exposed to the feed’s camera, “Thanks for making me have that on my phone, by the way. Do you know how many times I was forced to watch this?”

Stop talking about it!

“What else do you want to know?” You’re more willing to give out top-secret government intel than let Konig find about that fucking video.

Ghost senses you’ve been holding back on him, and he tilts his head down to look at you from above the projection, “What’s it do?”

“Everything.” You answer, “Anything I tell it to. It’s like VR.” There’s a bit of a slur to your words. You’re still aware enough to manage the long-con, but your eyelids are getting heavier. Just have to hold out awhile longer, juggle a few things at the same time. Don’t let Konig find out about how you ended up here, but make sure he knows you’re here. Don’t let skull boy and stupid-haircut find about the transmission, but don’t let them lose enough interest to turn the device off. Don’t give away too many government secrets, but don’t give out too little to keep the soldiers from doing anymore permanent damage to your brain.

And manage all of that while coping with the current level of brain damage you have.

They look at each other, trying to figure out if they’re satisfied with your answer.

That’s good. Just keep stalling.

Everything was threatening to crash down around you, but there’s a glimmer of hope so minuscule, you think you could actually pull it off if all the pieces fall together.

You’re no longer giving up.

We can fix this. Fix all of it. Fix your mess.

You’re going to give it a fair shot, you decide, and you’ll leave it up to the universe.

Ghost cocks his head, those intimidating eyes boring into you, “And what things do you tell it to do?” You can tell he’s irritated with the meaningless answer. You steer in the opposite direction.

You give a drawn out hum, “Identify the bad guys. Heat map, heart beats ‘n all that.” You’re trying to keep your thoughts together, but there’s too many to keep up with, and the concussion still has you in its hazy clutches.

Another idea, a back up plan, you’ll call it. You can’t tell if it’s a stupid idea or not, but you’re slipping and fast, “Can I get a smoke? I’m feening.” You give a smile, the residual of the painkillers making it easy to appear unassuming.

“No. What else does it do?” Ghost is straight to the point, and it reminds you of Konig, and you wish Ghost would stop doing that because you’re trying to do something here.

Another drunken hum, “What’d’ya want it to do? I can do it.” You wave your hand at him, casually flashing your restraints so Konig would get a clear view.

Ghost steps towards you and grabs the front of your gown, yanking your face inches from his, “What does it fucking do?”

A proud smile crosses your face, “Not your mom, ‘cause I got that covered myself.”

Mohawk puts a hand of warning on Ghost’s shoulder, reminding him not to get too violent with you.

Ghost ignores the warning, his fist connecting with your temple before you had a chance to brace yourself.

Skull boy packs quite a punch.

You’re reset for a moment, blinded by a bright white and the ring in your ears makes a blaring encore.

You can tell by the warm and wet feeling under your bandages that the gash from Ghost’s gun had split open.

You don’t know how long it takes you to get your bearings, but once you do you’re almost thankful Ghost had rocked you.

You’re hoping Konig can see the urgency of the situation and your injured brain being rattled around your skull gives you an excuse to lie motionless, hindering interrogation. They know you’re not useful to them when you incapable of coherency. It’s why Stupid-Haircut is trying so hard to keep Ghost from injuring you to bad. It’s why they went through the trouble of nursing an enemy back to health. If Ghost turns your brain to soup like you’re so clearly provoking him to do, you won’t be able to tell them what they want to know.

Okay, painful change of plans.

Instead of forcing yourself to stay clear enough to manage all the details through the fog of the concussion, you’re going to force yourself into ignorance by weaponizing Ghost’s temperament against him. It’s in their best interest to keep you cognizant, and it’s in your best interest to get Ghost irritated enough to torture you until you’re unable to speak.

It’s going to be brutal, but you’ve been feeling nothing but pain at the hands of him, and you don’t think you’re far off from the cozy clutches of unconsciousness as it is - that it won’t be long until you’re unable to feel anything.

Always the masochist.

You can’t help but smile, even though it all. A genuine one, toothy and face-wrinkling, one that wasn’t for anyone else in the room, but didn’t care if they saw. It wasn’t a desperate attempt to relieve your discomfort. Not a waste of your precious energy lulling strangers into their sense of comfort. Not a weak effort to influence the opinion of you belonging to whoever happens to be in your vicinity.

You feel like you’re watching yourself descend into madness, powerless against the euphoric feeling that floods through you. Warmth coasting through your veins. You could tell it wasn’t the drugs, the concussion and the growing list of other injuries, or even the idea Konig may be rushing to your rescue any minute now.

It was because in this moment, despite everything that has happened, you can’t help but be enamored with yourself.

You?

Of course. Of course it took these conditions to pull it out of you.

It’s always the hard way with you, wasn’t it?

“If you can’t restrain yourself maybe you should let me handle it.”

“Back down, Johnny.” Ghost warns in that low, cautionary tone that can’t help leave the receiver wondering just what horrible punishment would occur if they pushed. He doesn’t even have to look at Johnny to hammer the intimidation into him. It’s only accompanied by a low extend of arm vaguely in his direction.

Neither you or Ghost noticed the way Johnny’s eye twitched or lip snarled, but he heeds Ghost’s warning.

Ghost’s eyes lock on you, and you think everyone in the room has caught on to the predicament they’re in.

Johnny, who’s been up to speed since the start, walking the tightrope of being respectful to his superior without letting him damage the value of his informant.

Ghost, who’s long lost his respect for you before he even laid eyes on you, and since meeting you has only been sinking deeper into his hatred of you. He’s used to getting information from soldiers. Out of powerful individuals that could handle a hit and that stay conscious during an interrogation session. The ones smart enough not to antagonize and beg for the brutality. Ones that grit their teeth an at least try and suck it up to maintain a scrap of dignity. Not you. He knows he needs your brain but he’d be happy to put an end to all of it, right now. Pull the plug on your project the manual way. If they can’t have it, no one can. Maybe he’d get what he wants along the way if you’re coherent enough to squeak it out, but that’d just be a bonus in his eyes.

And you. Wonderfully brilliant, even if occasionally misguided, and as much as you hate to believe it sometimes, incredibly lovable, even if Ghost is looking at you like he wants to put your head on a stick. But you don’t care about that dummy. No, you’re not even looking at him or his Johnny. Even if he takes your life from you right now, you think you could accept that. Not for any necessarily suicidal reasons, even though the concussion has definitely knocked some dark feelings loose.

You close your eyes, and the smile still hasn’t left your face, even if your sore muscles were pulling on the edges of your headache.

“Too much morphine.” Ghost says, to no one in particular, not hesitating as he forcefully grabs your forearm and digs his thumb into the skin encasing your IV needle.

You immediately hiss through gritted teeth, but he doesn’t hesitate as he takes the beginning of the needle with his other hand, roughly poking around in your arm.

You try to pull away but he’s got a grip tight enough to force your arm extended. You’re sure his fingertips will leave bruises.

He removes the needle entirely before puncturing you in a different spot on your inner elbow, shaking the needle violently beneath your flesh. You gasp, pulling against his iron grip with what little strength you have.

“Where’d your smile go?” Ghost asks in a neutral tone, his eyes dead of emotion as he removes the needle before stabbing another hole in your arm.

You let out a yelp, eyes screwed shut as your other hand jerks against the restraints. You’re too focused on the sickening feeling of skewered veins to make up a good comeback.

He does it again, and your fists clench and a high grunt escapes through gritted teeth.

“I’ve always wanted to learn how to set an IV.” Ghost says dryly, his eyes cold behind the mask as he thrashes the needle.

“Keep practicing.” You hiss, pitch warbling through the pain.

And he does.

It’s brutal, Ghost flaying the crease of your arm repeatedly. It’s been less than a minute but you’re sure the torture started a lifetime ago. You just have to take it, it’s all you can do. Your verbal stalling wasn’t cutting it, so you’re just going to have to opt for this instead and hope you can piss him off enough to get just a little too violent with you.

When he’s done, he jams the needle back where it was, managing to lay it back in your vein. “There we go.”

You study each other for a brief moment, before he leans in close, so close his projection becomes obscured through your head. You’re eye to eye now, nothing between you two but the mask your nose is almost brushing up against.

He grabs your face, his gloved fingers digging into your jaw with the same force he had held your forearm. He holds your head still and all you can do is look at him, brows pinched in fury as your nails dig into your palms, fists fight the restraints.

His eyes twitch as they flicker between each of yours.

“I am going to ruin you.”

You shake your head in an attempt to free your jaw from his clutches, but his grip is strong and he makes a point of forcing your head still, looking down his mask at you.

“You can give me all the information you like. I’m not stopping until it’s finished.”

Ghost finally lets you go with a rough shove. He takes the device from his ear and his wrist, discarding them both over his shoulder. Johnny catches the ear piece with a slight fumble, and the wrist remote hits the ground with a ting, rattling obnoxiously as it rolls to a stop. Johnny’s got his hands full as he yells but you you don’t bother listening to what he’s saying.

You’re too busy relaxing into the attack as you let Ghost carry you to death’s door.

———————————————————-

Even wincing is painful.

You're finally stirred awake by the feeling of a gloved hand on the back of your neck.

It’s hard to open your eyes, and when you finally do you see him, from the chest up, he looks just like a just a blurry figure. Two of them, actually, doubled vision multiplying the lone man that stood before you.

Even with your damaged vision you can tell it’s Konig, making out the telling shapes of his gear and those biceps you’ve studied so close you could pick them out of a lineup.

The hood that always intimidated you, but now fills you with a comfort like no other. You can see the light of your projection shielding his eyes.

A blinding bright light surrounds him, haloing your vision and it hurts, but you can help but keep your weary gaze fixed on him inbetween slow blinks.

You’re sure you’re dead. That you’re passing over and this is your brain manifesting some hallucination to comfort you as you transition.

You reach out to touch his hood, just to see if you can. You wanted to see if you could feel him, the researcher in you testing the potentials of your delusions. The restraints cut you short for a final time, before Konig quickly cuts your hands free with a knife. He takes your weak extended hand in his and you can feel it.

It engulfs yours, the scratchy feel of his glove wrapped around your hand, and he feels real.

His other hand retracts from your neck and reaches up to turn his projection off to get a clearer look at you. His hand comes back from under his hood and moves carefully to the side of your face, his thumb tracing a bruise on your cheek. His can’t believe what he’s seeing, his eyes darting around to the various injuries plastered on you.

“Meine liebe…”

He says, and you’re not sure if he’s speaking a different language or if your Ghost gave you dyphasia.

“Who did this?” He asks, horrified as he realizes there’s anyone out there cruel enough to do this to you.

You thought his stares were scary before, but the way his eyes glaze and turn cold as they follow the swells and bruises marking your face appears animalistic. It shoots a feeling in your gut so unnerving it confirms that you’re definitely not experiencing some euphoric deathbed hallucination.

When you don’t answer, your eyes just flicking around his features as you adjust, he asks again.

“Who did this?!”

His voice strikes an urgent and menacing tone the second time. On your recording he had been able to see Ghost’s point of view, but not Ghost. A front row seat to watch you get brutally attacked but not being able to identify the aggressor himself.

Always determined.

You reach up with your other hand to your saving grace, and place it on his upper arm, “Don’t leave.”

He hears how delicate your voice is, how you barely have the power to speak. How your hand quivered as you reached out to him, how you had squeezed his arm with what little might you had to encourage him to stay, to join you in a world where your aggressors and injuries didn’t matter, none of it mattered.

And how can he say no to you?

His eyes soften again and you can’t help but smile at the man behind the hood. You’re smile immediately turns to a wince as it forces an uncomfortable tug on your fresh injuries.

“Come here.” He says softly and he picks you out of the hospital bed with little effort. He’s got one arm secured around your back and the other is under the crease of your knees like he’s carrying you from the alter. He tilts you gently so your head can rest on his chest while he carries you to safety.

You’re wondering if you really are dead after all. It’s too good to be true, your plan working and Konig carrying you from the danger like he’s a fireman rescuing you from a burning building. You can discern the capabilities of his muscles as he holds you tight. You’re not even slowing him down, he’s still able to hurry through the hallways, guided to the exit by your device without fault.

The jostling hurts, but he’s doing his best to hold you steady, and being in his arms, resting the less injured side of your forehead against him, makes the pain all worth it.

You can hear the sounds of gunshots in the distance, not even your impaired hearing could muffle the loud pops. They must have had a full team come out to do an extraction. You thought it was a lot of to-do for little ol’ you.

Konig gets you to nearest exit, carefully managing the door as he opens it to ensure it didn’t hit you, and carries you out to the getaway vehicle, setting you down across the backseat like you’re made of glass.

“Liebe, they need me.” He looks back to the building, “Can you stay here?”

You give a weak nod, and he gives your hand a squeeze.

“I’ll be back, I promise.”

And you have his word.

He rushes back into the building while you try and rest in the backseat.

————————————-

The safe house was incredibly depressing. A rundown little two-room shack in the country, decorated with outdated appliances and furniture. The wall paper is peeling from the ceiling and you’re not sure if it was originally a drab yellow or if it had been stained from years of abuse. You can tell no one’s been around to take care of the water damage, judging from the large brown stains spotting the ceiling. There’s a kitchenette in the corner with an oven, a fridge that hums too loudly, and a microwave that appears never to have been cleaned. A worn beige couch outfitted with two dusty orange cushions that sag with age. A few generic paintings on the wall that hardly comfort you. No internet and no cell service, but there is a small box-shaped TV that you’re sure is from the 50s, the picture warped and cloudy.

Base placed you here temporarily until you relocate, your apartment now too dangerous to live in as your address was in enemy hands.

Judging by the way your supervisor spoke to you when discussing the transition, they must be in the dark on what caused the breach.

Your secret is safe for now, but there’s no telling when it’s going to get discovered. Waiting for the truth to come out has left a weight in your chest that sticks around from the moment you wake up to the moment you fall asleep.

They had assigned you a counselor to visit you and help process the trauma of the event, but you don’t trust them enough to give them the full truth. You just tell them about the violence Ghost inflicted, walking through the nightmares that result from it. You haven’t gotten a goodnight’s rest since it all went down, often waking up in the middle of the night kicking and screaming at the vivid night terrors of Ghost at the side of your bed.

Other than your counselor, the base associate that brings grocery to restock the noisy fridge on Thursdays, and the occasional check-up from your supervisor, you’ve been totally isolated from the outside world.

You don’t care about most.

Just Konig.

He had held you in his arms and carried you to safety at the risk of his own life. You knew you didn’t deserve it after what you did, but you can’t help but daydream.

Thinking about the way it felt to have your head on his chest, the cotton of his mask brushing your bruised cheek, his arms grasping you tight - protecting you - it definitely helps distract from the uncomfortable feeling lingering by your heart.

You wondered if he knew, if he had seen himself on Johnny’s copy of the recording, but still was kind enough to do such a favor for you.

Then you really wouldn’t deserve him.

You spend all your time thinking about Konig, bouncing between the depth of your guilt and the highs of the fantasy, just as you have been since you met him.

When he visits for the first time, it nearly triggered a panic attack. You had not been expecting visitors, and you were still haunted by the precious unexpected visitors you had. You’re delightfully surprised when you peek out the window and see Konig, looking nervously at the landscape behind him when you don’t answer right away. Your eyebrows spring up in shock and you let out a verbal exclamation at the sight.

You quickly run your fingers through your hair as a last ditch effort to appear somewhat put together before opening the door, forced to tilt your head back to look at him. His eyes widen at the sight of you, and he moves, almost like he’s about to step closer but stops himself.

You force yourself to contain your excitement at his visit, “Konig, It’s good to see you.” You look down at your clothes, still donned in loungewear, “Sorry about the jammies. Come in.” You open the door for him so he can step in before shutting the door behind him. He takes a few steps into the room before stilling, taking a moment to look around.

“Sorry for stopping by unannounced.” He says, followed by a clearing his throat. His eyes linger on the old beige couch before meeting your eyes again. “I‘ve been worried about you.”

You knew you were unreachable, he couldn’t have gotten in contact any other way, “Don’t apologize, you really have no idea how good it is to see you. I’ve been thinking about how to say thank you, for what you did, but I’m not sure there’s enough words between our languages to cover it.” You put your hand to back of your neck, looking to the floor for a moment before meeting his gaze again. You give a nervous laugh, “So I guess I owe you a bottle of wine, huh?”

You can tell he smiles under the mask by the way his eyes crinkle, “Just doing my job.”

You glance down at the arms that had held you so tight and wished they were wrapped around you again.

“Thank you, Konig. Really. I owe you my life.”

“It was my pleasure.” He says as he gives his head a little shake. His gaze shifts a bit higher, “You’re healing nicely.”

You touch a hand to the gash Ghost had left from his gun. You were most likely going to have a scar, but it had closed and the swelling had gone down significantly, the previous inflamed red now a medium pink. “Ah, well thanks for noticing. You know I made those skin cells myself?”

Huh?!

He tilts his head, “That’s good, I hear store-bought isn’t what it used to be.”

You giggle and roll on your heels a bit, not necessarily at the joke but at the fact that such a normally rigid and imitating man is now being cheeky with you, and it feels so nice to break the tension a bit.

“How are you holding up?” He says, and it reminds of the way your therapist inquires, with that gentle tone that clearly eludes to the incident without directly referring to the incident.

“Uh,” You trail off a bit, touching the nasty bruise on your inner arm, large from the spread of the internal bleeding, but now faded to a healing yellow. “Y’know? It’s actually been,” You let out another nervous laugh, “awful, actually. But that’s alright. Uhm, I think it’ll get easier with time.”

He nods and his eyes dart down to the bruise you’ve been mindlessly tracing with your finger. Something dark flickers behind his eyes but quickly subsides.

“If it’s worth anything, it does.”

You give him a weak smile and you have no way to confirm but you think he does the same.

A silence falls on you both for awhile, both of you picking a random point in the room to unfocus your vision on. The silence doesn’t feel awkward, more like you both were grieving for a minute - or maybe just lost in thought. Even if neither knew what to say to the other, you were still bonding over your traumatic experiences in your own quiet way.

You’re the one who breaks the silence, your voice a bit cracked from your dry throat, “What do you do about the nightmares?”

His eyes leave you for a moment as he considers it. “I leave a book by my nightstand. For some it’s TV, others crossword puzzles. There’s no stopping it. You just have to find what calms you down after.”

You give a nod. You knew there wouldn’t be a magic cure but you still have to take a moment to process that you’ll have to be dealing with it for the foreseeable future.

There’s a long pause before he speaks again, “You dream of him?”

You swallow again, trying to make it easier for you to speak but bail, instead slowly nodding your head.

Another silence falls over you both. A longer, more drawn out one. You both get lost in thought for awhile.

When you interrupt the silence again, the words spill out of you fast, coming out in a jumble and before you can stop yourself. He had that effect on you, making you feel so vulnerable and exposed, ready to spill your guts. Deep down you knew that it’s time to rip the bandaid off. Free yourself from the guilt and the constant fear your world is going to come crashing down around you.

“Do you know what I did?”

He studies you, tilting his head, “What do you mean? About your SOS?”

His response tells you that he truly doesn’t know. If he knew what you did, he’d have known exactly what you’d meant. Regardless, you still make a futile attempt to jog his memory, hoping you won’t have to explain yourself, “How I ended up there? What caused the breach?”

His eyes squint in confusion, “I was told we didn’t know how they received your information.”

Your head tilts down in shame, and you have to look away from him.

You take a deep breath and rest your palms flat on your thighs.

“Okay, look, I’ve done something horrible. I have not been very good to you, and… that sucks! Because I really thought we could have been,” You hesitate for a moment, “friends.” You close your eyes and take another breath, “At first I thought I could keep it a secret from you, even if I believe you have every right to know, but the truth is I just can’t handle the guilt anymore. I’m exhausted waiting for the other shoe to drop, okay?”

Konig’s whole body is tense now, standing at attention as he waits for your words. You’re worrying him.

“The day we met,” You’re choking up now, the adrenaline coursing through you, causing you to shake and perspire, mouth dry, “After our day in the shoot house, I forgot to disconnect your feed.”

Your tone shifts from serious to a bit desperate, “It was an accident, I swear, Konig.” You look at him, pleading eyes begging him to believe you, “And I should have just disconnected the feed when I found it, I know,” You’re getting exasperated, “But I’m sick and curious and to be honest I just couldn’t help myself when I saw you.”

He shifts uncomfortably in his spot, and swallows hard. He knows what you mean, but he has to confirm it with you to believe it, “What did you see?”

You look away from him and to the floor. It takes you a moment to work up the courage, “I saw you getting off.” You say it so quietly, ashamed to admit it.

“I shouldn’t have watched Konig, I shouldn’t have. It was wrong and I know it doesn’t mean anything now but I truly am sorry. But I did watch and I heard my name and I’ve been wracked with guilt ever since.“

He stands still, his breathing escalating slightly. He doesn’t say anything and the silence drapes over you both for awhile.

This silence was definitely awkward.

His eyes tell you nothing and his expression is masked by the hood.

You swallow, knowing you owe him the full truth as you force yourself to continue. If he’s already disgusted with you under that hood, this will really put you over the edge.

Your fist clenches, “In a moment of pure stupidity, I kept the video.” You break eye contact for a brief moment before returning your gaze to him. “I sent it to myself.”

“Okay?” You spit, angry at yourself, “I kept it and I’ve watched it so many times because I am just addicted to the way you moan my name, Konig. I’m sorry. I heard it and I needed more. It made me feel so good, and so so terrible at the same time.”

You’re on a roll now, rambling like you’re talking about your research.

“And I have not been able to stop thinking about you!” You laugh a bit, “And I understand how serious this is. So if you want to go straight to head of command and have me discharged, I won’t hold it against you. In fact, if you don’t even feel like filing the report, I’ll pack up my things and leave now, and you won’t hear from me ever again.”

You pause, and he doesn’t fill the silence, so you keep going, the words coming out like vomit, “But there’s something else you deserve to know. When I sent the video to my phone - for personal reasons only, okay?! I was not planning on showing anyone, if that helps. When I sent the video, it opened a vulnerable point of entry for TF-141 to hack in. They… have your video. I’m so sorry, it was a major lapse of judgement, and I overlooked so many protocols, and I put our intel at risk. I put your private moment at risk. I put us all at risk. I-“

You cut yourself off, tears starting to well in your eyes. It was relieving to get it off your chest, but you knew what was about to happen. You knew you were lighting a fuse with one hand and holding dynamite with another.

“I’m so sorry, Konig.”

The tears start flowing and you’re powerless to stop them. You hoped it wasn’t coming off as a desperate attempt to gain sympathy.

For awhile you stand there, eyes fixed at the floor as you wait for his response.

Konig hasn’t moved, hasn’t said anything, just stands in his spot, staring.

When you finally look at him, eyes full of heartbreak, he maintains eye contact for a few moments, expression unreadable.

After a moments to process, he uncrosses his arms to dig into his pocket, pulling out the device you had given him on that very first day. His boots slowly cross the linoleum floor and he gently sets your device on the dinky table behind you before removing the wristband and setting it down next to the earpiece without making a sound.

He doesn’t even look back at you before he turns his back and walking out the safe house door, shutting it with a soft click.

——————————————————————

It’s been three days since Konig left you alone in the safe house.

You’re wondering if you should cut your losses and leave. Change your name & get started with a new life.

You’ve already preemptively packed up your things to make it less painful on yourself when your supervisor comes to kick you to the curb.

Even as your life is dissolved and scattered to the wind, you actually feel a lot better than you have in months. Almost like the worrying was worse than the actual consequences. At least now you can live honestly.

Nonetheless, it was still pretty painful. Your latest infatuation finding out how you so deeply betrayed them. Watching him walk out on you had left you sobbing face down in the dusty orange couch pillows to muffle your cries.

It’s late at night on that third day, and you had managed to find some respite with a surprisingly warm shower and losing yourself in blurry reruns of a game show when you hear the light ting of metals.

At first you think it’s the ringing in your ears returning, it had been on and off ever since Ghost concussed you, but you quickly realized by the uneven rattles it had been coming from within the safe house.

Your eyes scan the room after switching the TV off, first starting with the fridge that hums too loud, but quickly dart your attention over to the movement of the safe house’s doorknob jiggling.

Not again.

You try and suppress the flashbacks enough to find somewhere to hide, but the safe house is one big open room with a small obscured bedroom that was more bed than room, and you don’t think the bed is high enough off the floor to crawl under.

So instead you freeze on the dingy couch, your heartbeat deafening in your ears as you watch your doorknob wiggle in its loose hold.

There’s a distinct click and then a long pause. You don’t even see the doorknob rotate because the door gets flung open with such speed and force it slams against the wall and bounces back.

“Konig?” You fear melds with confusion as you make sense of the figure rushing in.

He’s already closed most of the gap between you when you manage to squeak out a more alarmed, “Konig!”

It’s scary to have such a large man charge you, especially one you’re so used to being docile around you, one that usually stands hesitantly by the door until invited closer.

You don’t have a lot of time to think about it. Konig grabs you by the crest of the back of your neck with one hand, his other hand lifting up his mask to kiss you without room for arguing.

You let out a surprised gasp that was muffled by the kiss, and he takes that opportunity to have his tongue greet yours. His grip is tight on the back of your neck, his fingers digging in slightly to stake his claim. The stubble on his chin brushes roughly against your skin as he takes what’s his.

Once you catch up, you close your eyes and try to match his intensity but it’s difficult to keep up.

He finally pulls away, out of breath and letting his hood fall back over his mouth, his now free hand moving to the side of your face, “I’m sorry I left you, mein schatz.” He pulls away from your face slightly with a breath, “I needed to think.”

Your wide eyes flicker between his, mouth slightly parted as you nod. “Yeah,” your voice is breathy, the shock of the kiss having knocked the wind out you, “That’s uh, understandable.”

He brings his face closer to you. His eyes shift, and you see that dark flicker again.

“You have to understand, liebe, your deed will not go unpunished.”

Your brows retract as you swallow at the threat, looking up at him with concern in your eyes and your thighs pressed together.

You’ve been nervous around Konig before, maybe even scared, but you’ve never feared for your safety. Quite the opposite, actually. Such a large, strong soldier on your team gives you a shield of comfort - he made you feel safe.

But the way his voice had lowered and his eyes tinted with something primal shoots a tingle down your spine and raises the hairs on your neck. You’re not sure what he means, but your brain is coming up with ideas faster than you can sink your teeth into the details.

You’re almost ashamed at the warm feeling of arousal that sinks to your lower abdomen.

He kisses you again, this time closed and softer. When he pulls away his face stays dangerously close to yours, “You’ve done a very bad thing, liebe. You understand?”

His voice is low and husked but holds incredible authority. You can’t help but feel like a child being scolded in the principal’s office. You nod slowly, lips pursed and eyes still rounded in suspense.

He brings his finger up to your chin, his face close enough your noses are brushing, “I can’t hear a nod.”

The knot in your stomach doubles and your breath hitches a bit, shaking as you speak, “Yes, Konig, I understand.”

His thumb strokes your cheek, but it doesn’t soothe the mixture of fear and arousal flushing your skin.

“Would you like to right your wrong?”

You take a deep breath. You’re not sure what you’re agreeing to, but you’ve been desperate to fix what you’ve done since the moment you committed it. “Yes, Konig.” You nod your head, “I’d do anything.”

A pleased hum comes from him, and you're close enough to feel the vibration. You swallow nervously, gaze hesitantly watching his animalistic eyes stare down at you like you’re his prey.

“Stay.” He orders, pulling away from you and letting his hand linger on your face for an extra moment before turning away from you.

You obey, both fear of consequence and desperation to please not allowing an ounce of will to defy him. Your eyes are still locked on him as he steps to the dinky little table he had set the device on three days ago.

You had left it untouched, making it easier to swallow by still thinking of the device as his. As if Konig had just left it behind by mistake instead of intentionally returning your property to you.

He took both carefully in his hand before returning to you, boots asserting themselves as they slowly and confidently traverse the linoleum. He holds the devices out for you to take. “Feed on. Projection off.”

And you follow his instructions, what choice do you have? When his voice is strict and he’s standing over you, intimidating stature making you feel so small and defenseless. The shake of your hands causes your fingers to fumble as you struggle with the remote, his hand held out impatiently as you stumble with fluster.

When you finally get it, you place both devices in his palm, staring up with your eyes begging for his approval.

He gives you nothing, as usual, placing the earpiece under his hood and setting the wrist piece down simultaneously.

“You stepped out of line, liebe.” Konig takes closer to small gap between you you, “You humiliated me.”

His eyes are half-lidded now, boring into you with menace.

“And now I’m going to humiliate you.”

He touches your face with his thumb again. You can’t help but flinch at the gentle touch, on edge from unease and excitement.

He gives another light huff, reveling in his ability to intimidate you.

“On your knees.” He commands, finger pointing at the floor as he slides back to make room for you.

He huffs in satisfaction at the dumbfounded look on your face. Your mouth slightly agape and stuttering - it’s dawning on you now; exactly what you have to do to right your wrongs.

He squints at you, voice leaving no room for error, “Did I stutter, Schatz?”

That sinister glint in his eye returns again, and just the sight is enough to get you to slide quickly to the floor, assuming your position on both knees, neck slowly tilting back to take him in as he towers over you.

He leans in to to cup your face again, giving it a soft yet firm pat, “Good.”

Your heart flutters at the praise, even if simply articulated.

That’s all you want to hear. That you’re good. You want to be so good for him.

You’re dripping now, Konig already having you ache for his touch.

His strong hands slide down your face, four fingers cupping your jaw as his thumb brushes your bottom lip gently. When your lips part he slides his thumb in your mouth and you oblige, obediently sucking and showing him what you can do with your tongue.

He gives a low pleased hum before removing his thumb and reaching for his belt, the buckle jingling as he unlatches it and removes it from his waist in one swift pull.

Your stare follows the belt as he folds it in half, and he muses at your worried look. He likes the way your mind wanders, always running with the possibilities. It’s what drew you to him in the first place.

He doesn’t hit you, though, just taps it against the bottom of your chin to get you to fix your gaze back on him. Once he’s got your attention, he discards the belt and reaches down to pop the button on his pants, yanking each end to get the zipper down in one smooth move.

He slides his thumbs behind both waistbands, pulling them down just enough to expose his cock. It’s rock hard and practically springs from his pants, and you can’t help but let out a small squeak and just how big it is.

You’ve seen it before, studied it endlessly, imagined it so many times.

It did nothing to prepare you for kneeling before it. Just like the rest of him, his cock intimidated you, at full attention and already leaking precum.

“Wrap your hands around it, schatz.”

You follow his orders, softly gripping his cock. You’ve studied the video of him jerking off so many times, you know exactly how to please him. You start with a loose grip, your hand sliding from base to tip at a slow pace, as your other hand cups his balls.

At first he watches, enjoying how your hands looked so small around him. He can’t help but close his eyes and tilt his head back as he lets out a soft moan.

It sounds so much better in person, and your pace picks up, desperate to elicit more from him.

He tilts his head forward to get a better view of you.

“Suck.” He commands, and you hesitate for a brief moment, worried about the logistics, before ditching your fears and giving it your best shot.

You keep your hand steady on his shaft as you guide the tip to your tongue, a slow lick clearing the bead of pre-cum that had formed.

He lets out another low moan that makes you quiver.

You press your lips to him, slowing working the tip into your mouth as you tease with your tongue.

As you work steadily down his shaft, you have to fully unhinge your jaw to fit him in to avoid teeth, and even then it’s a close call. You’re continue carefully and he seems willing to be patient with you as you get used to his size.

You manage to somewhat comfortably fit half of him in your mouth, using your free hand to squeeze the base of his shaft. You start to move back and forth, pressing your tongue against him.

He watches in awe as you take him in, not holding back in his pleaded hums and groans.

“So good, Schatz.”

Warmth pools in your chest at the praise.

You look at him with a doe eyes and a full mouth, bobbing on his cock as you slick it up.

He moans at the sight, placing a hand on the back of your head. He follows it up with another order.

“Deeper. I want to see you choke on it.”

You’re not in a position to argue, so you oblige, letting his cock slide as deep as you can, but he’s not pleased with your attempt. He tightens his grip on the back of your head, fingers laced between strands of hair, and slowly forces his cock in until you’re squeaking out noises involuntarily, eyes welling with tears.

He starts to fuck your mouth, slowly at first, but picks up the pace. He doesn’t wait for you to get your bearings or catch your breath, savoring the lengths you’ll go to please him.

“There you go, schatz, so good for me.”

The tears are steaming now as he triggers your gag reflex, and your underwear is stained with your arousal in response to being praised and used.

He pulls out of your mouth, his cock still wet with your spit, and takes a step back to admire you. Your breath quickening to catch up, the flushed look of your face, the disheveled hair. He relished in the mess he was making of the intelligent professional he had come to know.

He gives a pleased hum at how you wait so patiently for his next order.

“Up. Clothes off.”

Your breath hitched, cheeks flushing a shade deeper. You wipe the spit from your mouth and slowly stand, hands shaking with nerves.

Your fingers dig into the hem of your shirt, desperate to grip onto something, and you hesitate at his command, nervous to let him see you even more exposed.

You ignore your nerves, too willing to please Konig, and pull your shirt over your disheveled hair and discard it on the couch. Your fingers fumble with the waistband on your lounge pants, sheepishly pulling them down your thighs and stepping carefully out of them.

You stand before him in your underwear, and you can’t help but cross one arm over yourself. The way he’s staring at you, not shy about his gaze mapping your newly uncovered features. He steps forward again, close enough his hard cock brushes against your warm skin.

He gives a low hum of approval and steps closer, his hands gently running along your sides until they find your waist, staking their claim with a firm grip. He leans in and you feel the drape of his hood caress your shoulder as he brushes his head against yours, lips in your ear.

“You’re so beautiful, meine schatz.”

You close your eyes as he plants a kiss though his hood on your neck, and you can feel his breath through the soft cotton.

It’s not fair that you’re naked while he’s still fully covered. You feel so vulnerable and exposed.

You quickly understand that’s exactly what you had done to him and let out a soft whimper at the realization that this is intentional, that he’s issuing this power play as part of your punishment. You’ve had your time to admire his body, now it’s his turn.

“Bedroom, now.” The softness leaves his voice with the demand and he pulls away from you once again to get a better view of you.

The knot is your lower abdomen doubles as you turn and head to the bedroom, giving him a good long look at the back of you.

You stand at the narrow space between the end of the bed and the wall, looking up at him when he enters, waiting for his next order. You can’t help but notice the jingle of his belt as he carried it with him. He sets it on the bed and takes his time committing your image to memory.

“On your back, liebe.” The pet name doesn’t soften the domineering tone, warning you not to dare rebel against him.

You follow his order, getting up on the bed and laying down for him, your upper half propped up by your elbows.

Konig follows, crawling over top of you slowly, his massive frame engulfing you beneath him as you lean into the bed. He appears even more menacing over top of you, strong arms and legs trapping you beneath him. You can’t help the nervous expression on your face as you stare up at those hungry eyes.

He brings a hand up to touch your face, leaning forward to plant another kiss on your lips, lifting up his mask as he does so. It annoys you that whenever he pulls away the hood falls, and you can’t even get a peek at what you assume is a strong jaw.

The hand on your face slides down your neck, fingers traversing the bumps of your collarbones before he shifts down to your chest, stopping for a moment to tease your nipples to attention. You suck in a breath and arch into the touch.

He hums again, low and devious.

Your hands reach up to touch his arms, but he doesn’t let you, removing his hands from your chest and grabbing your wrists firmly. He passes one off so he can hold both of your arms in one strong grip, and you’re amazed he’s able to subdue both of your wrists with just one of his massive hands. He leans back and uses his free hand to reach for the belt at the foot of the bed, before wrapping it around your wrists and fastening the buckle tightly.

He leans in close to your face as he places your restrained hands back above your head. He takes in the way your breath quickens through parted lips, eyes wide and cheeks flush with excitement and worry. He likes making you falter, likes watching you breakdown underneath his power.

“You’re all mine.” He reminds you, one hand keeping your bound wrists firmly above your head.

You nod, and when you speak your voice comes out quiet and broken, “All yours, Konig.”

It gratifies him, judging by his self-assured laugh and the way his cock twitches against your stomach. “That’s it, liebe.”

He removes his grip on your forearm with a firm squeeze to remind you to stay, and he scoots himself back so that either leg is straddling your thighs instead of your waist. His gaze shifts down, soaking in every inch as he cups you over your underwear, his careful touch taking advantage of your sensitivity.

You can’t help but grind your hips into his teasing, already leaking for him.

“Mm, I can tell you’re enjoying this. Such a dirty little pervert you are.”

You close your eyes and let out a whine at the teasing, both verbal and physical.

“Don’t worry, liebe, I’m getting impatient as well.”

He slips his fingers into the waistband of your underwear, sliding his fingers along your hips to tease you a bit before sliding them down, having to readjust himself as he takes them off. He repositions himself between your legs this time, letting either of your ankles at his sides.

His hands slide up your quivering thighs, spreading you open and getting a good look at you. You try and fight the embarrassment under the heat of his stare, resisting the urge to bring your bound wrists down to cover yourself.

He takes his time slicking himself up with lube - he came prepared, you noticed. Premeditated passion. Guess he has to when he’s got such a large cock.

You’re worried about the logistics, but you get the feeling Konig wouldn’t dare hurt you in this way.

Once he’s nice and slicked, he lines the tip against your aching warmth, and leans down close to you.

“Are you ready, meine liebe?”

“Please, Konig.” You whine, rutting your hips to grind against him.

He closes his eyes as he slowly works himself into you. Your suspicions are confirmed as he stops just after the tip, opening his eyes again to confirm the level of comfort displayed on your features.

Your teeth are grit, but you nod your head in approval.

He’s continues, pace so careful as he pushes himself further into you. It’s been so long since you’ve got any action, especially action from someone so well endowed, you’re incredibly tight around him. He’s studying you, searching for signs of being pushed over the limit as he takes his time stretching you out.

You can’t help let out a soft moan when he’s halfway in, just at the feeling of being filled. Your eyes flutter shut, giving yourself the ability to concentrate on the cock working into you.

It takes awhile, it does. You’re so small and he’s so big, but he doesn’t seem to mind, enjoying using you as his cockwarmer, walls so cozy and tight around him. He thinks it’s so goddamn arousing that he’s so huge you have to push yourself to take him. He likes that he’s a challenge for you. He wants to train you and shape you in every sense of the word.

But for now, he allows you take the lead from underneath him, letting yourself grind your hips down on to him at your own pace as he lets low moans escape him.

When you’re finally at the point of desperately rutting your hips against him, you give him all he needs to hear.

“Fuck me, Konig, please fuck me.”

He obliges, unable to say no to your eager and breathy tone. His fingers grip onto your outer thighs as he thrusts into you. His pace is quick, but he’s still cautious not to force himself too deep inside you. He’s a disciplined man, after all.

Even without being all the way inside you, he’s still deep enough to hit the spot, forcing moans to escape from parted lips.

“Look at me, liebe.”

You oblige, and his cock twitches inside of you at the sight of your half-lidded eyes glazed in pleasure. He grunts, his pace picking up as he ventures deeper inside of you.

You can’t help the mutters and moans spilling from you. Your hands mindlessly move from above your head to his chest, tugging on the fabric of his shirt.

“You feel so good. So good for me, schatz.”

You moan in response, and he decides he’s worked you open enough to push all the way in.

You’re cockdrunk now. Breathy moans escaping without thought, eyes unfocused and body limp to his desires.

When he suddenly pulls out you whine. “Koni- please.”

“On your front.” He commands as he sits back on his knees, towering over you.

You’re flush and out of breath as you do as he says, positioning yourself the best you can with your hands bound. On all fours, head down towards the pillows as you arch your back.

The bed shifts under him as he scoots close before giving your ass a firm smack, the gasp leaving your mouth more out of surprise than pain. He gives you a few more, alternating between your cheeks. Just enough to leave handprints behind, marking you as his own.

He lines up with you again, pressing into you without hesitation.

You both let out moans at the return of warmth. He’s less gentle now, pounding into you hard enough the sound of flesh crashing together fills the room. The creaky bed is slamming against the dingy walls and your thighs are rippling on impact. You can’t help but quiver as the pleasure washes through you.

He’s got such a rhythmic pace, slamming into you while he grips your hips tight to keep you still.

“All mine.” He growls between breathy groans.

You can't even respond, practically drooling into the pillows as Konig fucks you senseless. A string of broken praises fall from your lips, mostly nonsense. Konig leans in and leaves little kisses down your back, without breaking his pace.

“Koni, I’m gon’na- fuck, Konig.”

“Come for me, meine liebe.”

Your eyes pinch shut and a broken moan leaves your lips as you ride the waves of intense pleasure washing through you. It’s enough to make your entire body clench, your walls gripping onto Konig.

He doesn’t let up, forcing your thighs open as he mercilessly pounds you through orgasm.

He gives your ass another firm smack, and your fingers are clawing desperately at the pillows, searching for any sort of stability but you’re powerless to Konig and his forceful cock.

You’re on cloud nine, feeling so far away from your body as you’re washed up on the shores of pleasure. Konig’s strength is the only thing holding you steady.

“I’m going to come, schatz.” He warns, moaning your name just like he did on the video before he fills you up and stakes his claim deep inside you.

His fingers dig into your thighs as his muscles tense under his clothes, his thrusts and moans becoming uneven as he loses himself to the euphoric gratification.

He pauses for a few moments after he slows to a stop, taking a moment to catch his breath as he lets his cock warm inside you.

He pulls out of you with a low grunt, watching the come that spills out of you. When he releases his grip on you, you’re too weak to support yourself, sliding limp on your front and basking in the afterglow of your orgasm.

He takes pleasure in knowing he marked you, completely broke you down and disheveled you. Made you feel so good you have to collect yourself afterwards.

He steps out for a moment before quickly returning with something to clean you both up with.

He’s gentle with the clean-up, wiping away the mixture of lube and come from you while minding your sensitivity, not wanting to disturb your bliss. He removes the belt from your wrists as well.

“Konig? Cuddle.” You mutter, arm stretching across the bedspread.

You don’t see the smile underneath his hood, but after he wipes himself off he joins you back on the bed, the mattress creaking for a final time as he pulls you in a spoon. You feel so safe and small, pressed into him like this. His strong arms wrapped around you. His chest on your back. You let out a pleased hum.

“That’s going to make a nice video.” He says, removing his earpiece and turning it off as he sets it on the bed.

“You can have the real thing anytime.” You say, eyes closed with a warm smile on your face.

He hums low in your ear and gives you a kiss on the cheek, “You’re forgiven, Schatz.”

“Thank you Koni.”

You both drift off, tired out from your intense finishes.

You stay close throughout the night, but having him pressed into you unfortunately didn’t stop the nightmares. When you wake up in a panic, kicking and screaming at the latest renditioning of your mind’s unresolved trauma, Konig’s there to press his hand to your heart, telling you that everything’s okay, it was just a nightmare.

Your breath is still rapid and your heart is still pounding as you steady yourself, transitioning yourself back to reality after the night terror.

He hugs you so tight, reminding you about how he’ll always be there to protect you, that no one will ever hurt you again, he will not let anything happen to you.

You steady yourself, and he knows well enough how hard it is to calm yourself after such an immersive terrifying experience.

“I brought something for that, Schatz.”

When he leaves the room you think he’s going to bring you a book, a puzzle, something to do to distract yourself.

What he brings back makes you tense, your eyes widening at the gift. He sets it down for you, getting back into the bed and resuming his position wrapped around you, protecting you. But your eyes are glued to the gift, the full implications sinking in.

Konig had set down Ghost’s mask.

“No one will find out about your secret. I took care of it.”

You don’t need him to explain further. You know Ghost will never have the opportunity to hurt you again.

“Thank you, Konig.”

He kisses your shoulder through his hood, “My pleasure, meine liebe. Sleep tight.”

And you do.

———————————————————————-

More by uhohdad:

The Girl Who Conquered The Mountain: [Hunger Games AU] Konig & Reader are selected to fight in a twenty-four tribute fight to the death.

Meine Perle: Reader is tasked with feeding enemy prisoner Octo!Konig

HIS: Konig has an unhealthy obsession with you.

Original Works Masterlist

#konig #konig cod #konig call of duty #konig modern warfare #konig mw2 #call of duty #cod #modern warefare ii #modern warefare 2 #konig x reader #smut #konig x you #x reader #fic #experimental #uhohwriting

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thedevilspearl · 1 year

Note

ooo for the kink game! what about a neglect kink? i'm so curious lol

neglect kink

had to use google for this one and why do i lowkey already fantasise about this? like....the idea of your partner being right there but not giving you attention? hello???

a/n: need to clarify that this would happen between trusting partners where it is discussed beforehand. neglecting your partner is never okay but some people may enjoy not being given affection or attention, perhaps as punishment. no judging or kinkshaming please! minors do not interact!

you already know lucifer is on this list! imagine....you’ve been very bad and he isn’t happy at all. he has no qualms stripping you down and placing you on the armchair across from his desk. and while he busies himself with paperwork, you’re not allowed to move or speak and every time you try to get his attention, he’s going to ignore you for longer. not once does he look up from his work, and every time you break a rule, he’s adding ten minutes to the timer. and don’t even think about touching yourself, because then he’ll add an hour.

with levi, it definitely stems from his low self–esteem and insecurities. it takes a lot of explaining for you to realise it’s a coping mechanism. even if his self–worth has improved over time, he still wants to try it. and oh my goodness, he loves it. the idea of you dominating him is riveting enough. but when you have the power to ignore him completely....he is so into it. he loves when you sit in his gaming chair playing on a device while he’s on his knees whining and begging you for attention. he’s so hard, desperately rutting against your ankle while you don’t even acknowledge his existence. it’s so hot.

belphie’s neglect kink is more secretive, and more perverted in manner. you have every reason to ignore him after what he did. and he knows it will take time for you to forgive and warm up to him. in the meantime, however, he finds himself stroking his cock to the thought of you always hanging out with his brothers, but never him. the way you don’t even look at him makes his cock throb like never before. it’s gross but he can’t help it. he would never act this kink out with you, though. it would pretty much disappear when you start being friendly with him.

i have a hard time trying to explain simeon with this kink but i just know he has it. oh how he would just love to tie you up mid–sex, preferably right before you orgasm. you’re thrashing around and begging him to not tie you up because you know what’s coming. hours and hours of neglect. every now and then, he would check in on you, ensuring you’re still okay before going back to his book and tea. but he doesn’t leave you with nothing. as a reward for you being so patient, he will give you as many orgasms as you desire, and more. “patience is a virtue, my love. you learned that, right?”

#♡ pearl’s entertainment #obey me #obey me x reader #obey me lucifer #lucifer x reader #obey me leviathan #obey me levi x reader #obey me belphegor #belphegor x reader #obey me simeon #simeon x reader #obey me smut #lucifer smut #obey me levi smut #belphegor smut #obey me simeon smut #obey me smut headcanons

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whereserpentswalk · 8 months

Text

There's a world out there, on the edge of human space, where a virus has spread that rots off human skin. They interact with aliens more then humans so there's not much fear of it spreading, but for the people on that world it's like humanity is slowly being eaten away.

Most people can't afford to quarantine or to go off world. It's attached to everything, it's in the water, in the air, in the soil. After a few decades everyone is infected, children born on the planet are born infected, it's just a matter of when it begins to take hold.

People live their lives with their skin slowly rotting away. It just looks like they're pale and sickly at first, but then slowly, useally starting with the fingers, it starts to take them. Due to technology on the planet being sufficiently advanced it is survivable, but the rotted skin must be replaced with an artificial skin, that looks and feels like black rubber. In the early stages it looks like someone is just wearing black rubber gloves, but as time goes on it gets to take up more and more of the body. By the end stages everything is replaced with a shiny black covering, the face has to be replaced with a device that looks like a gas mask as the mouth and eyes are particularly ravaged by the virus. Due to eating being impossible when someone's face is replaced injections must be taken regularly.

People live their lives mourning what they've lost. They'll go to the beach for one last time. Eat their favorite food knowing they won't be able to. They'll ask their loved one's to play with their hair or stroke their skin before it's gone. People will make love for the last time before the virus takes their genitals. They'll look at the things and people they love before their eyes are made lidless and covered in glass. Its made worse by its slowness, everyone counting down the moments, and watching as they lose more and more of their bodies.

But people can cope. They can still live even once the virus has taken everything that it can. People start customizing their artificial skin with paint and stickers. Some people add loose hoods or even wigs to their skins so they won't look bald. They end up picking out masks that they feel suit them the most, changing them sometimes. People live entire lives without skin, when you're like that for long enough it stops being your top priority. You have to live your life nomatter the pain, though once all your skin is gone you end up more numb then you are in pain.

Eventually most of the humans on that planet reproduce through cloning. Sex is mostly out of the picture once you don't have skin, but humanity still needs to exist. It's important to people that humanity survives on this planet in a part of the galaxy where humans are rare. After a few generations people are skinned at birth, as it's seen as less cruel then letting them feel the pain of losing their skin. And when you're in a world where nobody has skin, having skin seems weird and scary. Eventually warriors and nobility from this planet opt for a more metalic and armored artificial skin, further changing how this branch of humanity relates to its condition.

When a fleet of humans from another planet comes to visit that world, hoping for an alliance between fellow humans in a place where humans are rare, they don't even still see eachother as being part of the same species.

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setsugekka · 1 year

Text

❥interview with the littérateur (m)

↳ With your career hanging on by a thread and at the mercy of your publisher, heading up to the old estate on the mountain for a couple of months to write a biographical piece about the keeper feels a bit of a whimsical blessing.

Only to find one of the most brilliant, beautiful minds wasting away within the walls.

→ the last installment of the paradise lost universe.

kim hongjoong x fem!reader — strangers to lovers, romance, heavy angst, slow burn, pining, sexual content. [24,7k wc] cws: mental health struggles, depression, substance addiction (alcohol+pain meds), overdose (vomiting), unhealthy relationships & coping strategies, their relationship is not really the healthiest but it makes for good fiction. penetrative sex.

As the antique clock strikes eight at night, you blink through a relatively empty thought and become starkly aware of your immediate surroundings once more.

Tongue dragging over your front teeth and chin clasped in your hand, you realize your staring out into the nothingness of your quiet apartment — a cup of tea now long since chilled from the cool breeze wafting in from the open window across the room, and your phone sitting face up as you sit in wait for the inevitable phone call that more certainly will be arriving at any moment now.

It's been months coming, this phone call. Months of slow work and even slower payoff as a result of the work that does get done, the conversation that you're about to embark on with your publisher is far from anything new, and the information being given to you by the man more of the same.

Part of you is merely hoping that you'll end the night with your employment still intact.

Eyes screwing shut as you attempt to fight back the emerging thoughts of doom that threaten to overtake you, you instead make the quick decision to stand and head into your kitchen for a wine glass and a much-too-large offering of red to calm your nerves.

Yes, it's a Wednesday. No, you do not care.

But really the problem reside in the fact that you feel as though all options already exhausted: in a world where people and media seems to be constantly in shift, you can't help but wonder if perhaps the golden art of the written word simply be on the outs. That maybe the world is simply moving on without you.

Journalism and the writing therein being a craft that you've honed for so many years — as long as you can recall, really — the thought of moving on to something different or new not a decision that you take lightly. Rather, it's not one that you care to take, at all.

The vibration of your telephone comes in suddenly, and much louder than you had anticipated against the stained glass of your living room table. Shockingly even to you, your reach towards the device is swift as you answer the call with the utmost urgency.

Some part of you desperate to meet an end, in ways.

Taking work calls this late and so far from billed hours isn't uncommon, and is something that you've grown rather used to in your time doing this line of work. If the city never sleeps, then neither would its inhabitants, and if there comes to be a story to tell — well, you simply have to be able get there to tell it, don't you?

"How are you?"

A kind consideration from the man on the other end rather than a genuine curiosity, due in part to the fact that he very well know precisely how it is that you're doing. You suppose that you're doing as well as any other person would be when their career is hanging on by a thread, and as a result, everything else about their life as they know it.

The bills have already begun to pile up as a result of the cutbacks and lack of commission checks — no more bonuses and at this point, you've made it to the final round of employees still left in your line of business at the agency.

Until the guys at the top tire of bleeding money endlessly into a division of craft seemingly long since lost and forgotten by the people of this town.

"Oh, you know," you answer back, and with little effort to conceal the air of devastation laden in your tone.

"I do," he acknowledges with ease and a sigh. "Things are tough and I've had to pull a lot of strings with the guys upstairs to not get our whole place sacked. You know that."

You do.

"On the bright side, if you're concerned about this being that phone call, then I can put your mind at ease for now. It's not."

The words do quell your fears in the immediate moment. Knowing that your job remain intact at least for now means that you'll be able to pay your rent and put food in your mouth for the next month, at least. Beyond that? Only time will tell, really.

One day at a time.

"Your work is good, some of the best I've ever seen in all of my years doing this — and you know I'm not just blowing smoke up your ass, either. It's not you. We've let a lot of good writers go as a result of all of this and I really hate to see it, you know that."

He's a nice enough man, but one thing your publisher is not, is short-winded. A tendency to babble. After years at the firm, you're learned to pick and choose your listening ability — able to hone in only on the important bits that will eventually come to head through all of the other words that happen to fall along side them from the mans tiresome mouth.

"I think I have a lead—"

Oh?

"—you're not going to like it, though."

Oh.

Through the speaker, you can hear him flipping through paperwork sat in his lap, or maybe even on a table in front of him. The mental image of him so easily seen despite his physical absence in front of you: sloppy comb-over hairstyle and a toothpick in his mouth that dangles from the corner at all times, regardless of how recently he has eaten anything, you can't help but perk up at the thought of him — more than likely so proud of himself for finally finding something that might assist the both of you on your journey to not having to file for unemployment in the immediate future.

"Well, I'm not really in any position to turn something down, so lay it on me, I suppose."

"You know the place at the top of the hill?"

Eyebrows knitting together as you attempt to recall the vision of such a thing, you do so quickly, although the idea of what this could have to do with anything still far from your knowledge as you work to put the potential pieces together of where your boss be going with this well ahead of his arrival at the point.

"The manor? What about it?"

"Turns out someone lives there — has for years already and almost no one knows about it," he begins, the slicing sound of pages flipping ringing loud and clear through the phone again as he drawls on. "According to my sources he's an artist. Done a lot of paint work and some photography that did really well but wrote a book after the fact and that's what really ended up catapulting him into whatever sort of fame he landed in."

Gently shaking your head as you listen to him, you can't help but ask the obvious question. The question that anyone else in your position would be asking. "Okay. So what?"

"I think that there is an opportunity here."

Sucking your teeth and glancing up to no one in the empty living room of your apartment, you try desperately to see the angle at which your publisher is seeing this from. You don't wish to be condescending, truly, because you know he wouldn't be bringing this up to you at all if not for genuinely seeing a range of possibility here.

But for you, it is lost.

"So, we're just going to write up pieces about everyone who has ever written a book in this city in hopes that one of them hits it big?" you joke, but only partially.

Chuckling at your reluctance on the other end of the phone, the man inhales deeply — so much so that you can hear him do so. "No, but this guy is sort of a special case — and less than the man or the piece itself, instead it's sort of the surroundings in which the project would take place that would make it special. Which is why I'm bringing it to you, and not to anyone else."

"What 'surroundings' are we talking about, here?"

And without hearing more, you already know that you're not going to like whatever it is that he have to bestow upon you.

"So, this guy is a bit of a reclusive type from what I'm gathering. I've glanced through the book he wrote and it's quite good, but it certainly doesn't give off the impression that should you go up there to meet with him that he'll be welcoming you with open arms," pausing, your publisher flips through another page or two before continuing on with the thought. "And per my sources, he doesn't do interviews, anyway."

Rolling your eyes and gently shaking your head, thankful that the man unable to see your disappointment in this monumental waste of your time, you make a conscious effort to bite all of that back before responding to him once more. "Okay, sounds like a lead that's dead in the water, then."

"Not quite."

Great.

"I know a guy who knows his publisher, and it seems as though management on this guys end is getting rather fed up with the down in the dumps, unwillingness to work act that our little artist has been putting on for a good while now, so as a result, he's willing to cut a deal to get us an otherwise unattainable opportunity."

And while you appreciate his dedication to being incredibly thorough with the unveiling of information to you, you can't help but feel the distinct cloud of dread looming overhead at whatever it is that the man is purposefully avoiding telling you in regards to this 'opportunity,' in particular.

A lot of words, and still no arrival at the actual point of how you are expected to go about this, after all. The manor on the hill a good hour and a half train north, and from the station an additional forty-five minutes up the bend — and that's before you ever even arrive on the property. Suffice to say, it's far from a journey you wish to make weekly, or worse than that, multiple times a week.

You know that he knows this, and that his giving pause almost certainly revolve around this point, in particular.

"And do tell me of this once in a lifetime opportunity," you finally beckon, playfully sarcastic in tone and drawling another chuckle from the man on the other end of the line.

Sighing, as if bested in his own game and with no other option but to relinquish the reigns of knowledge he's been doing his best to avoid, he finally fills you in on just what it is that is being asked of you.

You just about drop your phone to the floor as a result of it, too.

"It's only for a few months!" He insists earnestly, nearly pleading for your mercy already even in spite of your lack of declining as much. "And really, you can leave any time, I just really think this is going to be it. I really think this is our best shot. No one else has ever been offered an opportunity to talk with him like this!"

"You're effectively asking me to write a book, a biography!" You bite back quickly. "I've never written anything like that before, I don't know the first thing about writing something like that, and now you're asking me to move into a strangers home who you admit to being none too inviting towards me in an attempt to pry him open for information about his life?"

Silence blankets the both of you when you finish your tirade, chest heaving and just about out of breath as a result of it when you finish. With a few seconds passing of quiet between you, the man on the other end of the phone exhales heavily again, before answering you with a simple but affirmative, "yes."

Thinking through all of the branches of outcomes that accepting something like this would and could mean for you, you can't help but shake your head in disbelief as you continue on with your loud bewilderment as a result of what is being asked of you.

"You know that I would have to sell my apartment? My belongings? What do I do if this doesn't pay off?"

"How many more months can you afford your place with the way things are going now?"

The response shuts you up entirely — neither petty nor delivered with contempt, rather, an honest question coming from a man that you know reside in the very same position as you do: with the bank notices piling up on the coffee table just next to you and the looming darkness of your job going under at any given moment even after the promise of tomorrow being another day of the same, it is, unfortunately, a fair enough question that you know he already know the answer to.

"I wouldn't ask you to do this if I didn't think there was promise in it," he amends the statement, and with compassion carrying his tone. "I can't promise it'll turn out the way that I hope it will, but I can promise that the result of it not turning out is the same as you not going at all."

You've already arrived to that conclusion, unfortunately. Realizing that at some point in the conversation you've forgotten to breathe, you finally inhale deeply at what this means for you — for your immediate future and your life as you've known it.

The living elsewhere for a few months is the simplicity of it, of course. The beautiful, vine covered manor just at the top of the hill, who wouldn't dream of spending a night roaming the candlelit halls of such an exquisite landmark — and perhaps even calling it home, for however temporary that may be.

Rather, it's the lack of knowing what reside therein: before cutting the call, your publisher tells you that he will email you the details of the arrangement should you choose to accept it, as well as the subjects name and the title of his book. The information reads acceptance of guests as early as the next week, and you can't help but think of how you could possibly have all of your loose ends tied up in time to make this deadline — much less, any of the future deadlines that await you ahead of this journey.

A hard, long close of your eyes before you set your phone back down onto the table and lie back along the length of your uncomfortable, mustard yellow couch — you stare up towards the ceiling as your mind swims in thought at...this. Quite simply, just all of this.

A book titled 'Without Warning.'

If you think back, you find that you do recall hearing some of the buzz about it in the office and even at your favorite coffee shop just below your flat — something that you suppose you've somehow managed to miss during the ardent struggle of figuring out how it is that you'll manage to make your rent payment each and every month, with the words now pressed to the forefront of your mind, it's familiar — and if you're honest, a bit intriguing, now.

And as you lie there in the cold, dead of night and long since resigned to your fate, you think of the picture of the back of the book as sent over by the man you had just been on the phone with only minutes earlier: small and frail as he sit slumped against the edge of a stool for a photograph that he makes no effort in concealing his distaste for, it's the distinct and sharp slope of his nose against otherwise soft features that really has your attention.

Paired with a rather telling unwillingness to look into the camera, as well.

As a result, you can't help but ponder how much of himself lie within the text of the book in question. How much raw, tender, still-beating heart hide buried between pages for the world to cast their gaze upon. So much so that he have no other option but to avert his eyes entirely at the promise of any additional prying looks upon his already open wounds.

How much of yourself have you accidentally allowed the world to bear witness to, and how monumental has the suffering been, in turn?

Transition is difficult. Life carries with it tremendous pain; so tell me yours, Kim Hongjoong.

When the day finally arrives, you're at the very least thankful for the fact that you have little belongings left to worry about from this day on — a certain tranquility resulting from the downsizing of ones things, when the black vehicle meant to take you to your new and temporary home pulls up slowly to the curb in front of the apartment building that you've once called home, you find that you have no choice but to seek peace in the ownership of nothing more than two suitcases full of the comfort of what once was.

There's still some furniture left along with a handful of other things that your publisher is happy to take care of in your absence as thanks for doing all of this to begin with. As a result, it feels a bit like abandoning your life in favor for another one: a quick disappearance and so many unanswered questions about what the future has in store for you — as the driver comes around to take your bags and place them into the trunk of the car, he brings himself further still to open the backseat door for you, as well.

It feels bizarrely upper class and official, being treated like some sort of royalty despite being far from deserving of it, and even more than that, far from meeting with it, as well. The man in question that you're meant to accompany for the next few months no one of nobility or royal bloodline; nothing more than a guy with far more money than he likely knows what to do with, and as a result, hired staff often the obvious decision among the less-common folks.

Only a little less than an hour by car until you reach the large, decorative, black metal gates of the property; part of you regrets having thought judgmentally of the car being sent for you at all now that the travel time is cut down so substantially — even so, with your forehead just about pressed up to the glass of the window as you're gently carried along the gravel road and up towards the residence, your eyes follow along with all of the greenery and decorative architecture that line the pathway for your journey: meticulously trimmed and shaped trees as well as other such shrubbery that is so evidently kept preened and proper, you know that realistically no one who lives on such a property is taking care of it on their own — such a feat nearly impossible as it is — and it's then that you catch vision of one of many presumable staff members that call this massive castle their home in order to maintain it throughout the years.

However, you tend to not think too highly of those with kept staff. Perhaps judgmental of you, but in your experience the sorts of people come along with a bit of a reputation for being quite self-important.

Insufferable, miserable types.

When the vehicle stops finally and just in front of the long, wide set of white cement steps leading up to the front doors, the driver is the first to exit; once again opening your door and shortly thereafter circling around to the back to pop the trunk and retrieve your belongings. As you step out slowly and you make your first step onto the gravel below, it finally begins to hit you just how much of a massive undertaking you've agreed to undergo, and all for the sake of you and your career.

An unfathomably massive landmark of a castle — this much is not news, with the manor able to be seen from just about anywhere in town, but now that you're here you find its greatness far more breathtaking than you had really and truly expected when accepting the terms of this endeavor.

Hard to believe that all of this land, and all of this home, belong to one, single man.

"Your bags," the driver says, and the words come as such a surprise that you're sure you appear just as jarred as you are from hearing them. "It's just up the stairs and through the doors, the madam will greet you inside and show you the grounds from there."

Thanking him, you take your things from him and make quick work of the travel between two places, taking in the sights and scents around you. The air is crisper up here, cleaner, in some way.

It's rather delightful, inexplicably intoxicating on account of being so far out from the inner city now.

Stilling in front of two massive, wooden doors — carved and weathered from years of exposure to the elements — you find yourself already making so many mental notes of your surroundings for the book that you have somehow found yourself responsible for writing, in spite of everything. Surprisingly, you find the desire to document your discoveries here already ever present; the want to quickly get to your lodging and dig out your laptop for jotting thoughts down already making itself known at the forefront of your mind.

Two knocks, but you decide to simply help yourself to entry once you reconsider the likelihood of being heard by anyone in such an expansive place like this.

"Hello?"

Your greeting echoes through the wide open halls of the doorway, and quite quickly you hear hurried footsteps making their way towards you on the shined, dark green marble of the floor as far as the eye can see.

It smells like vanilla and cinnamon — faint, but present nonetheless. Inviting and comforting, you're thankful for that much, at least.

And from your left a woman comes suddenly from around the corner: long, dark blue dress and a towel in hand as she continues wiping her hands while making her way towards you with a gentle smile.

"You're here."

"Yeah, sorry, I sort of just let myself in..."

"That's quite all right," she continues her smile. "You'll be living here, after all. This is your home, too. Come and go as you wish."

Offering her a simple nod in response, your attention instead gets pulled to everything surrounding — dark interior and candles lining hallways in a way that makes the place feel suspenseful and medieval, you hear her let out a bit of a laugh that has you bringing your attention back to hers, only to find her glancing around just the same as you had been moments ago.

"The mister enjoys his dark tones," she says without being asked. "A bit of a dramatic fellow, as artists are most often. Shall I show you to your room?"

Following along with the woman, she informs you that her name is Rosaria, and it not all that necessary to refer to her as the madam — that being on the premises tends to give a feeling of olden times and as a result, people often find it easy to slip into a sort of role play, as it were. Pretending to be in a historical piece you think to be extremely easy the more you walk the halls — everything surrounding you feeling incredibly antiquated and long since lost from its original time, it brings you far more intrigue about the man than you originally had.

What kind of person prefers to surround themselves with so many things that feel so distinctly of the past? Not their past, but a past long before their conception, at that.

"It's here."

Stopping just in front of the doorway, Rosaria unlocks the door and hands the key to you before taking your bags and entering the room with you following closely behind.

It's not only massive, but beautiful, as well.

A single huge bookshelf lining one of the walls and chock full of more reading material than you know what to do with — plush, white rugs on either side of a bed far larger and more ornate than you would ever find yourself needing — you take specific notice of the bathroom and the vanity stationed just next to it before turning your attention back to the woman with a collection of features that is all too telling of your feeling out of your element, entirely.

"The staff are on duty twenty-four seven, so if you ever need anything please use the telephone on the dresser to call down or feel free to come find someone," she tells you with a delicate, placating grin. "The kitchen is just downstairs where we met, you'll find it with ease should you go poking around down there. Is there anything else I can get for you or any other questions you may have?"

"Yeah," you answer, still glancing around nearly absentmindedly but understanding of the question presented to you all the same. "When do I meet him?"

But instead of being met with an immediate reply, instead you're presented with a bizarre and unmistakably cumbrous silence before the woman standing before you takes it upon herself to respond to the inquiry.

"The master isn't around much," she begins, and watching her eyes pull elsewhere you know this to be far from a topic she wishes to be engaging in. Likely because the woman have little to offer you in consolation of the fact. "The grounds are effectively yours while you're here, however, so enjoy your stay. All but the upstairs master bedroom, of course."

"With all due respect," you start quickly and before the woman is able to escape from the conversation in question. "How am I expected to write a book about a man that I'm not able to speak to or get into contact with."

And to that, Rosaria merely gifts you a small, simple grin — one that almost as quickly melts into a frown.

"You do have your work cut out for you."

Upon deciding to take the main keeper of the home up on the offer to wander the halls and make your way to the aforementioned kitchen, you carefully make your way out from your bedroom and into the corridor, marveling at the litany of antique paintings and statued figures that line the walls and walkway as you carry yourself towards the direction from which you came. A home that feels entirely unlived in and more like a museum, staffed with people to ensure the sanctity of the space and that no harm come to the artwork on display within the mansion, it brings to you just that much more bubbling curiosity about the man who chooses to keep himself utterly locked away and alone within such a place.

Surrounded by collections and one of a kind items, but seemingly never to be gazed upon by anyone but the people tasked with their delicate upkeep.

In one room along the way and on the same side as your own, you glance into the open doorway to find nothing but more of the same: a wide array of books, statues, and indoor plants. A place that feels as though it should be wholly blocked off and not meant for anyones entry despite being told of quite the opposite.

Beyond this room and on the other side of the hall you're far from shocked to find nothing more than similar to the last. This time, a small, wooden table with a handful of books stacked one on top of the other, as well as a large, plush chair to accompany the scene. A comfortable, quiet, reading room of sorts, but you suppose for none other than the staff and should any guests happen to find themselves wandering these halls just as you are — then, for them to enjoy, as well.

But you don't figure that such a time comes to pass all that often here.

One thing that you find yourself thankful for, however, is your sense of direction and the ease in which you're able to navigate such an expansive property. Not long until you make your way back down the stairs and into the central welcoming area, you quietly saunter towards the same doorway in which the madam had originally exited to greet you, and through there you find yourself surrounded by a wide open, and immaculately kept kitchen: black marble counter tops as well as black painted cupboards with little golden knobs for accenting — upon entering, you take pause to enjoy the sight of such a place and for a moment you consider just how much could be done with a space like this. Large gatherings of loved ones and people alike for dinner and parties, and just as Rosaria had warned, you find yourself enjoying the fantasy of a decadent masquerade among royalty — the long, perfectly made dining room table just to your right aiding in the beauty of the vision.

Impossible to not view it as a bit of a waste, but none of your business, all the same.

Gently prying open drawers and handles to locate cutlery and dinnerware for the inevitability of needing to feed yourself, once you get a hang of where things go, you take it upon yourself to bring an eye into the tall, stainless steel refrigerator kept just next to the archway from which you entered.

However, inside of it you find very little. Thoughtfully kept fruits and veggies from the kitchen staff for meal prep but otherwise empty as far as food seems to go.

Rather, you take notice of the wide array of alcohol bottles that line the shelves within. White wines and other such bottles that you're not able to discern from one another at a glance, you can't shake the feeling of walking in on something that perhaps wasn't meant for your eyes, at all.

Suppose that food can wait, and especially with more of the property to take in the sight of.

If meant to be living within the walls of a museum, you think it only right to truly engage with it as such: walking further down the hallway and from the kitchen, you pass a large living room with a fireplace. One table and three, enormous, plush, red velvet chairs all seated at some angle to it, it's unremarkable to you how empty and harrowing everything about the home feels. A sort of cold chill that comes from walking the premises unlike anything ever felt before — distinctly feeling as if the property of someone long since passed away, and yet knowing that the man still very much alive and well, pointedly holed up at the highest point and far away from the prying eyes of any potential onlookers such as yourself.

And the truth is that yes, you want nothing more than to look upon him, quite possibly just as much as he wish to not receive your glance. A tug-of-war between two people having never even met before, but in your head you make a point to call out to him in hopes that somehow, some way, he come to hear your beckoning for him.

Whatever you're afraid of, you don't have to be.

Making your way to the end of the dark, marble walkway, a woman enters from through the crystal clear glass doors with gloves and gardening tools in hand. Offering you a smile and continuing on her way too quickly for you to be able to grant her the same in return, you catch the door in hand before it shuts and slowly make your way in the direction from which she came: large, perfectly shapen shrubs lining the same white cemented steps as the front doors of the house now leading you down and into the vast garden of the grounds: as far as the eye can see you find the overwhelming beauty of greenery and colorful flowers — accompanying the sights comes the clear scents of such, as well. Refreshing and alluring, you close your eyes and allow it all to encompass you as you stand at the very last step, a light, cool breeze cascading across your face and wafting the feelings over you all the more.

With a few steps further, you meet the quiet rumbling of a large, beautifully crafted water fountain — small droplets of water splashing out and onto the exposed flesh of your hands and face, you look up towards it and the statue of the figure that sit atop it: a mermaid sort of figure with a large orb of some sort in hand.

Another breeze, and paired with the dampness offered by the fountain, it sends a chill down your spine — the temperature dropping as the night carries on with each passing minute.

It's only the first night and you press upon yourself not to be presumptuous, but after having walked the halls and enjoyed the sights, scents and sounds of the property, you can't help but consider what kind of man wish to have such things, yet not truly enjoy them. Even prior to your arrival and with Rosaria's admittance, the mister of the manor often left unseen and rather accepted as a quiet and unacknowledged occupant of the home, now more than ever you simply have to know more about him.

The kind of man that needs to surround himself with beauty and yet refuses to indulge in it whatsoever.

Back inside of your room and comfortably unpacked, you sit at the study with laptop open and sigh out into the open air at not only what you've come to learn, but the lack of it, as well. You contemplate just how you are expected to interview a man with no clear interest in being interviewed by you — a man who quiet evidently avoids the halls of his own home even among no one else but the company of his housekeepers, now faced with the intrusion of an outsider.

How is one meant to lure such a man out, and even if you were to, how are you expected to get him to talk? Open up? Bare his soul to you, a stranger, when all evidence thus far points to a distinct unwillingness to do anything of the sort.

Glancing over towards one of your suitcases as it lie open on the floor, inside of it you take notice of a book.

'Without Warning'.

Tucked into bed and with novel in hand, it's not long before the hurt nestled between the pages becomes so starkly evident to you. Buried deep within hides a younger, successful, and much more optimistic man — and along the way, documented is all of the ways in which each and every one of those eventually be ripped away from his grasp.

The irony of living in such a place while speaking as if success never having found him at all: no stranger to money, and still with plenty of it, yet, with every turn of the page he tells a tale of loss. Still, through all of the aforementioned, it's none of them that appear to wear on him as much as the one in particular — a word distinctly and pointedly left out from the text in as many ways as he has found it possible. Though, as a reader, and a writer yourself, it's not difficult to discern precisely the word that it is that has found itself decidedly absent from each and every page of his memoir.

Love.

Never said, but alluded to in full — so many pages dedicated to family and travel and a person, but the word never uttered. As if so much as even typing it cause the man in question such grievous heartache that he cannot bear the thought of doing so.

How can you feel so much, and do so without love?

A question presented with the most obvious answer: you don't. As a result, the next most obvious question lie in wait, instead.

Why does love hurt you so?

It takes eight days.

On the evening of the seventh and just after tucking yourself in for bed, you receive the deadline text that you suspect to have been coming all along. Waking up in the morning, the words still hang just as heavily in your mind as if just having read them as you come into consciousness.

'Word going around upstairs is that our department has three months until dissolution, hope you can get something in time.'

So do you.

Faintly, you can hear the sounds from down below of the kitchen staff preparing breakfast for all of the inhabitants of the estate. With a slow roll to your side, you reach for your phone to check the time as the light just begins to peak in through the gently swaying blinds across the room.

Just barely past seven. It smells like pancakes and bacon.

And even through the clamoring of pots and pans downstairs, you think that nothing sound off as loudly as the nearly empty word document that reside all but untouched on your laptop just a few feet away.

A week in and you've more or less gotten used to the routine of the staff within the home — passing by the same handful of people each and every time you make your way downstairs for your first meal of the day and greeted by smiling faces, you suppose that you've found yourself more and more comfortable with your new normal as it stands now. There are obvious perks, of course: a freshly made bed and sheets each day, frequently done laundry and home cooked meals not needing of your own hands for preparation, it's jarring in some ways as something you've never considered yourself living in, much less getting used to — yet, you fall into it with surprising ease.

Three steps down the grand staircase towards the open entrance room, you hear a distinctly unfamiliar voice — two, in fact. Men, as far as you can tell, but no visual in sight yet and only your ears to go off of, you wonder if you're soon to stumble upon previously unmet staff members who likely find themselves busy most hours of the day with activities that don't lend themselves to making friends with passerby.

How delightful, you think to yourself as you continue on your way.

Winding down the rest of the carpeted steps, when the source of the voices come into focus, you certainly wouldn't be able to explain to anyone how it is that you know, only that you do.

One man facing you and the other with his back turned, your eyes hone in on the man not yet having you in his sights — with brown hair that lie long against his neck and shoulders across a thin, long, black cardigan and loose, dark pants that could just as well make a case for being pajama pants — it's the gentleman standing in front of the door and most able to meet your eye that does so first, whatever words on his tongue stalling at the sight of you entering and as a result, pulling the attention of the other man in question.

Turning slowly, the man with the mullet glances back and over his shoulder at you just briefly before switching back to whatever business he happen to be attending to.

"You can't keep putting this off, I can only stall them so much before I need to be able to give them something, anything—"

"I'm working on it."

You're only listening in and yet can't help but notice how undeniably flat the response is, and understanding the lingo all too well, you come to understand this man to be his publisher.

"You haven't given me anything in six months, Hongjoong," the man sighs, evidently grown tired of having this very same conversation for who knows how many times by now. "I need something. This month."

"I know, I'm working on it."

And as you reach the bottom of the staircase, the publishers attention once again pulls to you. Exasperated and beyond defeated, his bids the man of the house a simple farewell before turning and exiting the building.

As for the man left remaining, he merely slips his hands into his pockets, staring at the door in front of him as it slowly comes to a booming close.

Now that you're level with him, you take the time presented to eye him much more closely — not knowing when the next time may be that you're graced with his presence, as it is. Small in stature and dressed as if having just rolled out of bed himself, Hongjoong exhales with a sigh before turning and taking a step towards you.

Thankfully, the time has finally come.

But rather than an introduction, you're merely left with a short glance as the man carry himself past you and back up the staircase just behind you without a single word spoken.

Just silence and an undeniable limp to his step.

"M-Mr. Kim!"

It's the best you can muster up at a moments notice, and thankfully it does give him pause as he stills mid-stride and halfway up the stairs. Staring up at him, you watch as he turn ever so slowly to allow his gaze to befall you.

Still, silence.

"Or Hongjoong, however you prefer to be addressed."

"I don't."

Taken aback at the reply, the most obvious question then comes to mind. "You don't...what?"

"Wish to be addressed."

You would be lying if you said you hadn't anticipated this.

Brushing it off, you continue on with what you need to do. "Do you know who I am? I'm here to write—"

But before you're able to finish the sentence, Hongjoong interjects. "I know who you are."

His tone is dry and his features giving nothing more than his bare responses do, it's difficult to make heads or tails of the man as he stand before you. That is, beyond the fact that he quite evidently has no intention of making this easy for you. Again, you had anticipated this, as well.

However, you don't have the luxury of time on your side, and his unwillingness to partake is simply going to have to sit by the wayside. If it's pride, or self-importance, then the man has no option but to swallow it down and do what it is that you came to do. You simply will not back down with too much at stake.

"Then the quicker you allow me to do what I came here to do, then the quicker I can pack my bags and be out of your hair," you bargain.

Of course, it would be all too easy for him to simply accept as much.

Eyes still lazily pressed down and towards you, with a handful of moments of silence passed between the two of you Hongjoong merely sighs at the words before slowly turning back to continue his climb.

"I'll get around to it."

This much you certainly doubt.

"I'll chase you all around this place if I have to in order to get this done!"

As soon as the words leave your lips, you consider the usefulness of threats within the home of the very same man you're at the mere mercy of, but instead of arguing or flat out denying you such, you're met with nothing more than the silent wave of a hand as if dismissing you of the conversation at hand entirely.

Suppose that it isn't a 'no.'

When you're gently startled awake in the late hours of the night, you don't bother to check the time, instead opting to lie in bed for a moment to allow your consciousness to take you once again through the rhythmic sound of the ticking of an antique wall clock, as well as the dull but pleasant sound of piano keys being sloppily pressed just a ways down the hall — the opposite way in which you tend to go each day.

Out of your door and to the left: the rest of the manor in all of its glory.

Out of your door and to your right: another staircase, of which you dare not climb for fear of what it is that you may find.

You know what await up those stairs in theory — but at this point in time you far and away lack the understanding of making such an unknown journey.

Still, slipping your robe on as well as your house shoes, you carefully make your way out and down the hall in the direction of the enchanting sound; one, lone room hidden away just before the steps upwards with the smallest of flickering lights offering any illumination to signify it's occupancy. Tip-toeing down and just next to the doorway, you press your back delicately to the wall to listen in as the man from earlier in the day press a handful more keys into the most captivating melody. Some keys slightly off, and some missed altogether, you slowly bend to glance inside to take in the sight of the master of the house with wine bottle in the hand not captivated by the piano he sit in front of.

Bewitching is the word that comes to mind.

Candlelight dancing across his features as he slowly bob his head along with the tune he creates at a moments notice, you watch on even with the threat of being caught like this — intrigued and dazzled by him in a way that feels made entirely of fiction.

Perhaps it's the surroundings of the home that have your mind so caught up in the magic of him — a beguiling scene that even you can't seem to make sense of as you watch on.

But the feeling is there, all the same: a bubbling of emotion as you watch him drunkenly key at the instrument between swigs from the bottle in hand.

Peeling yourself away and back down the hall to your own bedroom, as you settle between your sheets and drift off back to sleep with the sound of him playing still carrying through the home, your mind draws back to that first, fleeting moment atop the stairs when you first laid eyes on him and in turn, his eyes on you.

And as sleep takes your weary form, you contemplate how prior to now perhaps the words never holding any special level of synonymous form to you.

Enchanting, and disarming.

As an early morning breeze carries itself into your bedroom from the barely cracked window and bringing along with it the refreshing scent of flowery invitation, you take it upon yourself to gaze out of said opening and onto the land as it presents itself to you for your visual taking of it: a vast land so immaculately kept and yet barely enjoyed by anyone on the premises beyond those set with the task of making sure of its upkeep, you decide today to be the perfect day for partaking in it in just the way that so many others unfortunately unable to do so.

And others choosing not to.

Slipping your laptop into your bag along with a writing pad and a pen, you shrug onto yourself a light coat and make your way down the halls that by now feel so familiar to you. Even in the bright offering of daytime, the mansion remain dark and dreary — perfect for tragic musings as well as the downfall of self-reflection, but sometimes, you simply have to get out of the clutches of these walls and see the sunlight once again.

Rosaria is the first familiar face you see among the staff halfway down the steps and into the wide open space of the front of the house: two bags of laundry slung over her shoulder and hurriedly hauling them elsewhere for their making, you greet each other cheerfully as you continue making your way towards the kitchen and eventually through it into the garden.

However, something stops you dead in your tracks at the archway of the dining area.

It stands to reason that crossing paths with the man who lives in the home shouldn't come as such a shock to you, but given the rarity of such an occurrence thus far, it feels as though you're stumbling in on a place you shouldn't be. All because he is there, as well.

You realize that having exchanged such few words with the man despite your time already spent here makes attempting to engage him in conversation now a chore.

Frozen where you stand, Hongjoong looks up from his mug of coffee as he stand in front of the counter — there's little expression given on his face for you to make any understanding of, but you do take note of the fact that he's wearing the same exact set of clothing as the last time you saw him out and about from the unknown goings on of the top most floor of the manor.

He looks as though he hasn't slept in days, with dark rings under his eyes and a lazily dazed set of features.

With no words exchanged between the two of you and clutching onto your bag, you continue on your way as originally intended — that is, before an idea comes to mind, and really, what's the worst that could happen?

"Would you like to join me?"

Silence once again drawls on between you in the expanse of the kitchen area, and assuming it to be a rather evident decline of your invitation, your lips thin into a straight line as if offering a half-hearted smile and you turn away from the man once again.

One step forward, and you hear him hum.

"Sure."

The walk feels long despite its brevity on account of how acutely quiet it is. Hongjoong doesn't say a word as he slowly follows just behind your strides, as if you're the person who lives there and himself simply being a guest. It's no matter nor difference to you despite the awkwardness of it all, continuing on to a spot you had already made note of in previous outings along the land: a large tree covered in lush, emerald leaves and offering ample shade for the next few hours at least — underneath it, a simple, metal table with two chairs that stands weathered by the outdoors surrounding it, but beautiful and functional, all the same.

You sit, and watch the man accompanying you as he quite carefully sets himself down opposite of you — taking extra care of his right leg, in particular.

Unsure if you're meant to ignore the airy wince that escapes his mouth, you instead pull your vision from him entirely and dig into your bag for your belongings — feigning not having heard it at all.

"Do you mind if I take notes about what we discuss?" You ask.

"Go ahead."

Hongjoong's curtness not something that offers much to work with as far as writing goes, you accept the fact that you're more than likely going to have to do a lot of filling in of surrounding details. Rather, this isn't a book meant to be about you, but it sure is difficult writing it about a man who makes it his mission to give you nothing in relation to your being there to begin with.

You're going to have to work for it. Challenge accepted.

Pen in hand, you glance up as he brings his coffee to his lips — eyes off to the side.

There, but hardly present.

"Can I ask about your career?"

"Sure."

Information pulled up on your phone, you quickly scroll through it to some notes you had taken early into your arrival at the manor and in anticipation of this very moment.

"It says you used to paint, and that you were quite successful at it. Want to tell me about that?"

He hums into the rim of the mug. "What's there to say beyond that? I painted, people liked it, they bought them."

Oh, he's going to make this as difficult as humanly possible. Already you find yourself coming to terms with the fact that getting the man to speak might not have been the most difficult part, and in fact, it's the getting him to tell you anything of substance at all, that's the true mission at hand.

"I've read that beyond that you did a number of well-received photography shoots, as well. Dabbled in music, and wrote a successful book to top it all off. How could someone whose lived so much life have so little to tell about it?"

Given the circumstances, the question is quite aggressive, and you know this to be the case. The truth of the matter, however, is that Hongjoong is far from the first difficult client that you've worked with, and that sometimes simply easing them into submission of telling you their life story isn't going to work — instead, they need to be dragged kicking and screaming along for the ride, and from where you're sitting, the artist is more certainly the latter.

Face turned down towards your phone but eyes pressed upwards to keep your vision on him, Hongjoong huffs a chuckle out through his nose before finally turning towards you and gifting you his full attention.

Leaning forward with elbows into the table, he sets his chin against folded hands. It's the first time you've really gotten a good look at him since your arrival to the property.

Sporting all of the signs of trouble and age, you don't know how old he is, though you suppose if you had to guess you'd place him somewhere around his early to mid thirties — only the finest of lines adorning his face and you can only gather that the majority of his unkempt look is a result of his unwillingness to take care of himself in a superficial, and very much present day sense.

"You want me to tell you about how hard I've had it, how difficult and tragic my life has been to explain why I'm such a shut-in," he starts, sarcastically matter of a fact in tone. It doesn't surprise you, but already you resign yourself to accepting that whatever it is that he's about to offer you is going to be of little use to you and what you've come here to do.

Falling back in his chair and with arms crossed, he looks off and to the side again to finish the thought.

"My parents loved me very much. They sent me to the school I wanted to go to and adored me in spite of everything about myself. Nothing I've ever wanted to do has come especially difficult to me, and I've found great success in nearly all of my endeavors—"

Nearly.

"—In fact, I've been quite fortunate. A bit of a bore, isn't he?"

He's wasting your time, and you've had about enough of playing Miss Nice about it. You sold your belongings to be here, gave up your apartment to be here, and your job lingers in the balance — all in relation to your being here.

'With all due respect, Mr. Kim, cut the shit,' is a thought you have, but you're not quite at the point of saying it out loud just yet.

"No demons, then?" You plainly question, not bothering to grace him with your own eyes as they remain down and towards the screen of your phone as you so boldly deliver the words to a man that is effectively a stranger to you.

"Quite the contrary," he surprisingly answers, and even with a bit of playful chime to his tone. "We all have demons, but you're going to have to catch me amidst them before you're graced by what they have to offer."

Whatever the fuck that means.

The master of the house takes his leave shortly after, deciding himself that the engagement between the two of you having met its end. In a way, you're thankful for it, now coming to the understanding of it not going anywhere, and ultimately, never having the chance to, either.

However, there is insight gained. In his attempts to wall you out, you're still very much able to begin piecing together parts of the puzzle that make him.

If one thing is for sure, it's that Hongjoong believes that the layer protecting him from you as well as the rest of the outside world is so much thicker than it really, truly is. With every word spoken and averted gaze, just another piece gained.

Sometimes the most knowledge lie in the words unspoken, rather than those given. Either way, it's a date, whether he knows it or not: see you in the late hours of the night to share a dance with the devil, as invited.

Calls with your publisher come few and far between.

You're thankful for this on account of having little actual work done thus far, but the feeling of distance between you and the people and places that you call home begins to wear on you with each passing day. Feeling locked within dark pathways that offer little joy or comfort, your patience begin to grow thin at a rapid pace, and all the while, a bubbling curiosity about the man upstairs who wishes nothing more than to have as little of your company as he can manage.

You don't see Hongjoong for over a week, but occasionally in the dead of night you're able to hear his existence through the gentle carry of piano keys down the starkly darkened hallways of the manor.

A single ring coming through, you answer your phone straight away.

The conversations grow tiresome in having to constantly explain the difficulty of the project you've accepted. Not being here, and not speaking with the man in question — your publisher simply waves off your concerns about the inevitability of failure if things continue to progress on in this fashion. 'You don't know what it's like,' being a line you find yourself delivering all too often, and only to be met with the dire voice on the other end of the line insisting that you carry on to deliver the product until the very end.

Only a handful of pages into a document on account of Hongjoong's unwillingness, you think it may come down to a battle of which of the two of you less willing to lose the war: little does he know, however, the danger of an animal backed into a corner with nothing else to be taken from them.

It's sort of dramatic, you suppose — no threat or danger to the man in question actually being presented, of course, but still — you have a job to do, and you have every intention of getting it done.

Because you have no other choice but to do so.

When your eyes part and you come back into consciousness — disoriented and much too tired to enjoy the creeping of sounds that pour into your bedroom in spite of the walls that surround your weary body, this time you make haste in dressing yourself and exiting your space — nearly bolting down the hall and towards the room in which you already know the tune to be coming from.

You've grown accustomed to it, but with little more than a bother now offering itself to you, you grow irritated by the sound of piano keys ringing through the late hours of the night. Haunting and uninviting as they may be, you still carry forward as if beckoned not only by them, but your anger at everything surrounding them — what they mean, specifically. A careless reminder from the man that your presence is not desired, and that he has no interest in or respect of your sharing a home with him.

Passive-aggressive in nature with every key into the instrument pressed. 'You're not wanted here, get out.'

Turning into the doorway and making no effort to keep yourself concealed as you normally might, you take in the sight of the man sat there with a candle lit and a bottle of wine sat atop the large, black ornament. He sways gently to a tune that barely comes to fruition by his hand — a result of the alcohol consumed, rather than the music played, you have no doubt.

"Must you do this so late into the night? Surely you know that the sound echoes through these halls."

Arms crossed, you watch on as he blankly look up towards you. Another couple of keys pressed before the ever so slight curl of a single corner of his lips takes his features.

As if pleased by the sight of you in some way.

"It's late," you add, unsure if he has any intention of replying to you at all. "Maybe you don't sleep, but I imagine the rest of us do."

"Am I bothering you?" He finally asks, as if it isn't obvious enough already.

Rolling your eyes, the irritation bubbling up within you makes itself just that much more known as a result of his annoying reply to you.

"Yes, you are bothering me, and probably everyone else stuck with the unfortunate fate of sharing a living space with you."

And for whatever reason, that response seems to please him.

"Sit."

Inhaling sharply, this is far from the time that you'd like to be engaging in this sort of scenario with him, but with so little offered to you by him, you find yourself far from the kind of position to deny him of such — knowing tomorrow to be a different day entirely, and that once sobered up and perhaps even somewhat rested, you're likely to be met with the very same and exquisitely difficult man that accompanied you into the garden, previously.

You're being given a chance, you have no choice but to take it.

Carefully stepping into the room, you make yourself comfortable in one of the large, ornate chairs off to the side but still near enough to Hongjoong that you're able to hear him speak should he be so inclined, and you figure with the invitation being offered, that the man much more willing to bestow on you an inkling of knowledge that you've been so eagerly anticipating.

Silence blanketing the room once more, you watch him as small, dainty fingers press into the keys before him into a simple but harrowing tune, as if to set the mood for the scene about to play out between the two of you here and now.

Thus, you sit in wait for the next move of the proverbial chess piece this evening.

"When I was writing my first book," he begins quietly, the words in and of themselves enough to perk your curiosity and cause for you to sit forward just ever so slightly, you listen on intently for whatever it is that Hongjoong be willing to give to you of himself. "I was living in Spain. I had a small, quiet flat just on the sea edge that I bought for the sole purpose of writing."

Wishing to have your pen and pad with you, you have no other option but to file away every movement, every word away into memory as if them being the last things you're to ever come to hear.

Hongjoong sways along with another simple tune he plays before continuing again. "About a year after I sold my last painting and gave up the craft for good. I sold my loft and all but disappeared."

"What were you running away from?" You ask, captivated by the way in which he retells the story even in spite of how general it may be.

But he only smiles at the question before parting lips again to respond to it. "Everything."

Taking pause, you think over the answer given — once again turning your attention to the nearly empty bottle of red wine perched on top of the musical instrument in front of him.

Another key pressed before you speak out into the otherwise empty air of the room.

"Why are you telling me this now?"

Hongjoong's lips curl into a soft grin once again, before turning just enough to glance over his shoulder and towards you.

"I did tell you to meet me with my demons, didn't I?"

And for the first time since your arriving at the manor, well over a month into your stay, you slowly saunter back down the hallway and towards your room — only this time, with company beside you. Hongjoong, with his evident limp to his step and hands stuffed away into the pockets of his cardigan, merely staring at the floor in front of and below his feet as the two of you make your way to the entryway of your bedroom.

Standing with your back against the dark wooden accenting of the passage, your eyes trail over the man as he still in front of you with a small wobble — only then looking up to meet your eyes.

Slightly glazed over but hiding so much mystery and enchantment behind them, you can't help but find yourself absolutely captivated by him as he stand before you like this. Unwilling to let you in, and only granting you the smallest of looks inside of him, you're well aware of the way that curiosity can manifest and shift within ones consciousness, ultimately forming into something entirely lacking of reason.

Fascination, allurement, and for some indiscernible reason, attraction. The desire to know him, to understand him — to find the pieces of him that lie fragmented and readjust them in such a way that brings him ease.

Enamored by the unknown. The broken artists curse to cast upon the unsuspecting.

"I want to talk to you again."

A bold insistence from you with little rapport built between you and the man, it gives him a chuckle at the very least. Hongjoong sways in his intoxication again, this time losing his footing just a bit more on account of his leg and pressing the palm of his hand against the wood next to your head to save himself from a most unpleasant meeting with the marble beneath both of your feet.

The sudden lurch forward has his face only mere inches away from your own — the scent of alcohol so strong you think you may end up with a buzz by mere proximity, as a result.

But more pressing than that is the way your breath catches in your throat, as well as the ever present pounding of your heart against the inside of your chest.

"Two days," you stutter out in an attempt to ignore the curiosity slipping up and permeating through your mind. "Meet me in the garden again."

Cocking his head, you watch him glance down the features of your face — not sure if towards your lips, past them, or something else entirely — but either way, in your best interest to ignore it, completely.

This not being the path you wish to walk, after all.

"Sure," he finally answers, pushing himself back up and to his feet, thus creating distance between the both of your bodies. "I'll try to be more mindful of your bizarre sleeping patterns."

And just like that, Hongjoong slowly makes his way down the hall and up the stairs towards his room. Leaving you with nothing more than the knowledge of Spain and an inexplicable mesmerism towards the man with the wine bottle and the unrelenting mystique surrounding him.

As you watch the time on your phone shift to five minutes past two in the afternoon, you think to yourself how you had expected this.

Specifically, that it would be quite presumptuous to expect that the man show up on time. In some ways, you're a bit proud of yourself for coming to such a distinct understanding of him already with so little to go off of — Hongjoong was simply going to be late, because at the end of the day, this isn't really all that important to him. An unfortunate truth of the matter, but a truth all the same. Another thing you simply have to resign yourself to if you're to have any hopes in regards to being successful with him.

When it's twenty past, however, is when the irritation in regard to his complete lack of respect towards your time sets in.

By chance you happen to catch Rosaria out of the corner of your eye to your right as she tends to one of the numerous gatherings of flowers just nearby as you sit at the same little table in the garden as you once chatted with the man before. Calling her over, she's quick to tend to you with watering can in hand.

"Do you know if Hongjoong's been down yet?" You ask curiously, eyebrows slightly knitted together as if holding more concern than contempt.

The woman cocks her head to the side just a bit before offering you a gentle smile. A smile that says 'you poor thing,' as if you're the last one in on the joke.

"I doubt that, dear. It's a bit early."

Recalling just what time it is in the afternoon, you allow her to carry on with her chores around the land and pack your things quickly. It's certainly embarrassing to some degree, waiting here for a man who has absolutely no intention of showing up, and who seemingly has known that the entire time despite making such plans with you to begin with — beyond that, however, is sitting within the gaze of all of the passerby who are far more kept in the know about Hongjoong's personal timetables than you are.

So now, you're annoyed, and you have every intention of letting him know precisely how much.

Up the first set of winding stairs and through the hallway — a woman on a mission who certainly will see it through, as you meet the bottom of the next set, the set that you know to lead up to precisely where it is that you've been asked not to go, you realize as you stand there in pause that there is an inkling of uncertainty swimming about in your gut.

As if asking yourself once more whether or not this is something you wish to go through with. One foot on the first step, you swallow hard and inhale deeply before taking the next and following through with your decision before you have a chance to talk yourself out of it.

Reaching the top, you find little: a relatively small space compared to the rest of the expanse of the manor, just one tiny room off and to the side with book cases and a table inside from what you can tell and further in front of you — two large, tall doors that you're quite certain lead to exactly where you want to go.

And so, you do.

You suppose that the irony in it all is that by the time you get this far, you find that your anger has waned — instead replaced by unsureness and guilt in effectively trespassing.

But still, you're here, and for what it's worth you should let him know that this sort of behavior won't be tolerated. A gentle reminder needed that you're here to do a job, and you're not enjoying it any more than he is.

Your memory briefly takes you back to the moment in front of your bedroom door that night, but you shake it from yourself just as quickly.

Two hard, echoing knocks against the wood of the door, you wait to hear a response from the man who surely resides inside.

Nothing.

Two more knocks against the door, this time harder and more pointed, you wait less time afterwards to hear back from him before taking one of the dull, brass knobs into hand and twisting it open for your entry.

What you find is not anything you would have anticipated.

Along a large, red, plush couch fixture across the wide open space of the room lies Hongjoong — not asleep, and speaking, in fact.

To no one in particular.

At a glance you count three empty wine bottles strewn about the room, but that's only at quick notice, and you can't be sure how many others are cast about the place should you care to look for them.

He's drunk.

"Hongjoong," you start sternly, still standing at the door as you begin the thought. "We had a meeting, I waited for you."

Turning his head lazily, the man squints across the room towards you.

"That's right," he says, feigning having forgotten such a thing. "Could have sworn there was something on the agenda for today."

"Don't fuck with me," you spit back at him almost as quickly as the last word drops from his mouth and adding another few steps towards the man. "You don't get to disrespect me and my time. I'm here to do a job, which you have agreed to do, so get your shit together and do it."

It must have been the magic touch, because it has Hongjoong springing up and to his feet in a matter of moments with eyebrows tightly pressed together and a look of anger that you've never seen adorning him before. Granted, you haven't been around long enough to experience much emotion from the man, but this comes starkly different from anything else.

"Get out," he says as calmly as he can muster up, but the second demand of the same comes out far less controlled, more sloppy, and loud than the previous. "Get out! I don't give a fuck about you or your time, my publisher made an agreement on my behalf and I'll be damned if some stranger comes into my home and demands anything of me."

When he finally steps up to you — given his level of intoxication, you can't help but step back. After all, you don't know him well enough to have an opinion either way of what he may or may not be capable of.

Hongjoong never raises a hand to you, however. Instead, he takes the few moments of silence between the two of you to stare daggers through you with narrow, livid eyes that quite heavily adorn his lack of sleep on them.

"Get out."

It's quiet this time, almost a whisper. He takes another step towards you, closing the minimal amount of space that was already left between your bodies — as if leveraging himself in an attempt to receive precisely what it is of you that he's asking.

"You're welcomed to leave any time," he starts again, calmer now. "In fact, I insist you do so if your being here doesn't suit you."

Turning on your heel, you bolt out of the room and back down the stairs towards your room — slamming the door shut upon your entry, you sling your bag down from your shoulder and dig through the front pocket to locate your cell phone. Incredibly fast in your dialing of the person in which you wish to have the conversation with, you take three, four deep breaths to try to calm yourself back down — enough to have this conversation in any sort of a productive way.

At least, an attempt to.

Halfway through the fifth ring, you cuss under your breath and pull the device away from your face, but just as you're about to cut the call you hear a mans voice on the other line.

"Sorry, it's busy this time of day, you know how it is around here. What can I—"

You cut him off within the thought. "I'm leaving. I'm not doing this."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," he says first, unable to miss the hurried concern in your voice as you quickly run about your room to gather your belongings all over again and messily toss them inside of your suitcase. "What's going on over there?"

"There's no point in my being here. This guy won't cooperate and more than that, he takes joy in the fact that I'm chasing him all around this fucking nightmare of a home in an attempt to make him!"

"You know what it means if you leave..."

Stopping everything you're doing to drive home the point of your next comment, you turn your face towards your phone as if looking directly at the man on the other line for emphases. "Did you know he's an alcoholic?"

He sighs. "I had heard some things."

Rolling your eyes and huffing out one of so many irritated sighs, you shake your head to no one but yourself as you continue corralling your things. "You send me out here to live with a strange, quick-tempered alcoholic and expect any good to come of it. I thought you were better than this."

"It was a last ditch effort, you knew that just as well as I did."

"I didn't know! And evidently you were omitting some of the finer details on purpose."

Pausing again, you close your eyes where you're knelt on the floor and take a moment to recenter yourself. There's silence between you and the man on the other end for what feels like a lifetime before he finally speaks up again, tone low and riddled with understanding.

Perhaps even guilt.

"If you want to come home you can, no one is stopping you," he says, and for some reason just those words are enough to quell the majority of your anger and concern towards the situation before he manages to finish the thought. "I just want you to understand what coming home means."

It means nothing. Quite literally. You will be coming home to nothing, and with equal amounts gained, as well.

The unfortunate truth of the circumstances that you find yourself in now is that leaving before time is up, or the writing is finished, means that it was all for nothing. Your apartment is gone, your belongings are gone, as is your career should you choose to accept failure in such a way.

So what was the point of coming here at all then?

It's with a deep sigh that you end the call with your publisher and set the phone down on the bed just beside you. With a burgundy colored blouse in hand, you shut your eyes to inhale another breath — a breath that you hope will start everything anew.

You unpack your things once again.

One late night with your eyes strained from staring at the screen of your computer and an empty stomach, the kitchen beckons you, drawing you out from the dimly lit comfort of your bedroom and down the same halls you wander through everyday to reach the very same place you've come to find yourself in numerous times before and at just about the same time of evening.

Long past the staff have taken themselves to sleep, there's an eerie calmness to the manor that causes you to feel far more alone than you typically would here. Over the weeks, you've made yourself comfortable enough, but it's times like this that you can't help but wish for the joy of a familiar face, or the bed you've long since abandoned back down the hill and into town.

But what you come to find upon turning into the dark granite adorned room is a familiar face, indeed.

With a small, crystal class of a brown liquid that you can only assume the composition of, you watch as Hongjoong tosses back something into his mouth — the way that pills of some sort are typically done — before chasing it with a swig of the drink in question.

You're only able to get a quick glance of the bottle in the other hand before he quickly slips it into the pocket of his loose, thin, cardigan — turning towards you to meet your eyes for the first time that evening.

He says nothing to you as you casually make your way to join him; pulling a glass down from the cupboard and filling it with water to drink yourself as you settle on a banana that lie out on the countertop, far from the mood to fuss with much more in the late hours of the night.

Turning to face him, your eyes connect again, and for once it feels as though Hongjoong is the one intrigued by you, rather than the other way around — though, his expression would never tell such a tale.

Relationship between the two of you damaged already and with such little foundation to keep it afloat, you're far from interested in pulling any punches as far as concern for his discomfort goes. Tipping your glass towards him as you raise it to your lips for another sip, you speak into the rim of it.

"What are those for?"

Averting his eyes, he answers plainly. "Skiing accident."

Far from the type of man to appear interested in sports of any kind, you assume the answer to be a lie — turning and exiting out of the kitchen just as quickly as you came.

On a particularly cold and dreary night, you enjoy as much of the garden as you're able before the dark clouds of a storm come rolling through the sky and blanketing the estate land with heavy rain and lightning. Hurriedly packing your things away and rushing inside, you instinctually duck at the loud clashing of thunder overhead as you take your first step back inside of the home and shut the door behind you. As the rumbling fades from your ears and you steady yourself again, instead, you take note of the all too familiar sound of piano keys being played from upstairs in the mansion.

It's earlier than his usual playing time, and for that, you are thankful. Still though, any disruption in the mans usual routine leaves you with an inkling of curiosity that only stands to be sated one way in particular.

In all of his faults, and all of his flaws, you still find that you're unable to control the insistent need to know more, understand more about the master of the manor in which you reside.

You tell yourself that that's what you're here to do, and force back any emerging thoughts that may suggest it to be anything more than that.

One thing that you can't help but note is the mans ability to play a cohesive tune tonight — as if playing with every intention of luring you to him, as you reach the hallway of your bedroom and subsequently the room where the piano reside, you're quick to realize that the music is not coming from this level of the residence at all.

Rather, it's coming from one floor up.

This revelation has you recalling one, small detail of your brief entry into his room — a piano that also sit there — pristine white in color and standing as if never touched at all, unlike the one in the room that you find yourself passing now, there is most certainly a part of you that wishes for him to be calling to you purposely. An artists call to come to him when worlds fail him, or when they're simply too difficult to make use of.

And so, you climb the staircase for the second time, and as the large doors come into view once again, you find them to be cracked open just ever so slightly. No wonder that the sound carry through the home with such ease now, you delicately press a palm to the wood and peak inside towards the direction in which you recall seeing the instrument.

There, you lay eyes on Hongjoong: clothes that appear much more freshly washed and less worn than what you typically find him in, he sways gently along with the tune that comes to pass as a result of his deft fingers against the keys. Eyes closed, you think him to be long since lost in a world of his own by now, perhaps not expecting any visitors, after all.

Still, you're pleased by the sight of him here, like this. Seemingly not as intoxicated as he usually is by this time of night and able to express himself clearly with the sound of the piano before him.

A melancholy tune that in spite of everything feels sad.

"You can come in."

Heart jumping into your throat at the sound of his voice and having evidently been caught, you make your way inside and slowly towards the man, watching him intently along the way.

"Beautiful song."

Truth be told, you're not sure how better to open up the dialogue, and for what it's worth, you could simply stand here and watch him play in complete silence all night long if the option presented itself to you.

His lips take into a soft smile at the words. "When I lived in Hong Kong for a few years, I met a woman there who owned the building I was staying in. My second book — rather, what was supposed to be my second book — was all about her. We fell in love hard and fast, ironically, the kind of romance you read about in literature."

"What happened?"

"What always happens," he answers back without missing a beat. Finally, Hongjoong opens his eyes to meet yours before finishing his response. "Life."

A gentle reel at the lack of response, you push further. "What does that mean?"

Chuckling under his breath at your insistence, the man blinks slowly as if resigned to the necessity of answering your questions in some capacity.

"An old friend tells me I display fearful-avoidant attachment style."

A bizarre reply, but now that you have him talking, you can't possibly allow the moment to get away from you. It feels a bit like a maze that you're navigating — always given the smallest amount, and perhaps in hopes that you're willing to find out more.

"Is your friend in any position to be diagnosing you?"

"He's in some position."

Allowing the topic to fall to the wayside, you instead watch on as Hongjoong sways gently to the tune, but it's much less time than anticipated by you before the man is parting his lips to speak out to you again.

"Can I ask you something?"

The question takes you aback, but quickly you nod in acceptance.

"Why do you stay?"

Turmoil bubbling ever so slightly in your gut as you listen to his question, there is of course the most obvious answer. The one that realistically — the both of you already know to be the answer to his inquiry.

However, his presentation of the question at all alluding to the fact that he thinks there to be far more hidden behind the guise of the sake of literature.

A chill down your spin as a result of feeling so raw and exposed before a man who has all but made no effort to know you at all — still yet understanding so much without the information ever truly being granted to him. Fingertips cold to the touch, you clench them tightly into your palm for the warmth offered there as you make the choice that Hongjoong will almost certainly see right through.

"I have to write this book."

And as if never having asked the question to begin with, Hongjoong beckons you towards him with a simple and quiet "come."

Walking towards him as he slides further down the length of the bench, you seat yourself down next to him with ample enough space between the both of your bodies — only for the man to press towards you once again, and close the distance so quickly that it has your head spinning.

A dizzying discomfort that comes from the unknown, every moment with Hongjoong feels exciting as well as terrifying — the image of him drunk and angry still burned into your immediate memory even now, despite his sobriety in this current span of time.

But with a delicate touch, the artists hands come up and over top of yours as you lightly place them over the keys of the piano — hands soft in a way that would allude to having had a particularly luxurious life — you know this to not be far from the case, but still, it's the scent of cinnamon that exudes off of him as a result of your close proximity that has a surprisingly bewildering effect on you.

"Do you know how to play?"

"No," you answer rapidly, and with a voice far more shaky than you would have liked. "Was never any good at the arts outside of writing."

Smiling softly, Hongjoong takes control of your hands as you slowly begin to play a tune with the help of his talented fingers. "Writing is the most beautiful of them all, you're lucky to have been gifted that one in particular."

Nerves beginning to quell as a result of his words, you quietly exhale a laugh before responding to the remark.

"And some people are the chosen favorites who get to have it all, aren't they?"

You don't really think twice about the playfully honest remark before it leaves your mouth, but as your head turns to face him you become starkly aware of how close he is to you now. With the both of you facing one another and only a few inches between your faces, you watch Hongjoong's eyes as they once again dip down from yours and to some place lower between you — almost certainly your lips, and in a way that has you nearly trembling within his grasp as silence cascades down and around the both of you in the aftermath of the all too illuminating compliment towards him.

Moments that feel like a lifetime, you think you could write countless books about this alone.

Hongjoong's eyes suddenly shift, pulling his gaze from your own and distancing himself from you just ever so slightly before his hands slip back and away from your own.

"Yes, well," he nervously says after clearing his throat. "Not everything."

You think back to the one word so deliberately excluded from the text of his novel as you drift off to sleep in the empty comfort of your own bed that night.

As the days carry on, your documentation of your time spend on the premises begins to shift in shape and form.

Far from a conscious decision, your musings about the man and your time spend with him take form in a diary-like feature of what it's like being within his company. It's an effort to bring forth some sort of understanding of what it is, exactly, that is taking place in the here and now of your shared accommodation.

More than that, however, it grants you the ability to be honest with yourself, and the distinct emergence of feelings for the master of the estate.

It doesn't come without guilt, however. You're aware enough to understand the romanticization of his pain and struggle. Something ugly and dark within Hongjoong that brings about such a violent desire within yourself to care for him. A broken man with his fair share of demons that he's more than happy to present on full display for you — it feels as though it's the rawest form of intimacy shared between two people, and something that he would quite possibly never be willing to share with anyone else.

Show me the worst things about yourself, so that I can love them in spite of everything.

There's nothing beautiful about pain. Rather, an inevitability that all people will eventually possess. You don't want to fix him, and you know you can do no such thing, anyway. Instead, you find yourself clinging not to the actions themselves, but what the actions mean behind it all. Pulling back the curtain of Hongjoong's willingness to divulge himself to you only under the most specific circumstances — not for the book, and without notebook in hand, you can see as plain as day what really lies there behind it all: a man that wishes to be heard, but only by you, not by the world.

"So, tell me what happened with your second book."

The first time you get Hongjoong sat down for a proper interview is in the open living space next to the kitchen.

Large, cozy chairs and a plush love seat just next to the crackling warmth of the fireplace, Hongjoong sits with a glass of wine in hand as he stares off into the nothingness past your head. You wait patiently for whatever it is that the man may bestow upon you — suppose, the likelihood of him mentally picking and choosing what details he wish to divulge all for the purpose of a write up as he sits across from you along the room in silence.

Nothing but the sound of wood burning and the gentle ticks of a large, antique clock set opposite of him and next to the fire.

Lips parting ever so slightly and long before words move to leave them, Hongjoong continues his gaze out and into the air surrounding you.

"There is no 'second book,' in all likelihood, there never will be one."

The response doesn't come as a shock to you, however. Halfway anticipating as much, you find yourself a bit proud of having already arrived at the point before his allowing you in.

"Why not?" You follow up, eyes down to the pad and pen sat in your lap. "It's lined up from your publisher, surely he doesn't know that you have no intention of ever writing another one."

The response pulls a chuckle from the man on the love seat across the way.

"No, I suppose he doesn't," he acknowledges, lips pressed to the rim of his glass. "To be completely honest with you, I'm not entirely sure where 'I don't want to write another book,' and 'I'm unable to write another book' begin and end."

Startling honesty from the man, but not unlike your usual bouts with him. So long as he has the comfort of alcohol to guide him along his way.

Scribbling on the paper, your eyes remain glued to it. "Your first was incredibly well-received, surely you have the ability, no?"

Hongjoong responds quickly to that. "My first book was an accident. Rather than a book it was a diary, I never wrote it with intent to have the world read it."

"Then why have they?"

"You'll have to believe me when I say that I'm not entirely sure," he says with another sip of wine. "Being young and acting out of impulse, I suppose. I used to think that I had everything to offer the world, that every thought that came to mind was so brilliant it would be a crime not to share it."

"You don't believe that anymore?"

Hongjoong laughs at the question. "No. Rather, I think that every thought I have serves as another shackle in the containment of my mind, like a prison."

A painfully honest self-assessment, and all too evident of where it derives from. You shift uncomfortably in your chair, unsure of how to proceed with this line of questioning despite it being almost everything that you came here for.

But it's a delicate path. For a man that's already exposed so much of himself to the world, is it too much to ask of him to detail his suffering just that much further?

"How is your mental health?"

With an eyebrow perked up, Hongjoong's eyes pull to the side to land on you now — as if amused by the forwardness of the question.

"—In relation to your ability to work," you amend.

"I've always struggled here or there, but don't we all."

"I don't think most people would refer to their brain as a prison."

"Would they not?" He hums, as if never previously having considered the fact. "How pleasant for them, then."

Leaning forward, Hongjoong takes into hand the bottle of wine placed on the glass table between the both of you, tipping it to fill his glass once more. Settling with his back against the seat again, his eyes once again find their way to you.

All the while, you doing your best not to cast your own upon him.

"And what about you?" he asks suddenly, a particularly loud pop of the fireplace nearly startling you out of your thoughts. "How did you end up here?"

Clearing your throat, you offer him a gentle albeit slightly uncomfortable smile. "I'm not the one getting the book written about them."

"Anyone can have a book written about them," he states plainly, and quite evidently speaking from incredibly painful, personal experience. "Just depends on what you're willing to do to play the protagonist in someone else's story."

"I don't intend on being much more than a fly on the wall."

"Then simply entertain the idea of it," he sighs with a contented close of his eyes, as if basking in the ambiance of the dimly illuminated room. "You know everything about me."

Doubtful.

Regardless, shifting in your seat slightly, you set the paper and pen down onto the table in front of you and make yourself a bit more comfortable where you sit. As silence blankets the room between the two of you, you think carefully about what it is that you wish to make him privy to. Information that cannot be taken back, and cannot be unlearned — you realize the care and difficulty in parsing through answers such as this, and as a result, you begin to understand his reluctance in truly sitting down with you for moments such as these.

"It's probably hard for you to understand from your position, but the art of writing is a bit lost on the people, nowadays."

Pausing, you glance up past Hongjoong's head, instead focusing in on a painting of the garden out back behind the house. A beautiful, watercolor piece that you have half a mind to ask the man if he has painted. Maybe another day.

"I do journalism and I enjoy it, but it's a bit of a dying craft, I suppose," you awkwardly chuckle. The pain of admitting defeat sitting bitterly on your tongue with every word you utter. "Publisher sent me out here as sort of a last ditch effort to hit it big with something to save the wing."

"People only enjoyed my book because they enjoy reading about other peoples suffering," Hongjoong responds quickly, pulling one side of his cardigan over his chest and closer to himself. "Nothing makes us feel better about ourselves and our lives than the hyperawareness of someone else's tragedy. If my diary had been about how happy and in love I was for all of those years, do you really think it would have been as read? Of course not. The acclaim it received was because, for once, people got to have a glimpse inside the mind of a suicidal man without any of the responsibility of being there."

Mulling over the words, you part your lips to respond only for him to add onto the thought before you're able.

"It is a dying craft, and the only thing keeping it afloat is the alluring promise of death itself."

The addition has you swallowing down any words you might have thought to express as a result of his musings. You find irony in this being his most revealing, and perhaps most honest retelling of his experience writing the words found in the diary — off of the back of insisting that you bare a bit of your soul for him to see.

You can't help but wonder how much of yourself can be found in precisely the person he be referring to, now.

Silence befalls the otherwise empty room again, and as Hongjoong leans forward to set his glass down against the table, the both of you glance up to one another for your eyes to catch through the blissful flickering of the fireplace light. His descent back into a more lazed position is slow, calculated — as if contemplating his next move in real time. He's thinking, that much is certain, but nothing could have prepared you for the next utterance out of the mans mouth.

"Come here."

And you hesitate at the quiet request. Words spoken from under his breath and meant for your ears alone as if surrounded by onlookers — it feels like a secret, something that he shouldn't be asking of you and that you almost certainly should not grant him. Yet, you do.

Sliding across the floor towards him as he presses himself further to the side to make room for you, his eyes don't falter from you for even a second as you make your way to him and seat yourself beside him — a gentle hand coming up to lightly cradle your cheek as you do — the feeling of his fingertips against your skin is electrifying, but not even half as much as the uninterrupted gaze between your eyes as you sit still and anticipatory for what's to happen next.

Leaning ever so slightly towards you, Hongjoong whispers into the warm evening air again. "You remind me a bit of someone."

"Someone from your book?" You bravely ask, but the question seems not to deter him as his focus drops down to your lips as it has so many times before.

"Yes."

A single finger under your chin and a delicate tip of your face upwards, he leans in so impossibly slowly that you think it all to be happening in slow motion. Mind racing a million miles a second, you know that this is not a line that should be crossed for a plethora of reasons — but even with that knowledge; eyes fluttering to a close and limpness taking you as you fall desperately under the mans spell from within his grasp, you await the moment that you suppose you've been allowing yourself to fantasize about for far too long, already.

"Is there anything I can—oh."

An unfamiliar voice chiming out from the kitchen area that has the both of your heads turning in an instant, as well as Hongjoong's hand pulling away from you just as quickly. You come to find one of the late night staff standing there — just as uncomfortable with the sight stumbled upon as you are for having been swept up in it, you're the first to clear your throat and stand from the small sofa with intention to create distance between you and the man in question.

"I should get to bed, it's late," you insist with a nervous beat as shaking hands rush to gather your belongings from the table. "Thank you for your time."

Shuffling off towards the exit, you don't look back on account of already knowing what you'll find. The intense gaze of him felt on your figure until you're well removed from the scene, as you finally reach your bedroom, you all but slam the door shut as if having been chased by the guilt of getting caught up in the moment. Back leaned against the wood and heart beating hard within your chest, you clutch tightly to the notepad you had been taking notes on — only one question swimming through your mind now.

What are you doing here?

With the deadline for the project drawing near, calls from your publisher begin coming in far more frequently, and often go ignored by you.

Every message is the same: time is running out, how far along are you, how is it all coming? His insistence on being involved in a project now that the hands of time are ticking unfavorably when earlier he preferred to be far more hands-off in your experienced turmoil related not lost on you by any means — you can't help but notice the voicemails becoming more and more harrowing and stressed.

All the same, until the most recent one.

'The deadline is right around the corner now, at this point if you're not just about finished it's best if we dump the project entirely and I'll try to find something quicker that we can turn around in hopes to buy us more time.'

You know this to be a lie, the man having already divulged the doom of your sector prior.

It's only to this message that you finally feel it necessary to type up a response.

'I'm close. I'll stay a bit longer to see this thing through.'

And you know this not to be enough. Not enough information, and not enough reason to believe that this thing should eventually see the light of day. The truth of the matter is that you're not close, either. Rather, it's a bid for time in not having to leave, as the project ending in turn results in your time spent with the master of the manor also ending.

A stay that revolved around a piece of writing that has now transformed into something entirely of its own making, and almost completely out of your hands, despite those hands being the driving force of it.

You can't leave — for numerous reasons, but the ubiquitous desire to see this thing through being at the helm of it, all the same.

On one particularly dreary night, you allow your inhibitions to get the best of you.

With laptop open and half a bottle of white wine down, as you glance at the time you come to the realization that you've been sat in the same spot, doing this precise same thing for well over a reasonable amount of hours time. The awareness of such also bringing to your senses the stiff state of your back and shoulders has you leaning into your chair for a long, wide stretch of your arms over you head, as well as a groaning yawn escaping your mouth and to be heard by no one but yourself.

A little more intoxicated than you usually tend to be when you do your writing and cursing yourself for the amount of revisions you'll most likely have to do the next day as a result, you stand from your chair as you shut the device and begin your journey to your window for some fresh air, only to reconsider it entirely and settle on a late night stroll through the residence. Well enough past the hours in which the staff would be bustling along the halls — the place is yours for the taking, and relatively uninterrupted, at that.

You can use the mobility, that much is certain.

Slipping on your robe and house shoes, you turn the knob of your bedroom door and gently pull it open — slipping out through the smallest crack is if with intent to not be caught in spite of not doing anything wrong. You attribute it to being caught drinking on the job, in ways — you're a professional, after all, and this is most certainly not the way you typically conduct yourself as far as work goes.

Then again, a lot of professional lines have been blurred, if not crossed entirely during your time here.

And with your back to the hall as you quietly pull the door shut, only the faintest of clicks sounds off. You're thankful for that.

"You're up late."

The voice is low and despite it's familiarity has you just about shrieking into the night, anyway. Head snapping to the side to find Hongjoong standing there with a particularly knowing glint in his eye, you bite back the whine of having been found out like this and instead stand proud and tall in front of him — perhaps even in hopes that he not find out about the deeds you've been up to behind closed doors.

"Drinking on the job?"

Shit.

This groan is audible now as you let down the facade and slump into visible regret at your actions, but Hongjoong only laughs at the sight before him. "And while working on a book about me? I fear for what may come of that when it goes out to the presses."

You know he's being playful, but the humiliation runs through you all the same.

"It's not like that," you sigh, rolling your eyes. "I mean, it is like that, but it's hardly that bad. Give me some credit."

Rather than a verbal response, his vision upon you remains in silence as he watches you squirm from beneath it. The temperature of your skin seemingly white hot as a result of your chance meeting — eyes that once laid upon him now pulling away entirely in favor of absolutely anything else that could have your attention at that moment.

"Can't a man express concern for the way he may be perceived through someone else's eyes?"

Closing of the distance just ever so slightly having gone unnoticed, as the words leave him you can't help but look back towards him, but only to find him much closer than he was only seconds prior.

The tension is palpable, and here like this — no chance of being stumbled upon, either.

Allowing your figure to lazily fall back and against the door, Hongjoong follows suit in caging you in with one arm — only this time, instead of averting your eyes, you make it a point to watch him so intently that you may very well stare straight through his soul.

You can't help but wonder if that be precisely what he's hoping for, after all.

He doesn't touch you this time, other hand dangling to his side as his head dips down to once again close the distance between the two of you. There's a distinct pause — as if silently requesting that you be sure of the decision going forward. An act that will almost certainly change everything, and if you know anything about him as a result of your time spent getting to know him, as far as he's concerned: a change that will do you more harm, than good.

You wonder if he's asking you to be better than him, without the verbal expression of such. You pretend you don't hear his silent insistence either way as his lips finally meet your own.

A kiss that's far more gentle than you might have expected it to be — as if worried that you may crumble and break as a result of his touch, instead, you lean into him further — fingers reaching up and into the thin fabric of his cardigan and gripping tightly to hold him firmly in place as his teeth ghost across your bottom lip before slowly pulling apart from you entirely.

"Chardonnay," he whispers all but against your mouth, and propped up by his forearm pressed into the door behind you, you feel his fingers begin to curl stands of loose hair around them. "Good choice."

But truth be told, you don't care about any of this now. Only a couple of glasses down through the wine bottle offering you the slightest inkling of intoxication, you find the most inebriating of all being the feeling of his flesh against your own.

And with this barrier broken, you desire more. A slippery slope of doings that can't be undone.

Leaning up and against his mouth again, your lips part to whisper into him.

"I want you."

Hongjoong stiffens within your grasp in that moment and you worry that he may remove himself from your grasp entirely. He doesn't, but his answer to your request remain far from the desired outcome, too.

"No."

But with him here and against you like this, you can feel the internal fight within himself. A constant back and forth of wanting, desiring, distrusting, and most of all — self-preservation.

"You don't," he amends the initial decline of your advances, slowly pulling away from your body and creating space between you. "Get some rest, it's late."

And with that, you watch the man slowly limp down the hallway and up the stairs towards his room. Never once looking back towards you, nor faltering in his decision to do so, and as your heart finally comes to a more reasonable pace within you, you contemplate all of the ways in which this has gone to hideously awry.

Outrageously out of your hands. How did you get here, and most of all, how have you fallen for him in spite of everything?

The night of the eve of your intended departure you find something entirely inexplicable that summons you to the highest floor of the manor.

Slow, quiet footsteps that feel as though they drag with every stride — there's a heavy hang in your heart as a result of the infrequency in which you and the master stumble upon one another's company through the dark halls since the passing of your fleeting physical exchange.

It reminds you starkly of how unreachable he was when you first arrived: stricken with terror at someone present in his space. A man intentionally locked away so that he can remain unshared and unseen by the world, only for those very same walls to slowly crumble down before you — one by one.

Now? Nothing. Neither empty wine glass nor pressed piano key through the darkness of night.

The doors are closed to his bedroom, and upon offering two knocks, you are once again met with silence just as the time before.

Your slow entrance into the large, lavish room allows you to take in the sights of it now in a way that you hadn't before: massive, white marble walls and flooring lining the space with plush, white fur rugs beside the enormous and perfectly made and couch. You think that for a man relatively unkempt in appearance, it's bizarre for him to have a personal space so alarmingly and beautifully unlived in.

Moreover, the man is no where in sight — heard, however, is the distinct wretch of a person who most likely lies bent over the once pristine porcelain of their toilet bowl.

"Hongjoong?" You call, unaware of the location of the bathroom but allowing your feet to carry you in what you think to be the direction of the sound previously heard nonetheless, your heart drops at the mere idea of what it is that you may stumble upon, but nevertheless, you have to go.

What you find, you worry to be the rawest form of himself on display for you, yet.

The litter of white, oval pills across the navy blue tiling of the bathroom floor — so bright and stark in contrast — is what catches your attention first.

"You shouldn't be here."

The words come out in a choked groan, throat raw from vomiting from what you can only suspect to be a toxic concoction of substances that shouldn't dare mix within his stomach.

As your eyes turn up to settle upon Hongjoong — throat tight at the sight — your eyebrows knit together as you step over the spillage of medicine and towards him. He sits back against the walling next to the toilet with sunken, dark eyes and brown hair matted to his damp, sweat-sheened forehead; barely able to focus on the sight of you bending down to him at all.

"Hongjoong," you say again, this time in barely more than a concerned whisper as your hands take his face into them. "Christ, are you alright? I'm going to call someone—"

"Don't," he groans, more out of perceived inconvenience of dealing with such a thing rather than much else as a result of it. "They've seen it all before, I'm fine."

"What do you mean you're fine?" You insist with worry still more than evident in your voice. "You're sick, you—"

But saying the words, and the implications behind them makes it far too real. Something that you've known all the while having been here now made all too evident in front of you now.

Some demons simply unwilling to go ignored for too long, and always waiting to make themselves known.

"Oh, come off it," Hongjoong chuckles as he pulls his head away and from your grasp. "You've never drank too much?"

"Not alone in my room, and not mixing painkillers with it, either."

"Then consider yourself lucky."

With little more to say, you step back and away from him as he slowly makes his way back to his feet and towards the sink — faucet on and with a rinse of his mouth, you watch him all while he carries on as if the scenario that you've stumbled upon isn't something to be given another thought about. Eyes meeting in the reflection of the mirror and with concern still lacing your features, you watch Hongjoong's eyes roll before rinsing and spitting water into the sink for the last time.

"What?" he finally asks, hurriedly and with irritation evident in his tone. "What do you want me to say? That I'm an addict? That I'm fucked up and this is how I manage it?"

You don't know how to answer those questions. He carries on through your silence, turning from the reflection in the mirror to face you head on instead.

"Here's the truth then, so you can hate me: when I was twenty-seven, I drank too much one night — like I always did when I drank. My wife and I got into a blowout fight — like we always did when I drank. In my fit of drunken stupidity I slipped down the stairs and injured my leg so irreparably that I'm in constant pain. Everyday. For the rest of my life."

Hearing the way he chokes up as he recalls the evening in question, and how his eyes now find themselves incapable of resting upon your own, you wait in silence for him to finish. All the while regretful for the scene that you have stumbled upon.

"I take these so that maybe for a few minutes each day I don't have to feel the constant reminder of all of the ways that I've failed, and I drink when I remember it all, regardless."

As the last word leaves his mouth, silence comes between the two of you like a wall. Unsure of what to say, you simply offer nothing.

He speaks again, as if uncomfortable with the lack of response.

"Isn't this what draws you to me?" Hongjoong asks with a slight sneer. "Are you not pleased? Even more than before?"

"No!" You all but yell in retaliation, biting back the tears that threaten to emerge from bloodshot eyes.

For a single moment, it seems to be enough of to placate him as his features soften at the sound of your broken voice.

"Hongjoong," you whisper, eyes glancing up towards him now for the first time since the beginning of your exchange. And reaching a hand out towards him, he lays eyes on it — following the length of your arm up with his gaze to meet you.

"Let's get you to bed."

With a new set of clothes on you watch closely as Hongjoong slowly settles into bed and between his dark vermillion sheets — patting the bed twice as to insist that you join him, you crawl on just as carefully as the man had previously, making yourself comfortably on top of the duvet as you watch him from your place on your side.

"That was the first time I've ever heard you mention your wife."

Blinking slowly, he lies there in stilled silence as if to allow the words to wash over him.

"We were a good bit younger when we met, and I don't think either of us were really ready for it, either," he starts with a sigh, staring almost longingly up towards the ceiling ahead. "We both hurt each other tremendously, and I think sometimes you just can't come back from some things no matter how much you try."

"Did you love her through it all?" you ask through a quiet whisper, watching the way he smiles at the inquiry before turning his head to look at you.

"Endlessly. Pitifully, excruciatingly. But I was never able to forgive her, and in spite of her forgiveness, I created more reasons to make her hate me."

Turning back towards the ceiling, Hongjoong sighs aloud. "She loved me for everything I was, and in spite of everything. I repaid her in forcing her to watch my self-destruction, my alcoholism, and inevitably the downfall of our marriage."

"Did you ever learn to forgive her? Even after everything?"

He smiles again.

"No."

Painfully and tragically honest in his flaws, you watch Hongjoong drift to sleep that night from next to him on his bed — and as tiredness threatens to take you soon after, you can't help but think of all of the ways in which people torment one another all for the promise of love. That love, in essence, is violence.

You find that the morning light seems to shine differently in this room as you gently come into consciousness — still dressed in all of your clothing from the night before and no more nestled into the covers than you were when you first lied next to him.

In the very next moment, you startle to the sound of the doors to the bedroom loudly swinging open, and three women entering the room to begin their morning routines. However, it's the sight of shock on their face that has you reeling — a quick understanding of precisely how this looks with Hongjoong resting next to you and only barely beginning to stir to life on account of the noise now.

"I-It's not—" you start, weary and stuttering out the words as you sit up in bed. You know that they can see you very well from where they stand, but regardless you feel it necessary to make a point in showing just how fully dressed you still remain at this time of morning. "I just...we fell asleep, it's not—"

You hear Hongjoong grumble a laugh into the pillow beneath his face.

"S-sorry, we'll come back," one of the staff insists with a bow before ushering the other women out along with her and closing the doors behind them.

Their exit, while bringing you comfort, can't undo the humiliation of what's already been done.

Feeling the man beside you stir just that much more, you turn your head towards him to meet his sleepy eyes — a wide grin pulling at his dry lips.

"What's funny?" You ask him calmly and playfully, lying yourself back down against a pillow to look at him. A moment to take in the sight of him in a new and enchanting way: that slope of his nose and the beautiful narrowness of his eyes — the all too apparent and slightly bewitching upturn of his lips that has you wishing for not much else than to feel them on your own once again.

Blinking slow as if taking in the sight of you all the same, Hongjoong groans slightly on the likely account of a hangover before pulling himself closer towards you and once again lightly pressing his lips to your own.

"You," he whispers against your mouth. "This."

"I have work to do," you say with flirtation to your tone, nestling further into him despite your words. In turn, Hongjoong finds one of your hands in his own, bringing it up between both of your faces and ghosting over your knuckles with the lightest feathering of kisses.

"I think for once, I do, as well."

Your heart feels full as you close those doors behind you upon your exit — a beating excitement in relation to this budding romance, or whatever the case may be — you know it well enough to be ill-advised and that you can't fix him. Quite the contrary, however, you don't wish to fix him, at all. For all of the flaws worn on Hongjoong's sleeve, you feel a growing adoration for the man just that much more. Someone so willing to be themselves, of course, you understand it to be the case that he's rather incapable of anything more or less, you quite simply look back upon your time first entering the estate, and how things have manifested over time and as a result of your engagements together.

Truthfully, it's treacherous waters, and you know well enough that you're engaging in behaviors that you shouldn't be. You have no intention of damaging the man any further, but you suppose no one ever really does.

No intention to fix him, and no intention to worsen him: you're going to have to do some deep inner searching for precisely what it is that you wish to achieve by involving yourself with him.

Regardless, the way your heart beats for him in his presence is not one easily ignored. There's nothing beautiful about peoples damage — it does not make them better or more alluring — but damaged people are more than their trauma, as well.

Strolling into the kitchen, you pull a large, white mug down from the cabinet, and as you pour yourself some coffee to start your day, you hear the quiet rumbling of one of the members of staff from behind you. Turning, you meet eyes with Rosaria, only for her to quickly pull from your gaze and seemingly hurry along with the tasks that bring her within your presence.

An unusual air between the two of you: someone who once met you so warmly, your eyebrows knitting together in slight confusion, you verbally greet her as if to test the waters, only for her to greet you back in what could only be described as the bare minimum of nicety required of her by employment.

You don't push it, instead taking your mug into hand and making your way back through the archway. However, it's then that her words seemingly catch up with her mind, speaking out before you exit in full.

"You shouldn't be involved with him like this."

Already well aware of what it is that she's referring to, you merely still in place, slowly turning towards the woman to face her and to take in the sights of a worried complexion. Eyes glued down to the marble floor beneath her feet after allowing the words to leave her, you don't answer her.

Frankly, you're not sure what to say — in part, because you know the woman to be right.

Inhaling sharply to speak again, Rosaria sighs first. "This is not going to end well, he is not well."

You know.

And instead of arguing the point, you turn back and carry yourself up the stairs in outward silence; mind racing with unending screams of doubt about the ethical and moral validity of your being here at all.

As the days carry on, you find the passage of time comes to feel more like an arbitrary concept.

Contact from your publisher waning with every day past the deadline, you inevitably forgo checking your phone for messages at all. It comes as a relief with your mind muddled with all of the other thoughts that occupy the space there: what are you doing? What should you be doing? And perhaps most pressing of all, what will you do?

And more than that even, where does the man of the manor stand on the matter?

Entering your room late one evening with little more than the glow of the moon illuminating the room, your eyes catch on something particularly out of place in regards to your belongings: atop your closed notebook lies a piece of paper, and stepping closer upon inspection you find it to be a note — scribbled with messy, lazy writing.

A beckoning for you to meet them in the garden that night.

Carefully sneaking through the dark halls and out through the beautifully sparkling glass doors, you make your way down the same cement steps that you have so many times prior, only this time, a new air of excitement shrouding your every movement. Feeling as though you're doing something you shouldn't dare be doing as you make your way past perfectly kept greenery and flowers towards the very same table under that large tree that you've come to grow so fond of, you can't help rushing towards that place in hopes of not wasting so much as a second of time before meeting the person you're intending to meet.

Like fated, secret lovers: not meant to have or hold, and against all odds.

Eyes laying upon him as he stand there gazing out into the cool, night sky — there's a snap of a twig from beneath your foot that alerts him of your presence, and as a result, you watch him turn to cast his eyes upon you with a gentle smile. Stilling beside him to look out into the same sky with him, for once, you find yourself enjoying the very same silence shared between you — now in a new, enchanting way. Something that once brought you contention now offering a sort of comfort despite it never having changed, at all.

"Quite a mess this has turned into, hasn't it?"

And while not entirely sure of what it is that he's referring to, you're most certainly able to make your best guess. 'This,' the concept of it and all that it entails — the goings on between the both of you in some sort of hidden and relatively unspoken on engagement.

You opt out of a verbal response, instead allowing the words to linger in the air between you.

Because yes, it most certainly has.

Sneaking back into the house together as to not alert the staff of your being together — two adults more than capable of making decisions for themselves and yet still feeling as if under the judgmental, watchful eye of the people around them, Hongjoong takes your hand as he all but drags you through the halls and up the stairs towards the both of your rooms. Quiet, muffled giggles and you nearly tripping on the last step as you attempt to follow closely behind him, the both of you pause only for a second — Hongjoong's back against the wall as he pulls that all too familiar pill bottle from his coat pocket and shoves an undisclosed amount of the capsules into his mouth.

You choose not to comment on it. What good does it do, anyway?

Your understanding does little to quell the bubbling sadness that manifests deep in your chest, however.

Slipping into your bedroom through your barely cracked door, you finally allow yourself the full-bodied laugh previously bitten back during your endeavors with the man. Hongjoong's back leaned up and against the shut wood, the two of you look towards one another once again and this time — perhaps for the first time for sure — you find adoration for you there.

Dimmed lighting and the comforting offering of a chilled breeze in through your cracked window, you make your way towards the vanity perched next to the bathroom door frame. Hands reaching up towards the back of your neck to unclasp your necklace, you find it to be caught into the threading of the light cardigan you adorned yourself with prior to meeting with the man, and with a gentle, frustrated huff Hongjoong already begins his journey across the room and towards you for aid.

"This thing always gets stuck," you bemoan, delicately attempting to pull the items from one another without breaking one or the other. "I keep forgetting not to wear them together."

"Stop," he all but whispers as he stills behind you, hands coming up to brush yours and to take over the task with better ease. "Let me do it."

But time feels as though it comes to a stand still with his presence over you like this: the feeling of his fingers brushing against your sensitive flesh, and the ability to feel the warmth of his breath from his stance behind you so wildly intoxicating despite offering so little. As you feel the delicate retrieval of your jewelry from its confines and him carefully sleeping it to the front of your neck to allow your full removal, as you set the item down on the wooden furniture before you it's that very moment that you feel the light press of familiar lips against the exposed skin of your shoulder.

Talented hands carefully pressing the thin fabric further down your arms and out of the way for him to access you, with your head lolled to the side and eyes closed to truly take in the feeling of him like this you find all worries, all concerns, and all reluctance swept out the very same window that the fresh scent of flowers billows in from.

But more than that, one of his hands doesn't stop on it's journey downward: snaked across the front of you and slowly dipping down into the fabric of your pants, it feels like a lifetime in the making when he finally touches you like this. One, single finger pressed against you as if only to test the waters — you melt into his touch as he delivers slow, methodical circles in place. Knees already threatening to give out beneath you even at as little as what he offers you now, you focus on the way his lips drag across your skin, no more hurried now than before — as if a man living out a moment that he hopes will never end, enjoying every inch, every second of you here like this with him.

And just as abruptly, he gently pulls himself away from you. The loss of him feeling so starkly cold, as if never having been there against you at all.

Turning to look at him, more than anything else evident on his face, there is guilt. Eyes once again averted from your own, as if having just done something so horrible he can't stand facing you for it, you watch him as he gently shakes his head before speaking.

"I'm...sorry," he quietly offers, nearly a mumble under his breath.

"Why?" Is all you can muster up in the moment, his reluctance in being with you bubbling up some rather unforeseen, painful feelings that you were so sure you had buried deep enough within you already.

It's not the physicality of it, not really. It's the unwillingness, the terror — all that it represents and the feelings that go unspoken as a result of it.

Perhaps even the last wall. That, and the word unwritten.

"It's not a good idea," he sighs, eyes finally pulling up and meeting your own. "I think you know that."

"Hongjoong—"

It slips out suddenly, hurriedly, and with desperation lacing your tone. The both of you give pause at the sound of his name uttered. Watching him stand completely still in front of you, waiting for the rest of your thought, you suppose you have no choice but to take the leap.

He won't do it first, that much you are certain of.

"I...love you."

You're not even sure that this much is true, at least, not yet. In the moment it feels right, and sometimes you figure life simply must be lived in singular moments.

We never know when we're to run out of them, after all.

Eyebrows slowly pulling together as he watches you and listens to the words, you can't help but think that he looks as though he feels pain at the utterance of them. A reminder of a time not long enough ago that still weight so sorrowfully heavy on his heart that perhaps even as much as the idea of living through such a thing again proving to be too much of a risk for the man to take.

Swallowing hard, Hongjoong blinks slowly once before parting lips that once pressed love upon you, as well.

"I think you should leave."

Too stunned to speak out against the demand, you can only watch on as he exits your room in otherwise silence, and as you fall asleep that night you wonder if he is attempting to find comfort in the ever present stinging inside of your throat, as well.

The next day feels uncomfortably like the first.

With there no longer being any evidence of the mans being there in the same house in which you both reside, the halls that over time had begun to soften and brighten to you once again feel cold and dark in a way that feels just as unfamiliar as the first time you walked them. Staff members that once greeted you with warm, kindness now quickly averting their eyes from you the moment of their meeting, you come to find that far more quickly than anticipated — your time here has come to an end.

That very same evening and with bags nearly packed to their entirety, as you scroll through your phone and attempt to drift off to sleep, your attention is brought to the shuffling of light from the crack beneath your door. Footsteps stilled in front of the wooden opening, your heart stutters just the same — a silent calling to who it is that you know to be waiting on the other side.

But he does not come, nor does he call to you.

On the morning of the next day you're awoken by the loud, jarring sounds of a violent storm taking the land. A car that was meant to come for you and take you from this place now no longer willing to offer itself to you, you have no other option but to remain within a place that no longer sees any need or desire for your being there. It feels tragic, and the way that sorrow hangs in your gut is ever present as the hours drag on long into nightfall — nothing more to do that empty your thoughts out into the document that has now transformed far from its initial and intended upon purpose.

Hongjoong's first book was a diary of all of his suffering, a retelling of all of the ways in which he became the broken version of himself that you've come to find love in now.

You find that yours may very well be the same of him.

And just before sleep takes you that night, you hear carried through the still of night within the estate the sound of an instrument not before heard by you in your months having been spent here. Captivating and deep, you come to realize that you're entirely unsure of where it is that the sound be coming from — one thing that you're certain of, however, is the person behind the hands that play.

Back now to an unspoken call, you tip-toe through the dark in the direction of what commands for you. On the lower level of the home and opposite of the kitchen — rather, where the staff tend to move to and fro — you become aware of a doorway that leads downstairs. Something you had briefly taken notice of but not much else beyond it prior, you notice it to be cracked open and the lightest flickering of candle light shining through as if summoning you down the spiral stairwell and into whatever it is that wait beneath.

The haunting music persisting, you usher forward in your nightgown. Chilled to the bone in the evening ambiance and unsuspecting of what it is that may be lying below.

Upon reaching the basement level, you're stricken with awe at the sight of it.

Far from an average sight, instead you find it perfectly crafted and attended to for keeping. A library, of sorts, and sat in the middle of it all atop a large, red rug stands an organ — as well as the man you've wanted nothing more than to experience the presence of if for nothing more than one last time before your departure.

A half empty bottle of wine next to him, you choose instead to focus on the sounds emanating from his fingertips as you finally make your way to the floor level of the room.

But there's anger there, as well. Frustration as a result of the push and pull from him, and having to watch someone that you've grown so fond of choose despair, as if they think themselves deserving of it.

So, stepping up behind him and clutching your robe shut in the freeze of the room, you say the thing that looms heavy on your mind.

"Why do you insist on being miserable?"

And you don't expect him to answer you, rather, the question comes out as cathartic. Almost as if speaking to no one at all, and not intended to be heard by another person beyond yourself.

"We've been happy here, haven't you been happy?" you continue on with a tremble to your voice that you're unable to fight back in its entirety. "Why can't you just let yourself have that?"

But Hongjoong does still for a brief moment — perhaps something said by you being felt within him, after all. You wait with bated breath for a response that, while not initially anticipated, you think may actually come.

Then, another lifeless press of a key into the instrument. As if the sound of it meant to convey everything he finds himself unwilling or unable to verbalize.

It's not good enough.

Having grown tired of this game with him, you snap forward and clutch the aforementioned wrist into your hand in an attempt to force him to be there and be present with you. It's perhaps rougher than intended upon, and immediately you feel guilt for it, but Hongjoong does react with a swift turn of his head towards you and just as rapidly bringing himself to his feet to face you.

It's a bit of a whirlwind of motions, that much you have to admit, but you suppose it no different than anything else you've experienced regarding the man, thus far.

Hands coming up to seize your face within them, Hongjoong's lips crash hard upon your own. A kiss that's laden with teeth and tongue as well as all of the unspoken wishes and desires held between the both of you all of this time spent together. He walks you backwards all the while keeping you within his grasp until the backs of your legs meet the plush of what you can only think to be a sofa, messy and hurried you catch yourself from falling too roughly against it as he climbs on after and over you — the haste pull of his light jacket from his arms before allowing himself to fall forward and on top of you to taste you all over again.

The scene plays out unlike any of the others: this time rushed and hurried, as if both of you are afraid that the other may pull away at a moments notice. As if this is the last possible opportunity to have this, to be like this.

To have one another.

And you feel as though being with him is a kind of raw, inhibited passion that you've never quite experienced before. Skin that feels hot against your own with every press of his mouth onto you — every inch of your body explored at a moments notice and as though he's never been offered the ability to do so with anyone before — fingertips that dance ever so gracefully across the most sensitive areas of your flesh, you just about fall apart beneath him at his insistence.

Another work of art as you lie beneath him, and with the first press of his hips against your own the two of you stare longingly into one another's eyes — not willing to miss a single thing about this shared intimacy that by now feels an unspeakable length of time in the making. When your breath catches in your throat at the feeling of him within you, Hongjoong closes the distance between your mouths all over again, drinking down the sound of your loving need for him.

For intimacy that started so rushed, the act of it carries out slowly, carefully — a man with every intention of taking his time with you and your body, you have no other choice but to melt into the feeling of him as he methodically unravels you from beneath him — with quiet, strained whimpers of his name faintly expressed upon his lips, as well as the distinct and unforgettable curl of his fingers between your own as you give yourself to him in the quiet calm of such a fatefully stormy night.

Slipping back into consciousness and a bit dazed, you're unable to parse through how much time has passed, but the gentle shift from just next to you pulls your attention from the thought, anyway.

Moonlight falling in through one of the windows only a short distance away, you take in how it illuminates the pale flesh of the man now seated up next to you — the both of you still undressed from the goings on before, you watch him dig out something from his pile of clothing, and then toss it into the back of his mouth.

Reaching a hand out, you lightly graze his back with your palm; it pulls his attention towards you and thus, a grin sprawls across his features — only barely seen in the dark of the lowest level of the home.

"You can't fix me," he says with a chuckle and the gentle shake of his head. "In fact, it's far more likely that I'll only drag you down with me."

Carrying on with the physical comfort that your hand brings him, you merely smile back at him — the gentle huff of air through your nose at the words.

So candidly himself, at all costs. It's that which makes him beautiful — nothing more, and nothing less.

"I meant what I said," you offer him, so quiet that you worry he may not even hear the words at all. Truthfully, there's horror there. The worry of the unknown. Of rejection still, like felt before.

But you have to try.

"You're not your damage, you're not your trauma. None of us are."

Hongjoong turns his head to look out in front of him and towards nothing, as if mulling over words he has never before considered, or at the very least, not in quite a long time. There's a slow nod as he gazes out into the darkness of the basement level, and now much like so many times before, you wish nothing more than to know what it is that he is thinking about. How many ways that he is inevitably trying to talk himself into making a choice: not that serves him, or brings him happiness, but rather the choice that allows for him to remain walled away and far from the eyes of any onlookers. Far from the potential of judgment.

And further more, from reopening still healing wounds as a result of all of his past mistakes.

He inhales slowly and deeply before speaking again. "I'm not entirely sure I remember what love is or what it's like—"

Hongjoong turns to look towards you again.

"—But I'm willing to try, if you are."

Sending off the finished product of your book feels comforting, in ways. After going over the finishing touches and the final notes you've made — you hope that it's not too late to do anyone any good. Granted, the nights spent now far more productive and enlightening, the finalization of it coming to and end encapsulating you in glee in a way that you suppose you hadn't quite anticipated.

Attaching the document to the email before sending it off to your publisher, you make certain not to forget the additional document that, while not requested of you, serves just as much importance as the written piece itself.

You hope it finds him well. A genuine send off, and a fitting note to your resignation from the company, as well.

An unspoken aspiration for it to be the salvation desired — littered with hopefulness, and no shortage of a word once left unwritten within the despairing pages of a work just like it.

♡ send me your thoughts and feelings in my ask.

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