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wwilloww · 3 years ago

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the seventh muse | myg |

AUTHORS @hesperantha and @wwilloww

PAIRING Yoongi x reader

TITLE The Seventh Muse

RATING M (18+)

GENRE friends to lovers. fluff. smut. non-idol au. librarian au.

WC 6.7k

SUMMARY As a writer, your favorite place in the world is the library. But you’re quickly coming to realize that it might not be the books that keep drawing you back, but the handsome, smart librarian who always knows exactly what you need.

WARNINGS semi-public sex. handjob. orgasm. thigh riding. potential desecration of books.

AN part of the To All The Folks I've Fucked Before collab. Please see the notes for all referenced writings.

THE SEVENTH MUSE

READ THE INTRO FIRST

...He must not have been paying attention, rushing to open the door to the store and get in from the cold before you were even fully through it. He looks partially frozen in spite of his gray wool scarf pulled up to his ears and his gray wool beanie pulled down to his brows. He’s nothing more than a pair of eyes, staring back at you.

“Here,” he says again, glancing at the book that he’s picked up from the pavement before handing it to you. “Did you get to the, uh, the point yet? I’m not going to spoil it but you know the one?”

Ah, a fellow reader! You send him a small smile.

“What about Verified Amateurs? Did you have a chance to start it yet?”

Your eyes widen when he mentions the title. The book he’s mentioned is nothing more than the hottest in erotic fiction of the last decade. And it is currently resting on your bedside table, right next to your very pink, very silicone, vibrator. So how on earth would this man know—?

And that’s when it hits you – his voice is familiar because he’s the one who recommended it to you, saying “this is one of my personal favorites,” then wrinkling his nose up and adding “You don’t have arachnophobia, do you? Okay, that’s a relief because the spider part’s really charming.”

“Yoongi!” You exclaim. “It’s you!”

Yoongi, the handsome librarian who you visit once every week or so. You weren’t someone who liked to ask strangers for help, but with him you couldn’t help it. You kept coming back, asking for recommendation after recommendation. It was the only line that the two of you held. You, waxing about the most recent book you read, him, listening carefully before offering a thoughtful recommendation and leading you through the stacks to where it was. But through that line, you picked up other things about him. Sometimes on the way back through the stacks, he would tell you what it was like to read that particular book. And once in a while, he’d even toss a snippet of a life story over his shoulder as a freebie.

The more you learned about him, the more you liked. So here he was: Yoongi, librarian, mystery man, and currently, the subject of one of your infamous crushes.

“You didn’t—you didn’t recognize me?” Yoongi chuckles.

Your face warms and you clutch the books tighter to your chest as you tell yourself to play it cool.

“And how, exactly, was I supposed to recognize a ball of yarn?”

“I had kind of hoped you’d pick up on my romantic charms from down the block,” he says. And then he actually honest-to-god winks at you. In his leather jacket, he looks less like the unassuming bookworm you know and more like the mysterious figure he’s mentioned in passing — the one who may or may not own a motorcycle and once talked an airline into free flights for a year through some maze of upgrade trickery.

“Where are you coming from?” you ask. The sun is already dipping behind the mountains that surround your little city, so you assume work, but he confirms it.

“Oh, the library.”

“Ah,” you say, scuffing your toe against the cement. You’ve played this moment out in your head a thousand times, running into Yoongi somewhere inauspicious, him helping you back to your feet, the two of you falling into casual and easy conversation. But now that it—and he— are here in front of you, you find yourself suddenly tongue tied.

“I actually—I actually forgot my wallet at the library, care to stroll back with me while I grab it?” Yoongi asks.

“You want me to walk with you to the library?” You gape, as if he hasn’t just asked you a quite ordinary thing. Your heart beats a little faster.

“Is that a strange request?” He cocks his head at you.

“No! No! I’m just surprised.”

“Well if that surprises you, you’ll be shocked when you see the second surprise I have waiting for you.”

A gift? From Yoongi? On Valentine's day, nonetheless.

“Please tell me it’s a new book,” you grin at the prospect, always eager to read his recommended titles.

He groans and throws his head back. “How’d you know?”

“Just a hunch. Or a hope. Anything to justify not working on the piece I’m supposed to have written for Town and Country by the end of the week. Did you know – I can’t make this shit up – that we’re supposed to be looking forward to Yacht Girl Summer?”

He turns to give you a long, withering glance as if the thought itself exhausts him. “Why do you write that crap?”

“Do you want the obvious answer or the honest answer?”

“Your choice.”

When he looks at you, you realize it’s the same look he had when you told him that you’d seen your ex unexpectedly and needed the right book to escape from the reality of your loneliness and keep you from wallowing in self-pity. Concern, but not pity. Kind curiosity. He’d taken you through the stacks directly to Ross Gay’s Catalogue of Unabashed Gratitude and pressed it into your hands without a word.

You decide to give him the honest answer rather than feeding him the trite line that it just pays the bills.

“Because I’ll never write anything actually worth reading.” You pause. “You know, I thought I did once. It even picked up a few good reviews. But then it fizzled out and my publisher dropped me.” That had been a low day too, and you’d hid from it in the pages of your favorite comfort novel—the one where the magic sucked you in and you could slip into the safety of the walls of the cabin while you read—over and over again—connections forged and hammered, made strong and shiny and new. It made you feel better, then and always, like you could see a future where you were whole and unbroken.

Yoongi is quiet then. You realize that walking in step together, side by side on the crowded pavement, the two of you must look like a couple. The longer the pause stretches on, the more you’re convinced that he’ll ask what that one book was—the one that meant you almost made it as a real writer. He couldn’t have looked it up, even knowing your full name, since you’d published it under a nom de plume. Ah, good old Kim Keaton with their one near-hit and their fabricated bio on the dust jacket. You’ve never even held a skink, much less shared your home in Bath with two of them.

“What do you mean ‘worth reading’?”

He’d asked you the same question when you’d asked for a recommendation for “New fiction worth reading.” Then you’d said “Not the same trite drivel that’s all over the bestseller shelf. Something different.” He had a recommendation, of course, but it was missing from the shelf that day. While he rummaged through the returns cart, he had told you about a summer spent traveling after school, about coming face to face with a dog the size of a bear and then barking at it until it backed off, and about his friend’s new ridiculous dad joke (the last making him giggle at himself and flub the punchline).

A spark had ignited that day.

Maybe it was his laughter, echoing through the quiet library. Or the way he had quickly shushed himself and held a finger over his mouth. Or maybe it was that dark sparkle in his eyes as he looked at you over his hand, the library falling into silence, and nothing but distance between the two of you.

Now, though, you wonder if you’re imagining the light that sparks in his eye when he asks you again: “What do you mean, ‘worth reading?’”

“Gosh, I dunno.” You shrug. But the way he looks at you says that he expects an answer. So you search for one, just for him. “I guess I mean… the kind of book that lingers in someone’s heart after they’re done reading. The kind that they flip to in their mind when they’re searching for comfort, not just something soft, but something that convinces them that the world is a little more magical than it actually is.”

He smiles at you then, the kind of smile that says he has a secret that is just his and his alone. “I think I have a book just like that.”

He hasn’t steered you wrong yet. Every book he’s recommended to you has been what you needed, even the ones you doubted at first. Your requests are often vague, sometimes no more than a single word identifying the mood. On one occasion you’d slumped at the reference desk, worn thin from having skipped sleep to meet a deadline (surprise, “Hottest Financial Advisors Under 35 for The Homebody Saver” was something you put off till the last minute), and just whispered “banana split.”

He had said “wait here,” vanished, and returned with three titles, announcing each one as “chocolate,” “vanilla”, and “strawberry.” Then he had added a slim volume on top, Second Heart by Reliable Mitten, while whispering “don’t forget the cherry.”

As he smiles his secretive smile, you start to wonder what he has in store this time. It’s easy to picture yourself later, curled in your favorite chair with your feet tucked up in their warm socks, a glass of wine and your box of discount chocolates crowding the side table as you turn the pages. You know that whatever adventure awaits will hold you clasped between its pages until the very last sentence. He must have thought of you when he read it, after all—the butterflies in your stomach do a happy little swoop at the thought.

“Yoongi,” you ask, “do you keep a list for me?”

“I’m a good librarian,” he answers enigmatically.

You can’t help but wonder if he has a mental list for each regular patron. It hurts a little to think of him selecting titles with as much care for the other patrons as he does for you. Of course there’s no chance that your—you don’t want to call it a crush, that sounds childish. And anyway, you tell yourself, whatever you felt was bound to be one-sided. He turns to look at you, taking in the expression you quickly try to hide.

“...so of course I keep a list for you,” he adds.

“You’re sure you don’t have anywhere to be, any plans that you’re missing?” you start to say, “Taking me to the library this late isn’t spoiling all your plans?”

“Hm?”

“It is Valentine’s day after all. And you’ve got the handsome librarian role down pat.” Did you really just say that? You want to kick yourself. But then he smiles, a little secretive smile to himself and says:

“No. No one’s waiting on me, if that’s what you’re asking.”

You’ve arrived at the doors to the library. In your little city, the mountains cradling the streets, this is one of the most beautiful buildings that lines your little world. Old architecture, arching doorways, even stained glass decorate the outside. But inside, well, inside is a whole new story.

Yoongi pushes the doors to the library open. The smell of old books, fresh coffee, and a little bit of him floats out and encompasses you. You breathe deep.

“Are we even allowed to be here at this hour?” you ask him.

“Absolutely not,” he throws you a sneaky smile and steps inside.

He leads you into the darkened building. Small lights line the floor, enough to see where you are walking.

“By the way, I’m surprised you ended up reading Verified Amateurs,” he says over his shoulder.

“What? Why?”

“I wasn’t quite sure if I could pin you as that kind of fellow.”

“What kind of fellow?”

“Oh. You know. The one who’s into exhibitionism. That kind of thing.”

“You mean that in a metaphorical sense, right? Souls bared, open to the elements, complete vulnerability… a free-fall of trust. Right?”

You catch up to Yoongi as he turns past the young adult section. His eyes are sparkling, and you’d love to know what kind of mischief is dancing behind them. “Of course. Trust. That’s what it comes down to. But having cute underwear on camera for thousands to see never hurts.”

You nod along, warmth spreading through your chest as you listen, then chuckling at the end. He gets it. “Why did you recommend it to me if you thought I wouldn’t read it?”

“I dunno.” He pauses, like he does know, like he’s just unsure of how to say what he means. Or if he should say it. “You could say it was a test of sorts.”

“What kind of test?” you laugh, your heart in your throat.

“To push you a little beyond your comfort zone.”

Your mind flashes to the nights you’ve spent with the book. The story warmed you from the inside out, dangling you over a precipice of longing and dramatic tension. Beyond your comfort zone? Yes.

But only because every time you opened the pages of what was quickly becoming your favorite book, you couldn’t help but think of him, of Yoongi, reading it. Did his heart lurch to his throat in the same way yours did? Did he laugh at the same parts you did? And when the heat went up to maximum level, to the point where your breath came quickly and your fingers tightened around the cover, did he, too, let his hand wander downwards, reaching, wrapping around himself when the tension became too much to bear?

So yes, the book had pushed you past your comfort zone. In fact, it had pushed you well beyond comfort and into a charged zone where you found yourself frequently and vividly thinking about Yoongi in more than a librarian slash book-lover relationship kind of way, and certainly not just because he shared a name with one of the characters.

“Well?”

“Sorry?” Your face warms as you’re snapped out of your thoughts and find Yoongi, stopped in the middle of the science section staring at you.

He takes a step closer, head tilting to the side as he considers you.

“What were you just thinking about? You seemed far away… but not in a bad way.”

“Pensive?”

“Pensive, yes.” Another step closer. Your breath freezes in your throat. “But you’re avoiding my question now.”

“I was thinking about the book.”

A ghost of a smile flickers across his lips.

“Something in particular? A character? A scene?” Another step closer.

The first thing that comes to mind is that first scene, the gentle nature of Yoongi’s (the character’s) guidance, the way your chest had heated up so quickly on that first read. And the second. And the third.

He’s so close now. He stands right before you, and when he breathes out his nose, his breath brushes across your face, tickling the hairs that fall onto your forehead.

“Hm?” he prods. “Cat got your tongue?”

He bends even closer, his nose within brushing distance of yours, his eyes fluttering shut, his mouth pressing open, his hand reaching behind you to press you against the books. You step backwards, following his guidance and close your eyes and—

Nothing.

The gentle press of his lips never comes. You peek an eye open. You’re backed up against the bookshelf with Yoongi pressed so close against you that you can see the pulse running along his neck.

He’s reaching above you, lifting a book from the shelves.

“Sorry,” he laughs. “Marie Antoinette shouldn’t be next to String Theory.”

Oh, how you burn, your insides churning, your heart in your throat. You really thought he was going to kiss you, just like that, out of the blue?

He’s turning back now, retracing his steps through the library in search of the historical section. He stops, only long enough to turn around and say to you, “You coming?”

Thoughts, feelings, and lower belly sensations flickering like wildfire within you, you nod and track after him. It’s so silent that you swear you can hear your heartbeat echoing from book to book. So you say:

“You know. Hot man in lingerie.”

That’s enough to have him stopping in his tracks to peer back at you.

“What??”

“Your question. What I was thinking of. Hot man in lingerie.”

He laughs then, a full belly laugh. “I can’t say I disagree. Good choice.” In his answer comes the acknowledgment that not only were you thinking this while he had you nearly pressed against a bookshelf, but that he thinks it’s hot too. You breathe a sigh of relief and continue:

“But not only that. Also, you know the scene, at the end? Looking at the Christmas Display?” A hummed mhmm, the quiet slide of the sound of him reshelving Marie Antoinette back in her proper home. “Well. The feeling that something enjoyed together is infinitely more special than something enjoyed alone. Wanting to share beauty—a Christmas display, maybe, um, a book—with someone… special.”

He hums in agreement, stepping away from Marie Antoinette and walking deeper into the stacks while you trail behind. You can’t help but wonder if he has someone special. Or had. You’re reminded how little you actually know about him, in spite of his seemingly perfect insight into your literary needs.

“I was also thinking about how… you know, you and the character share the same name.”

“Huh?”

“You have the same name.”

He throws a grin over his shoulder. “Ah, so it’s like reading fanfiction about me, eh?”

“There may have been some, uh, mental gymnastics,” you concede.

“Did you picture me getting railed on camera?”

It’s such a blunt question that the answer flies out of you unedited, even though your voice feels thick as it does: “Yes.”

“Did it make you wonder what I’d be like in bed? If I liked the same things he did—if I was as good at hiding the truth in plain sight?”

You feel your cheeks heat, put on the spot and invited to share with him those secret thoughts you’d planned to keep to yourself. Dumbly, you feel yourself nodding.

“Were you imagining me bossy, maybe a little broken?”

“Yoongi, I barely know you,” you try to side-step, dodging this question more successfully than the last two.

“You know what broken people need, right?” He cuts his gaze over to the sign identifying the section he’s led you to before continuing. “There’s something for everyone here. In fact, I think this is yours.” Yoongi stops suddenly and peers at the shelf in front of him.

In Self Help? Definitely not. There’s not a book in the whole section you think would be worth reading. And even if there were, you wouldn’t want Yoongi recommending it to you. The thought of him seeing you as being the type of person who—

“Right here,” Yoongi insists. “Come look.”

You squint at the shelf, skimming over the titles: The Art of Thinking Clearly, You Are a Badass: How to Stop Doubting Your Greatness and Start Living an Awesome Life (Oof, you think), A Solemn Pleasure: To Imagine, Witness and Write…

“Where?”

His lips are soft when they meet your cheek, his next words whispered: “Right here.”

You gasp a little exclamation. As ready as you were before for his lips to meet yours, his kiss takes you by surprise. It was such a little thing, teasing and chaste. And so sweet.

******

It was just as he expected. Your eyes going wide, your hand flying to your cheek – just as he’d pictured it time and time again.

When he thought about kissing you in a mountain of books, beauty surrounding beauty, worlds colliding in a perfect storm with the two of you it’s eye of calm. He’d been dreaming of this.

He dreamed of being your muse. Of inspiring you to leave behind the drudgery of churning out half-hearted (half-assed) articles, of writing something fantastic again. Every time he slipped in the truth in a cloak of lies, every time he hinted at a life more fantasy than reality, he had been imagining you taking it home, letting his stories swirl around your mind until you were ready to pour them out onto paper.

He often pictured you at your desk, clattering away on a typewriter, cursing a stuck key with such ferocity that your hair frizzed sympathetically and framed your face like a halo, tossing crumpled pages at your feet until the words unwound themselves and it’s all smooth, smooth paper, smooth prose, smooth like the silk scarf you were wearing the first time you brightened the doors of his literary safe-haven.

Something about the way you spoke seemed familiar in a way he couldn’t place until one day — he remembers you exhausted, angry at the world, defeated — you spoke the words he’d read a year before to life: banana split. The line he’d copied down on a sticky note and stuck on a corner of his laptop because something about their absurdity made the world feel a little less heavy had been: “He felt the kind of tiredness that only a banana split could fix.”

It had seemed out of place when he read it, surrounded on all sides by a fortress of literary achievement. He’d half assumed that it was intended as a placeholder, meant to be caught by a sharp-eyed editor and refined into something sensible, and yet there it was, slipping from your lips. He’d excused himself without a word, grabbed three books off the stack he had set aside for you and one off his own pile, and had a quiet internal scream as he realized that you — captivating, funny, not to mention your great taste in both books and libraries — you were the author of that line and furthermore you had meant it, a small slice of your own life bleeding on the page and just waiting to be discovered.

Ever since that day, he’s imagined your mind – your clever, extraordinary mind – taking him to the greatest adventure yet: his perfect book.

And more and more often he found himself imagining you stepping away from your desk with a devilish smile playing at the corners of your lips, turning to him where he lay on your bed, and saying “distract me?”

The thought of kissing you tangled in his mind, heat and lips and soft soft soft — less prose, more poetry, each whispered sigh a stanza.

And, yes, hot man in lingerie. He thought about asking you to recreate a few key scenes from the book with him.

It had taken him a while to recommend it to you, not sure that you would appreciate it, knowing how disappointed he'd be if you didn’t.

He had first thought about sharing it with you at Christmas, when he stood staring at the twinkling lights and felt something like a pang of deja vu. He’d had to pull it from the shelf and read it again before giving it to you, smiling to himself when he realized that the Yoongi on the pages might have a delicate bird of hope in his heart, but he was battling a full-on butterfly infestation.

And now, you’re so close, pressed against the shelves of the self-help section when you give his kiss back to him. You turn and face him, eyes searching, and reach to meet his lips.

********

It’s as if the butterflies in his chest have risen to his lips. Your kiss is fluttering, half-unsure: a thousand questions asked in the act. He answers the questions by kissing you deeper, trying to tell you through his movements, yes, yes, I’m here. The way you soften against his touch, leaning into him, wrapping your arms around his neck, the way you sigh against his lips — poetry! — tells him everything he needs to know. The way you pull him against you, bodies aligned as beautifully as stars as your lips part against his, gives him no chance to doubt that you feel something.

You’ve been feeling it too. You’ve been dreaming about him the same way. You’ve been spinning your mind around in fantasies of the most indulgent nature, the center of them starring none other than him.

“You have so many stories to write,” Yoongi murmurs against your lips. “Let me be one of them?”

You nod feverishly. “Yes. Yes.”

Yoongi is the story you’ve been waiting to write. Your previous romances had left you by the wayside, but Yoongi, Yoongi was always there with a book in hand and a story on his lips. You want to drink from the source forever, to kiss each story from his lips.

You pull Yoongi tight against you and take a step backwards, bringing him close as your back hits the stacks. When his thigh slips between your legs, you gasp.

“You sound so sweet like that,” Yoongi says. “Sweet like banana split.”

You’re shocked by his words. He remembered?

He smiles a little. He remembered. Of course he remembered.

He leans back from your lips then, taking in your expression. As he presses his thigh against you he notices: you are fighting for control. A simple touch shouldn’t unwind you like that, you think, but it is, it is. And there’s something about the way that his hungry gaze drinks up every moment of sensation sprawled across your face that makes the moment all the more intense.

So he digs in a little bit. Watching your expression carefully, he leans in close enough to brush his lips against yours while simultaneously pressing his thigh tighter to your core. He can’t help but chuckle a little when you gasp, the sound passing straight into his mouth.

“Fuck.”

Your fingers fly to the buttons on his shirt.

“Off.”

He pauses.

“Off?”

He nods. You make quick work of shrugging off his heavy leather coat—it falls to the floor—before unbuttoning the white button up he’s got on—that too is now on the floor—and soon your jacket and shirt join his clothes too.

His hands fly to your waist, pulling you in for another kiss. It’s more intimate now, as if the millimeters of clothing separating you before had somehow kept you from experiencing the depth of both of your desires.

You flip him around, grabbing his shoulders and without letting your lips leave his, press him against the bookshelf. The shock that flashes through his eyes is bright and startled. It’s a good look on him, you think.

“Wha—”

“Your turn,” you say.

“My turn for what, exactly?”

“Tell me if you don’t like it,” you answer, taking one of his hands in each of yours and directing them to one of the shelves, out of your way. The thought of tying them to your headboard at home flashes through your mind and a hum of pleasure at the thought slips out.

“What are you thinking about?” Yoongi asks, half-turning to see the look on your face. “Wait – don’t tell me.”

“You trust me, don’t you?”

“There’s no one else I would be willing to –” His sentence ends abruptly as you reach between his chest and the books on the shelf, trailing your fingers lightly down from his collarbones.

“Willing to what?” you ask innocently, noting how he sucks in a sharp breath when you skim over his nipples.

“Willing to defile books with.” The back of your hand catches on something and Tongue Tied falls off the shelf, landing open on the floor by your feet.

Yoongi leans slightly to the right, looking down at it, reading the words on the page.

“Looks like that book wants me to defile you,” you say with a smile.

Your hand continues its path downward, between the spines of the books and the planes of his body. He moves back toward you ever so slightly — just enough room to make it clear that your hand is very welcome to keep moving that direction.

He wonders if you’re going to get him off fast and desperate or if you’re going to take your time, drawing it out until both of you are blissfully exhausted. He hopes you’ll let him take care of your pleasure too, hopes he gets to hear what sounds you make when you’re seconds from coming, wants to find out if you close your eyes or keep them open and focused on him. He wonders —

His wondering is cut short when you reach the buckle of his belt, deft fingers working quickly and blindly to open it. He wants to reach down, to help you with the button, to tell you to go ahead and shove your hand in.

But instead you bring your palm to his face. He blinks.

“Lick it,” you say.

So he does, taking a long swipe up your palm, without once breaking eye contact with you. You slowly lower your hand to the button of his pants, popping it open in an awkward movement before sliding your hand within and finally, finally grasping him.

He’s hot and hard against your touch.

His world shrinks to just the two of you: the sound of your breathing, the smell of your perfume, the touch of your hand, sure and slick. You begin to move slowly, your hand tight around him. He takes a shaky breath: it’s his turn to hold on to his own sense of control for dear life.

You’d never thought something like this could be so intimate. Jerking someone off in a public place was something supposed to be reserved for your youth. But here, now, it feels like a way of connecting with him. You eagerly trace every sign of pleasure across his features: his fluttering lashes, his whitening knuckles, still above his head, and the small gasps that leave from his pink lips.

It goes on like this, him, fighting to hold on, you, drinking up every moment of delight he allows you. There’s a little thrill to the aspect of control he allows you.

He throws his head back against the books and gasps after a particularly devious swirl around the sensitive tip of his cock.

“Fuck—” he curses. “Please don’t make me come on Preparing your Chastity for Your Soulmate.”

You step back and glance down to find the title at your feet. You can’t help but laugh then, your hand stilling and the sound of your joy floating through the tall shelves. It’s getting dark now, you notice, and small lights beneath the bookshelves flicker to light.

He turns around and leans his forehead against yours.

“Let me make you feel as good as you just did for me.”

Your hand is still shoved down the front of his pants, but you pull it out to grab his face and pull him to you, kissing him furiously. You can feel his hardness pressing up against your belly. You want him. You want him more than you’ve wanted anyone in a while.

It still feels a little surreal, pivoting so quickly from the prospect of a quiet evening at home to fucking in the stacks. If you wrote a story like this, your editor would likely send back notes about needing to slow down, to build more into the narrative before bringing the characters together. “More tension,” she’d say in the margins. This narrative has plenty, no need to add conflict before the satisfying resolution—

Yoongi stops your train of thought. “Shit, I don’t have a—”

Your cheeks warm. “Um, I do.”

You step away and reach for the small canvas bag you’d carried in with you, still tangled in the arm of your jacket. You pull out a pink heart-studded box full of cheap, strawberry flavored condoms, waggle it in the air. The receipt is still stuck to it.

“Of all the brands you could have gotten,” Yoongi chuckles.

“Let’s just say I was trying to…” your voice trails off in a mumble.

“Huh?”

“It’s a gag gift.”

“That’s what they all say,” he grins, stepping closer and eyeing the box. “I’d say you have a penchant for cheap fruity rubbers.”

“I do not!” you giggle. “But all my magnum dong ribbed condoms are currently at home, so I guess we’ll have to make do.”

He grins and goes to take the condom from you, but you hold back, opening it yourself.

“Allow me,” you say with a smirk. Falling to your knees, you push his pants down to the floor and once he’s stepped out of them pop the condom into your mouth. His cock stares you directly in the face. With a careful agility and a trick you learned from an old lover, you’re swallowing the head of his cock into your mouth and slowly rolling the condom down his length with your lips till you’re at the base. He groans.

“God, where the hell did you learn to do that?”

“There’s even more I know how to do if you have the patience to find out.” You’re not entirely sure where your swing of confidence has come from, but you’re happy riding the high.

He chuckles at that, lifting you to your feet and kissing you chastley. “I’m not known for being patient,” he lies through his teeth. He was patient enough to wait for you to finish each title before coming back to ask him for the next, patient enough to wait from one week to the next for a chance to see you again. But with the thought of your lips stretched around the base of his dick fresh in his mind, that patience is starting to wear thin. He spins you around then, pushing you to the wall of books.

“Your turn,” he whispers in your ear.

“My turn for what?”

He just chuckles and you feel his fingers fumble with the button of your jeans, before smoothly unlatching them and pulling them down your legs. His hands trace down your thighs, your calves, soft touches worshiping the heating skin beneath his fingertips. And suddenly those soft touches are gone as he positions himself behind you, replaced with the unmistakable sensation of his hard cock pressing up against you. A shiver of delight ghosts down your spine.

“You want this?”

“I want you.”

“Even better.”

And he pushes in.

Your back arches as he does, the intrusion strange but not unwanted, large, but not too large. He fills you to the brim, his front pressed to your back as you cling to the book shelves for stability.

“My god, Yoongi,” you gasp.

“Okay?”

“Better than okay.”

You can almost hear the grin from behind you, that cocky, delightful, unbearably soft grin. The man is a mix of contradictions that you have no interest in untangling. Just being in the presence of them is enough for you. Like a favorite book, unwilling to unwind its mysteries beneath your touch, but no less incredible for it.

He begins a gentle pace, gliding in and out of you.

Sex with Yoongi is like reading. First, there’s the settling in. Adjusting to the new voice, the new world of the author. It takes a moment, that adjustment period. Each one learning the other, each one becoming comfortable with the unique body of language. Then comes the roll. The roll of his hips—god—but no, no the way the pages roll by, the way the words begin to lift off the page and become not letters or ink but story. A whole body of sensation living in your mind, separate from the physical book.

Then there are the questions. When it gets too good the questions come: Will there be a next book? Will I get to have this again? Is this a self-contained story arc or will there be an entire world built around it?

But ultimately the story pulls you back in with some salacious detail or riveting character introduction or the way his cock kisses your inner walls—and you’re done. You’re in. You’re all in.

He lifts your leg up, shifting the angle of his pace and you cry his name so loudly you think that books might begin falling from the rafters. He grins at that, bites down on your neck, promises to leave marks, just for him, just for him.

Leg hoisted up, you tell him to mark you up, that you’re his, that he’s yours.

He’s the book you never want to stop reading.

Both of you are getting close. He can tell from the way you cry out, the way your breath comes quicker, the way your knuckles whiten against the bookcase.

So he flips you around and kisses you, soft and deep, with the promise of a third act. His teeth catch on your lip as he pulls back, a sweet reminder of the intensity of the moment, making you ache for more.

His hands frame your face so there’s nowhere to look but at him as he slowly pushes back in. In his eyes you see the thousands of stories that he told you, truths and fiction woven together in harmony. You see a hero’s story yet to be told, written together.

His hips rolling into yours, yours rising to meet him, you at once are entirely satisfied and burning for more.

It’s funny, this whole business of dreaming. Dreaming of him fucking you, and then him actually fucking you. The softness that you imagined is there, the fire too. But what you couldn’t have imagined is what it would be for him to hold you in his gaze so tenderly, for him to bless your skin with his pink lips with such tenderness, for him to call your name like it is the only word that belongs in his mouth.

There are moments when you are as quiet as a librarian would like you to be, making no more noise than hurried breath, and moments when the sounds of delight spill out of both of you, echoing through the large and beautiful space. But the deeper you both go, the fewer words dance on your tongues. It is as if pleasure has consumed the both of you, carnal sounds now your only form of expression.

Skin to skin. Nothing more.

He presses his body closer to you, ever closer, his hips rutting into you. You let your hand wind above your head, your neck bared, and, in an attempt to reach onto something to hold, a flurry of pages flutters down around you.

His hips stutter, his pace picking up, and with a cry from both of you, you’re coming. He kisses you then, drinking down every sound of pleasure that flies from your lips. The denouement rolls through you like a book flying through the air, pages fluttering, rolling through the chapters, until finally, finally with a sensation like humming wings, the book closes.

******

As you’re pulling back on what feels like the thousand layers you were originally wearing, Yoongi returns from throwing away the condom: “By the way, I really did have a book for you.”

You laugh. “And here I was thinking that all you brought me here for was a romp in the stacks.”

“Never. I’ll always have a book for you. And a romp. Or you know, maybe a date sometime, if that’s, um, what you want—”

You kiss him then, deeply, unendingly, your response painted on your lips. You have an unending desire for him, one that you’re not even sure you can keep up with, let alone translate into words at this very moment.

The book he hands you is familiar. You know it so well that you could recite whole passages from memory. It feels like an old friend in your hands, filled to the brim with memories of endless cheap cups of coffee, painful edits that cut you almost as deeply as they cut your text, seemingly endless black holes of research, pack after pack of cinnamon gum, and hope – so much hope. It's the book that was meant to be the beginning, not the end.

“I know the author,” you say quietly.

“I do too.”

©wwilloww ©hesperantha Do not repost, translate, or use my stories without my permission.

THANK YOU FOR READING!

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wwilloww · 2 years ago

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PERMANENT TAGLIST

@spicykoreantatertots @usuallynervoussheep @myimaginationsrunningwild @lucedelsole97 @heichooouuu @yoong-i @kookieskiwi @ries-universe @minyoongiboongi @shameless-army@frisianqueen @emmmui @rm4lyf @kelly-luvya @baby-g @hobivore @elyte @twobirdsinabox @peonymoonchild @sweetmustardleduc @rkivian @boubourella @sugalaritae @herecomesjoon @hopelesslylivv @parkdatjimin @tammykelly @mo0nchild21

meeting fate halfway | chapter one

AUTHORS @sugalaritae and @wwilloww

PAIRING Taehyung x Jungkook ft. Taehyung x OC GENRE vampire au. mafia au. strangers to lovers. enemies to lovers. lovers to enemies. smut. angst. RATING 18+. mature. SUMMARY The squeak of the freezer door, the giggles of couples enjoying noodles at the bar, and the hum of the fluorescent lights are all reminders that Taehyung could be doing something else. Could be living the life of his dreams if only society was kinder. If he had made better choices. As strange things begin to appear in his life—a stranger who insists on walking him home each night, and an unknown figure appearing in the shadows and in his dreams—he clings to his handsome and rich boyfriend Sungwon. After all, Sungwon is just a normal man. He's not dark. He's not dangerous. He doesn't have a secret. Right? WC 7.5k WARNINGS AND TAGS protective!jungkook. bodyguard!jungkook. possessiveness. semi-public sex. unprotected sex. threats of violence. supernatural. toxic relationships. possessive talk during sex. dark themes. mentions of drinking blood. creepy figures.

AN i am so incredibly thankful that willow agreed to do this with me! i suggested writing something together on a whim and then it all just fell into place and it's absolutely a dream come true to get to write with one of my favourite fic writers. i'm excited to hear what everyone thinks about our little child! there is so much to come in future chapters and we have basically spent the last few days screaming at each other with ideas. it's glorious. please let us know if there is anything that we got wrong in regards to Korean culture. no amount of research will ever take place of living there and being Korean. - ❤️ harrow

my oh my oh my i feel so thrilled to share this lovely little brain baby with you all! it is a dream to get to work with Harrow and i honestly couldn't ask for a better partner in crime. thank you especially to @hesperantha @sunshinerainbowsbts who lent their orbs to this project! and to all of you: welcome along for the ride!

CHAPTER ONE

Taehyung knows what love is.

At least, that’s what he’s told Namjoon three times tonight. But as he glares at the blue light of his phone, he can’t ignore the flickering above his head. It won’t stop flickering. Three times every fifteen seconds, like some kind of morse code telling him he’s wrong. A flicker for each resolute “I know it’s love” tossed over the technological ether and into Namjoon’s phone. The sequence is not a coincidence, it’s there for a reason and he’s beginning to doubt his own thoughts.

Except there's no code in the lights. Just a constant and horrible reminder that Taehyung's life isn't what he wants. Like the way that his ass aches from the hard metal stool he sits on when the store is quiet.

The shop bell rings, and Taehyung lifts his head.

The man that left a mark on Taehyung’s collarbone saunters in, the smell of sweet night following him into the convenience store.

Taehyung can never look away from him, the way that he stares, the way he sees Taehyung. Taehyung had seen men like him before, the kind of man that seems to be dressed head-to-toe in charisma. The kind of man that can switch quickly from comfort to mocking in a second and could make Taehyung get on his knees with a snap of his fingers, except that isn’t Sungwon. Sungwon is surprising, deep, and Taehyung knows there is more to discover and he aches for the next layer of mystery to be stripped away.

“Babe,” Taehyung grins as Sungwon steps behind the counter and close to him, his head blocking the light and cutting off the code. It gives Taehyung’s brain a break.

“Working hard or hardly working?” Sungwon chuckles, his gaze flicking down to the phone Taehyung holds in his hands. “Put it away.”

Taehyung tsks and rolls his eyes, but puts his phone away anyways.

“You could go easy on me,” he says.

“C’mon, babe,” Sungwon steps closer and slips a finger under Taehyung’s chin and lifts his head gently, his eyes dark as he looks down at Taehyung. He swipes a finger over Taehyung’s frown. “You know I can’t hold you to a different standard than the other employees just because we’re fucking.”

“Oh? So we’re just fucking?” Taehyung cuts back, a glimmer of humor in his eyes.

Sungwon grins at Taehyung. “Fucking. And more.” Sungwon says with a wink.

“What brings you by?” Taehyung secretly hopes he’ll answer that he’s come by for him, but knows that Sungwon never comes by the shop for Taehyung unless he’s showing up for a dick appointment. Which, of course, Taehyung doesn’t mind. Sungwon says he doesn’t mix business and pleasure, but he’s a hypocrite. At least it keeps Taehyung on his toes. And his knees.

The two met when Sungwon bought the convenience store. Taehyung was the slender, young sales clerk, and Sungwon had immediately taken a liking to him, asking him out the first time they met. Taehyung didn’t know where his life was going, but he did know one thing: he could get out. He could travel. So when they met, he was in the process of saving up for a plane ticket to anywhere, and in walzed Sungwoon, jetsetter extraordinaire and businessman. It was easy for Taehyung to quickly agree to the striking and charming man, especially when Sungwon had promised to take him out to Crave, the brand new hip restaurant in Itaewon. Itaewon wasn’t Paris, but it was far enough outside of his world. He had been there before. Had walked in front of the storefronts, each one reminding him of posters hanging on a wall of places he wanted to travel. There but just out of reach.

Taehyung wasn’t sure why Sungwon had invested in such a shit property with the convenience store, considering how quiet the business always was, tucked down a quiet, unfrequented street. Sungwon always seemed like such a shrewd businessman though, so Taehyung never questioned him. Never questioned the strange packages that started coming through the back door. Never questioned the late night frequent customers who never seemed to buy anything, but always needed to talk to the owner. He had learned long ago that questions only lead him to trouble.

The bell chimes again and Sungwon quickly steps away from Taehyung, brushing his hands together.

“Back to work,” Sungwon says, maybe a little too loudly and giving no answer to Taehyung’s question of what it was that brought Sungwon by the little shop.

“Right. Boss.”

“I love you,” Sungwon whispers before heading to the back office. It’s not the first time he’s said it, but it still sends a shiver down Taehyung’s spine, the delight of attention, of affection, from a man like Sungwon.

“Love you, too.” It slips off of his tongue easily, like a well-rehearsed line. Like it’s supposed to be there. Right? It’s supposed to be there.

Taehyung finally gets a look at the person who’s come through the door. It’s one of his regulars, someone who’s been by the shop for months, though he doesn’t know his name. Just knows him by the leather biker pants he’s always wearing and the motorcycle helmet he keeps slung over one arm. Taehyung watches him as he struts inside, twirling the helmet once around—and knocking a display of snacks over.

“Oh, shit,” the man says, looking at Taehyung.

This has happened before. This happens all the time. Someone makes a mess, then expects him to clean it up.

“It happens,” he sighs and makes his way over.

“Hey—” There’s a hand on him, and Taehyung freezes. He looks down. The man’s tattooed hand is gripped around his bicep, holding firm. “I’ll take care of it. It’s my mess.”

“It’s in the job description,” Taehyung offers, bending down. “Don’t worry.”

“I said, I’ll take care of it.” The man’s expression looks so stern, so serious, that Taehyung stops and takes a step back.

“I mean, if you insist.”

“I do.”

And then the man smiles. Taehyung blinks back at him, and hurries back behind the counter. The man’s kindness has taken him off guard. It would have been more normal for him to disregard his mess and leave it for Taehyung to take care of on his own.

Taehyung retreats to his seat by the register.

Averting his gaze from the man in the store who seems to keep looking at him, he distracts himself by counting the flickering light again.

“A bit annoying isn’t it?” the man asks and points up to the light, his eyes going wide as he looks up, his mouth opening just a little. Taehyung can’t help but notice how young the man suddenly looks as he gives a little blink with each flicker like he’s trying to decipher the code himself. Taehyung’s gaze follows and then he shrugs.

“Yeah.”

The man looks back down and at Taehyung, blinking a few times to clear his sight. Taehyung knows that he’s seeing the bright line, engraved in his vision, just like Taehyung and it must be brighter as he was staring at the light longer than Taehyung was.

“If you just unscrew it a little but keep it in there it won’t flicker but the bulb beside it will stay lit,” the man says and Taehyung smiles. Twice he’s helped him out without needing to, even though this could only be considered advice, it’s advice that Taehyung thinks he might take. Maybe as soon as Sungwon is gone, he’ll get onto the counter and try it.

“Just be careful you don’t fall,” the man says as if he’s reading Taehyung’s mind.

“Oh,” Taehyung says, caught off guard.

“Might be better if you have someone to help you. Why don’t we do it now?”

Taehyung glances to the back of the store where Sungwon’s office is. Sungwon wouldn’t like him getting on the counter when a customer could walk in at any moment. But then again, it’s his job to man the store, which includes fixing random bits and pieces here and there. So Taehyung nods, and begins to scramble onto the counter.

He jolts when a pair of hands come down on his hips.

“I’ve got you,” the man says. “You won’t fall. Not under my watch.” The man cracks a smile and Taehyung’s cheeks redden. He quickly returns to the job at hand, doing his best not to be blinded by the glaring light above or the thought of the bright smile below.

“There, done,” Taehyung says. But the man doesn’t take his hands off of Taehyung’s hips. “I’m done,” he repeats.

“Oh. Sorry.”

The man almost looks like he’s blushing.

“Taehyung.”

The cold voice that echoes from the other side of the shop makes Taehyung stumble. But he’s held up by a strong set of hands and quickly rights himself, brushing down his apron before looking at the source of the voice. Sungwon stands in his office doorway, arms crossed.

“Meet me in my office.”

“Fuck, Sungwon,” Taehyung groans, as his lover rams into him. “Right—right there.��

Taehyung is currently bent over Sungwon’s desk, papers pushed to the side to make room for Taeahyung’s torso. He’s on his elbows, but Sungwon rakes his hand through his hair and presses down, pushing his cheek into the cold surface of the desk. His hands flail to the side, palms spread wide like he’s praying. To what god? Taehyung doesn’t know, just knows the pleasure that flits through his body.

Sungwon chuckles. “You think you can tell me what to do with you right now? Pretty pet doesn’t understand.”

Taehyung grits his teeth. It feels so fucking good, and the sharpness of Sungwon’s words goes straight to his head.

“I got you all pretty and prepped, I’m so gentle with you. When I should be punishing you.” He presses his hips against Taehyung’s ass and grinds into him, earning a groan from the man beneath him. “That’s what you deserve, don’t you? For letting another man touch you like that?”

“I didn’t—”

“Shhh,” Sungwon coos, his hand gliding down Taehyung’s back. “I saw it. Saw it with my own eyes. I didn’t think you needed reminding.”

“Re-reminding—” Taehyung’s words jostle with every thrust. “Of what?”

“That you’re mine.”

Taehyung emerges from Sungwon’s office, hair a mess, cheeks aflame, sweat beading on his forehead. He looks thoroughly fucked. He had only been gone for what? Fifteen, twenty minutes? He always seems to lose track of time with Sungwon. But still he wonders if anyone noticed. If anyone listened in while he was being fucked into the desk.

The man is sitting at one of the tables in the back. He watches with wide eyes. He stands, and then thinking better of it, sits again. His eyes don’t leave Taehyung’s form. Taehyung wonders if he heard anything.

“Remember who you belong to,” Sungwon murmurs into Taehyung’s ear before giving his ass a squeeze.

The man’s eyes flash with unspoken emotion.

“You,” Taehyung nods, a small smile on his lips. He’s drunk off of the attention, off of the possessive streak that Sungwon so boldly wears. Sungwon who never seems to care what anyone will think of them, the potential danger of having Taehyung in such a public setting. Taehyung feeds off it while a small space in the back of his mind is alert and ready to fight anyone who might say or do something.

Even now, he wants to look up and challenge the man to say something but instead his eyes are glued to the floor, flickering closed as Sungwon’s words linger against his skin.

Taehyung returns to his place behind the counter, wiping a sweaty strand of hair out of his eyes. His gaze flickers to the man sitting in the corner. He’s slurping on a drink, his mouth wrapped around a straw, but his eyes are locked on Taehyung.

He thinks he can ignore the regular, thinks he can go about his work. Taehyung doesn't like the way that the customer watches him but there is something written on his face, a moment of discomfort and Taehyung wonders if maybe it's the realization of who he is. Who he is attracted to. The man continues to stare, and it feels like his gaze is boring into the back of Taehyung’s head, feels like he can see right through his brain to the thoughts in his mind, right through the office door to where he was fucked. It itches, the attention, and soon it becomes so much that Taehyung whips around.

“What?” Taehyung snaps. “What is it?”

The man swirls his straw around his drink once, then twice before answering. “Why do you let him talk to you like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re some kind of plaything. Some kind of pet.”

“I’m not his pet.”

“He basically leads you around on a leash.”

Taehyung is flabbergasted.

“And what right do you have to make assumptions like that?”

The man shrugs. “Dunno. Maybe I know a thing or two about what it means to be tied up with someone.”

Taehyung frowns. “There’s nothing going on.” He hates lying about his relationship but knows that Sungwon would be furious if he were to spill the details of his private life to a customer.

“Suit yourself.”

Taehyung thinks the man will get up and leave after the interaction, but instead, he just sits there, sipping on his drink entirely unbothered.

“Don’t you have someplace to be?” Taehyung asks.

“Nope.”

“Great.”

Taehyung rolls his eyes and flicks his phone back on. Maybe Sungwon will see and pull him back into his office for another “punishment.”

Weeks have gone by. Taehyung’s eyes dart to the window. The wind presses a smattering of fallen leaves against the glass, and a large one has gotten caught in the door where it flaps and flutters desperately, trying to get free. Taehyung has the urge to open the door, just to see it fly free.

Sungwon is gone and Taehyung is left to close up.

“You gotta go,” Taehyung tells the man, who has once more returned to the convenience store. He’s sipping on his fourth or fifth banana milk of the evening.

“Alright,” the man says, and disposes of his cup. He goes to the door and just stands there.

Taehyung finishes his closing duties and stares at the man. “What are you doing?”

“Waiting for you.”

“Why?”

“I was gonna offer to walk you home.” He opens the door and holds it for Taehyung. He steps through, and when it closes, locks it up.

Taehyung is taken aback by the proposition. “No, no, that’s alright.”

“It’s late. And it’s dark. And you’re a pretty boy—”

“I’m not a boy.”

“—Man, sorry,” he corrects himself. “It’s not as safe out there as you’d like to think it is. Just let me walk you home.”

“What about your bike? Are you just going to leave it here?” he asks, eyes casting down to the helmet that is still in the man’s hands.

“I’ll come back and get it, no big deal.”

“You don’t know where I live; it could be a long walk.”

The other man just shrugs.

Taehyung frowns at him and he’s about to say ‘no’ once more when his gaze focuses on something over the man’s shoulder. At the end of the road, something large and dark looms. It looks like a tall figure, almost human. But there’s something about the way it moves, so fluidly, like it’s walking on air, that sends a chill down Taehyung’s spine.

Something’s wrong, he knows it right away.

Without thinking, he reaches out for the man and grips his arm, tighty, his fingers digging into the leather of his jacket.

“Let’s go.”

He tugs him in the opposite direction of the figure, his steps quickening. But the man stalls, heavy and unwilling to be pulled at Taehyung’s pace. But then he looks over his shoulder too and something changes in his face. Fear? Possibly but also something horrible—recognition.

“Alright, let’s go,” the man says, taking Taehyung’s arm and tugging him forward.

The two walk quickly to the end of the road, where the streetlights resume, painting the streets golden. When Taehyung turns around, the figure is gone. He breathes out, but there’s still an unyielding tightness in his chest.

“What the hell was that?”

“Nothing,” the man says, but there’s something in his firm-set gaze that makes Taehyung think he knows exactly what that something was.

“You know, don’t you?”

“No.” But his mouth twitches.

“You’re a bad liar.”

“Let’s just get you home.” The man takes Taehyung’s arm and begins walking. Taehyung notices that they’re walking in the correct direction of his little apartment, but doesn’t say anything. Maybe the other man is just as eager as Taehyung is to get away from the sighting of the strange figure.

They walk in silence for some time, before Taehyung realizes that the man still has his arm clutched in his, and he slowly pulls it out to walk by himself. The man looks almost hurt, but he says nothing and they continue on their way.

“What’s your name?” Taehyung asks finally, breaking the silence. “I’ve seen you around for months and yet I have no idea who you are.”

“Maybe it’s better that way,” the man says, tight lipped.

“Seriously.?” he asks with a little laugh, “Mr. Mysterious. Oooh I’m so mysterious,” he laughs. “What’s your name?”

He scratches at his long dark hair before answering. “You can call me Jungkook. Most of my friends call me JK.”

“I’m Taehyung.”

“I know.”

Taehyung looks at him with concern—how does this man know so much about him?—before Jungkook nods down at the glistening silver name badge on his chest.

“Ah. Right. What do you do, Jungkook?” Taehyung has always wondered this, considering Jungkook showed up at the convenience store at the strangest of hours.

“This and that.”

Taehyung laughs. “That’s not an answer.”

“I uh, well. I help some folks out. With their, um, business. Doing odd ends, bits and pieces. I hardly know what I’ll end up doing each day. I just go where they tell me.” He shrugs.

“That sounds exciting,” Taehyung sighs. “I wish I had something like that.”

“What? You don’t dream of being a sales clerk your whole life?”

Jungkook is joking, but Taehyung still winces. “Ouch.”

“Oh, come on, you must have dreams,” Jungkook says, nudging him. “Something that you wish you could do. Even if it’s improbable.”

Taehyung nods, he had dreams once. Thought about getting out of the city he grew up in, seeing the world, having people know his name and face; the problem with dreams is that sometimes they stay dreams. They stay in one’s mind and trap the soul in what ifs and could have beens. Those what ifs and could have beens float through his head as he sits and watches the store. As he watches as couples float in and out of the door. As he stocks shelves and slips past people wearing the brand of watch that he’d wear if he had the life that he wanted. But for that kind of life to become reality, a person needs support, people, community—and that’s just not something that Taehyung has ever known. Never known what it’s like to be told that they believe in him. Until Sungwon walked into his life, took over the shop, and slipped into Taehyung’s bed. He, at least, seemed to inspire something in Taehyung, even if he didn’t have a name for what that was.

“No, not really,” Taehyung says. “That’s the problem. I don’t know what I’m good at, don’t know what I want to do.”

“Hm,” Jungkook hums and is quiet for a moment. “So you’re saying at no point no one ever paid you a compliment?”

Taehyung’s not sure what that has to do with anything, but still, he thinks about it. “Someone once told me I have a good voice. Used to have me sing for her.”

“See, there you go!” Jungkook looks thrilled, and his outpouring of excitement makes Taehyung crack a smile. It’s a nice contrast to his hard-edged biker look. “You’re a born singer.”

“One compliment makes me a born singer?” Taehyung asks with a laugh as he turns to look at Jungkook. The man is already looking back at him with a directness as if he’s not concerned that there are any cracks in the road to trip on.

“How did the compliment make you feel? How did it feel when she asked you to sing for her?” Jungkook asks before looking away. Taehyung can’t help but feel a poking desire to have the other man’s eyes on him again. His gaze felt good. It felt warm. He can’t help but compare it to Sungwon. With Sungwon’s eyes on him, he feels like he’s been thrust on stage and blinded by a spotlight. With Jungkook, it feels like a soft summer sun.

He shrugs, “Good, I guess.”

“Just good?”

“Yeah.”

Jungkook shakes his head, “You know, some days I think about what else I could be doing and I can’t think of a single thing. Maybe it would be nice to have someone tell me that I’m good at something—something that I was born with. I imagine it would feel like a warm drink on a cold day. Or like they’re wrapping your sadness up in a blanket.”

Taehyung is struck by the sudden profundity of Jungkook’s words. He hadn’t thought that much was going on behind all that leather and tattoos. He thinks about this image and about the compliment and nods: “I think that might be a really good way of putting it. Like it’s filling a part of you that you didn’t think would be filled. Or even noticed.”

“Exactly,” Jungkook says, his voice excited as he turns to Taehyung and gives him a big, wide eyed smile. “Did hearing something good about you make you want to sing more?”

Taehyung nods.

“See? Born singer. The compliment isn’t the thing that makes you want to sing. "But it gave the part of you that wanted to sing the attention it was asking for. And that is what makes you born to do it.”

Taehyung is silent as he lets Jungkook’s words settle in his mind. For the first time in a very long time the door leading to his dream unlocks. It doesn’t open. But it unlocks.

The silence slips comfortably around the two of them and the figure is forgotten. It’s a pleasant silence, one that feels as if Taehyung has known Jungkook forever, and he supposes he has in a way, as Jungkook is a face that he sees every day. It’s not long until they’ve arrived at Taehyung’s apartment, and he’s suddenly nervous that he’s led this stranger to his home because that is what Jungkook is after all—a frequent stranger. So he lies.

“Well, I’m almost home. About two blocks away. I’ll leave you here.”

Jungkook looks up at the apartment building, directly at Taehyung’s window, and then shrugs with a smile. “Sure,” he says.

“Um, thank you. Thank you for walking me home.”

“Anytime. Anytime you need me—I mean, need my help. Or, you know, a compliment,” Jungkook says. “Don’t hesitate to ask. I’ll have one ready.”

Fall fades, just as the bright leaves on the trees do. Life seems to go on undisturbed.

Though something is disturbed. Taehyung has begun having nightmares of a strange figure following him through the streets of Seoul. No matter how fast he runs, the figure always stays the same distance away. He wakes up in a sweat.

It’s the reason why Taehyung doesn’t fight Jungkook off when he offers to walk him home. Some nights they talk about places that Taehyung wants to visit, Jungkook’s dream motorcycle, complaints about their bosses—who often display similar faults. Taehyung surprises himself when he complains about the man who is his boyfriend and boss, and doesn’t feel guilty. No matter what they talk about, they never quite let the other in, and sometimes they walk in silence.

When the first snow comes, Taehyung is walking home with Jungkook. Jungkook is donned in what Taehyung has come to believe must be some kind of uniform: leather pants and a leather jacket. Despite the cold, his jacket is open, revealing a black turtleneck beneath, and the glint of a silver chain around his neck. Taehyung thinks they must make an odd pairing, what with him in a huge white puffer coat that Sungwon insisted on buying him and a scarf Namjoon knitted wrapped tightly around his throat.

“Woah, would you look at that,” Jungkook muses, swinging his arm around Taehyung. He tilts his head up and looks directly up into the snow, the way it seems to appear out of the darkness. Taehyung looks down at the arm around him and finds himself smiling.

“Yeah,” he says, looking at the way Jungkook’s cheeks scrunch up and lines appear at the sides of his eyes when he smiles. “Would you look at that.”

Snow means his anniversary. Means an entire year spent together. Taehyung thinks that there’s going to be a break to everything. Snow means a clean slate, the change of seasons and memories of good things. The first time that the previous owner introduced Sungwon to Taehyung. The first look, the way that Sungwon looked at Taehyung and gave him a charming smile as he shook his hand. Normally businesses changing hands meant closure and Taehyung needing to find a new job as he had experienced before, but Sungwon, hand wrapped around Taehyung's and making eye contact that made Taehyung feel shy, guaranteed him that nothing would change. Except everything changed, at least for the two of them.

“Do you ever think about the places that get more snow than we do?” Jungkook asks as they turn the corner onto Taehyung’s street. He still hasn’t told Jungkook that this is his street, they always say goodbye at the same place and Taehyung always waits until Jungkook has turned around and is out of sight to enter his building, worries still flitting through his mind that maybe he shouldn’t let this no-longer-a-stranger too close to him. Sometimes he wonders where Jungkook disappears each night, but he never asks.

“You mean like the mountains?”

“No, like other countries where they have snow permanently on the ground for months,” Jungkook says with a far off look as if he’s picturing a specific place.

“I don’t think I have.”

“I do, all the time. When I was little my dad used to show me pictures of snow as tall as my waist.”

Taehyung looks at the other man, it’s the first time that he’s heard about Jungkook’s past and he’s intrigued but almost as quickly as the question was pulled out of nowhere, Jungkook stops and turns to Taehyung. “I love snow,” Jungkook explains before he looks up at the falling flakes. “Have a good night.” And with that he’s gone back the way they traveled.

Taehyung watches him for a moment and then, instead of entering his building, he gazes up at the sky. Watching as the snow falls down, each flake becoming bigger as they get closer to him. He’s lost in watching them, how mesmerizing they are falling from the sky. How each one appears out of the nothingness of the sky. He hears the sound of a car passing and steps off the road and toward his building, stopping as he smells a strange scent. But it seems too out of place for his mind to recognize what it is. It makes him hesitate and he looks around, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end, and he tries to take a deep breath to steady himself but can’t quite find the air to fill his lungs.

The scent fills his senses, and he can almost taste it on his tongue. It tastes of metal and earth. He knows he's smelled it before, at night, tied inexorably to Jungkook. It's been there all along, since that first night Jungkook walked him home. Now, though, he's alone and it's out of place so he begins to look for its source. Turning his gaze in each direction. Then he sees it—the figure. It stands at the top of the street, a form illuminated by the flickering light of a street lamp. Though he can’t see its face he knows it’s staring directly at him. A shiver runs down his spine and, for a moment, he’s frozen until a voice in his head tells him to run. He does, without thinking. He runs into the lobby of his building and past the group of teenagers that are always gathered playing games until their parents come down and yell at them to go back to their homes. He doesn’t take the elevator, he runs up the stairs instead, and doesn’t breathe until he’s safe behind a locked door in his apartment.

No matter how many times they’ve met in the swanky bar on the first floor of Sungwon’s apartment complex, Taehyung still feels out of place. Even though he’s been dressed up in the finest clothes by his boyfriend, he still feels like someone will take one look at him and deem him an imposter.

Taehyung searches the bar for a sign of his boyfriend. His gaze sweeps across couples and small groups dressed to the nines and scattered on plush seating, their faces shrouded by the dark atmosphere. That was something that Taehyung had quickly learned about all these fancy places: they seem to thrive in darkness.

Maybe it was something about the secrecy of it all.

In the corner, there’s someone that almost looks familiar. A sweep of dark hair. A dance of leather. But the figure disappears into a booth and Taehyung doesn’t think twice about it.

That’s when he spots Sungwon’s figure, draped over a chair at the bar. He’s smiling his signature smile at the bartender, but then, as if noticing Taehyung’s presence, his gaze shoots directly to his boyfriend.

Sungwon orders Taehyung’s drink for him, already knowing the younger man’s taste well. But the thing about Sungwon is that as familiar as he is with what Taehyung does and doesn’t like, he always takes a certain pleasure in pushing Taehyung’s tastes further, urging him to try new things, mixing new ingredients into favorite drinks, and watching closely as Taehyung sipped from his glass, eager to know what he thinks.

Tonight is no different.

The drink washes across Taehyung’s tongue, but he’s quick to grimace.

“Ugh, gosh.” He tries to right his features, put on a smile. “It’s good!”

Sungwon chuckles. “You don’t like it.”

“I do!”

“You don’t. Why don’t you like it?”

“I don’t know. It tastes off. Like metallic or something. Iron.”

“Hm,” Sungwon hums. “I usually like that palate.”

“I guess we can’t agree on everything.”

The candles flicker, lighting up Sungwon’s face with a pattern of dancing light and shadow. Taehyung can’t take his eyes off of him.

“Get him a new one,” Sungwon directs to the bartender. “Something sweet. Something a little more simple.”

“Of course, sir.”

When the new drink comes, Taehyung swirls it around, once, then twice, before lifting his glass.

“Happy anniversary, babe,” he grins and offers his cocktail to his lover. They clink glasses.

One year together. One year since Sungwon waltzed into that store and swept Taehyung off of his feet. Today, Sungwon had Taehyung sent to a tailor to get a suit fitted just for him. He showered Taehyung with gifts, which made the younger man wonder if he had been able to afford them from the profits from the convenience store or from one of his many other businesses. He never really understood how money worked in Sungwon’s world, just that there was a lot of it. But who was he to complain?

He feels pampered, luxuriated in the most divine way.

The bartender sweeps by, breaking Taehyung’s reverie.

“Let’s go upstairs,” Sungwon says.

“But I haven’t finished my drink,” Taehyung replies.

“Then bring it with you.”

Taehyung looks at the expensive crystal glass and back at Sungwon. He grins and the two of them slip out of the bar.

The couple eats dinner in relative silence in Sungwon’s penthouse, sharing comments about their day and the food. A staff member comes to clear their dinner plates and refills their wine.

When desert comes, Taehyung reaches his foot beneath the table and glides it up the inside of Sungwon’s thigh. Sungwon closes his eyes and sighs. He puts a hand on Taehyung’s foot before brushing it off of his leg.

“We need to talk.”

Taehyung’s breath stills in his throat. Is this it? Is it over? Taehyung worries that he’s done something wrong, that somehow he’s messed up this perfect thing that he’s built with this beautiful man. He wonders if it was the interaction from the other week, when Jungkook—had gotten too close for Sungwon’s comfort. Maybe if Taehyung had been a bit more stand-offiish, or rude towards the man, he wouldn’t have messed this all up.

Or maybe Sungwon has finally learned about his late night walks with Jungkook. Maybe he thinks that this Jungkook means something to him. How is he supposed to explain he’s accepted a stranger’s help because he saw an eerie shadow in the darkness?

He’ll have to try his best. He doesn’t want to lose Sungwon.

Sungwon dismisses the staff members for the night, even his bodyguard, and leads Taehyung to the sprawling couch. A fire roars in the hearth, spilling warmth and light towards the two figures. He lets Taehyung sit first, before settling beside him. He rests a hand on his lover’s thigh and pulls him close.

“There’s a part of me that I’ve never shared with you.”

“Oh?” Taehyung perks up. Maybe it’s not as bad as he thought. He’s always been eager to get beneath the aura of mystery of the man he calls his boyfriend. And this is it. This is really it. “What is it? You can tell me anything.”

A smile spreads across Sungwon’s face and Taehyung thinks how absolutely beautiful it is. How soft and wonderful it is, only a matter of time and the closeness that he’s been craving will be there. Sungwon’s truth and self will be laid out on the table instead of Taehyung’s body.

“Look at you,” Sungwon says, his eyes moving along Taehyung’s face. “So beautiful.”

Taehyung can feel the heat slip into his cheeks.

“I wish there was a better way of putting this,” Sungwon pauses and Taehyung can feel his heart beating wildly in his chest with impatience. “How can I explain this to you? How can I make you understand?” Sungwon chuckles, as if sharing an inside joke with himself.

“I can understand perfectly well,” Taehyung says defensively. This had come up before. Taehyung had never been to college. Sungwon had, and Taehyung often felt that his boyfriend held the difference in education over his head.

“Of course you can, baby. You know, there are things out in this big, scary world that go beyond our ability for reasonable explanation.”

“Yeah, sure?” Taehyung responds. He’s not sure where Sungwon is going with this, but then again, Sungwon has always had a flair for the dramatic.

“There are big, scary things in this big, scary world,” Sungwon says solemnly, glancing between Taehyung’s eyes. “Like me.”

Taehyung laughs. “What are you talking about? You’re not big and scary! Well maybe not scary.” But Sungwon is looking back at him with a dark look in his eyes, and the laugh quickly stills in his throat. “What are you talking about?” he repeats, this time quieter.

“You don’t know who I am. What I am.”

This time Taehyung doesn’t fight him. He just watches on with wide eyes.

“Some people call me a monster.”

Taehyung’s brow furrows. A cold shiver runs down his spine. He wants to protest, tell the man who has kissed him, held him and whispered sweet words into his ear that he can’t be a monster; but there’s something sitting there behind the statement. A truth behind the words. Sungwon believes it and it shines in his eyes like a twisted sparkle that makes Taehyung pause before objecting.

“I have a particular taste.”

Taehyung looks around the spacious and luxurious penthouse that they’re currently lounging in. An expensive taste? That much is obvious. But Sungwon seems to be alluding to something else, speaking between the lines.

“Spit it out,” Taehyung says.

Sungwon shakes his head and smiles a little smile. “The closest we have in Korean is the Kumiho—but that isn’t right. I’m not a fox, nor am I woman.” Sungwon seems to get lost in his head. “I suppose we do have the myth now as the west influences our culture. There are many names for what I am. Vampire might be the closest, though even that is not entirely correct.”

Taehyung just blinks back at him. He bursts out laughing. “Is this some kind of joke? Some kind of Twilight, Edward impression? Babe, if you wanted to roleplay, you could have just told me.”

Sungwon doesn’t smile back. He grips Taehyung by the shoulders and he stills beneath his hold.

“I’m not joking here, Taehyung.”

Taehyung’s gaze flickers between Sungwon’s eyes. There’s something cold, hard, in them, something that Taehyung has only seen in fleeting moments–blips– before.

“Oh. Oh.” Taehyung’s head spins. “You’re a fucking vampire? What the fuck, Sungwon?”

“Not a vampire—but sure, use that word. I thought you might have overreacted to this information.” Sungwon rolls his eyes and shifts closer to his boyfriend, his hands still on his shoulders.

“I’m overreacting? I’m overreacting?” Taehyung’s hands flail by his sides, and Sungwon’s hands brush down his arms to still the movement, to calm him, to provide some reassurance, but Taehyung is not reassured. He shakes off Sungwon’s hold and tries to stand but Sungwon pulls him back down.

“This doesn’t change anything, Taehyung,” Sungwon says, looking deep into his eyes. “Well it changes one thing.”

“It changes everything, Sungwon,” Taehyung whispers. “It changes everything.”

“No, really, it only changes one thing.” He waits for Taehyung to say something, but when he doesn’t, he continues. “It changes what you are to me.”

Taehyung stops squirming. He looks Sungwon in the eye and Sungwon is as serious as day.

“What I am to you?” Not who, but what.

Taehyung understands immediately.

“It’s only natural,” Sungwon grins, and moves closer to Taehyung, pinning him against the armrest of the couch. His hand slides up Taehyung’s thigh. “I wanted to tell you as soon as I met you—how sweet you smell, how delectable.” Sungwon’s tongue ghosts over his lips, like he’s tasting the air. “But of course, I didn’t want you running off like a scared little mouse.”

“You—you want to eat me?!” Taehyung gasps, pushing against Sungwon’s chest. But he doesn’t budge. Taehyung just squirms in his seat, but he’s pinned down.

“It sounds so undomesticated when you put it that way. I just want to taste you. I want us to be closer to each other in this way.”

“Closer?” He doesn’t want to know how much closer they can be, or what kind of closeness Sungwon is talking about. His mind whirls through the possibilities and all of them leave him feeling sick and dizzy. It disgusts him.

“Of course. In my world , there’s nothing like the bond between a sanguisuge and his pet.” Sungwon had always called Taehyung his pet, but now the word takes on an entirely different meaning, and Taehyung feels a tightness around his neck like there’s an invisible collar that was tied around him the first time Sungwon whispered the term, a whisper that created a leash and has tied Taehyung to him. “There’s a special thing that happens when a man lets his lover feed from him. A kind of bond. Unbreakable. You’d be mine.”

“Yours?”

This is what Taehyung has been waiting for since he met Sungwon. That moment of commitment. That promise of ensuring stability. Knowing that someone who cares for him, who can support him, is going to be there for him forever. But no, no, this is all wrong. This isn't how he pictured it. It was supposed to be filled with love and this–this is not love.

Sungwon is staring him down with a raw hunger in his eyes, and his grip on Taehyung is tighter than it’s ever been, so tight Taehyung is sure it will leave a bruise.

“Why are you telling me this now?” Taehyung whispers.

“I don’t usually wait this long,” Sungwon explains. “But you’re special. You’re different from the others.”

“The others?” he asks, his voice cracking.

Sungwon chuckles darkly, brushing Taehyung’s bangs with a long finger, watching as they fall back into place. Taehyung can feel the other man trace a line down his cheek and jaw until he stops, both aware that Sungwon can feel the quickened heartbeat under his finger. Taehyung shudders.“You must know there were others. You don’t think I went my whole life with no one before you?” He laughs, and Taehyung tenses at the sound. “You’re special, but you’re not the only one.” The words ache, despite the fear that’s building like bile in Taehyung’s throat. “But with you—” Sungwon leans close and lets his lips ghost against the column of his lover’s neck. “I wanted to make sure you were ready. That you were willing. It’s not easy being who I am. It’s not pretty being who I am. I needed to know I had your loyalty.”

“My loyalty?” It all sounds like a sick game to Taehyung, who looks back on the previous year with Sungwon with a sense of nausea. All those touches, kisses, words whispered between them in secret in public and then louder and moaned while in private; memories begin to build like a stack of blocks built by a child, ready to fall and crumble at any moment.

As Sungwon’s hand drifts down Taehyung’s torso, going to cup the younger through his pants, a flash of heat spikes through Taehyung’s body and he pushes Sungwon away.

“Who the hell do you think you are?!” he cries, standing on shaky legs, but standing nonetheless. “I don’t want to be your fucking adult vampire juice box, Sungwon!”

Sungwon laughs, a cold and dark sound that sends splinters through Taehyung’s bravery. “Never heard it put that way,” he says before he reaches for the glass of whiskey that he had poured for Taehyung and has sat still on the table.

“That’s what I’ve always liked about you,” he says languidly, his words slipping around the room like the cool liquid slips around the inside of the glass. “You always have such a unique perspective on things. An adult vampire juice box,” he repeats with a chuckle before he holds the glass out for Taehyung with a nod indicating for Taehyung to rejoin him.

Taehyung stares at the glass as it reflects bits of light from around the room. A quick and horrible taste fills his mouth as he realizes complaints that Sungwon has made about food and drink. Complaints of blandness, of missing flavor. The taste builds to panic as he realizes that Sungwon has been giving him puzzle pieces over the last year, waiting for him to put everything together.

“I won’t do it! I won’t!” Taehyung backs up, moving towards the door. Sungwon stands and walks calmly towards him, holding his hands out.

“You’re just in shock. We don’t have to do anything tonight. I know you need some time to adjust, to come to understand—”

“Fuck adjusting, fuck understanding!” Taehyung cries, shaking his head. He reaches behind him for the door, and presses down on it. It doesn’t budge. He twirls around, tugging desperately on it, to no avail.

It’s then that a pair of strong hands grabs his shoulders and spins him around, pressing him firmly against the wood of the door. Sungwon slides closer, pressing his body up against Taehyung’s. How is it possible that he looks taller? That the height difference Taehyung always liked now feels terrifying. This is what a mouse must feel like when caught between predator and wall.

Taehyung is sure that Sungwon is going to hurt him, that he’s going to do something horrible.

But instead, Sungwon’s hands drift lightly over Taehyung’s waist, his fingers teasing beneath the fabric of his shirt. He can’t help the goosebumps that rise to the surface of his skin.

“Baby, don’t you know the doors always lock around here?” Sungwon whispers against Taehyung’s neck. “Don’t you know I don’t like my playthings running out on me before I’m done with them?”

“I’ll leave you—” Taehyung stutters out, his breath coming quickly, his hands shaking. “I’ll leave you and you’ll never see me again.”

“Except you have nowhere to go, little one," Sungwon says, tilting Taehyung's chin up to meet his gaze. "I run this entire city."

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