Korean TV

"I'll take mum, you take her boy." I say playfully, moving to sit on the arm of the plush beige couch.

"Game on." My mysterious host replies.

Many times over the past few days I had been thinking more and more about this man, this Hunter character who controls my existence in this quaint house outside of the city. In all the time I'd been here-3 months now- I'd never seen his face, or very much of his skin either.

When he bought me gifts and left them outside my door, I was secretly flattered. It was nice that someone was thinking about me enough to buy me a gift for no reason other than: I'm sorry you're stuck in this hell with me.

But overriding my flattery was the anger. This man, my captor didn't know a thing about me. All the gaudy sparkles, gold jewellery and red leather handbags were not who I am! I enjoyed romance, long love letters, juicy fruits, dairy coffee, breathy clothes and I dream of getting out and seeing the world!

The day he bought me a whole box of Juicy Fruits, that's the day I realised, maybe he wasn't insensitive and only thought girls all wanted glitz and glamour. Maybe he just didn't know, maybe he was unknowing to the ways of the world, or that the same reason he hides in the shadows of his own house because of me is the same reason he won't go in public: he just doesn't know how to act in company.

That was also the day I first saw him, granted he had a ski mask on and all I could see was his mouth, the bottom of his nose and his eyes. But that was all I needed, his eyes were not cold or evil as I'd dreamt up in my nightmares, they were a soft green, calming as spring. They made secret promises of comfort and they seemed to say to me that he would try doing anything physically possible to keep me safe and happy here. His mouth slightly disfigured by the lines that cut into them; those lips full and eloquent as he nervously explained his rendezvous to my room late at night.

The rest of his body was clad in black; shirt, pants, shoes, gloves. But that did not hide his physique; this was a man who took care of his body, conditioning it for no one but himself, strong muscles hidden beneath layers and layers of heavy cotton and leather, toned and so... manly.

It was that moment that I began thinking about him, not as a monster or an evil character pulled right from a gothic tale, but as a timid young man who now had to rein in forgotten etiquette in order to please his guest.

I wish I could see his face, the man behind the mask. I wanted to get to know him, be his friend or maybe even... No Lindy! You can't think like that, he's your captor, he's strong, and mysterious and gentle and... Gosh Lindy snap out of it! That's Stockholm syndrome you thinking about! You're only thinking this way because you haven't had this kind of affection shown to you in such a tiny, hesitant, adorable way for a long time.

I shake my head to clear my thoughts but they linger in my head, so I turn my focus back to the TV that we are watching. The older Korean woman speaks softly to her companion and I imagine talking to Hunter like that, soft and calm, soothing like speaking to a wild animal or child.

"So what's she saying now?" Hunter utters quietly, moving backwards and slightly away from me on the couch and moving his hooded shirt to cover more of his face. He must be very shy or nervous around girls. I think for a moment, contemplating what might make him laugh before saying:

"I love you, though when it comes to hair, you are a clueless wonder." Which is true, the character on the screen looks as though he has stuck his finger in a light socket to achieve the fizzy mass on top of his head.

He laughs and replies: "I can tell you for a fact, that is not what she said. What mum said was... uhh..." His sentence trails off as we both stare horrified, as the two characters in the movie lean toward each other and kiss.

I groan in disgust and lean back. My hands are near my face covering it, trying to physically remove what I had just seen. I lean too far and begin to fall, a small squeak of fear exits my throat as I plummet backwards into the couch. But that's not what I landed on.

Instead of falling into soft pillows, my head lands on the strong distinctly muscled leg of Hunter. He gasps at the sudden contact and his body freezes, unknowing of what to do. I'm winded, still in shock from my sudden change of position and i still my body for the longest minute of my life.

I begin to move slowly, hesitantly, so I don't frighten the poor man, removing my hands from my face so I can finally see who this guy is. His head is turned as far away from me as physically possible and his hands are up beside his face, palm flat in an 'I surrender' move. It is then that I realise one of the sleeves on his shirt are pushed up to his elbow and I can see the marks: scars both healed and unhealed and tattoo's that wind and cling to his skin like a jellyfish tentacle. I reach up and grasp his hand, bringing it slowly to me.

I stare at it, not at the things that mar the flesh but the skin itself; tanned with the tiniest hint of freckles pulled tight over straining muscle and sinew hinting hidden power. My fingers run over it, starting at the tops of his fingers and slowly winding their way up feeling the soft downy hair that covers his arm tickle the pads of my digits. My other hand holds his, and when I feel he wants to pull away from me I intertwine our fingers and hold on tight, it takes a moment of hesitation and then he responds, gripping my small hand in his much larger one life a lifesaver.

I stop tracing invisible lines in his arm when I reach the bunching of his shirt at his elbow. My eyes, which had been following the languid travel of my fingers now look up and catch on a pair of eyes. Sometime during my Discovery Channel walk up his arm, Hunter had turned back to look at me. He stares with hesitancy and nervousness still frozen solid.

My gaze roams, under the black hooded shirt lay a scarred man, with open and healing wounds all over his face. The cuts I had once seen biting into his lips now are connected with old and new wounds similar to the ones on his arm. The skin of his face is rough, like it is after you get burnt and it bubbles slightly around his nose. He seems devoid of hair too, bald and no eyebrows. The tattoo's wind up onto his head connecting like a sick, powerful garden weed and tiny dots and lines take the place his eyebrows should be.

He looks down, seemingly ashamed and I realise that I had been blatantly staring at a man who was clearly self conscious. My face flushes red and I turn to the left trying to hide it, realising too late that I still rest in his lap and I had just pushed my face into his lower stomach.

He stutters and tries to pull away again but I don't let him. I clutch to the hand still entwined with both of mine, trying to ease his struggle. I think desperately of something that will prove that I am not disgusted by his looks but merely intrigued by them. He stops struggling when he realises I'm not releasing his hand anytime soon and braces himself.

I push myself up, still holding onto his hand, and move to place my legs on either side of him, caging him to the couch. His eyes franticly move about, searching for an escape route but I don't allow him one. I release his hand and pick up his wrists gently guiding the stiff limbs to rest on my waist. My shirt had ridden up during the fall and his hands now rest on the small sliver of skin revealed from my clumsiness. They rest there, neither holding on or letting go, seemingly confused as the rest of him.

I watch his face, those eyes that I yearn to see the most. They are transfixed on the new resting place of his hands. He stares; as if not registering they are his own before slightly moving his middle finger in a small clockwise circle on the skin at my waist. I suppress a gasp; those fingers are so smooth and hesitant, so childlike in their discovery of my skin, it's almost like he has never felt another person's flesh before.

He still hears my sharp intake of breath and quickly looks at my face. He seems scared: of my reaction, of the situation, of everything. His eyes take inventory of my face quickly, darting from place to place before seeing the small hesitant smile blooming like a spring rose on my lips.

I lean forward slowly, and push the clothing away from his head removing the final barrier between my eyes and his face. My hands remain on his features softly resting on his cheeks. I again lean forward cautiously placing my lips to his forehead. His skin is soft despite the look, he smells of paper and musk and hot chocolate. Hunter gasps at the contact of skin to skin and pushes his head forward slightly, almost instinctive, to encourage my movement.

I pull back and look into his eyes, the fear is still there but slightly muted by another feeling I can't yet describe. So I continue, softly kissing his flesh down his temple, over his nose, over his chin, on his eyelids. I am the one hesitant now, should I continue or leave it as is and say goodnight? I make the split decision to continue; I did start this after all, and use my hands to softly urge his face closer to mine.

He complies with my silent wish, his fingers press into my waist purposefully telling me I'm not the only one who wants this and pulls my body closer to his. My eyes close as I draw near and there's a moment of fear: like the one you get as you're stepping over the edge of a cliff in abseiling, it's the kind that you don't know what will happen next and you're taking the leap of faith.

The fear disappears the moment our lips touch. It's a small and hesitant meeting, but it feels as if it was meant to be, as if our lips were meant to touch in lover's passionate play. He responds quickly, his body relaxes and his hands move around my back, encompassing my body so close against his, an onlooker wouldn't be able to tell where his form ended and mine began.

The air leaves my body at the feeling of his large warm hands gradually moving up my back and he greedily takes it for himself, the tempo and speed of our kisses gaining like that of a steam train. One hand moves to my face, holding it to his, and tangles into my mass of hair while his tongue touches my lips, asking for permission to enter my mouth. I grant it, my own tongue touching his, matching his fervour.

It seems like hours later that we need air again. We break the lip lock and I place my head in the crook of his neck to gain my breath back, kissing the tattoos and scars that lay on his skin there. My hands clutch at the front of his shirt, holding onto him, onto this moment.

I move my head back to look at Hunter and smile because this is exactly like a Stockholm syndrome moment, it's so perfect and I never want to forget or move on from this. What has happened, whatever feelings that coursed through our joined body: our lips, hands, chests, have forever changed me.

I don't want Hunter to feel awkward so I say the first thing that comes to mind:

"I really hope Will isn't your Korean teacher."

Smiling back at me he pulls us together for another kiss, softer this time, like the languid travel down a stream and when we break apart once more he replies:

"No, but if this is how it would be if you taught me Korean, sign me up." Before giving my face the same beautiful attention I had given him only moments ago.

So that's my first story written for fanfiction ever... I'd like some comments if you wouldn't mind to see how I'm going with my story writing :) TH

ANK YOU to those who have read it :)