catstries - Tumblr blog

catstries · 5 months ago

Text

seventeen members as love tropes: choi hansol

forced proximity

'coincidence? baby, they don't exist'

'so, what's your name?'

you blink, turning around to face the guy with who you got stuck in the elevator. he is now comfortably sitting on the floor with his knees tucked closer to his chest, leaning on the wall. the look on his face has zero traces of nerves or anxiety, he's opening bag of chips with a small smile on his face, looking at you like what is happening right now is absolutely normal. is this how an average day goes for him?

'you think this button is broken?' you ask instead, turning back. you push at 'call' button again but no sound comes out. 'we can't actually be stuck here with no connection to the outside world, right?'

'it happens quite often.' my god, so you were right, this is an average day for him. 'but no, this button works, we just need to wait a little. maybe these guys are out somewhere.'

'out where?' you ask, turning back to him. smell of chips starts filling up the cabin and you try to concentrate on it instead of thinking about being stuck here forever. 'should i just keep on pressing that button?'

your voice gets caught in your throat because the guy looks at you with... you don't know what. his gaze is piercing and it's like he's looking right at you, within you, in your soul. it's unsettling, especially when it comes from someone that handsome. in all three months since you moved into this apartment complex, you only met several families and few kids here and there, but never this guy. your brain unnecessarily reminds you that right now you're standing in front of a really handsome guy in old washed out t-shirt and pj pants, while he's at least dressed in jeans and sweatshirt.

'i'm hansol,' he says suddenly, breaking your thinking spiral. 'your neighbor from the forth floor.' he then pats a space next to him: 'come sit? i think it's more comfortable than standing.' you open your mouth to argue when he adds: 'i'll be the one pressing that button, no worries. just come sit down, yeah? you can meditate that way better, no?'

your nose scrunches in confusion. 'meditate?'

it's time for hansol to look sheepish. 'isn't this what people do when they start panicking? i mean- i am not implying that you are panicking right now, but you look pretty worried and i thought- shit, you are not panicking, right? there really is no need to, i promise we will be out of here in no time. i thought if you can sit and mediate then you can-' he shuts up, noticing his rambling and how your eyes grow only bigger with each word he says. after a second of hesitation, he stands up, grabs his chips and comes over to you, shoving them in your direction. 'here. chips.'

there are a lot of things that you can say or do, but your mind chooses to grab offered snack and silently move to where he was sitting. hansol seems to approve, as he smiles a little and leans with his back on the opposite wall so he can still look at you, while insistently pressing the 'call' button. 'so.'

'yes?' you raise your head, slowly munching on the chip. it's salty taste helps you stay here in the moment instead of disappearing in the anxiety.

'i feel like it's my fate, you know? to get stuck in the elevators. like god is trying to tell me something through it, you know? like i don't get stuck just because, i get stuck for something. and then i think-'

it takes you five seconds to realize that hansol is doing this on purpose. he is distracting you so you won't panick and this gesture is incredibly sweet for a random stranger. you're not sure how much time passes, because hansol's storytelling is fascinating (and a bit weird, but in a more 'not ordinary' way than bad). you don't notice how your spine is not rigid anymore, but hansol does. he notices how you slowly relax, hold his gaze more and eat chips more actively. he notices how corners of your eyes crinkle when you smile and how cute you look with confusion written all over your face. in truth, he has no idea what he is even saying, but he can't stop, can't let you remember even for a second that this stupid elevator is not working. his thumb is numb from how strongly he pushes on that 'call' button but he ignores it in favor of staring in your eyes, catching every emotion that sparkles in them. you are cute and you don't even realize it and that makes you even cuter.

'hello? is someone there?' when static voice cuts through, both of you jump a little. 'apologies for this horrible inconvinience, elevator will start working in few minutes. are you alright?'

hansol takes a look at your surprised face and half-finished bag of chips. 'yeah, we are all good.'

pang of regret slashes through him when you hastily stand up and cheer, when cabin finally starts descending. shit, he didn't even manage to learn your name! when elevator door opens, hansol reaches out for your hand and is pleasantly surprised when you take it with a smile, rushing out with the cutest little 'whoop!' he saw in his life.

'i think you are right,' you suddenly speak, making him look up. 'what you said about you getting stuck in the elevators meaning something? i think you're meant to help people like me.'

i think i was meant to meet you, he wants to say but doesn't. instead what comes out of his mouth is: 'you owe me.' at your confused expression, he points at his snack. 'chips.'

'oh. oh!' you exclaim, getting flustered. 'of course, i will-'

'-and your name.' he adds, making you freeze. he watches understanding dawn on you and smiles. 'and your favorite drink. so i would know what to buy for you.'

it's bold. not exactly his style, but his head-to-mouth filter is not working anymore. for a second he thinks he overdid it, but then you blush (so prettily), then smile (so, so prettily) and he knows he didn't mess up. when you step closer and introduce yourself, hansol knows he not only didn't mess up, but also won something out of this whole situation. (and he doesn't know it yet, but this big win? it's your heart. it really is).

a/n: guilty for having this trope as my most favorite one!! and who is better than hansol to write this for, am i right? - nini

my other works are here

#seventeen imagine #seventeen fluff #vernon fanfic #seventeen vernon #vernon x reader #THIS IS SO CUTE #NEED TO BE STUCK WITH VERNON IN AN ELEVATOR

524 notes · View notes

catstries · 5 months ago

Text

Hi (⁠✿⁠^⁠‿⁠^✿)

This is breezeoow. I'm not a writer of a person but since you guys encouraged me to continue writing my silly little thoughts which got developed into series and they were loved so much. So I wanted to make an organized list of it.

1. Seventeen girlie series -

Scoups, Jeonghan, Joshua, Jun, Hoshi, Wonwoo, Woozi, The8, Mingyu, DK, Seungkwan, Vernon, Dino.

2. Seventeen lover series -

Scoups, Jeonghan, Joshua, Jun, Hoshi, Wonwoo, Woozi, The8, Mingyu, DK, Seungkwan, Vernon, Dino.

3. Seventeen as Japanese Philosophy

OT13

.............................................................................................................................................

#svt x reader #seventeen #everybody needs to read her whole masterlist if you want to feel something #so tender and soft and-#I love this 💜

62 notes · View notes

catstries · 5 months ago

Text

in the mood to read. reply or message or send an ask with your absolute favorite fics so i can read them

3 notes · View notes

catstries · 5 months ago

Text

blossoming ; jisung x reader ; part 2/4

part one | part two | part three | final part

pairing: han jisung/reader author's note: all right i decided four parts, the rest this weekend. smut starts next chapter. for now i torture everyone with slow burn build up. yummy.

content info: reader is described with curly hair.

content warnings: previously established warnings from part one plus this chapter has an additional content warning for emetophobia.

word count: 5100 words.

Morning dawns with a cool, clear light, but it fades as quickly, dissolving in the burning sunshine. Every hand is at work, preparing the royal retinue for its return journey to the capital.

You watch as the last of your trunks are loaded onto a wagon. Each click and latch echoes inside you. You stand helpless as your life is locked in iron.

You walk to exert the worst of your nerves, fluttering inside you like a thousand frantic butterflies. You lift your gaze to the sky, willing those butterflies to carry you away, but then you see your family waving from a balcony.

You cannot let them see your pain. It is too late to do anything about the marriage, even if your parents expressed some regret for the arrangement. That regret was tentatively posed to avoid treasonous speech, but they were undoubtedly taken aback by the king’s poor behaviour.

Your mother insisted on dressing you this morning. She was teary-eyed the entire time, so you faked your best and brightest smile. There was no sense in you both suffering.

The child in you wants to fling yourself at your family. The woman you are, the queen you have become, forces a smile and waves back.

You continue your walk. Your mother dressed you finely but comfortably, a long, loose gown with flowing sleeves, your curly hair pinned in a twisting up-do, a flower behind your ear in lieu of a crown.

Heads turn towards you, for there are courtiers milling about. Some are travelling with the king’s party while others will divert course to visit their own lands. Judgemental eyes trail the sweep of your hem across the earthen path. You feign indifference as you weave in-and-out of the bustling bodies.

The courtyard has never been so busy. The clamour of trunks, the stomping of horses, and the din of busy chatter blend into cacophony.

Distantly, you hear a guitar.

Han Jisung. The first name you associate with music.

You are flushed with embarrassment, remembering last night’s sorry return to your room. Jisung escorted you back, a silent trek that agitated your frayed anxiety at the time. In the light of day, you realize just how much he did for you. You would not have survived the journey, at least not in one piece, and if anyone else had caught you, your life would have been equally forfeit.

He committed an offense against the crown, a sin in his faith, one that would have demanded a great deal of reconciliation. You have heard stories of kingsguards self-flagellate in the pursuit of forgiveness for even meagre transgressions. The fact Jisung understood your betrayal, the fact he forgave it, the fact he saved you, is not insubstantial.

You wonder who this man is, to wear the cloth but help his friend first, to keep secrets for a woman he hardly knew because he sympathized with her pain. To have a sword at his hip and a song on his lips.

You follow the guitar. It leads you to the royal carriages and a circle of kingsguards in a hushed argument. Jisung is playing a comically frantic tune while they debate.

“What’s going on?” another kingsguard approaches. It is the short and stocky one from the ceremony. You learned the names of the all kingsguards at the evening festivities. You recognize this one as Seo Changbin, an undoubted force of brute strength, striding up to his brethren with a hand on his sword hilt.

“Felix disappeared,” Jisung trills, fingers dancing over the guitar strings, “and the kingsguard is afeared, because the king is not too dear—”

“What?” Changbin interrupts, looking at the others. “Felix is gone?”

“Not just Felix,” a brown-haired guard, Lee Minho, says. His brow is pinched. “The king’s mistress is missing too.”

Your eyes widen, your careful mask cracking under the assault of shock.

The woman who ran off with Felix was the king’s mistress?

It does not take much knowledge of the inner circle to deduce that does not bode well for anyone. A kingsguard breaking his oath is one thing, a kingsguard running off with a woman is another still, but a kingsguard conducting an affair with the king’s mistress is a personal betrayal heaped on top of sin. The only worse crime would be if he pursued the king’s wife.

Jisung looks at you.

He spots you across the crowd and strums a foul note, fingers clumsy with surprise. The bad note draws attention to him, so the other guards follow his line of sight. They all straighten when they see you, their strong shoulders tense with anxiety.

Minho and Changbin immediately duck into a bow. The other two, Kim Seungmin and Yang Jeongin, exchange a glance before following suit. Hwang Hyunjin, the preposterously beautiful one, bows but not before he grimaces with discomfort at their conversation being overheard by the queen.

Jisung is still staring, his eyes darting from your face to the flower behind your ear. He meets your eyes and, for a long moment, sinks into your gaze where he loses himself. The events of the previous evening seem to play in the space between you, every panicked whisper and solemn glance.

Then he abruptly notices the rest are bowing. With a yelp, he swings down into a bow.

You take a breath to steady your voice. “What’s this about a missing person?” you ask.

They straighten, one by one, sharing uncertain looks. Minho and Jisung seem to have a mute conversation, Minho clenching his jaw and lifting his brows as if mutely scolding Jisung. Jisung stares back with furrowed brows as if challenging it.

In the end, it’s the youngest one who speaks. Jeongin is a shaggy-haired youth and his whole face is scrunched with worry.

“A kingsguard is missing,” he blurts. “But he’s not a bad guard,” he adds frantically, waving his hands around. “Really. We don’t know what happened. It’s not like him. And the king’s mistress is missing too, but that doesn’t make sense. No, it doesn’t make any sense at all. Felix wouldn’t do that. It’s not like Felix. It’s really very strange, your Majesty. We don’t understand, Your Majesty. Your Majesty.” He dips into a bow every time he utters your title.

Seungmin kicks him.

“Stop talking, dummy,” Seungmin says out of the side of his mouth.

“Right, I’m sorry,” Jeongin says, bowing again. “We’re all very loyal. We’re the kingsguard. You know that. Of course you do.”

As if anyone could mistake the cluster of black-robed soldiers, looking very austere among the courtiers and servants.

You say nothing more, simply cast your gaze around the assembled soldiers, doing your utmost not to look at Jisung lest you betray too much secret knowledge.

“There is no cause for concern,” Minho says, drawing your attention. “Everyone is just… surprised.”

“Yeah,” Seungmin mutters, “Surprised it wasn’t Hyunjin.”

Jeongin snorts, though he looks remorseful after. Hyunjin whips around to glare at Seungmin who is now snickering to himself.

“Excuse me,” Hyunjin says, catty in tone, “I let them look, but I don’t touch.”

“And what do they touch?” Seungmin retorts. Jeongin laughs again and looks even more chagrined, covering his mouth and closing his eyes.

“Yah, knock it off,” Changbin says, waving them apart.

“We’ll fix it,” Minho says to you. “You don’t need to concern yourself, your Majesty.”

You do not say that you are very concerned. You worry the king’s attentions will return to you sooner than he threatened. And if that was his conduct when he had a mistress for pleasure, you are loathe to imagine how he might behave in her absence.

But that is not an admittance you can make to the holy order sworn to enforce the will of the gods-blessed crown.

The king is wearing that crown as he storms over. He is already ranting and raving, barking at the leader of kingsguard. Chan follows him, hand on the hilt of his sword, stoic face not betraying a hint of anxiety. He nods patiently at the king’s ranting.

When they reach the guards, a single look from Chan compels them all to stand in formation and bow before the king.

“I want them found!” the king hollers. “I want their heads on pikes outside my window! And if I find any conspirators in this fucking plot—” He shoves a passing servant, a man in the wrong place at the wrong time. The servant spills to the ground, cowering when the king looms over him. “Then they too shall pay the price of treason.”

The servant crawls into full obeisance, prostrate on the ground. The king just snarls and steps over him.

“Sire,” Chan says curtly, a vague acknowledgement before he helps the servant up and sends him on his way.

The king has already moved on, still ranting to himself as he storms across the courtyard. He starts shouting about his wife, evidently missing you in the crowd. You swallow down the choking terror in your throat and follow him.

“If that whore ran off too—” he starts, turning around and finally seeing you. He snarls. “It would have been preferable,” he says.

You say nothing. You dip into a respectful bow and keep your eyes down. It conceals your fear, your frustration. You hope it just looks submissive.

“It is not necessary we overindulge in company,” he says. “You will ride in the carriage behind mine. The kingsguard will surround us. You will not bother them. You will not be a grievance to me. You will be quiet. You will be obedient. You will do as told and move only when bid.” He does not wait for a reply, turning to look at the guards. “We depart. Now. I want to leave this disgusting territory behind me.”

He spits. Ostensibly, it is just on the ground, a slight against the land, but it falls close to your feet. It is abundantly obvious what he is actually spitting on.

You take another steadying breath, staring at that spot on the ground. When you find the strength to lift your gaze, the guards are staring at you. Their expressions run the range of pity and malcontent. You suppose they would be offended by the king slighting you so outright. Though his blood is divine by birthright, they believe the gods control the fates of men, so if you are queen it is because the gods will it so. You have also been chosen by the gods and it is not appropriate for the king to conduct himself thusly.

They are visibly disgruntled, Chan most of all, his brow furrowed as he stares after the king. The shake of his head is nearly imperceptible; you would have missed it if you were not looking at that precise moment.

The king leaves an awkward silence in his retreat. It is broken when Jisung strums a melodramatic chord on his guitar.

Chan shoots him an unimpressed look. Jisung giggles nervously.

“Put it away,” Chan says.

“Heh, right,” Jisung says, spinning on his heel. He putters towards his horse where he packs his guitar with his saddlebags.

In spite of yourself, you feel the tug of a smile, very small but very real. Your eyes follow Jisung until Chan steps forward, his hand over his heart as he bows politely.

“Your Majesty,” he says. “I’ll escort you to the carriage.”

You start to follow, casting a final glance back at your home. When you do, you catch sight of something across the courtyard. It roots you to the spot. Your heart weighs you down like a lead weight.

“Your Majesty?” Chan says, tilting his head. He holds out his hand.

“I’m sorry,” you say. It comes out on a breath. You clear your throat but your voice is still shaking when you say, “Can you give me just one more moment? I’ll be fast.”

His squints, perplexed, but he nods.

You gather your skirts so you can run quickly over the courtyard bricks. You hurry to the cluster of household servants who are gathered in a teary-eyed throng by the palace. When they see you coming, they all rush forward. You meet them halfway, throwing your arms around the woman directly in your path.

Your tears nearly escape, but you manage to restrain them, enveloped in the friendly embrace of the household that raised you. You spent more time among these people than anyone else, always respectful of their important duties, cherishing their friendships as dearly as any noblesse.

You know it is inappropriate as a queen, standing there hugging the servants one-by-one, but you suspect you will draw ire regardless. So you hug and thank them, wiping a few teary faces as they wish you well.

“You’ll come back and visit right?” a little girl asks, the daughter of a handmaiden your own age, a woman you consider a friend. You spent many hours entertaining her daughter, helping with chores, giving gifts, seeing her grow.

You crouch down to her level, holding back tears as you nod. You know it’s not true, that the king will undoubtedly forbid it given his contempt for this place. But you say, “Of course I will. This is my home. I’d miss you all too much.”

“We’ll miss you too,” her mother says, hugging you next. When she does, she slips something into your hand, a small phial of a dark liquid. “Sleeping draft,” she whispers in your ear. “For the nights the king needs his rest so you may have yours.”

You laugh through your tears, kiss her temple and a mouth a thank you as you withdraw. You tuck the phial into a pocket pouch inside your gown.

After a few more goodbyes, you stand before them and bow. You offer a smile as they return it. It carries a very different respect than the terrified cowering of the servant before the king.

You are not the only one who thinks so. When you turn, you find the guards all staring at you, their faces a wall of blinking surprise. Jisung is the worst at hiding his thoughts, his brown eyes the widest. Chan is the best, but even he cannot hide his contemplation.

“I’m ready,” you say gently.

You lift your hem and walk onward. You do not look back. You wait until the carriage door is closed behind you, then you bury your face in your hands and cry.

Your sorrow passes, bleeding into frustration, then fury. Alone in the carriage, you have time to stew in a myriad of emotions as you deliberate on your circumstances. You resolve to stand firm before the king, to not crumple beneath his cruel sneers, to bear his wickedness with grace. You will make him ridiculous in comparison to your obvious virtue.

This commitment falters very quickly.

For the first hour of travel, you are passing through your family’s property, then the village. The roads are paved and the passage is smooth. When you reach the forest path, it is a different matter entirely. Though there is a road that cuts through the great woods, it is a trail of gravel and packed, uneven dirt. The carriage jostles constantly, bouncing up and down at inconsistent intervals.

You last three hours. By the end of that third hour, you are so queasy that the scarlet interior of the carriage turns to a murky green. Your spotted vision swims through that grime even with your eyes closed. You do everything you can to ease the discomfort, taking down your hair pin-by-pin until every curl is loose, the flower discarded because its scent was too strong. You sit in every possible position, craning towards the window and fresh air, but the nausea only worsens as the trail gets bumpier.

You try to distract yourself, listening to the aimless chatter and laughter from the kingsguards. Their horses trot along at an unhurried canter, far smoother than the carriage wheels jumping over rocks and earth.

After a particularly violent jostle, you give up. You are going to be sick and you would rather not do it in the carriage.

“Excuse me,” you say, waving to the first guard you see. Minho is not far from the window. “I’m sorry but I need to stop. Right now.” You want to elaborate but your stomach rolls and your voice catches.

You must look sufficiently ill because Minho clicks his boots and quickens his pace, riding up to Chan near the king’s carriage. You slump against your seat while they have a quick discussion.

Chan lifts a hand and the whole train comes to a halt.

You do not wait for them to open the door. You burst out of the carriage in a clumsy frenzy, running to the treeline where you fall to your knees and promptly empty the contents of your stomach.

You feel hot and frantic, heaving as you struggle to hold your hair off your face. You sputter, lips quivering as another wave rises inside you.

Someone jumps off their horse and lands beside you. You spare a brief glance up at Minho, his brow pinched with concern, but then the king shouts in aggravations and you throw yourself forward to vomit some more.

Minho helps, bending over you, gathering you hair as best he can and holding it out of the way. The next closest soldier, Hyunjin, also dismounts and approaches.

Vomiting is not exactly dignified. It feels even worse to have every single person in the royal retinue watch you spew your breakfast over the forest floor.

You lift your head, turning to offer an apology but your voice is shot. Minho still looms rather protectively, Hyunjin nearby. You look around for Chan to address him, but your eyes find Jisung first. He is the farthest away, perched on horseback, fidgeting with the reins.

The king shouts again. It’s a block of noise to your ringing ears, but you suspect he is angry at the delay. He told you not to be a grievance.

You try to stand but your knees wobble. You use a rock for balance, then Minho when he takes your arm. Hyunjin steps in and takes your other arm. Together, they get you back on your feet.

“I don’t think she can continue yet, sire,” Chan says, riding into view. “Maybe we should rest here for a bit.”

“We are stopping to rest in an hour,” the king snaps. “I will not be delayed so near to our schedule.”

“What made you sick?” Minho asks.

“The carriage,” you say, groaning as you wipe your mouth. You are certain you make a ravaged sight. At least your stomach is empty now, the worst of the nausea passed, but you cannot imagine climbing back inside that rattling monstrosity.

You step forward, away from Minho and Hyunjin. Your legs quiver but you steady yourself.

“I’ve never ridden a carriage so far,” you say. “I’m very sorry, I am. The terrain is just so uneven. I’ve only ever ventured to the village and back.” Even then, you usually travelled on horseback. Sometimes you would sit on the back on a wagon or two, but it never went farther than the ends of the property.

“Why doesn’t she travel on horseback?” That sounds like Seungmin, speaking somewhere behind you.

“Can you ride a horse?” Hyunjin asks, to which you nod emphatically.

“It might be less intense at this pace,” Minho agrees.

They look at Chan. You are certain there is something significant about the fact the guards always seek instructions from Chan and not the king, but you are too unsettled to contemplate anything too deeply.

Chan is the one who looks at the king, lifting a questioning brow.

“There’s no horses to spare,” the king says. “If one of you wants to deal with the brat, then take her.”

Hyunjin steps towards you.

“Not you,” the king says.

Hyunjin steps back again.

The king, who is still in his carriage, cranes his neck to look around the gathered guards. He snaps his fingers.

“Bard boy,” he calls. “Take the queen.”

“Jisung,” Chan says, waving him forward. “Come here.”

You look at Jisung who is visibly startled at his selection. His black hair is a bit windswept, the longer tufts curling up at his nape. Wide, brown eyes find yours, slowly blinking to attention. With a shake of his head, he picks up the reins and rides over to you.

You step back, staring up at him on his perch. He says nothing but extends his open hand, blinking those captivating eyes at you. You are not sure why they ensnare you so, nor why your heart skips a beat when you delicately place your hand in his. That beat pounds a quick stacatto when his sword-calloused fingers grip yours tightly.

Minho and Hyunjin help you onto the horse. You seat yourself side-saddle in front of Jisung, ramrod straight so you are not pressed against him. His arms circle you to take the reins and you pointedly do not look at his hands.

Despite the king’s presumption, you would have been less bothered by Hyunjin. Yes, he is irrevocably handsome, his own black hair tied back, sleek and pristine, but it does not affect you. A handsome face has never much moved you. You always thought yourself logical, your heart oddly shaped next to others.

But now you are looking at Jisung’s dark-painted nails, his soldier’s hands on the reins; now you are feeling his breath at your nape, the warmth that emanates from his body, hot from wearing black in the summer sun; now you think of him helping his friend, helping you, and that makes him more than a handsome face. it makes your stomach twist in a very different way than before.

That feeling is exacerbated when he reaches into a saddlebag and retrieves a waterskin.

“Here,” he says in a soft voice. “Drink. Go on.” He puts it in your hand.

You take a deep drink, purging your mouth of the foul residue of sickness. You thank him just as softly and hand the waterskin back.

Once settled, the train resumes course. Chan waves and everyone marches on.

Jisung spurs the horse into motion. Despite your best effort, the movement knocks you into his chest. Jisung sputters and you realize your undone hair is flying into face.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you say, desperately smoothing it down. It does not work, but all your pins are in the carriage and you suspect the king will not be too enchanted if you stop the train to fetch them.

“It’s okay,” Jisung says. “One second.” He lays the reins down, his thigh muscles firm behind you as he squeezes to maintain leverage.

Then you feel the brush of his fingertips on your bare neck. It sends an immediate cascade of shivers shooting down your spine. He gathers your hair carefully in his hands, guiding it over your shoulder, away from his face.

Minho also pulled back your hair, but that was a very different sensation.

This you�� feel.

He takes up the reins again, arms circled around you. You pull yourself upright as the horse moves along.

You think this ride might be stiff and uncomfortable, but then he begins to hum to himself. You find the gentle melody placates your nerves. Your frantic energy simmers to a cooler calm.

After a while, the conversations resume around you. Jisung tells some jokes to the other guards and you smile, though it is weak. Their camaraderie makes you miss your own friends already.

Jisung hums again, almost like he can sense your discomfort. It is most likely a coincidence, but you still find yourself sighing pleasantly.

With the worst of your anxiety tempered, at least for now, you ask him, “Where did you learn to play?”

“Sorry?” The question catches him off guard.

“Sorry,” you say. “I don’t mean to pry. I’m just curious.”

Though there is often a bard-like character in the kingsguard, it is nonetheless an intriguing amalgamation of skills. They do not let just anyone into the kingsguard service, even if they are willing to take the vow of chastity and surrender their earthly goods. Jisung must be an exceptionally skilled swordsman to be admitted, an interesting background for such a talented musician. Though he was joking with his music earlier, he is very capable of composing melodic poetry.

“Music and swordplay just seem an odd match,” you say.

“Maybe,” he replies. “Maybe not. They both require dedication. Time. Practice.”

“You are a devout man, I suppose,” you say.

“Of course,” he answers confidently. “I am absolutely the most devout and most impressive one here—ow.” Someone, probably Seungmin, chucks a coin at his head.

You laugh, glancing at Jisung over your shoulder. His eyes dart briefly to your mouth, his own face brightening at your smile. He laughs back and nods.

“Honestly, I grew up with music first,” he says. “I didn’t, uh… I didn’t exactly grow up in a palace. To say the least. But, yeah, definitely palace-adjacent and not a hovel on a street in the capital,” he jokes. As he talks, you picture a little boy with a guitar, strumming on the busy city streets. “I used to write songs and sing for money. Then I got older. I was looking for work when the war started. I got recruited like a lot of boys, but I was pretty disciplined and a fast learner. After the war, I met Chan. He put in a good word for me, so I was able to put myself forward during the new recruitment season.”

“So you haven’t been there long,” you say. The war only ended a year ago.

“Ten months,” he says cheerily. “But it’s the best thing that ever happened to me.”

“That’s commendable,” you say. “It’s rewarding, I’m sure, but an intense order nonetheless. I can’t imagine making so many sacrifices.”

“Can’t you?”

The question is posed softly but lands heavily. You suppose Jisung is correct; you have both made sacrifices to be where you are, though the journeys were very different, and your futures more so.

“I’m sorry,” he says quickly. “Fuck, that wasn’t my place. Your Majesty. Oh, fuck, I swore. Fuck, sorry. Ignore that.”

You laugh in spite of yourself, catching the sound in your palm. He laughs behind you. Even with a sliver of distance between you, you can feel his chest shaking.

“Good thing foregoing curses is not one of your oaths,” you say.

“Oh, fuck, no, I’d fail that one for sure. Sorry, ignore that too.”

You are pretty sure he is being funny on purpose now, but you appreciate it, smiling as you move beneath a canopy of trees. It is much cooler in the shade, alleviating the discomfort of the hot sun. You exhale and let your posture slacken, just a bit, just enough your bodies touch on every downward canter.

“Were you ever scared?” you ask. The king’s carriage is ahead of you. You watch the wheels turn and turn.

“Yeah,” he says. “A bit. A lot. Completely. Not about the vows, though. I was just scared I’d let everyone down. Especially Chan. He put his own reputation on the line when he stood for me. I don’t know what he saw in me. Gods only know no one else ever saw it. Me included.”

He laughs at his self-deprecation but you do not. You watch the shadows of the forest roll over the carriages. You think of Jisung in that barn, risking everything for his friend. Your cheek tingles, remembering where he wiped your tear during that lonely ceremony. Your heart still races at the memory of him singing a springtime song, dedicated to you despite the antagonistic crowd.

“I do,” you say.

“You do what?” he asks casually.

“I see something good in you, Han Jisung.”

“Ohh.” He is stupefied for a moment. You are not sure of his expression, too shy to look at him. “Well, I don’t know about that,” he eventually says. “I’m definitely the lowest ranked in the kingsguard. Sorry for that, by the way.”

“Sorry?” Now you look back, meeting his gaze. “Why would you be sorry?”

“Well, uh…” He looks away, to the road ahead, his voice strained with awkwardness. “There’s a reason I was picked for proxy at the ceremony. It’s not because I’m not the best swordsman, or the most pious priest. I’m, uh, well… ‘bard boy’. And the king – His Holy Majesty – he uh… well, I mean… It had to be someone like a kingsguard but he didn’t want… I mean, that is…”

“It’s all right,” you say. “You don’t have to say it. I understand.”

he king was heaping insults on you and your family; of course he chose the lowest ranked kingsguard to stand in as proxy, just like he chose him now.

Irritation creeps up your neck, heating your skin. You glare at the carriage.

You are not even annoyed for yourself. Your insult has been established. You angry that the king would make such a disrespectful insinuation for a member of the elite kingsguard. The kingsguard service is as ancient as the regime. They are a respectable, powerful order. Admission to the order requires a great deal of work, more than simply being born in the right house. The king has no right to insult a soldier like Jisung. Just like he has no right to insult you.

“So yeah,” Jisung says. He clears his throat and tries to sound cheery as he says, “That’s why I’m sorry! Anyway, it all worked out. I’m sure I’m your favourite already, right? I’m everyone’s favourite, obviously.”

He is speaking jokingly but your heart skips a beat anyway. You swallow, hard.

In the next moment, the horse jumps, maneuvering around a ditch in the road. You fall against his chest with a thump, throwing your hands out instinctively. Your hand clasps his, your bodies pressed together.

“Sorry,” you say in unison.

“It’s all right,” he says. “I got ya.”

It is spoken with nonchalance. You still feel it.

“I’m not sorry,” you say. “I’m glad it was you, Jisung.”

You turn, finding your lips close to his face. He stares at you, as surprised as he is rivetted.

Softly, so only he can hear, intimately, a breath away from him, you whisper, “I believe you saved my life even before you found me in that barn. So yes. I’m glad it was you. I’m glad he chose you. I would have chosen you too.”

“Oh,” is all he says, moved to silence.

You remain in his arms, leaning against his chest. You pick up the melody he was humming and hum it yourself, making him laugh on an exhale. You feel the tension leave his arms and his heartbeat skip then resume its normal cadence, steadying your own.

#han jisung x reader #jisung x reader #skz x reader #stray kids x reader #jisung x you #stray kids x you #this is so wholesome #Han jisung my baby #I genuinely love how you write the friendships between characters it's my favorite thing about the work

279 notes · View notes

catstries · 5 months ago

Text

blossoming ; jisung x reader ; part one

You are a queen. He is a kingsguard - a member of a holy order that vows to defend the king in the name of the gods. They forsake all earthly goods and swear a vow of chastity to avoid all worldly temptation. When he stands in as proxy for the royal wedding, all those vows are tested.

pairing: han jisung/reader author's note: the second half of this story will be a mountain of filthy smut as this is a prompt fill for the prompt 'you're so good for me, so fucking good around me, fucking made for me.' so i wouldn't commit if you're not down for the horniest nonsense ever written. seriously it will get steamy.

content info: this reader has a little more physical description than some of my others- mentions of her having very curly hair and a more curvy body. it's kinda plot relevant.

content warnings: obviously an affair. the husband king is an evil evil nasty man. he very much abuses reader. her family is treated as foreigners and they are looked down upon. he is physically violent and hits her and there is an attempted sexual assault and threatening scenarios. reader has a panicked reaction. reader also starts off believing sex is not pleasurable but, uh, learns different later to say the least.

please proceed at your own discretion.

chapter word count: 5100 words.

There is no groom at your wedding. Your betrothed is too hungover to attend the ceremony.

You are disappointed but not surprised. Last night, your father hosted a welcome banquet but your husband-to-be ignored the lavish festivities in favour of drinking himself into a stupor. It did not matter that banners were hung in the great hall, that a feast was prepared, that the palace glittered in anticipation of his arrival. It did not matter that you were a vision, resplendent in ivory and pearl, prepared and perfected just for him.

The house, the money, the bride. It did not matter at all.

Such insult would not have been tolerated in any other man, but he is not just another man. He is a king. Only the heavens can issue him orders, just as he commands common blood like yours.

The king holds nothing but disdain for your union and last night it moved like a poisonous mist through your home. There was nothing you could do. You sat and watched your royal betrothed make a crude mockery of your arranged marriage. He travelled to your lands with a contingency of courtiers and they filled your house with his contempt.

They all detest you. Your family is wealthy but your father’s land sits at the border. Many at court consider you foreigners in all but paperwork.

Regardless of that status, your family owns the most prosperous land in the kingdom – a kingdom with coffers long since drained from an overseas war that reaped nothing but blood.

This arrangement will save the kingdom and your betrothed knows that, but he is not happy to marry for money when his bloodline is better. He spent the night belittling your family name, sneering at you, and pawing at the servant girls between drinks.

The king drank. The courtiers laughed.

Only one group extended any civility towards you at all.

“His Majesty sends his regards,” the leader of that group speaks to you now.

He is in black robes, a sword at his hip. He is the leader of the holy kingsguard, an ancient order sworn to defend heaven’s earthly sovereign. There is nothing holy about the degenerate king, but his kingsguard is an ordained ministry nonetheless. They surrender all earthly goods and fortunes, devoting themselves to service and soldiership. That includes a vow of total chastity, so they are the only men permitted to perceive the future queen prior to the ceremony.

What little remains of the ceremony.

The soldier – Chan, you recall – informs you the ceremony will now be conducted by proxy. The king is bedridden today, but the wedding cannot be delayed as he is needed back at court and the return journey is long.

Chan is polite and respectful. He does not mention that the marriage cannot be delayed because the king wants money now. You are certain your betrothed’s condemnation of his otherwise worthless bride was rather more unkind.

You remember the cold eyes of his courtiers, his even crueler sneer, and you blink back tears.

“I understand,” you say. You are practiced at maintaining grace in the greatest adversity. “Thank you, soldier.”

Chan wears a pitying expression. It looks like he wants to say more but he knows his place. The kingsguard is the strictest order in the kingdom. Only the most devout are granted the black cloth and silver sword.

“Your Majesty,” he says with a bow.

You are not a majesty yet. You have weddings vows to swear to a stranger first.

Until then, you are just another woman.

You made the wedding dress yourself. You have always enjoyed the craft of needlework, even where certain jobs could be passed along to a seamstress. Growing up, you spent more hours alongside the working women than at your mother’s table, a behaviour that was indulged until the war.

You run your fingers along every familiar stitch, tracing the embroidered floral patterns down your forearm. You always wanted a spring wedding, but it was not meant to be. You enter the hall with the hot summer sun pouring over the crystal and marble.

It is an ostentatious ceremony. Not even the king could afford such a spectacle. It makes you think he absconded on purpose. What better way to wrestle back his dignity than to disregard the expensive ceremony?

The king’s absence is felt more than your presence. It turns the grandeur of the hall into a theatrical farce. Courtiers giggle behind their hands, the traditionalists casting you withering looks of disapproval.

Your own family smiles and you smile weakly back.

For all their faults, you love your family. They thought they were doing something good by arranging this marriage. A small, childish part of you even hoped they were right, but that hope is gone now. You have resigned yourself to the sad reality of the world. Life is a dreary wash save what small bits of colour one dares sew into its seams.

There are flashes of black cloth around the hall. Chan is not among the present kingsguards as the leader stays close to the king, but a handful of the regiment has been spared to witness the proxy vows.

You recognize a soldier named Hyunjin, standing apart for his beauty as much as position. Several of the ladies tittered about him last night, lamenting that such a handsome form was sworn to a chaste life.

You do not recognize the other two. One is short and stocky. The other has silver hair and a freckled face, smiling at you from the far corner. You stare back at him, taking the proffered comfort of that open sweetness.

You finally reach the front of the hall. You step onto the dais. The minister rises and a hush cascades down the congregation.

You worry your pounding heart can be heard in the highest arches of the hall.

The first words of the ceremony are a name. “Han Jisung,” the minister says. It echoes with a swinging reverberation. “As an ordained soldier of the kingsguard, you have been called upon by His Holy Majesty to stand in proxy for the swearing of the vows.”

Footsteps break the silence, beat by beat. Someone ascends the dais.

At first, you do not look at him. You cast your eyes up to the arches of the great hall, tracing the grandiose architecture. It carries cultural traces of the borderlands. The art of this place is home to you, though it draws ire from the courtiers behind you.

You think that you may never feel so at home again, then you turn and catch the warmth of deep brown eyes. You see the man who will receive your vows on behalf of the king.

Your racing heart stumbles over itself.

Han Jisung. You recognize this soldier from the banquet last night.

The strange man stands beside you. His nails are painted black, stark where he rests his hand on the silver hilt of his sword. His hair is as black as his midnight robes, his brown eyes darkly lined, but his intimidating shadows are softened by the gentler slopes of his face. There is a raw and open tenderness, even where he tries to stifle it with appropriate solemnity.

Your eyes are drawn to his lips and you remember his smile last night. Jisung strode into the banquet with a sword at his hip and a guitar at his back. It is not unusual for the kingsguard to have a bard of sorts, someone who can conjure a flattering song at whim, someone who can perform as if the gods speak through his guitar strings.

Last night, while people danced and drank, you sank further and further into yourself. You smiled prettily but all the spring blossoms in your heart rotted as the summer sunset turned to a miserable black gloaming. Torches were lit and the cackling faces on spinning bodies looked like demons in the lamplight. The king ignored you so everyone else did the same.

Jisung, armed with a guitar, was enchanting a crowd of courtiers and some local palace residents. You watched from a distant seat. You could not help but stare, captivated by this stranger, this combination of soldier and musician and holy man. His glowing face in the torchlight was a solitary beacon, his smile more intoxicating than the ever-flowing wine. His laughter rang out like a symphonic chord, travelling the air to touch your ears where you sat alone.

The man was no one to you, just another stranger in your home, but there such a simple, honest delight to him.

He just seemed so alive.

You were not prepared for the moment he met your gaze. His black robes swished as he jumped, his dark hair bouncing. His eyes seemed to flash gold in the firelight. He stood on a chair above the crowd and said, “A song for the future queen!”

He could not know you loved the springtime but that is what he sang. Perhaps the gods really did speak through his guitar string as he sang of new beginnings and hopeful seasons and cherry blossoms. You smiled.

It was your first real smile all day.

He looks at you now, a flicker of something kind in his dark eyes. You see that twinkle only briefly because he dips into a respectful bow.

You unravel at the sight.

You imagine truly marrying this man, swearing oaths to him and not some wretched figment he serves. You imagine the promise of laughter. You imagine those warm eyes seeking you across the room. You imagine a song every spring.

You know it is a fantasy. This man is a stranger and that version of him is a fabrication. But your heart breaks because that version of you – the girl who is happy for the rest of her life – is just as much an impossible fantasy.

Jisung looks up while bowing. He meets your gaze just as a tear trickles down your cheek. No one else notices, just like one else noticed you last night.

His eye twitches, his polite smile faltering.

He sees you. He straightens slowly. His brow furrows ever so slightly, his teeth tugging at his lip with thought.

You jump when he waves, flicking his wrist like he is batting a fly. The discreet sweep of his thumb across your cheek is so fast, you only know it happened because the tear track dries.

“In the name of the gods,” the minister speaks, “the ancient and the almighty, we gather here today to unite in matrimony the holiest of subjects. This couple has been brought together through heaven’s all-knowing divine intervention.”

You bow your head. There is nothing else you can do. You listen to the recitations and make your oaths when prompted. You swear before gods and men to serve your husband, to obey him, to always be pure and faithful to him.

“The gods grant you to speak on behalf of the divine blood,” the minister says to Jisung.

You look at Jisung. He is already looking at you. His gaze darts down your dress, across the floral embroidery, and lands at your feet.

Your breath catches when he slowly gets down on one knee, keeping his head bowed and eyes down. A gentle murmur disturbs the congregation, but there is no outrage. The king would not have bowed before the queen, but perhaps the genuflection of a proxy is appropriate.

“I swear,” Jisung says, his theatrical voice replaced with a gentler rasp that tingles up your spine, “I will honour you as a wife and a queen. I will revere you as the gods’ chosen consort.” He looks up, his lashes long and dark, his brown eyes so big and warm. You think he is so beautiful; it almost makes you sick. That dizziness worsens when he smiles and says, “I will be your protector. Until the day I die, no harm will ever come to you.”

He stands. Blessings are made. The minister pronounces the union has been sanctified by the gods. The congregation kneels in genuflection, respectful of the rituals even if they don’t like you. You stand on the dais above them all, maintaining a stoic expression.

You are a wife and a queen, though your husband is nowhere in sight, and your eyes stray to a head of dark hair, bowed with the rest of them.

Jisung looks up, a bit of hair falling over his eyes. He flashes a smile.

Your heart picks itself up and starts running again.

You cannot do this.

You thought you could try for the sake of your family. You thought you could try for the sake of the gods. You thought you could try for the sake of the kingdom and all the innocent people within it.

Then the king came to your chamber. He did not attend the wedding feast, just as he did not attend the ceremony. It was a fair excuse to make an early departure, returning to your room while the music played and wine flowed. You were exhausted, emotionally weary, and your face was sore from so many false smiles.

You discarded your elaborate gown. You were in a shift, sitting at your vanity and removing jewelry, when the king arrived. He did not announce himself or knock. He threw open the door and marched inside like a conquering force. He looked over your room with a scrunched face of displeasure, grimacing as if he was standing in a barnyard. He looked at you with the same hateful distaste.

Your throat closed up as if you inhaled poison.

You stood on shaking legs. You had practiced a speech for this moment. You thought perhaps you could convince the king to regard you as a decent friend if not a cherished wife. You were willing to compromise on happiness.

He backhanded you without hesitation. No one had ever hit you so hard. It felt as though he struck you with hot iron, your cheek a stinging welt. Bells seemed to drown out the music downstairs.

“Sire,” you said, your voice shaking worse than your legs.

You found you could not look at him directly. Your eyes burned just turning towards him.

“Get on the bed,” he said. “Wife.” He might as well have said whore for all that the word was spat.

You never expected to enjoy your wedding night. All women know there is no pleasure in acts of copulation. But this was something else entirely. You approached the bed like a deer skirts the edge of the woods. One wrong step and you knew it would be over.

He grabbed you from behind before you could sit. You slammed your eyes shut, curled your fists tighter.

In the darkness, you heard music, a distant voice belting some sweeter tune. You recognized Jisung, his crystalline voice soaring above the bells. Your heart chased the sound, a desperate stampede up your body. It seized control and before the king could do more harm, you blurted, “I’ve started my monthly bleeding.”

He stopped, the hem of your shift in his fists.

“Just – just so you know,” you said.

It was a lie. You braced yourself for the worst. If he chose to disregard it, if he chose to take you anyway, he would quickly see there was no blood and you were trying to deceive him. He had rights as a husband and it was sinful to deny him.

He made a sound like gagging. He shoved you forward. You collapsed in a heap on the bed.

He walked away.

“I will not have you on the road,” he said. You are not sure if he looked at you again because you hid your face in the blankets. Hiding, as if you could will the world away by not seeing it. “You’re filthy enough as is,” he continued. “When we reach civilized society, you will be made as appropriate as you can be. You will be cleaned, you will lose weight, you will be made to look halfway respectable, not like some borderland animal laying in its own filth. I will have you then without exception. Wife.”

You shuddered when the door slammed shut.

The sun was still setting when he left. It has long since vanished from the sky. You have not moved. You fear if you lift your head, he will be there, waiting to strike.

After a long, long time, you surface. Your room is empty. The lavender light of sunset is gone and there is a darker puddle of moonlight, trickling between the curtains, pouring down your back. You shiver. You touch your cheek and find it is still tender.

You try to pray but you are surrounded by silence. Even the music has ended.

In the ringing silence, you stand. Your body is sore from laying curled up for so long. It takes some pacing to straighten fully. Back and forth, across your room. Back and forth, in the silence.

I cannot do this, you think. Back and forth, the same thought, again and again.

Disobeying the king is unlawful. Abandoning him when you have sworn an oath is treasonous. Even the kingsguards are bound to their vows for life. If a soldier breaks his oath, he is put to death, swift and sure. The punishment for a disobedient wife is the same.

The silence is agonizing.

You know what you have to do. It will not be easy.

You have to try for sake of yourself.

The risks are great but you would rather die a swift death than suffer the slow poisoning of contempt.

Your adrenaline pounds. You pack all your jewelry in a sack to sell. You bring some clean clothes.

There are servants clothes in a stack by the unlit fireplace. You mend their worn garments during the busy seasons. They are always appreciative and you like helping people.

You don a pageboy’s garb and tuck your hair into a hat. The king commented on your build and you grant it gives you away, built with your mother’s curves with a cascade of your father’s curly black hair. You hide all your prominent features as best you can. You will be more inconspicuous as a roaming servant boy than as a notable queen.

You tip-toe into the corridor, uncertain if the hallway is guarded. The palace is usually safe but you are a queen now, so maybe the king sent guards. Protecting you was in his oath, after all.

Kings are not beholden to their oaths. The hallway is empty but you are hardly aggrieved. You seize the opportunity and let your racing heart carry you away.

Down the hall, down the winding stairs, through the kitchen, past the door. You slow to a nonchalant canter when passing other servants, making sure to turn your face down and keep to the shadows. Everyone is either busy, drunk, or tired, so you manage to slip past without notice.

Once you are alone outside, you break into a run. You do not leave yourself a moment to think. If you begin to doubt, you will falter, and this will all be over.

You are panting and sweating by the time you reach the stables. You are not exactly in the habit of great exertion. You take a moment to catch your breath while scanning for guards. There must be some. The courtiers have their animals in camps around the palace but the king’s horses are stabled. The kingsguards have alternated shifts to keep an eye on the king’s property.

There are no guards to be found. You approach the stable with cautious steps. No one appears and you slip into the stables unseen. There is a lit lamp, swinging as though recently bumped, but there is no one in here. Just the horses.

You step to the first stall. Your heartbeat is erratic and it pounds harder when you find a horse already bridled. Did they forget to remove the saddle? This is one of your father’s horses and that is unusual, but you do not question it.

You lead the horse out of the stall and into the middle of the stable. You speak gentle nothings to him. You have not often ridden this horse as he is one of the faster animals, but you will need that speed tonight.

Perhaps the gods are on your side after all.

You take hold of the saddle. You are about to hoist yourself onto the mount when a zing of metal slashes through the silent night. The tip of a sword touches your shoulder.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

You recognize that voice.

Of all the kingsguards to find you, of course it would be Han Jisung.

You are so startled that your adrenaline turns from fire to ice. You freeze solid.

“Hey! Little boy!” He lightly jabs you with the sword, just enough to scratch the material of your stolen shirt. “A kingsguard asked you something. Answer me! Now!”

Your hands are still raised when you turn around. It is a slow, begrudging reveal. Your eyes are on the hay-spattered stable floor. You look at his black boots, the silver sheath hanging at his hip. Up, up, up, your eyes slowly lift.

You meet his gaze. His brow is furrowed with frustration but it uncrinkles when he recognizes you. That irritation is smacked off his face, shock changing his whole disposition. The sword wobbles and he takes a startled step back.

“You—” he says. He looks at you, jaw-slacked, then rubs his eye as if he cannot believe what he is seeing.

Finally, the sword lowers to his side. His long black robes swish with the movement. His shock gives way to panic.

“What are you doing?” he demands, his voice breaking on a harsh whisper. He swiftly sheaths the sword and takes several determined steps closer to you. “Are you crazy? Where are you going? And what are you wearing?”

“I’m leaving,” you snap back. The burgeoning panic in your chest begins to putter, making you indignant in your desperation. “And I’m obviously in disguise.”

“Oh. A disguise,” he says, utterly dry. His face is theatrical by nature, brows jumping and eyes widening as he speaks. “Yeah, no one could recognize you like this. Except for, oh, I don’t know—”

Audaciously, Jisung snatches the hat off your head. You yelp, throwing your hands up to grab it, but he pulls it away faster than a blink.

Your hair tumbles free, curls even messier than before. You slap your hands over your head, frantically smoothing them down. Your arms start to shake, all that panic and adrenaline bubbling, needing somewhere to go. You feel as though you are going to burst, a screaming firework shooting through the roof of this stable.

“I would have been fine with the hat,” you snap. “I made it this far.”

“Only because half this house is drunk,” he replies with equal verve. “Look at you, your hair, your woman’s face, your – your woman’s body.” He stumbles over that one, eyes flicking down your form and up again. He clears his throat and shakes his head. “You would have been caught immediately. You were caught immediately.”

“I’ll be fine,” you say. “I know my way.”

“There’s no way a girl like you has ever ridden anywhere past your family’s land,” he says.

You are flushed with heat and aggravation. You want to argue but he is not wrong. You know the general direction to the nearest town but you have never ridden there on horseback.

“I know my way,” you say again.

“Do you?” He takes a step closer. “You go north – do you know which trail is overrun with bandits? And the east – do you know which path to take to avoid the mountain lions? Or the west – if you go over the border and the men who live in those woods discover you alone—”

“Stop it!” You throw your hands up over your ears. All that panicked heat simmers and spills. It turns to tears.

You sob.

He’s right. You know he’s right. You let your desperation and your adrenaline carry you this far, but you are not prepared for an arduous journey. You have a sack of jewels that are a greater liability than asset on dangerous roads. What would you have done if they were stolen? What would you have done if someone hurt you? You have nothing. No map, no direction, and no hope.

Jisung’s shoulders drop as he watches you cry. His own passion tempers itself, his frustration cooling in the face of your tears. He let himself get carried away too, but you don’t blame him. He is a kingsguard. He is duty-bound to protect the king and the king’s property, which you are.

He found you committing treason. You are lucky he did not hold a sword to your throat and drag you to the king.

His sword stays sheathed. He looks at you, expression morose.

“I’m sorry,” he says in a soft voice. “You know I can’t let you go.”

“I know,” you whisper, gasping through your tears.

If you were not so miserable, you might have laughed at the look on his face. You are certain this man has encountered many adversaries, but never a sobbing woman. He would have been happier dealing with a real thief.

His hand lifts and falls as he wars with himself, evidently debating whether he should touch you or not. You stand there, sobbing into your hands while he watches helplessly.

When he does touch you, it is careful. First, just his fingertips, light on your shoulder, then the slow curving touch of his palm as he gently squeezes. It is the first kind touch in days and it sends a shiver down your spine. You look at him, eyes wet with tears, imploring with no words.

His mouth opens but he doesn’t speak. A breath stutters past his lips. Slowly, he takes back his hand, curls his fingers into his palm. He swallows.

You stare at each other in the dim lamplight. You are not sure how long you would have stood there, silent, staring, but you are interrupted before you can find out. There is a soft knock at the stable door and Jisung jumps as if it was an explosion. His head whips around, looking between you and the door.

“Fuck,” he says. His brows jump and he covers his mouth. “You didn’t hear that. Quick.”

He does not stop to explain. You have no opportunity to ask questions. He swiftly ushers you into the empty stall, closing the door behind you. He races to the stable door to greet whoever is there.

You hold your breath, hiding in the shadows as someone enters the stable. Jisung and the intruder speak in hushed tones that you cannot decipher. You inch closer to the door, peeking through the slats between the wood.

It is another kingsguard. You recognize him as one from the ceremony, the silver-haired one with the face full of freckles, who smiled at you so kindly. You would recognize such a unique face anywhere, even though he is out of uniform. For some reason, he is dressed in civilian garb, even though you know the kingsguard is not allowed to wear anything but their black robes.

“Thank you again,” the silver-haired man says. You can hear better as they step further inside.

“Don’t thank me yet, Felix,” Jisung replies. “I still think you’re crazy, man.”

“Still,” the man, Felix, replies. “Not everyone would have helped. You didn’t have any problems?”

Jisung is adjusting the saddle on the horse. His eyes briefly lift and meet yours. You duck further into shadow.

Jisung sighs and shakes his head. He tightens the reigns then hands them to Felix.

“Nothing I can’t handle,” Jisung says.

Another figure steps into view, one who has been silent this whole time. You watch as the person draws back their hood, revealing a woman around your age. By the style of her gown, you can tell she is a courtier from the capital. She smiles at Jisung.

“Thank you, Han Jisung,” she says. “The gods will reward your courageous heart.”

“Ah-ha-ha.” He giggles nervously, scratching the back of his neck. “I already have everything I need. Some of us—” He casts a withering look at Felix, though his tone is light and teasing, “—can keep our chastity vows. I don’t need anything more than service.”

Felix chuckles, holding out his hand to the woman. She hurries into his arms.

“If that’s your path, I hope it will make you happy,” Felix says.

You watch as they help the woman onto the horse. Felix swings up behind her. They both pull hoods over their heads.

Jisung reaches up, offering Felix his hand. Felix clasps it.

“Brother,” Felix says.

“Crazy man,” Jisung replies.

Felix smiles. They drop hands and Felix takes the reigns. With an expert click, he marches the horse into a swift canter and rides out the open stable door. Jisung strides forward to watch them leave, craning his neck to see further.

Now you know why there were no guards. Now you know why the horse was prepared. Felix and Jisung must have been posted as guards and took the opportunity to sneak Felix away. Felix, who has evidently committed treason, breaking his vow as a kingsguard to literally ride off with a woman.

You doubt this was a whim. You wonder how long the trio has been planning this. If there was ever a time for a guard to steal a horse and sneak away, it would be in the busy chaos of a wedding week. Like Jisung said, most of the household is drunk. Others are tired and resting. A long journey back to the capital begins tomorrow.

A journey you will have to make.

You nudge the door open. Jisung’s shoulders jump, eyes wide as he looks at you, as if he forgot you were there. He regards you warily as you step forward.

“So,” you say. “It’s okay for some people to commit treason.”

“It’s not the same thing,” Jisung answers quickly. “And Felix can handle himself out there.”

You have both witnessed the other commit a treasonous act. You could rat him out to the king, just as he could drag you back and do the same. Instead, you stare at each other, your gazes measuring. They meet in the middle.

“Do you think we understand each other?” he asks.

He holds out his hand in offering. You remember his quick but substantial touch at the ceremony, that moment he wiped the tear from your cheek. For all that darkness circles the periphery of him, there is something warm at the centre of his character. It compels you to trust him.

You take his hand.

“I do,” you say.

#han jisung x reader #stray kids x reader #Han jisung as a kingsman oh my GOD!!!

469 notes · View notes

catstries · 5 months ago

Text

Han Jisung constantly being reduced to some lesser version of himself for struggles with anxiety/mental health, being rampantly feminized because he’s become 1/2 of the face of a popular ship within the fandom and consequently not fairly recognized for the sheer individual GENIUS he is; finally making a personal instagram and casually posting all the song covers he wants to, getting 3 tattoos in one session just because he can. Trusting us enough to share what the tattoos are on a fancall- sharing little tidbits of his personal life when he’s ready, and keeping things sacred to him when he’s still able to. Seeing him have this autonomy over himself and embrace the creative person he is and always has been is so, so refreshing. Maybe we’ll never know him beyond a killer instagram song cover, we’ll never see his baby photos or perhaps even bear witness to his first few tattoos. But we do know he cried 3 times watching the movie “Up”. And the little glimpses we get into his personality and his artistic vision as he walks this fine line between privacy and rawness as an idol are nothing short of endearing. I don’t know what was in those contract renegotiations, but he’s never seemed more like himself.

Han Jisung my multi-faceted muse. Do whatever you want if it means you’ll always be this fulfilled

1K notes · View notes

catstries · 5 months ago

Note

I’m just popping in to say hello and giving you kisses!!! Muaw

TALY HI THANK YOU!!!

I love you bubby :(

Muah Muah 💋💋

1 note · View note

catstries · 6 months ago

Text

— danagray

36K notes · View notes

catstries · 6 months ago

Text

a/n: minho puts a vibrator in you and makes you ride his thigh idk there is no plot here. i wrote this in 20 mins. smut - MINORS DNI.

this might have been the most stressful car ride of your entire life. every single bump, turn, and stop of the vehicle sent pangs of want pulsing through your core, and the worst part is that the toy wasn’t even on the highest setting yet.

minho had handed the thing to you as you were walking out of the door and watched with hungry eyes as you slipped it under the hem of your sundress, past the lining of your underwear and into your hole with a slight shudder. it was the kind that settled right against your spot, curving perfectly, with a piece jutting out that nestled against your clit. it came with a remote control that minho tucked into his pocket with a smirk and a wicked glint in his eyes.

he had kept you at a low buzz as he drove down roads, speeding through yellow lights and jerking at stop signs just to see your reaction. he was a good driver usually, so you knew he was doing this on purpose, the fucker.

he turns it off when he parks at your destination, a busy market street that the two of you liked to frequent to window shop. he was kind to you when you were walking in public, only slipping his hand into his pocket when you got too comfortable with the sensation of the toy inside of you. you nearly forgot about it several times until he’d hit you with a series of quick buzzes that makes you stop in your tracks and press your legs together. you could feel wetness building in your core, dripping onto your underwear and you prayed that it wouldn’t start dripping down your thighs. as much as he would enjoy it, the thought of the sensation made you cringe in disgust.

it’s only when you both return to the car in a secluded parking garage that he takes out the small remote and runs his fingers against the buttons. every time his nail catches on the button that raises the vibrations you tense up, but he repeats the motions again and again until you relax into the carseat. the click of a button echoes through the entire car when he finally presses it, and you’re embarrassingly close to coming from how on edge you’ve been for the past hour.

he knows - of course he does. he knows you better than he knows himself, can read your body like it’s a worn out novel on his bedside table. he turns off the vibrator when you’re reaching the crest of your peak, and you’re left clenching around the toy as your high escapes you. you try to chase it but it runs faster than you can move your hips, and you collapse against the seat with a groan.

“come here,” he pats his leg and pops back his seat as far as it can go, making room for you to fit between him and the steering wheel. the angry retort on your lips dies as you meet his eyes and see the possessiveness in them; he looks close to feral. you take a glance outside the windows to make sure that no one was outside before climbing over the central console, trying to climb into his lap.

you want to be wrapped around him, you want to feel his comforting touch against every inch of your hypersensitive body, but he pulls you away when you try to press close. he pushes you to the side until you’re straddling just his thigh, and the hard muscle there pushes the toy closer to your clit and deeper inside of you. your dress falls to the sides, leaving your thighs touching the material of his jeans and your soaked underwear definitely staining them.

he turns on the vibrator again, pushing it to a higher setting than you’d been before, and the moan you let out was borderline pornographic. you don’t have time to feel embarrassed about it because he throws the remote into the cupholder and wraps his fingers around your hips in a tight grip. he pushes you back a bit before pulling you back into him, over and over until it clicks - he wants you to ride his thigh. in a public parking garage, where anyone could walk in and see your desperation and helplessness. the thought makes your entire body burn and you can’t help the way your hips jerk along with his movements.

it’s absolutely euphoric, the way he’s gripping you in a way that will leave fingerprint shaped bruises on your skin paired with the vibrator buzzing against your clit and rumbling inside of you. you can’t think of anything other than the searing pleasure building up inside of you and you don’t realize that your eyes have fluttered shut until he moves one of his hands to grip your chin, keeping your gaze pinned on him.

he looks wrecked just watching you, his lips parted and his eyes unblinking as he watches you fall apart. you come with a full body shudder, your eyes rolling back into your head as you lose your balance and fall into him. he keeps the vibrator on as you ride your way through your orgasm, and he wraps his arms around you as overstimulation starts to set in. you squirm, trying to escape the near painful pleasure sparking through your belly, but he keeps you pinned to him until you start to cry into his shoulder.

you don’t see it, but you know he’s smiling at your cries; there’s nothing he loves more than bringing you to tears from pleasure.

he turns it off after a few moments and your body melts against his, your limbs feeling like jelly and your head fuzzy like cotton. you bury your head into his neck, the collar of his jacket digging into your cheek and the smell of leather invading your senses. he strokes your back until your tears stop, whispering praises into your hair in between gentle kisses. when you gain some control of your body, you shift a little and you can feel the slick that’s collected between your legs. you wince and let out a little whine, and he shushes you and presses a final kiss to your forehead.

“i’ll run you a bath when we get home, angel,” he promises.

“mm,” you agree, nuzzling against him. “but i’m not moving for at least another ten minutes.”

#lee know skz #lee know smut #brr...no thoughts only Minho #so yummy #I am not okay #I need him 😔#only riding lino's thigh could be my only salvation

2K notes · View notes