#further tba. | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

xxchumanixx · 14 days ago

Text

Glimpses

Bucky Barnes x reader

Warnings/Tags: fluff, angst, Bucky (yes, he's a warning), reader has the ability to show other people images in their head (does that make sense?), otherwise not described, spoilers for fatws

Word count: tba

Authors note: To be honest, I've been working on this for months, bit by bit. I didn't have much time to write or post something lately, and somehow, the motivation went with it. But I love this man to no end, and I had to finish this (for my sake, too). Im not a hundred percent happy with it, but we're just gonna roll with it.

I hope you enjoy it.

It gnawed at you, gripping you with a hand made of iron, it's icy fingers sending chills down your spine.

How could she do this to you?

Someone you once envied for being related to Peggy Carter, one of the founders of SHIELD, maybe one of the coolest persons to have ever existed.

Now, you couldn't help but pity Sharon Carter.

Sam nudged your foot with his, ripping you out of your thoughts. "What's up with you?" he wanted to know, brows furrowed.

Blinking at him, you tried to grasp what he was talking about, before shaking your head with a sigh.

"When Sharon was pardoned, I heard her say something I don't know what to think of..." you mumbled, biting your cheek. Sam rose a brow in return, Bucky's furrowing.

You were sitting in a private jet, a small table in front of you, with Sam sitting diagonally to your right and Bucky to your left.

"When she came out, she dialed someone, saying something about super soldiers being off the menu, weapons and 'should be something for everyone'." you recited what you had heard her say.

You had been there to congratulate her, welcome her back. But, when she stepped out the building, immediately dialing someone, you hid back in the crowd, carefully listening.

Yeah, eavesdropping wasn't nice, but something urged you to do it.

And you had been right.

"Nah," Sam made, shaking his head with a chuckle. "You must have misheard her."

Licking your lip, you shook your own head. "No, I know what I've heard."

Sam's brows furrowed, eyes trained on you. "Y/N, I'm sure you just misheard her." he repeated his words softer.

Eyes widening, your mouth was agape. "Sam-" you started, but he cut you off. "No, Y/N-" "Sam!" with a yell of his name and a slam of your hand on the table, you locked eyes, letting your power whir to life.

You could see your own eyes change color in his iris, energy flowing through you, as you forced him to see what you've seen.

Sharon left the building with a smile on her face, radiating confidence. Pulling out her phone she dialed a number, slowly walking further down the steps.

"Start lining up our buyers." she spoke into the phone, seemingly not caring enough to watch her surroundings for anyone listening. "Super Soldiers might be off the menu, but we're about to have full access to government secrets, prototype weapons, you name it. Should be something for everyone."

With that, she left, leaving you speechless.

With a gasp, you let go of Sam's mind, rapidly blinking to get the dry feeling out of your eyes.

Sam stared onto the table, swallowing. His hands trembled slightly, whilst Bucky grew impatient.

"Can I see?" he wanted to know, eagerly leaning forward in his seat. It made you chuckle, despite the dread in your stomach.

Letting Bucky enter your mind, was something different.

You weren't able to control your powers a hundred percent, which would be a risk, when letting someone in. There could be emotions or flashes of memories that could seep through, something you didn't want.

Especially not with him.

You had been in love with him for a while now, but never dared to make a move on it. Not, when he was so far out of your league.

Swallowing, you nodded hesitantly.

Locking eyes with Bucky's blue ones, you let your power come to life again, heart pounding faster.

You showed him the same thing you showed Sam, trying your hardest to concentrate only on the memory of Sharon, nothing else.

Slipping back out of it, you blinked rapidly, whilst Bucky sat frozen in his chair.

Shaking your head, you felt it deep in your chest, slowly making its way up - luckily for you, you had cut the connection already.

It was a memory you cherished deep in your heart, one of your favorites. It was Bucky, smiling happily.

Most of the time his smile didn't reach his eyes, not like it should have. He wasn't as carefree, at least not until he teamed up with Sam.

He was lying on the sofa in Sarah's house, Sam's sister. The kids had been playing with the shield, whilst Bucky was still sleeping on the couch.

You had been sitting at the small coffee table, able to see him, but he wouldn't see you at first glance.

When he woke up, softly calling out to the kids with a smile and a peace, they panicked, putting the shield back into its bag.

It had you smiling into your mug, quietly chuckling, as you sipped your coffee.

His smile was real, beautiful and rare. His eyes sparkled with joy, sunlight catching in them, highlighting the blue of his iris, as he leaned back into the cushions.

It showed the Bucky he was back in the forties, slowly peeling away layer after layer of his hardened shell.

Closing your eyes, you willed the memory away, slowly shaking your head, to get rid of it.

When your eyes opened again, looking back up at Bucky and Sam, Bucky's eyes were glued to your face.

His brows were furrowed, deep in thought. His mouth opened the slightest bit, but it closed again, like a fish.

Your own eyes widened the slightest bit, belly churning, as you realized.

The faint line connecting your minds - it was still there.

Your breathing fastened, fist clenching, as you looked at Sam, trying to come up with something to pull him into a conversation - but your mind was as blank as a wall.

Seriously, now you were able to think of nothing?

Your hands began to sweat, as you tried your hardest not to burst into tears. It was exactly what you had feared to happen, not being able to control it.

Mostly the reason you never really let Bucky enter your mind, fearing what he might find.

"Do you think-" Sam started, but cut himself off with a shake of his head. "That she's the power broker?" you returned, eager to flee into this conversation, but it was over just as fast as it had begun. "Yeah."

Bucky didn't say anything, eyes fixed on his hands that were seated in his lap.

Sam sighed, one hand swiping over his face. He was tired, you could tell. Being the new Captain America wasn't easy.

"Excuse me." you mumbled, standing up, before heading out of the room and towards the bathroom, where you locked yourself in.

You choked on a breath, fighting the tears, but soon losing. How could you be so careless? You should have known it wouldn't end well, letting him enter your mind.

But it would have been suspicious not to show him, either.

You could only hope you'd get out of this unscathed.

_____

Sam cleared his throat in discomfort, fist clenching on the table.

If he hadn't known your memories were true, he would have brushed it off with a laugh. He'd worked with Sharon before, and she never seemed like someone who would turn on her own people.

How long, til she would turn on them?

Eyes lifting, they met the side of Bucky's face. He was quiet, more than usual.

"How can she do this to us, after all we went through?" Sam asked in a mumble, ripping Bucky from his thoughts with a "Huh?".

Brows furrowing, Sam tried to analyze the man he didn't want to call friend, even though he'd become exactly that over the past few weeks.

"What's up with you?" he asked, frown deepening. Sure, Bucky had his moments where his thoughts drifted off, but not like this.

Not when you just basically fled a minute ago.

Bucky shook his head, trying to clear his mind. "I don't know." he gave back, forehead wrinkling in thought.

Hell, if he could only make sense of what he'd seen.

"What happened?" Sam dug deeper, having noticed how long you two had been silent when showing him what you'd seen.

It took longer than he thought needed to.

Bucky wiped over his face.

It was like he switched bodies with you when that memory of yours slipped through. He could feel everything.

Every little emotion.

"I-" Bucky was searching for the right words as he suddenly stood. "Excuse me."

He followed into the direction you'd taken off to, causing Sam to frown even more.

He stopped in front of the bathroom door, softly knocking before the courage could have left him.

"Y/N?" he called out, heart beating unsteady. "Can we please talk?"

You flinched, perched on the toilet seat as you desperately wiped at your face. "Why?" you called out, giving your very best to sound neutral.

You could hear him hesitate, the little sounds that left his mouth that he himself didn't even notice. "Please?" he then just asked, fingers drumming on the door.

You hesitated as well, not sure if you should open the door to face your imminent death of shame.

With a heavy sigh you got up, though, shaky fingers fumbling for the lock, taking a moment longer to unlock it before it was pushed open by Bucky merging into the small bathroom, cramping the space even more.

You stumbled back, colliding with the sink.

"What was that?" Bucky wanted to know, eyes on yours, searching them for anything that gave him an answer. "What?" you gave back, deciding to act dumb.

Maybe he wouldn't notice.

Of course he would, you idiot.

His brows furrowed, a look of confusion and bewilderment crossing his features. "You know exactly what I mean, don't play dumb now, Y/N!" he shot back, not amused.

See?

Told you so.

You swallowed the lump that somehow didn't want to budge, blocking your airways. "I- I don't know." you stuttered out, mentally cursing yourself for being so reckless to let him enter your mind in the first place.

Bucky frowned even more, not sure whether to believe you or not. After all he had felt it, not sure if he really wanted to know, though.

He didn't dare to hope.

You inhaled shakily, trying to force your heart rate down, to calm yourself a little.

Easier said than done.

"Are you sure you don't know?" Bucky pressed, voice tinged with something you couldn't place. "Because I'm sure I didn't imagine what I've seen or felt."

You flinched at that.

He knew, he knew for fucks sake, and there was no way you could have made him believe that it was nothing.

To be fair, you wouldn't have believed yourself, either.

No one would feel immense happiness, content, and warmth just because of a person they saw as a friend.

Come on.

You swallowed, averting your gaze. There was no backing out now, not when Bucky literally blocked the exit with his presence and muscular body.

"You- you felt it." you mumbled, biting your cheek as your cheeks warmed up slightly, gaze glued to the floor.

Bucky huffed, searching for words for a moment. How was he to explain what he felt?

"It- it was like I was back in the forties." he began, licking his lips. "I felt content, happy. And then I saw this... this memory of yours from me. I didn't know you were there, I didn't see you. What does this mean?"

He sounded desperate, and you didn't know whether it was because he didn't want your feelings for him or if it was the exact opposite.

Your name fell from his parted lips when you didn't answer, and had you looked up into his cerulean eyes, you'd seen the desperation, too.

"I can't tell you." you eventually mumbled, biting your cheek raw. "What? Why?" Bucky gave back, eyes widening before he frowned. "Y/N, what does this mean? Please, tell me!"

You looked up at him, your own brows furrowed in a frown.

Why did he want to know so badly?

"You know what it means." you gave back, doing your best not to avoid his gaze this time. His lips parted a fraction before he shook his head. "No." he said. "I want you to say it."

You heart stumbled once more, threatening to burst from the pace it was going at.

Did he want to have something to laugh about? Did he want to make a fool of you?

Swallowing, you shook your head. "No." you breathed out. "I can't."

His gaze hardened slightly, blue irises growing darker. "Say it." he repeated himself, not going to back down.

He'd rather go back to HYDRA than let this opportunity, this chance pass.

Your eyes widened, and you shook your head again. But before you had the chance to decline once more, he said it again, this time louder. "Say it!"

"I have feelings for you!" you blurted out loudly, his agitation causing you to crack and slip up.

Suddenly, the room grew eerily silent, the ringing in your ears blocking out his harsh breathing. His heart was racing way too fast for a man his age, and he forgot how to breathe for a moment.

He had hoped to hear these words, after all they were the only logical explanation, yet he was speechless. Didn't know how to react.

It's never like it is in your dreams.

Especially not when a dream suddenly comes true.

You shrinked back mentally and physically, his lack of response unsettling. It made you more nervous than you already were, hands sweating as you desperately tried to keep your shit together.

Why didn't he say anything?

When you wanted to push past him, and out of the small bathroom, his metal hand wrapped around your wrist. Your sudden movement had broken him out of his stupor, and he simply couldn't just let you go.

Before you knew it, he had tugged you back in front of him, his lips pressing against yours in a searing kiss.

It wasn't gentle, it was hard and rushed, as he tried to somehow tell you what his vocal cords weren't able to at the moment.

You gasped for air, not prepared for being hauled back and kissed breathless like that.

Bucky greedily took the invitation that wasn't one, his tongue pushing inside your mouth, exploring it before it tangled with yours. Your arms wrapped around his neck, his own around your waist as he tugged you closer.

You tasted sweeter than anything he'd ever tasted in his life.

Gasping for breath he let go of your mouth, eyes closed as he leaned his forehead against yours.

"Don't go." he breathed out shakily, arms wrapping tighter around you like he was scared you'd suddenly vanish if he let go. "Please. There's so much I need to tell you. So please, don't go. I need you, Y/N."

You watched his lashes flutter as he inhaled shakily before his eyes opened. His words had your heart beating faster again, leaving you wanting more.

"What? B-Bucky-" you started, confused because you were so sure he'd reject you.

"No." he cut you off, holding your face in his hands. "I love you."

There it was, out in the open. His most vulnerable moment since HYDRA and he delved into it headfirst. "You have no clue how much I love you, how much these words and these... glimpses mean to me, doll."

You inhaled shakily, every emotion rushing through you at once.

"I just never thought you'd feel the same, deem me worthy of someone as angelic as you."

Your heart ached at his self-deprecating words.

"Bucky," you breathed out his name, shaking your head in his grip. "You're far more worthy than you think you are. You deserve everything good and more."

He grimaced slightly, still not used to being a normal human again. "That's an argument for another time." he said, sending you a crooked smile.

He didn't want to fight right now, not when he much rather wanted to pepper your skin with kisses. And that he did. He kissed everywhere he reached, ignoring your giggles of protest before his lips met yours, silencing you.

It was a feeling that quickly got you addicted.

After a few moments, you broke the kiss, and he placed your head on his chest, inahling your familiar scent.

"Was it intenional?" Bucky wanted to know after a few moments of savoring your warmth, arms circled around you.

It felt really good to hold you like that.

You grimaced slightly. "No, of course not." you gave back. "I can't always control it. Besides, I never thought you'd want me."

"Why?" he asked, confusion lacing his voice as he pulled back slightly to look down at you. "Because I'm weird." you explained, blushing as you averted your gaze. Bucky huffed, using his finger to tilt your chin back up, forcing you to meet his gaze. "Baby, weird is my second name." he gave back softly. "Maybe I need a little extra weird."

You wanted to respond something, how you would love to be his extra portion weird, as it suddenly knocked on the door loudly.

"Hurry up, I need to pee!"

Tag List:

@ava @sapphirebarnes @skywalker0809 @freyathehuntress @queenslandlover-93 @judig92

#bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes x reader #james bucky barnes #bucky #bucky x reader #bucky x you #bucky barnes #bucky x y/n #bucky x female reader #marvel imagine #winter soldier x reader #the winter soldier #winter solider x reader

608 notes · View notes

artfight · 2 months ago

Text

Minigames Coming Soon!

Want some more opportunities to give & receive art during the off-season? Look no further than our very own Minigames! They are a collection of forum-inspired art games hosted on our Discord server, starting October 1st, 2024 (time TBA).

You can access the Minigames category by making an introduction in the #introductions channel — be sure to include a link to your Art Fight profile page. Then, react to the message in #minigames-marking to receive the Minigamer role!

Read through the #minigames-info-2024 channel for more information.

We hope to see you soon!

#Art Fight #Artfight #Artfight2024 #Artfight 2024 #Info #Minigames

490 notes · View notes

for-a-longlongtime · 3 months ago

Text

Guilty Pleasure (1/7) - dbf!Joel x reader

You're home from college for the summer, staying with your parents in Austin, TX. So is your dad's best friend, Joel Miller. Rating: Explicit, 18+ only, mdni Series warnings (tba): Age gap (reader is 22, Joel is 42), masturbation (f), use of sex toys, oral sex, PiV, anal, hair pulling, dirty talk, getting caught, playful use of 'daddy', outrageous flirting, groping, reference to m/m, Joel's arms should always come with a warning. No outbreak!AU. Word count: 2.3K A/N: If you know/follow me, you're probably just as shocked as I am to see a dbf!Joel fic by my hand. Totally get it if it's not your thing, please feel free to move on and skip this one. However - if you've read and enjoyed other fics by me, you may wanna give it a try! Submitting this also to @hellishjoel who is organizing the #hotdilfsummerchallenge (go check out all the other fics on her page!) 💜

series masterlist | main masterlist next chapter >

You don’t hate him. Not exactly.

But he doesn’t need to know that.

“I’m just so damn sick of him, you know? He thinks he’s so important and hot shit. People are fawning about him all the damn time, but he’s just my dad and an asshole,” you sigh to your best friend on the other end of the Facetime call. You’re in an Uber headed to your parents’ house, desperate for time away from school and your cheating ex. Your mom had been excited that you would be spending the summer break with them in Austin, and assured you that your father would be too. As IF.

“I thought that maybe I could just relax, but no. Everything is about my dad again. He started this big... I don’t even know what. Project. Venture. Mission. Did you see it on tv? He’s on the news all the damn time.” Just the thought alone already makes you cringe, and you’re glad to see your friend nod at you, requiring no further explanation - she knows all about your father. “So I figured he won’t be in my way when I’m home. But now his friend Joel is staying at the house, too. The entire fucking summer. Who even does that?”

Your father and Joel had been friends for a long time, even before you were born, but you struggled to remember anything about him. He was a contractor, running his own company for quite a while now, and he had a brother named Tommy. “They’re working on renovating his house, so he needed a place to stay. It’s not like he’ll be in your way, sweetheart. Most of the time he’s out working for clients,” your mom had assured you, reminding you there were more than just a few spare bedrooms at the house. But to you, it didn’t matter; he would be in the way. You just knew it. Ruining your summer. The last thing you needed was a constant reminder of your dad shaped as Joel, hanging around the house.

“No, I don’t know much about him - it’s been years since I saw him.” You wince as you see your parents’ house down the street, and for a moment you’re tempted to ask the Uber driver to circle around the block one more time. “Look, I’m here - I have to go. Wish me luck, call me later,” you plead with your friend as the car pulls up to the oversized driveway. It takes a moment to get all your suitcases out of the car, since the driver merely watches you with an impatient frown on his face, but then you’re finally stumbling towards the front door.

It’s good to be in Austin again, but you haven’t missed the Texas heat - and humidity - for one bit. All you want right now is a pizza and a very, very strong drink to forget about the shitty trip you just had. But it seems not even that is in the cards for you right now, as nobody bothers to come to the door after you’ve loudly rang the doorbell. Not even on the third try. Just when you’re about to start screaming in frustration, you finally hear footsteps rushing down the hallway.

“Mom, why did you not–,” you start when the door swings open, but the words immediately stick in your throat as you stare at the man in front of you. Tall, strong, and handsome, looking much better than he had any right to while being dressed in old jeans and a t-shirt - courtesy of those arms in particular, and a mouth that immediately gave you ideas about where he should put it. Jesus Christ.

“Joel…?”, you finally manage when your brain seems to catch up with the low throb you’re feeling in your pussy. You do not remember your dad’s best friend looking this hot, or smelling so good - the sandalwood in his cologne reminds you of more than just a couple of debauched nights on campus that you’d had in the past year. But this was clearly not one of the frat boys that surrounded you during your classes or evenings out. This was a whole ass DILF, somewhere in his early forties like your parents, and it takes you effort to not whimper as you take him in.

Your core aches just from looking at him, a painful reminder of how many weeks it has been since you’d last had an orgasm that didn’t come from your own hand or a toy. Finding out that your piece of shit ex-boyfriend had been running around with several other girls had been a harsh way to end the semester, but at least it made you decide to spend the summer here in Texas. And that decision suddenly seems like a very, very good idea in retrospect.

It’s only when Joel says your name, an amused smirk playing over his face, that you realize you’ve definitely been staring at him. “Hey, kiddo. Been a while. D’you need a hand with that?”, he asks, and as you hear his drawl, you’re pretty damn sure that you’ve never heard that man sound anything like this. Goddamn. Hot in every way, it seems, it seems - you may have never before appreciated a Texas accent as much as you like his.

He doesn’t wait for your response, but simply takes over two of your suitcases and a duffle bag like they weigh nothing. “Nicole- I mean, your mom asked me to help you get you settled, she’s gonna be back in a few hours,” he says, keeping the front door open with one strong shoulder so you can get into the house.

“Thanks, that’s so nice of you,” you manage to say as you follow him through the house, to your bedroom on the second floor. Walking behind him is the perfect excuse to take in his physique, and you freely let your eyes roam over his strong shoulders and broad back, and you can tell you’re getting wet just by looking at him. God, he’s fit. Especially for a guy who is probably twenty years older than you are. Those arms… Was he single? And - did that even matter, really?

You realize that you must’ve zoned out and missed something he’s said to you, because he gives you a questioning look when you’re both standing in your childhood bedroom. The decoration, colors and posters are still familiar to you, but in a detached way, like you’re looking at them in a photo album of someone you used to be, in sharp contrast to who you are now and the man in front of you.

“I said that I hope I won’t be in your way this summer. Your parents are happy you’re staying here with them,” he says, then surprises you by giving you a friendly, brief hug. “It’s good to see you again, kid.” You gladly accept the hug, and you can’t help but bury your face against his shoulder for just a moment, inhaling his cologne and the underlying subtle tone of his natural scent. That’s when you internally make up your mind, right there on the spot.

You want him.

Now, and for the rest of the summer.

And if that pissed off your father? All the better.

Once you’re sure he’s left the hallway outside of your room, you grab your phone and immediately google his name, checking through his online profiles. No mention of any wife or girlfriend. Perfect. When you find his Instagram, your jaw drops at the photos you see of Joel clearly working hard and dripping sweat. Almost pornographic, really.

With a few taps you send the pictures to your best friend, quickly adding the caption ‘sooo i decided I’m gonna be his inappropriately young gf for the summer’. Her response pings almost instantly, as you expected, a barrage of emojis and ‘OMG GIRL YESSSS GET THAT DILF’. You can’t help but chuckle as you send a quick message back to her, ‘more later xxx’, then turn off the sound on your phone.

For a moment you consider unpacking all of your luggage, which would definitely be the more practical thing to do. On the other hand, your parents are not gonna be home in the next few hours, and since Joel’s room didn’t seem too close to yours to overhear anything…

You sigh in relief when you find the silky bag in your luggage that stores your sex toys, and pull out your favorite clit sucker without a moment of hesitation. Quick and dirty, that’s what you need right now, you decide as you get onto the bed. After a moment of hesitation, you re-open Instagram and scroll back to Joel’s page, while you reach for your AirPods in the hidden pocket of your dress.

His profile is clearly promotional for his company - Miller & Co -, and you vaguely recognize his brother Tommy in some shots, but fortunately the focus is mostly on him. When you click on Reels and see several videos of him at work, your heart starts racing, your mouth going dry while you feel the exact opposite happening in your panties. Fuck, he is so hot. If you thought the view you had while walking behind him was good, it sure is nothing compared to seeing him work on construction projects that show him flexing those muscles, jeans clinging desperately onto his thighs the way you would like your hands to do.

You’re stroking yourself already after the second video, and by the time you’re treated to the sight and sound of him lifting lumber with a grunt, you’ve got two fingers deep inside of your pussy. You whimper as you imagine he’s in your room watching you with those dark eyes. Your breathing grows heavy as you picture him getting on the bed, giving you that sexy smirk as he puts his head between your thighs so he can lick at your wetness. His bottom lip had tempted you from the start, and you just know it would feel so good as he’d circle your clit with his tongue.

You can barely suppress a moan as your hips buck up hard, and you press the toy closer against yourself, thrusting your slick fingers faster as you chase the release that’s close - so so very close already. What if he buried that stubble against your thighs, urging your fingers out of yourself so he could lick them clean, his lips closing around your digits as he’d suck on you. Brown eyes filled with desire, reflecting how much you want him too, and then the push of his tongue inside your cunt as he starts to eat you out.

You whisper his name quietly as your body starts to shake, hearing him moan contently as he works you up some more, then comes up for air, slipping two - no, three of his thick fingers roughly inside of you, just as demanding as his mouth is. “Good girl. Now come f’me.”

You gasp as the orgasm ripples through you, much faster than you expected, and you bury your face into your pillow so you won’t cry his name out loud. Before the waves of your orgasm have subsided, you flip yourself to your stomach as you keep the buzzing toy in place, grinding down harder on your fingers as you shudder from the overstimulation. Still you keep going, because it’s what Joel would do - you know it’s what he would want, tease you and push you to make you come again and again.

He’d make you cry his name out loudly, until you’re writhing against him like a feral cat in heat, desperate as you’re begging him for his cock so he can fuck you into the mattress, claiming you and demanding to own every part of you. His sweaty heavy body covering yours, lips and teeth drawing more gasps from you, until your head becomes completely devoid of any thoughts, only able to focus on how good he’s making you feel - how his thickness is throbbing inside of you, going deeper than anyone has been before, and you know that he’s about to ruin you for any other men, because it’s never going to be better than it is with him.

As your body convulses and you’re about to come again, you suddenly hear your name being called loudly from downstairs - not by Joel, but the shriller sound of your mom’s voice as she’s looking for you. It takes everything you have to restrain yourself from yelling angrily at the interruption, your mind and body at war with each other for a second, and you bite your lip hard as you mentally grab onto the fantasy of Joel, unwilling to let go of it - of him.

“Coming!,” you snap loudly, hoping that she won’t be able to hear the panting in your voice, or the buzzing toy in your hand. “Be right there!”

‘Good fucking girl. Such a dirty little slut for me,’ imaginary-Joel whispers at you, pounding into you, and you know he’s about to come too. “Give it to me again. Wanna feel you soak my cock,” the whisper changing into a low hiss that sends shivers down your spine. You bury your face even further into the pillow as you whine his name, begging him for more, to pump his seed into you and fill you up. He laughs, the sound hoarse and taunting, and then his hand grabs a hold of your hair and tugs your head back up. “No hiding. You scream my name when I make you come, you hear me?”, he grunts at you - and you bite your lip as you come hard again, soaking your fingers for a second time as the orgasm rocks you so much harder than the first one did.

Fuck. FUCK. You need him, every part of him, so goddamn bad.

next: part 2 >

🚨 Follow @longlongtime-updates for updates when new chapters drop!

A/N II: Thank you @magpiepills @legendary-pink-dot @lotusbxtch @sin-djarin @mountainsandmayhem

@qveerthe0ry @perotovar for encouraging me to write a wild idea that suddenly came to mind. This came together shockingly fast with ideas and feedback from all of them, so thank you babes for supporting and enabling me! Fic title is obviously snagged from Chappell Roan's 'Guilty Pleasure'!

#pedro pascal #joel miller #joel miller x you #joel miller x reader #hotdilfsummerchallenge #joel miller smut #dbf!joel #tlou au

501 notes · View notes

a-lightbaund · 2 years ago

Text

— spirit animal: snow leopard

copy of this article ( because there’s nothing to add other than horikoshi is a GENIUS )

Snow Leopard symbolism teaches the importance of trust in oneself. In other words, it is always an excellent choice to listen to what your subconscious mind is telling you. The Snow Leopard meaning can also be a reminder to spend time alone, as these cats are solitary creatures. Your mind is getting tired of the external onslaught of noise and needs a little time to recharge.

This spirit animal is reminding you that you alone have the POWER to change yourself and the road you walk down in life.

Alternatively, this big cat can be a reminder to ground yourself and connect with reality. Furthermore, it promotes selflessness and could be a sign to stop and think about others around you. Snow Leopard symbolism is letting you know to accept yourself and others entirely as this is where your strength lies. Therefore, the Snow Leopard meaning teaches that you have the power to amplify other people’s confidence as well as your own. As long as you listen, the right path will appear clear to you.

These felines are powerful yet quiet and thoughtful. They have a radiating life force, and at the same time, amplify the nature around them. They are also intuitive. Thus, they put all faith into their intuition, and this steers it towards the right path.

People with the Snow Leopard totem are respectful and caring. They live in the moment, while still putting effort in to ensure a good future. These folks are introverts at heart but often take on a motherly role among their peers. They naturally respect others in their environment and this makes them extremely likeable.

Snow Leopard totem people are philosophical in mind and carefree in spirit, but often shut down when they are proven wrong. These folks have pride in their wisdom but must learn to accept their mistakes. They understand that everything exists for a reason and have a gift for seeing this reason.

#( horikoshi is a genius thank you )#( no need to analyze his character any further. this article has it all )#( snow leopard. just amazing. )#— (tag tba) reference.#— (tag tba) favorites.#— (tag tba) queue.

1 note · View note

won4kiss · 24 days ago

Text

﹙ 🎬 ﹚ ────TO ALL THE BOYS I’VE LOVED BEFORE : TEASER

୨୧ SYPNOSiS. you and park sunghoon were inseparable growing up, close friends until high school changed things. when your best friend began dating him, you realized your feelings for sunghoon ran deeper than friendship. a letter you wrote a long time ago makes its way to park sunghoon, the boy you whom wrote the letter to. what will happen when he asks to fake date you? could you ignore your feelings or will this go horribly wrong.. INSPIRED BY TATBILB.

୨୧ GENRE. high school romance, fake dating, mostly fluff, very minimal angst.

୨୧ PAiRING. ex-bestfriend’s ex-boyfriend! park sunghoon x fem! reader, jock! sunghoon x smart! reader.

୨୧ EST WORD COUNT: 10K-12K.

୨୧ RELEASE DATE: OCTOBER 22ND, 2024.

୨୧ TAGLIST OPEN ‹𝟹 @mioons @nshmuras @suneng @pnghoon @shawnyle @laylasbunbunny @privareum @briefsaladfun @shawnyle @cyjzzl @sol3chu @txtlyn @d-dilemma @deezbin @pockyyasii @iluvnikism @wonsprincess @rikibwn @niawonn @nineooooo : COMMENT OR SEND AN ASK TBA.

OUT NOW.

PROLOGUE.

YOU STILL REMEMBER THE WAY SUNGHOON'S LAUGHTER USED TO FILL YOUR HOUSE.

the way the two of you could talk for hours without ever getting bored. back then, it felt like you and him against the world. best friends since you were kids, you never imagined that anything could come between you—until everything did.

it was the summer before high school, and everything was changing. you weren’t kids anymore, and that shift came with more than just growing pains.

when sunghoon started dating your best friend, karina, something changed between the three of you. you felt it the moment it happened, that gut-wrenching pull of jealousy, even though you told yourself it was irrational. they were happy together. and you were supposed to be happy for them. ── 𝖱𝖤𝖲𝖳 𝖡𝖤𝖫𝖮𝖶!

but you weren’t. not really.

that was when you started noticing things. like the way your heart raced whenever sunghoon smiled at you, or the way you felt a pang of disappointment when he chose to sit next to karina instead of you.

you couldn’t figure out when it happened, but you realized it was more than just a crush. you were in love with your best friend—and he was dating your best friend.

so you did the only thing you could think of. you wrote it all down.

late at night, when you couldn’t sleep, you poured your heart into a letter that you never planned to send. you wrote about how you’d always admired his determination and how you felt when he confided in you.

you wrote about how you hated the distance that grew between you two after he started dating karina. and finally, you wrote the hardest thing: how you loved him.

but you never sent it. you tucked the letter away, hiding it somewhere deep within your drawer, hoping that would be enough to bury your feelings.

it wasn’t. time passed, and things only got worse. sunghoon and karina broke up—badly. and instead of bringing the two of you closer, it pushed you even further apart.

karina stopped talking to you, and sunghoon…well, sunghoon became a ghost. you went from seeing him every day to barely exchanging glances in the hallway.

life moved on, but that letter stayed hidden in your drawer. untouched. forgotten.

until now.

301 notes · View notes

skzdarlings · 2 months ago

Text

the kingsguard ; jisung x reader ; part v

pairing: han jisung/reader summary: 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.

content info: reader described with curly hair.

content warnings: the previously established story dynamics are prevalent in this chapter, please proceed at own discretion. the king threatens sexual violence again. there is explicit consensual sexual content in this chapter with reader and jisung. first times, breaking of vows, lots of mental work packed in there lol.

chapter word count: 11500 words.

enjoy <3

Despite the delay, you reach the intended campsite before nightfall. The king finds his own entertainment while everyone else works, erecting tents and constructing fire pits.

Chan assigns Seungmin to watch the king while he occupies himself elsewhere. The tension between the king and the leader ripples through the camp, though no one – not even the king – is audacious enough to remark on it.

The kingsguard has a sanctified power, burdened with the responsibility of protecting the crown above all else. This manifests as protecting the king, so long as oaths are kept and holy accords obeyed. The king is abundantly aware he is not in the leader’s good graces right now. Even that petulant fool of a man is smart enough to recognize that antagonism from an ancient religious order is a perilous position for a holy king.

Because he cannot harass Chan, the king directs his ire towards Hyunjin, so Chan sends Hyunjin across the camp to help there. Jisung accompanies him. As the lowest ranked kingsguard, his absence will not be minded.

You are irate, watching Hyunjin limp away with Jisung following behind him. You think of their skill and bravery in protecting you from the assassins. You think of their loyalty and good hearts. They both deserve better.

Stewing in irritation, you opt to stay out of the way. It is better to remain unobtrusive rather than instigate more dramatics after the events of today.

You kneel down in the grass, out of the way of the tents. You are organizing a bag of personal effects when an unfamiliar pair of painted boots appear in your line of your vision. You slowly look up, startled to find one of the king’s courtiers looming over you. He is one of the few who has been riding in the carriage and you are surprised he is so far from the inner circle now.

“Your Holy Majesty,” he says, surprising you with the appropriately respectful title. He surprises you further by offering his hand and helping you to your feet. The final surprise is a bow so deep he bends his knees. “I ask for your grace and forgiveness,” he says. “And I ask for you to pray on my behalf that the gods may also forgive me for my petty transgressions. I would never speak ill of the gods-chosen king but—” He looks over his shoulder briefly, spots the king far across the camp with the remainder of his inner circle. Satisfied with the distance, he looks at you, expression solemn. “But I believe human error may have conquered the holy senses,” he says. In a lower voice, tinged with resentment, he says, “To raise hands to the queen in public, especially after the events of the other day…”

You are still too surprised to respond. You stand there, hands folded in front of you, blinking at the man.

He says with some finality, “I know I am not alone in feeling this way. Your Holiness, please ensure that you have support in some noble factions here – particularly after today. And please do recall, this is not all the court, merely the king’s personal selection, and there are those at home in the capital who will also support you.”

The sincerity of his oath leaves you stunned. You stare at his footprints long after he has departed.

The courtier does not return to the inner circle but joins a different cluster of palace residents. Their attention turns to you, followed by dips and bows.

Your bewildered mind finally catches up to your racing heart. You sweep into a quick return bow. When you turn away, you let out a breath. Your eyes trace the treeline around the clearing. The smoky orange mist of sunset winds through the branches. You look but do not see, mentally replaying the whole exchange.

It seems even the most devout courtiers have a restricted capacity for tolerance. Their motivations may be selfish, in seeing a flagrant disrespect of the gods’ will and worrying what ramifications will manifest for them, but it is still a significant loyalty shift.

You allow yourself a little smile. Knowing the camp is no longer brimming with hostiles lightens your heavy heart.

You are barely at ease when you turn around, startled again by yet another visitor. This time is the kingsguard Minho. He stands as still and patient as marble, poised like a handsome statue, hand on the hilt of his sword. He lists slightly to that side, his other hand dangling in a fist.

“Your Majesty,” he says. His bow is more of a nod as he seems lost in contemplation – or maybe that is scrutiny, studying you like your face holds the answer to some profound question.

You are open as ever, as patiently marble, waiting for him.

He exhales. It sounds like a surrendering. It makes you nervous, especially with the way he darts a glances over his shoulder. The king and other kingsguards are busy, the courtiers turned to their own affairs, and servants busy with meal preparation.

You cannot imagine what Minho has to say or do that cannot be witnessed.

Your answer comes without a word, but a gesture, his closed first opening between you. You jump at what he reveals.

The phial of sleeping draft. You assumed it was lost in the ocean tide. Last you touched it, it went into your dress pocket, and that dress is now underwater. You thought the draft was lost too. You lamented the only protection you had in prolonging the king’s advances.

It must have fallen out of your pocket earlier than that, when you threw yourself to the forest floor in sickness. Minho helped you through it. Somewhere in your distraction, he must have grabbed the bottle.

A hot flash of terror spreads through you, looking at the dark liquid sloshing around in that little phial. When you look up, his brow is furrowed, face pinched with intense scrutiny.

You are not sure what to expect. Minho is decent and he seems close with Jisung, which naturally lends your trust to him, but your interactions have been minimal and cordial. He could grab you by the wrist and drag you to Chan, accusing you of harbouring poison. It would no doubt instigate the king’s wrath and everything would spiral before you could catch your breath.

Minho sighs.

“Will it kill him?” he asks.

“Oh.” It is not the question you are expecting. Nonetheless, with sincerity and pleading eyes, you reply, “No. I swear. It’s just a sleeping draft. For – for myself. To help me – at night.”

He has clever eyes, full of thought. You suspect he can deduce what that really means.

“Mm,” is all he says. He takes your hand and puts the phial in your palm, then he closes your fingers around it. He gives you a look, something stern, something that demands secrecy without a word.

You nod, clutching the bottle tightly.

“Be careful,” he says.

“Of course,” you reply.

He walks away while you gather yourself, the adrenaline of two unpredictable encounters simmering. It has not yet settled when the king barks an order, his voice making you jump, particularly when your name is included in his angry tone.

It draws Hyunjin from the outskirts. He is still teeming, looking as though he wants any excuse to swing at the king again, punishments be damned. Jisung is a step behind him, looking with worried eyes while the king seeks you out.

The king stops a distance from you, shouting across a fire pit, like he cannot be bothered to cross that space – or maybe because he sees a fuming Hyunjin in his periphery. He does not look at the kingsguards, not even Chan who approaches on his other side.

He glares at you, enunciating every word with a snarling upturn of his lip as he says, “Go to the river. Bathe yourself. You will see me tonight.”

This gives you another flash of terror, wide-eyed as you stare at his retreating form. The implications are not subtle. They are also not surprising. He has spent the day being belittled and tested and he blames the brunt of it on you. Of course a cruel and violent man would wrestle back his supposed dignity in the only hateful way he can, putting you in whatever perceived place he believes you belong.

You know he will make it awful. He would have been unkind on your initial wedding night, but now you are certain he will be brutal. He does not just want to use you, he wants to hurt you.

You wish you could be stronger in the face of this reality, uncaring and brash and mouthy, snarking at him behind his back. Your heart is not built that way. You are frightened and very sad, fist curled so tightly at your side that it shakes.

You almost forget what that fist is holding until you glance at Minho. He is leaning against a tree, out of sight of the king. He quirks an eyebrow then mimes taking a drink.

Unfortunately, this makes you laugh, your nerves melting into the outburst of sound.

The king looks at you over his shoulder, his eyes furious. You feel the sparkle in your own as you stare back at him.

Before the king speaks again, Chan steps forward. His displeasure is obvious, his concern more so. He looks at you with that despondency, helpless to do anything insofar as the marriage bed. That is not the realm of the kingsguard, to say the least, though Chan looks like he wishes he could command otherwise.

“The queen should not be left unaccompanied,” Chan says. Looking at the king, he says bitingly, “Especially considering recent attempts on her life, Your Holiness.”

Holiness sounds like an accusation in that tone.

The king straightens, glaring back at Chan.

Hyunjin, seemingly determined to escalate the mounting tension, walks towards you with an easy gait. He smiles a very charming smile.

“I can escort the queen,” he says, in a very different voice than usual, almost sultry in its depth. It makes you blink in confusion.

The king forgets Chan entirely as he reels around, pointing a finger at Hyunjin.

“You will burn for eternity first, kingsguard,” the king snaps.

Hyunjin just smiles prettily, hands folded neatly behind his back. The lack of response agitates the already exasperated king, who huffs and shakes his head. His eyes dart around and inevitably land on Han Jisung. It startles Jisung who swings into an instinctive bow. He stares wide-eyed at the ground.

“Bard boy,” the king says. “Take the queen.”

You look at Jisung as he straightens. His blinking gaze moves from the king to you.

That laughter is still caught in your throat, its bubbling delight only intensifying as you look at each other. You think of that kiss on the riverbank, the softness of his every glance since then. You do not even think it is especially subtle, or maybe you are just supremely aware of it, holding his gaze as he approaches you. You feel like it gives everything away.

But the king is arrogant and he thinks Jisung is nobody important. He does not even glance at Jisung, his eyes following Hyunjin as he waltzes away.

“Are you going to take me then, bard boy?” you whisper.

Jisung chokes on a laugh, a blush darkening the tips of his ears. He looks over his shoulder but everyone else is ambling back to their posts.

He looks at your innocently fluttering eyelashes.

“Don’t tease,” he says with a nervous giggle. “I think it might kill me.”

He means it in a playfully hyperbolic way, but you grant there is a sobering truth to that statement. It succeeds in quieting you, your fingers now clammy where they grip the phial. You let your mind wander to that, preoccupied with the thought of tonight while you fetch some necessities. Jisung is dutifully quiet the entire trek, following at an appropriate length all the way down to the riverside.

You think he has similarly sobered, so quiet behind you as you step through the trees to the water. The grass turns to sand and pebbles beneath your feet, crunching with every step.

Your mind is far away, thinking of your very precarious position, how you can slip the king sleeping draft tonight, if it is even worth it to prolong the inevitable. You doubt he will ever change his feelings for you. You cannot be so demure and loving that a man with no respect for humanity will somehow see the special humanity in you.

Your gaze rests on the flowing river, the setting sun as it casts streak of orange and lavender over the water. The breeze is laced with an evening chill, brushing a curl off your shoulder.

You realize that is not the breeze. The gentle touch is Jisung. You shiver as his fingertips follow the tumbling curl down your back, until he is not even touching you but you still feel the proximity. It moves through you with an intensity far more powerful than the king’s threatening glower.

This warmth is not terror, a different heat that rushes and burns with startling efficiency.

“What can I do?” he asks in that careful, low voice.

You remember him behind you just like this, supporting your body, the look on his face and the feel of him as you discovered more pleasure than you ever knew existed. You are amazed that it is not the most preached phenomenon of them all, that the gods would bestow such a gift on humanity. You cannot imagine what you would have done without the revelation. The immensity of it all has you shivering.

“You’ve already done so much,” you say.

“I’ll come to you after,” he says, words flowing in a nervous rush. “I’ll help you. Whatever you need – if you’re – if something happens – I can come. The king won’t care if it’s just me. I’m just bard boy, ha-ha, I don’t – it won’t matter, at least—”

You turn around. His breath catches as your eyes meet. His hand is still hovering, trembling, but he drops it to his side. His eyes dart to the empty treeline and back.

“Bard boy,” you whisper with a smile, teasing. “The king may believe otherwise, but you are most assuredly admired by your queen.”

“You—” He looks at the still-empty treeline then you again. He is so clearly flustered. On a startled, nervous laugh, he says, “You can’t say things like that to me.”

“Why not?”

He kisses you, a reply made with no hesitation. He cups a hand around your jaw, fingers firm on your neck with a guiding pull. He kisses you and it is more than a touch. If some kisses are whispers, this is a song, rhythmic and grand.

Your knees nearly buckle beneath you. This is your third kiss but it feels like first and the thousandth, the natural way you move together, gasps of breath and pressing lips. His hand moves under your hair, cupping the back of your neck. Your own hand raises, fingertips stroking his jaw then resting between his neck and shoulder.

He makes a noise into the kiss, tilting his head, kissing you with so much intensity that you both stumble. His eyes widen at his own actions, a hand covering his mouth as he looks at the treeline. His startled expression makes you burst into giggles, still riding the high of the kiss itself.

“That was – that was my fault,” he says, throwing his hands into a surrender, then raking them through his hair until it is a dishevelled mess. “My fault, my fault, it’s fine, it’s fine.” He makes a series of faces while muttering to himself, giggling nervously at you, then walking away to stand guard.

You turn your back to him, hiding your smile as you touch your lips. Somehow a kiss provided all the courage you needed to decide, yes, it will be worth prolonging the king’s advances. You and Jisung are already outsmarting him, his arrogant eye turned to the wrong kingsguard, and you will continue to find ways to do so. The sleeping draft was made by a friend and you know you will develop more. Perhaps alone you cannot combat a king, but you are not alone.

For now, you play his game. A quick wash will feel good after the long day in the summer sun regardless of intention.

You do not fully strip down, simply to your shift, as is appropriate for a queen bathing out-of-doors. It is about the only appropriate protocol, as you should have more company than solitary male guard, even a kingsguard. It is not surprising the king has you left you bereft of any ladies, forgoing introductions, actively discouraging his nobles. That is something you will remedy yourself, in the capital.

For now, you are not mad it is just you and Jisung. You glance at him while disrobing, catching his eye, smiling at his flustered blush as he looks away again.

You pile your curls as high as you can, then step to the water. Even though there is a chill in the air, the water is warm because the hot sun has been pouring down all day. You suspect it will be colder to emerge than to enter. For now, it is comfortable as it laps at the foot of your shift, darkening the hem as you walk.

You find a smooth boulder to perch yourself, grateful to use one of your own soaps from home as you scrub your skin. The breeze is sharp against your wet skin so you sink into the water up to your shoulders, paddling around for a little bit as you let the day wash off you.

The sunset has lost its golden traces, from orange to pink, and you let yourself admire the colours as they swirl overhead.

When you look at Jisung, he is already staring at you. He is sitting on a rock, fiddling with the hilt of his sword in an absent-minded distraction. He exhales heavily when you look at him.

“What is it?” you ask.

“I—” He laughs, seemingly at himself. He thuds the heel of his palm against his forehead in a punishing little smack. “Nothing,” he says. He looks at the ground then slowly at you, his gaze moving across the shimmering water before tracing up your shoulders, neck, and face. “I just hope no one tries to attack us right now,” he says. “Because honestly?” He lets go of the hilt to show his hand, revealing the slight tremble. He immediately crosses his arms, tucking his hands under them. “I don’t think I’d be much help,” he finishes with a laugh.

“Don’t worry,” you say, matching his smile. “I’ll keep you safe.”

“Oh,” he says. “Good.”

You smile at each other for another moment. It is disturbed when you hear the king shouting about food, far into the distance. A couple of birds, no doubt settled for the night, fly out of the trees and away. You spread your arms in the water and watch them go, wishing it was so easy to escape.

“We should go back,” Jisung says, though he sounds as uneasy as he looks, biting his bottom lip, his big eyes as shiny and concerned as ever.

The water is not very deep. When you stand, it comes below your hips. You squeak, a mousey and unqueenly sound, as the evening chill swarms you.

“Oh goodness,” you say, too distracted with the cold to think of much else. “Robe, please.”

Jisung is a very capable soldier. You have witnessed it firsthand. Where most of the kingsguards appear to specialize in certain skills, he has so far proven to be a master of everything.

But he trips over his own feet now. He slides clumsily across the gravel, drawing a sharp line in the sand. He manages to remain upright, only just, muttering to himself as he picks up the robe you requested.

He steps to the water’s edge, the robe under his arm. He holds out a hand to help guide you forward, but he is very distracted with looking at the rest of you, so he keeps accidentally moving it out of reach.

You finally clasp his wandering hand. Only then does he lift his frantic gaze to your eyes.

This is your second time emerging from water in nothing but a shift, the light material leaving nothing to the imagination. Last time, you were shy and embarrassed, but it seems a bit silly to be modest now considering what he has seen. Furthermore, you do not feel embarrassed, not with the way he looks at you. The shift clings to every curve, nearly translucent, more so with the chill as the sensitive peaks of your breasts pebble against the wet white fabric.

His eyes dart there again, his mouth open. He doesn’t say anything. With a bit of struggle, he manages to say, “Ahhhh…?”

“Robe, please,” you say again, amused. Truthfully, you are not as cold under his gaze, flushed with a tingling warmth that conquers the other senses.

“Fuck,” Jisung says, shaking his head as he wraps the robe around your shoulders. “Sorry for cursing, pretend you didn’t hear it.”

Now that he is speaking, the words come in a breathless stream. It comes from an honest, human subconscious that a kingsguard should have under control, but which he has evidently relinquished from mental bondage.

“I can hit him on the head,” Jisung says. “I mean – fuck. I can’t do that, obviously. He’s the king. I wouldn’t do that – but also I would, if you asked. If you ask, it’s fine, I’d do anything for the queen. I should obey the queen. I must protect her. Then again, if I hit him on the head, it could go wrong, and he could die, then I didn’t just hit the king but killed him, and kingsguards aren’t supposed to do that. Well, sometimes they do, but that’s very rare and definitely not the bard’s call. I shouldn’t kill the king, even if you ask, right? Right. Fuck. Sorry for cursing. You wouldn’t ask that anyway, even if he deserves it – ah! I didn’t say that. Maybe, instead, if I get him drunk, then he won’t be able to – you know–”

He lifts his finger, a rather impolite mime of a rising erection, which he realizes is a very rude gesture to make in front of the queen. He throws his hands together in a prayer position instead.

“By which I mean,” he says, “Nothing. I meant none of that at all. Of course. Unless you say otherwise, your Majesty. Then I meant it all.”

It is silent save the sound of the river lapping at the shore. His hands are still clasped for prayer and you are holding the robe closed. He blinks at you. You are already smiling.

“Right,” he says. “Umm… Fuck.”

You pat him on the arm, stepping around him. You go to your bag of possessions, kneeling down to find the phial.

“I wasn’t going to ask for help,” you say. “I fear I have already put you in a precarious enough position as is—”

“You haven’t done anything,” he says, quick and sharp. His black robes swish with the swiftness of his spin. He marches to where you are knelt down.

You look up at him, your hand closed around the phial, but he does not see it. His eyes are on your face.

“Your Majesty,” Jisung says. He crouches down so you can look at each other. “I’m a lot better at speaking when I’m not – when I’m singing, especially a story about someone else. That’s easier. But I—” He stares into your eyes. His shoulders fall with an exhale, his expression softening just as surely. “I wouldn’t go back to the easy I knew days ago. I know I’m a mess now. I don’t know what’s happening anymore, or what’s going to happen soon, but—”

He looks at the treeline. It is still empty, of course. The king does not see the pretty bard boy as a threat to his dignity and masculinity. He is probably stomping and brooding and yelling some more, glaring at Hyunjin and Chan, while it is Jisung who lays a hand on your cheek. Jisung captures you more completely than the king could do with iron.

“It’s probably wrong to say,” Jisung speaks in a low, rasping voice, his face close to yours. A tuft of dark hair falls near his brown eyes. “It’s too selfish for a kingsguard or any mortal to say, but… You said it first, that you feel the gods when we’re together.” His thumb strokes your cheek and it might as well be a lightning bolt launched from the heavens, wracking your whole body with a shiver. “I feel it too,” he says. “I think I’m supposed to be here. My life, the war, becoming a kingsguard, a – a – a queensguard – it was supposed to happen. The gods led us here and we made it happen, and the gods allowed us, so we must – it must – it can’t be completely wrong, right? When the king is like that, and you are like this.”

You are everything I ever dreamed of worshipping, he told you two nights ago, before you ever kissed, before you even really touched. It seems those feelings have grown with yours.

“You’re worth a thousand kings, Han Jisung,” you say.

It is confident amidst his stammering, and it makes his eyes go wide. You brush the hair away from those eyes.

“I don’t know what will happen either,” you say. “I know the king will try something untoward sooner than later, whether I am faithful and obedient or not. I believe it is thus appropriate to reserve my faith and loyalty to that which I pray directly.”

You turn your face and kiss his palm. You look at him from the corner of your eye, watching his breath catch as his eyes are bound to where your lips touch his skin.

You wonder if he is so flushed because he is remembering how you said physical love was like prayer. Hearing your words now, seeing and feeling your kiss, he seems to stop breathing entirely.

“And in such a case as that,” you say, “I believe I would like at least once more night to pray for answers.”

You open your hand and reveal the phial. His gaze drops. His eyebrows leap comically high as he looks between you and the bottle.

He snatches it, looking at the treeline, then whispering so frantically that his voice breaks again, “Is that poison? Where in the name of all the gods did you get poison?”

You cup his face with both hands, laughing helplessly at his expression. You stroke your thumbs across his cheeks and it lessens his panic.

“It’s not poison,” you whisper. “It’s just a sleeping draft.”

“A sleeping draft,” he says, words a little slurred as his cheeks are squished in your hands. He looks down at the phial again, then at you. “Well,” he says and gets to his feet. He adjusts his sword belt, swishes the length of his robe and clears his throat. “You could have opened with that,” he says.

You are laughing as he helps you to your feet.

Thanks to your friend’s sleeping draft and Jisung’s help, you escape the king unscathed for another night.

Jisung completes his task in the only way Han Jisung would and could: with a great deal of theatricality.

The sun is nearly set and everyone is gathered around the fire pits. The king is with his inner circle, guarded by Changbin. After changing into a clean dress, you sit with the remaining kingsguards. The meal is simple, meat cooked in a spicy broth. Apparently, esteemed kingsguard leader Bang Chan is tragically intolerant towards heavy spice, a fact you learn because the others relentlessly tease him.

It makes him crack a smile, the first one all day. He has charmingly deep dimples when he lets himself go. You are sitting beside him and the sight delights you.

In the midst of comforting food and friendly laughter, Chan looks at you. While the others are rowdy and distracted, he takes a moment to say, “I’ll guard the king’s tent tonight,” he says. “Find me, yeah? If you need… anything.”

“Thank you,” you say, genuinely touched.

His chivalry will not be required, however. Moments after he says that, the king starts screaming.

“You incompetent mongrel!” he shouts, clear across the campsite, scaring another pair of birds.

The kingsguards are quickly on their feet, food and jibes forgotten.

You stay sitting, slurping your soup.

“Your Holy Majesty, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, a thousand times sorry,” Jisung says to the king.

You glance over there, watching as Jisung alternates between bowing and scooping up the bits of meat that splattered on the ground when he knocked over the king’s bowl of soup.

When Jisung told you he would take care of administering the sleeping draft, he did not tell you his plan, maybe assuming you would not like it. You cannot honestly say you are happy to see him intentionally drawing the king’s anger, but it is certainly a fair strategy. The king is too surrounded to truly sneak up on him. He is, however, very easy to antagonize.

Jisung tries to hold out a dirty piece of meat as offering. The king slaps it out of his hand. Jisung looks at it with dramatically wide eyes.

“I swear to the gods, kingsguard—” the king says, raising his hand as if to strike Jisung.

Jisung bows again, holding up his hands in supplication.

“I apologize, your Holiness,” he says, bowing some more as he grabs the king’s empty bowl. He remains bent over while scampering around. “It was an accident. I’ll get you more food. Forgive me, sire, I’m a worthless dog, I’m a flea on a dog, I’m a flea on a flea—”

The king kicks at him as Jisung scampers off to get more soup. The other kingsguards sit back down, either laughing at the nonsense of shaking their heads, chalking it up to Jisung being a little clumsy and silly.

You slurp some more soup.

The king only makes it halfway through his meal before he falls asleep. The remainder of his soup splashes onto the ground when the bowl falls out of his lap, so fortunately no one else ingests it.

No one seems bothered by the peculiarity of his sudden slumber. This seems to a combination of acknowledging the day was very exhausting, but also sighing with some relief that there is no more yelling.

Chan, Changbin, and Minho carry the king back to his tent where he shall sleep alone, and where you shall not be visiting any time soon.

Seungmin is assigned the first shift to guard your tent, but Jisung escorts you while Seungmin is still finishing his meal. You and Jisung walk side by side, saying nothing suspicious or untoward. Nothing beyond his wink and your smile, at least.

“Was the king this bad on the journey over?” you ask while Jisung unties the clasps of your tent.

“Almost worse,” Jisung admits. “He doesn’t like travelling. And you already know he wasn’t, um, happy with the wedding, heh. Now everything with Felix—”

“Right,” you say, watching as the last clasp comes undone. “I suppose an affair can change a man.”

Jisung laughs, though it is more of an exhale.

“So I’ve heard,” he says.

The tent opens. There is a lit lantern inside, brightening the night with golden warmth. The interior is simple, though marginally more comfortable than the average tent. It is tall enough you can walk around without ducking. The ground is neatly covered, a thick bedroll unfurled in the middle of the space. It looks as inviting as it can be, blankets draped across the long cushion, a pillow at the head. One of your smaller trunks is in the room. There is a low table and a cushion beneath it, a tea pot and cup in wait. The lantern sits on the ground, near the bed.

You look at each other.

It would require only a step, out of the darkness and into the light, and he could kiss you again. Only a step, yet a serious one with real ramifications.

Despite all that, you want him as you have never wanted anything before. You want him so much that you learned how to want. Before him, you were numb but content. Now you feel every prickling tingle of a hair standing on edge, the anticipation twisting inside you, and the flush of heat that moves through you when his eyes move to your lips.

“I—” he starts and never finishes.

You can see the complicated gears and cogs spinning in his head. You think of him on his knees before you, kissing your hands, shaking with desperation. Every kiss is both a gift and a surrendering, the forging of a serious vow in the breaking of another. You want him, but not in the way a king wants his kingdom, not with a selfish and possessive cruelty, not with a command.

“I enjoy your company,” you say. “When Seungmin takes his post, would you play some music for me? It would make me happy.”

He releases a breath, laughter spilling out of him.

“Yes,” he says, smiling at you. “Yes, that would make me happy too.”

Jisung stands guard until Seungmin arrives, then he leaves to fetch his guitar. You dress down for the evening, removing your layers and letting your curls loose. You sit on the bedroll in nothing but your shift. It goes without saying that it does a better job of modesty when it is dry. The recollection of Jisung’s staring makes your cheeks feel hot.

You are smiling down at your embroidery when he returns. There is only a brief conversation between him and Seungmin, the latter somewhat perplexed by his presence. It is not inappropriate for a kingsguard to guard the royal personage from inside the tent, but it has not been deemed necessary, nor has Jisung been posted.

Jisung lets the guitar does most of the talking. It is very persuasive.

Moments later, Jisung is inside the tent, lacing it closed again, the guitar on his back. Somehow, the lacing of the tent ties feel even sturdier than a lock. It would take a long time for someone to undo it, making it nearly impossible to sneak up on you.

Though, you suspect it would also take you a long time to become conscious of the real world. Jisung is not kissing you, not even touching you, just moving inside the same small space as you, and you are already distractingly rivetted.

So distracted, you poke your finger on a needle. You put your finger in your mouth to catch and wipe the tiny pinprick of blood, looking at Jisung as he sits down. He does not sit on the bedroll, just beside it on the ground.

His eyes flick to your mouth, his face a little flushed.

“Ha-ha,” he speaks it more than laughs it. “Right. Music. Um.”

The first strum of the guitar feels very loud in this small space, making your heart jump. The alarm slows to a gradual stop as you let the music surround you, the gentle plucking of each string. He hums softly until you are visibly comfortable with the sound, then he starts to sing too.

He starts with a familiar ballad, famous enough it reached your land at the borders. The next song you do not know, but he has hummed snippets here and there over the past couple days. The third song is about you, though it takes a second to realize it. Your eyes are on your embroidery, knotting little loops of cherry blossom petals, when you realize the ‘mermaid in white with curly hair’ who has ‘wanting eyes for the soldier on the shore’ is maybe not so distant or fantastical as the lyrics might imply.

You look at him, flicking your gaze to the sealed tent flap as if to remind him that others can hear. He grins innocently and keeps singing, your story hidden in the details of some fictional recreation.

Hearing his interpretation of your supposed thoughts makes you laugh, as he is often doing everything to make you laugh. Hearing the thoughts of the soldier on the shore stirs rather differently, heart palpitating as he sings about longing and terror. Both those feelings seem to torment the soldier, a man equal parts integrity, desire, and fear.

The lyrics trail off though he keeps strumming the guitar. You suppose the story is not yet finished.

The melody changes a little. He hums to chase it, perhaps crafting another song in his mind.

You look at your cherry blossoms, listening to him, remembering the first time he sang to you. He had never even spoken to you. You did not know him at all. You were alone and miserable, sulking in the dark, and he jumped into the light and touched you with his music.

It feels like so much has changed, even while technically nothing has. You are still married to the king. You have both sworn oaths.

His music still touches you.

Your vision blurs, then the first teardrop plunks onto a cherry blossom. He notices immediately, just like he was the only one to see your tears at the ceremony. The music comes to an abrupt stop, a suspended note awkwardly fractured. He puts the guitar aside and gets on his knees, leaning over your embroidery to lift your face.

You sniffle, smiling at him through your tears.

“I’m sorry,” you say. “I’m not even crying because of the sad things.”

“That’s okay,” he says, his face as morose. He tries to smile softly, though his brow is still pinched with concern. “You can cry,” he says. “If it will make you feel better.”

Yes, you think it will. You have too long repressed feeling. You are allowed to be angry and passionate and sad. Crying and raging will not necessarily solve all your problems, but it will empty the clutter of your mind and soul.

You let it wash away, then you let him wipe your eyes.

“Thank you,” you say, wiping the last teardrop as he sits back.

He picks up his guitar, though he just looks at it, running his hand along the neck while you tidy up your embroidery tools. He looks from his art to yours, blinking at the cherry blossoms.

“What are you making?” he asks.

“Just bits and pieces, really,” you say. “Spring is my favourite season. It’s beautiful back home, with the blossoms and warm rain showers. Everything sparkles all the time.”

If you had not already cried, thinking of home might have done it. Now, you just sniffle and lay the fabric down. You smile at him.

“What’s your favourite season?” you ask.

“Mine?” His eyebrows lift. His mouth is open as he looks for an answer, then he glances at your embroidery and laughs. “Spring,” he says.

You swat his arm and he playfully howls, clutching it.

“You can’t just say that because it’s mine,” you say.

“Why not?” he asks, laughing.

“Because!”

“All right, all right,” he says. He taps his chin with great contemplation. “Autumn? No, no, it’s gross in the capital then. The rain doesn’t sparkle there, not in the fall. It sort of just – pings.” He makes a high-pitched sound on the word, miming each droplet as it tumbles and rings out. “Let’s see then – it’s not autumn and spring is forbidden to me. Ah, winter? No.�� No. Guard duty in the winter is the worst. Oops, I’m not supposed to say that – of course being a kingsguard is a blessing, and I can’t wait to experience the next winter, Amen.” He opens his palms and pretends to pray, then bows his head before continuing. “So it’s not those. Then, ah, let me think. What’s left? Hmmm…”

You are already giggling when he leans towards you, grinning.

“Remind me,” he says. “What’s left?”

“Summer, of course,” you say.

“Ah, of course. Let’s think. It’s hot, muggy, and the rain doesn’t help either of those things. Everything feels a bit like soup. But…”

“But…?” You lean towards him as well, playfully eager, like this is the most important secret he could reveal.

“But,” he says, eyes dropping momentarily to your smile, then lifting again. They crinkle with his own gentle grin, drawing your eyes there as well. “That’s when we met,” he says.

You look from his mouth to his eyes. The joining of your gazes makes everything feel very quiet, slow, and warm. Nothing exists past the golden light beside you.

“It is,” you say.

“Yes,” he says. “Summer. I think I used to hate it. I think – I’ll never hate it again.”

“That’s funny,” you say. “I feel the same way.”

“Well, you can’t,” he says, abruptly teasing again, “Because that’s my favourite, and you can’t just pick it because I did.”

You laugh, but it catches you off guard so it is a rather ugly laugh, more of a snort. Your hand flies up to cover your mouth. He laughs at that sound more than anyting, though he tries to stifle it.

You swat each other, trying and failing to keep the laughter down. A kingsguard keeping watch, a bard playing music, that is one thing. Giggling with the queen is a little different.

He accidentally pokes himself on your needle. It is laying between you, forgotten, and he puts his hand down. He hisses as he lifts it, grimacing like he was run through with a sword rather than pinpricked with a sewing needle.

“Oh my goodness,” you say, shaking your head with playful irritation. You gather your embroidery things and place them out of reach so there are no more accidents. “Silly,” you say. “Big strong guard, you are. It couldn’t have hurt that much.”

“It’s the worst pain I’ve ever felt,” he says with dramatically sad eyes and a spectacular pout.

“Oh, I’m sure,” you say, taking his hand. It is not even bleeding. Still, you bring it to your mouth.

You do not intend to be seductive. You are truly just playing, intending to wet his finger against your lips and tease him some more. The moment your lips touch his skin, however, the whole energy inside the tent seems to shift. If you did not know better, you would say the earth itself tilted. You stomach drops with a swoop, as if you took off flying.

You look at him while taking the tip of his finger in your mouth. His smile vanishes too, those dark eyes suddenly smouldering in the lamplight. Your heart is pounding so hard that it wakes up the rest of your body. When you kiss that fingertip again, moving your mouth, making no mistake of its deliberateness, your heart seems to plummet as well. It drops right between your legs when it continues to pound, sending heat in every direction, so stark and sure that it makes you want to double over.

“Jisung,” you say, your lips a little wet.

He does not have far to go, cupping your face and pulling you in for a kiss. You clasp his shoulders, closing your eyes and kissing him back. You definitely would not notice an intruder, nor even a fire, not even a god walking the earth. You lose yourself completely, even more than those precious kisses from before. Maybe it is knowing you are truly alone, that the king is out cold, that it is nighttime and you are in your shift and he is right here, and it would be so easy to lay down and—

“I—” He abruptly breaks the kiss. He still looks lost in it, eyes half-open, face tinged with a blush. He pushes his fingers through his hair, shaking his head like that will pull him out of it.

He looks at you, then your mouth, and falls right back in. His eyes close like it is a little painful, and he groans when he kisses you, like it is rearranging him. He cups your face with both hands and guides the kiss, opening his mouth, inexpertly but hungrily. You follow, just as inexpertly but just as passionately. You make a sound of your own, higher and lighter, sweet in the kiss as he licks into your open mouth.

He is affected, either by the sound or your taste or your tongue against his. He pulls back again, with a shuddering gasp, like he forgot to breathe the whole time. You think you forgot too, breathing much harder than before.

“I—I’m so—” he says, forcing himself to look away. He stares down at the lantern. His eyes look a little wet, verging on tears as well. He rubs his face, pushes his hand into his hair and keeps it there, the dark locks messy around his fingers.

“Jisung,” you whisper his name, touching his shoulder, then his face. “Jisung, I know. This is – this is all crazy.” He looks at you, eyes still sad, hand still shoved in his hair. “I know,” you say. “You’re not alone. I know this is complicated.” You stammer, tripping over your racing heart. You cup his face and stroke his cheek. “I’m not asking for anything but what you want to give me.”

“I know,” he whispers. “I’m not scared of you. I’m scared of me. Of what I want to give. It would be—” He finally lets go of his hair. It takes a second to fall back into place after being pushed for so long, falling messily across his forehead. “It would be easier,” he says again, “if I didn’t want to, at all. But I—”

It is certainly easier for him to speak in song. He conveyed so much as a soldier on the shore, longing and terror in equal parts. Yes, that is all over his face as he looks at you, even if he cannot articulate it like this. He just breathes, in and out. He tilts his head and looks at you. He is right, that this would all be easier if that expression was not so tender and loving.

“What about you?” he asks. “What do – what do you want to – give?”

“Jisung,” you say, almost laughing, because isn’t it obvious? “I want to give you everything.”

You thought that was so obvious, but his look says otherwise, that he is surprised and taken back and overcome.

“I believe,” you say, “that even though we are surrounded by danger, my heart and my body would be truly safe with you.”

“Oh,” he says. He gazes back at you for a time, then he looks down. He takes your hand. His eyes closed, he brings it to his mouth and kisses your palm. He holds it to his face after, eyes still closed, clearly thinking very hard. When he straightens, he says, “It is. But when it comes to me, I—” He laughs without much humour, looking at you, his expression rather withering and his tone self-deprecating. “I think I’m broken beyond help. I think I always have been. I don’t even have a good reason why. I just know I feel worthless if I don’t cling to the other vow that has ever meant anything and you – and I – and—”

“You’re safe with me too,” you say gently. “Whatever that looks like, Jisung. Whether you think it’s broken or not, I’ll take care of it all.”

He nods, sharp and quick. He rests his forehead against yours. You close your eyes and stay there for a time, just breathing until your racing hearts are under control again. He kisses your forehead before standing. You stand as well, mostly to see that your legs still work, everything fuzzy after all that.

He picks up his guitar and goes to the tent entrance. He unlaces it carefully, then looks at you before parting it. His expression is fond, his mouth open with some parting words, but his eyes widen and he swallows whatever gentle words were on his lips. You look over your shoulder, wondering what surprised him, but there is nothing there.

“What is it?” you ask, smiling when he does.

“Ah, uh, you—” He points behind you with the guitar. There is still nothing there. When you lift an eyebrow at him, he giggles. “Um, the light,” he says. “Behind you – it, um.”

Oh. The lantern is shining right through your thin white shift. Perhaps it is not reliable for modesty, even when dry, turning almost invisible as it reveals the shape of everything beneath the fabric.

“Well,” you say, brushing the material out. “I suppose it’s nothing you haven’t seen.”

“Yes,” he says, breathlessly. His eyes move down your body and up again. It is such a thorough, thinking regard, that you think he might be changing his mind. Then he swallows, closes his eyes, bows his head. He departs without another word.

You do not listen to hear if he and Seungmin speak some more. You douse the lantern and climb under your blankets. You thought you had tempered yourself, but that last look was hungrier and more powerful than a kiss. With the image of him so fresh and clear in your mind, and with the tent securely laced shut again, you slide a hand beneath the covers and whisper his name again and again.

You wake in the middle of the night. You do not know what time, but it is nowhere near daylight, the world in darkness all around the tent. You went to sleep to some bustling noise in the camp, but now it is silent, so you believe it is many hours later.

Your eyes adjust to the midnight blue, making out the shape of your table and trunk, the unlit lantern. The only light is outside the tent, the guard posted with a lantern of his own. He is holding it in the air so you can see his silhouette.

Two silhouettes.

It takes a moment for your groggy mind to catch up, but it does, and you realize there is a hushed argument happening on the other side of the tent. You realize you are also right about the hour, because it is late enough that there was a guard change. That is not Seungmin’s voice or silhouette outside the tent, but Minho.

“It’s the middle of the night,” Minho whispers, in obvious agitation. “She’s sleeping. Why would I let you into the queen’s tent?”

“I just want to see her.” That voice is unmistakably Jisung. You would recognize his voice anywhere. Your heart wakes up faster than your mind, skipping beats.

“In the middle of the night?” Minho asks. “Are you crazy?”

“Yes!” Jisung whispers back, with a high-pitched strain. “I am! Now let me see her!”

“What kind of argument is that?” Minho asks.

“I just—” Jisung sighs. You watch his silhouette, his hands moving through the air as he gestures at nothing. “I’ve been thinking—”

“I get that’s new for you,” Minho says dryly, “But the queen can be alerted to this miracle tomorrow.”

“And I just need to see her,” Jisung finishes. “Because – because I only have half my thoughts when I’m not with her. Like the world is only half full and I’m only—” He jabs his chest, exhales heavily. “Only half whole.”

The lantern lowers slightly, Minho seemingly losing power as his arm lowers.

“Please,” Jisung says. “I’m just going to talk to her. I’ll be fast. She won’t mind. The king will be passed out until noon at least. This is just – I need to see her.”

“I hate you,” Minho says. “If I hear even one disgruntled squeak from her, I’m considering it permission to kill you for being a nuisance.”

“I can’t wait to haunt you forever,” Jisung says, clapping him on the shoulder with a friendly pat.

Minho shrugs him off. The lantern swings away as Minho stalks back to his post. He plunks the light on the ground.

You can no longer see his silhouette, but you can hear as the tent unlaces. Each slip of a tie has your heartbeat skipping. You prop yourself up your elbows, watching slivers of moonlight slip into the tent. Eventually the tent is undone enough that Jisung can step inside, then he grumbles and swears to himself as he tries to lace it back up again.

You sit all the way upright but he evidently does not see you. At first, he is preoccupied with the laces. Then, once the tent is secure, he turns around. Your eyes are adjusted to the darkness so you see him perfectly, but his are not adjusted, and he evidently has no idea you are awake and upright and staring at him.

He seems to go through a myriad of emotions, his face an entire theatrical spectacle in the span of thirty seconds. Then he curses and turns around and reaches for the laces, having seemingly lost all his nerves, intent on departing again.

“Jisung?” you say.

It makes him jump, shoulders leaping. He slowly turns around to face you. He still does not see you properly, squinting through the dark, but you think your general shape is taking form. He faces the correct angle, at least.

“Um, yes?” he asks.

“What are you doing here?” you ask.

“Oh, that,” he says. “Right. Um. You see. I was thinking about everything you said. And everything I said. And did. And we did. And he said and he did, the king I mean. And I was just – I was thinking – what I mean is.” He clasps his hands together and punctuates his words with a pointed gesture. “The. reason. I. am. here.”

He lets his arms fall to his side. You think he can see you much better now, because his eyes finally find yours.

He should be a terrifying figure in the dark, all long dark robes with a shiny sword at his hip. But you are not scared. His hands are the ones shaking, his eyes wide.

“Yes?” you say softly, encouraging.

He takes a step forward. His hand rests on the hilt of his sword out of habit, no doubt a consolation to his nerves. He looks down at it, seems to contemplate it like it has answers, or maybe just more questions. Eventually, he reaches into his robes and undoes the sword belt. You watch with baited breath as the sword falls into his hand.

He crouches down, laying the sword on the ground. On one knee, looking at the sword, then looking at you, he unclasps the top layer of his robes.

“I think,” he says, “I’m here to pray.”

You are quickly out of the covers, crawling down the bedroll towards him. He drops his other knee so he is kneeling upright at the foot of your bed, his robes open to the dark layer underneath, his chest rising and falling as quickly as his heart must be racing.

You get up on your knees too, hands floating between you as you take a second to just look at each other. His mouth is open like he has more to say, but he never finds the words. You think there might be words, but they have all been said, and they are better encapsulated in a kiss.

You wrap your arms around his neck and pull him in. His hands find your waist, at first with the chivalrous touch of a guard, as he has been holding your waist and hips when he helps you from here to there. Then the kiss deepens, your eyes close. His tongue pushes against yours and his hands are searching, squeezing, feeling the shape of every curve under his palm.

He says your name, not your title, your shift messily gathered in his fists. He kisses you softly, just a peck, then another, then those kisses move across your face and down your neck. You sink your fingers into his hair, holding him there as he kisses a long, hot kiss against your throat. You feel it all the way down between your thighs, liquid heat and a pounding need. You scratch at his scalp as his open mouth moves across your skin and he moans.

“Shh,” you say gently, his voice softening against your neck, just a light sound as he licks the place he kissed.

You want to tear the robe off his body, but you don’t want to startle him, his hands already shaking where they move over your clothed body. You decide to go first, already more comfortable with it.

You always thought disrobing for a lover would be petrifying, aghast at the thought of ever baring yourself to a husband. Well, perhaps that last part is still true. But it is not difficult to share yourself with Jisung. You like the way he looks at you, like he is writing songs of worship in his head.

You lean back, breathing hard, smiling at his face. He looks flushed and messy, his lips wet. He blinks at you, though his gaze lowers when you gather the hem of your shift and lift. His mouth is hanging open when you toss it to the side.

“It’s not like you haven’t seen me before,” you whisper, laughing lightly.

“That was different,” he says. “I couldn’t really look. I tried not to look. I knew if I did, I’d want to touch you. I tried to pray instead. But I can’t hear the gods when you’re not near me. Now—” His hand moves up your naked side, skimming your curves, his eyes following the trail. He swipes his thumb across your breast and your back arches into him. “Now,” he says again, dipping his head, “I know where I was made to be.”

His mouth closes around the tip of your breast, already pert from stimulation, hardening further between his lips. He sweeps his tongue across your skin, moves to the other side. His hands move everywhere, up and down.

Before long, you are moving, laying on your back. He tears off his outer robe and leaves it on the ground, following you down. You will not push him for more, knowing already how much he is giving you, though one day you want to feel every inch of him, skin to skin. It will happen, you decide. One day, you will be in a bed, and there will be time, and you will never be done exploring.

He lets your put your hand under his shirt, scratching down his spine. His arms are bare so you squeeze those too. Your legs part to make room for his hips. You are kissing and you make a sound in each other’s mouths when he lowers his hips against you. You can feel him through the material of his trousers, like you could that other night. But where he ran away that night, ignoring his own feelings, this time he lets your hand wander down. When you cup the hard shape of him in your palm, it makes your breath catch in an uneven stutter.

“Jisung,” you whisper, arching against him when he says your name back.

“Yes,” he says, pushing himself upright with shaking arms. He kneels between your open legs, pushing his hair back, swallowing as he looks down. His mouth moves but he doesn’t speak, though he does make a garbled noise when running his hands along the soft skin of your inner thigh.

That skin is very sensitive. You are already jumping by the time his hand is on you. You have to cover your mouth. No amount of touching yourself could prepare you for his touch, his fingers rougher and calloused both from his sword and his guitar.

You are very wet, from earlier, from seconds ago. He makes a face like he can feel the pleasure too, even though it his fingers, rubbing through all that wetness. He finds that place he showed you, that he talked about, as adept with the instrument of your body as he is with any other tool he puts in his hands. Just as he is always determined to make you laugh, he is now determined to give you that burst of pleasure. He grips your thigh in one strong hand and deftly moves his other thumb around and around that small centre of pleasure.

You twitch in his grip, still gasping with those short, stunted breaths. You can keep your voice down on your own, but it requires more concentration now, swallowing those sounds as that pleasure breaks apart inside you. Your hips lift, chasing his touch, then drop in shy retreat, oversensitive.

He grips both thighs, squeezing the soft flesh, then runs his fingertips back to their centre, then up, up the curve of your chest, touching your open mouth. You take his fingers in your mouth, nothing like before, which was playful then uncertain and demure. You take them like you want to take everything, deep and wet and needy, moving your head, sucking them hard between your lips until he has to cover his own mouth to stop himself from being loud.

He takes his hand back. The other drops from his mouth. You look at each other, hearts racing. His hands are shaking again as he reaches for the ties of his trousers, fumbling more than a little.

You sit up to help. With him kneeling upright, it puts your face at a rather advantageous position. His fingers get even more clumsy until he is no help at all, leaving it to you to unlace.

You look up at him, holding his gaze. This is certainly not the wedding night you were ever prepared to participate in. You were instructed to lay back and wait, then it would happen and be over. That could not be more different than your searching hands, eager to feel him, your eyes on any sliver of skin he shows you.

Once the trousers are unlaced, there is little hiding, the fabric falling open and everything inside lifting up. Truthfully, you are nervous again too, but also emboldened with passionate wanting. You are aware you are about to do something that cannot be reversed in the eyes of the law.

I’m the queen, you think. I make my own law.

You touch him as he lays you back down. When you are on your back, you lay your hands at your sides, your legs open around him, hair spread out underneath you.

He pushes his trousers down his hips. He looks into your face for as long as he can, but he eventually needs to look down. He curses to himself as he is a little clumsy again, trying to guide himself to your entrance. He finds it, but your body is a little resistant even though you are so wet. You wince a little, but shake your head when he stops, telling him to keep going, please, please, please.

You can only imagine how painful this would have been with the king. Well, that man will never be your first, no matter what he tries in future. It will always be Han Jisung, slowly pushing inside you, his sweaty face buried in your neck, murmuring your name as he fills you to utter completion.

You almost cry when he is all the way inside you, not even from the tenderness, but just the rightness. You cling to him, sliding a hand down the back of his shirt. He rocks his hips a little, kissing your neck when you whimper.

“It’s okay,” he says, lifting his face to look at you. He kisses your lips, a few short pecks that leave you wanting more. He stares down into your face like he can hardly believe you are real. “I have you,” he says. “I have you.”

He knows how to listen beyond words, hearing every cry and request of your body, even if you cannot articulate it. He is careful until that tender burn lessens, careful for his own sake too, muttering the occasional oath when you squeeze around him. it soon really does sound like praying with how often he calls the gods and you.

You kiss him, moaning into his mouth, probably clawing up his shoulders as he starts to understand how to roll his hips. Those scratches won’t matter because he’s a kingsguard and he will be completely covered tomorrow. Only you will know his back is a canvas of your pleasure, fingers bruising and nails raking desperately as he takes you, deeply, thoroughly.

“I’m – I can’t – inside,” he says between breaths, face scrunched up as he nears his pleasure.

“I know,” you say, but whimper helplessly. “One day.”

That makes him moan deeply, a sharp thrust into you, then he is quickly pulling out. It just takes a single stroke from his hand before he finishes too. It is more than you knew it would be, a white streak that falls across the soft skin of your belly. It takes a second for the sight to register for him, then he squeaks and grabs his robe again.

Cleaning that off the queen is almost certainly not the intended use of the kingsguard robes, but it makes the most sense, as he is more likely to be able to clean it without any questions. Still, he seems to realize just how sacrilegious it is, looking at the black fabric, then at you.

Then, he smiles. It turns to a short laugh, a sound of disbelief.

“We—” he says.

“Yes,” you say, giggling too.

You are not sure if he is more amazed with you or himself. It certainly takes him a moment to stop looking so shocked, even though he was the one who walked in here. Eventually, he comes to his senses, at least enough to lay down in your arms for a time.

He can’t sleep here, but you hold him for a while and he is happy to let you, his head pillowed on the softness of your breasts, his arms around your middle. He turns his face and kisses your skin, just a chaste kiss, but there is a fire simmering beneath your skin now, and you fear it will never be doused.

You sit up together. You kiss his bare arm, right up to where the shoulder of his shirt gets in the way. He looks at you, appreciative, fond, and a little less scared.

“We need to be careful,” he says.

“Of course,” you say.

“I can’t let anything happen to you,” he says, cupping your face. He brings it close to his, your noses touching.

“I know you won’t,” you say. “I’m safe in your hands, bard boy.”

He laughs, then steals one final kiss. He doesn’t put the outer robe back on, giving you a chagrined smile while you giggle. You shuffle back into your shift while he stands up and re-ties his trousers. He smooths his hair as best he can. He hooks his swordbelt into place.

He looks somewhat more composed, but not entirely untouched. You wonder if you look like that, if it’s all over your face, in the lines of your body. You can certainly feel it inside, both literally with the ache between your thighs, and also emotionally.

He unlaces the tent and looks at you again, gives you one last departing smile before he steps out.

He has barely laced the tent shut before the lantern re-appears. You catch Minho’s silhouette, his hand swinging down to swat Jisung hard on the backside.

“Ouch!” Jisung jumps.

“That was not talking, you asshole,” Minho hisses.

Jisung, in much better spirits than his friend, simply plants a kiss on the other guard’s cheek and ruffles his hair. Even in silhouette form, Minho is clearly shocked by this. It takes him too long to retaliate, left standing there as Jisung skips away.

Minho shakes his head.

Smiling, you lay down to sleep, safe for tonight. With your growing allies, you are confident will you find a way to remain so.

#han jisung x reader #jisung x reader #han jisung smut #jisung smut #stray kids x reader #skz x reader #stray kids smut #skz smut #han jisung x you #stray kids x you #skz x you

303 notes · View notes