#i hope its still recognizable

[rrr-mmmm]

Louis and Claudia as "Shelter" by Peter Macon

[aria0fgold]

Wuh oh... I just managed to free hand doodle Siff... Yaknow what that means (I might just be able to draw them--)

[autism-corner]

scary

[tritoch]

i have seen people be like "if you think what the dawntrail protagonists do in zone six is valid you have to conceded emet's approach/perspective was valid, what you do is basically what he does" and it's like...nah. it's obviously intentionally very similar ("it's like poetry, it rhymes") but there's some key differences:

emet is disgusted by sundered life, which he sees as inhuman, and longs to return to the unrecoverable past. so he does seven(ish) planet-wide genocides. the endless aren't new life, their ability to grow and learn is specifically in question (at the very least they are fundamentally incapable of taking in new sensory experience of certain forms), they're shades from the unrecoverable past, and you are destroying them in favor of those still alive.

also, we aren't disgusted by them nor do we think anything is fundamentally justified if done to them (everyone pretty much no-sells cahciua "we aren't alive so it doesn't matter if you kill us :)," in fact). we don't have like 12,000 years and the most advanced magic known to anyone alive. we are forced by serious exigency to destroy them due to a political impasse with their leadership's policy re: resource extraction. this tonal difference is in fact extremely important.

the endless themselves seem pretty ambivalent about the whole deal. they're bored or they're wary of the way their world keeps shrinking, and it's very explicitly neither a functioning society by any recognizable human terms nor a paradise.

related to the above, basically every named endless turns to the person most relevant to them (cahciua to erenville, krile's parents to her, namikka to wuk lamat, otis to you) and is like, huh, i really appreciate having this moment of grace at the end of my journey to see that it was all worthwhile and to resolve my lasting regrets, but i understand what you're here to do and yeah, it's probably time for us to go. (does the writing put a finger on the scale by doing this? sure, but the writers also designed and built the scales and everything they're weighing on them, so i find it hard to discredit any one aspect for being the writers' invention.)

finally uh no one in the party has kids with the endless or lives a full human lifetime as one of them lol.

it's important to remember that emet was definitely at least somewhat lying about not seeing the sundered as real people. the fact that he has "lived a thousand thousand of your lives . . . broken bread with you, fought with you, grown ill, grown old, sired children and yes, welcomed death’s sweet embrace" makes everything he did soooooo much crazier than what you do. if i managed to convince an endless to fall in love with me and i had a kid with them and i loved that kid so much that their death threw me into a permanent grief spiral then like. yeah i guess i would have to be like "well hats off to emet, folks." but luckily the game doesn't make you do that.

even if you insist everyone in living memory was a full living person that we killed, you're still weighing like a city of people versus 7+ planet-wide mass murders. you do not under any circumstances got to hand it to him.

living memory absolutely is evocative of everything that happens in shadowbringers. but rather than placing us in emet's shoes, it forces us to relive what we already did, to really fully face up to what we have done by promising to remember emet's culture after destroying any chance of its return. after two games going hard on the hope part of the game's central theme of hope arising from grief, now we're doing grief. we are forced to see the past of our memories not as a cold, ghostly art deco cubus-plagued socratic method hellscape but as the most beautiful technicolor theme park where everyone's happy and no one's sad and there's parades every day and your parents are alive and they love you so much. and then the game's conclusion is, yeah, you were still right to let go. in fact, you were and are morally obliged to let go. the living were and are worth more than the dead. our grief in letting go of them may be immense and turns our world to bleak nothingness for a time, and that is important to recognize, but at the end of the day our most pressing duty is to those we can yet save, not those we have lost.

[zucchiyeni]

DRAW THIS IN YOUR STYLE CHALLENGE!

SCROLL DOWN TO KNOW THE RULES AND PRIZES

PLEASE REBLOG AS MUCH AS POSSIBLE SO EVERYONE CAN SEE THIS!

This is the moment I've been dying for its finally here!!!

++++++++++Rules++++++++++

1. Use whatever pose and color pallette you like, as long as it is recognizable.

2. Human version, comic, animation, Killer with other characters are accepted, please keep the outfit so I can recognize them.

3. Please leave a hashtag #zucchiyeni100 and tag me @zucchiyeni so i can see your work!

4. DO NOT TRACE/COPY/STEAL FROM OTHER ARTISTS

5. Submissions after the deadline will not be accepted.

DEADLINE 7.00AM 1ST SEPTEMBER (GMT+7)

++++++++++PRIZES+++++++++

1st place: 1 halfbody fullcolor

2nd place: 1 chest-up fullcolor

3rd place: 1 bust-up fullcolor OR 1 chest-up flatcolor

Honorable mentions(2 slots): 1 chest-up clean sketch

(All will apply simple background)

-------------side note--------------

1. Feel free to use the design however you like, with credit, ofcourse.

2. After the event ends you can still participate, fun is priority✨

3. This is kind of an IDOL AU sooo be creative on that✨ actually, use whatever headcannon you want!

4. And dont forget, have fun!

---------------------------------------------------

The winners will be announce ~2 weeks after the deadline. After the result is set, i'll DM the winners and we will discuss more later on

If you need samples, please check out my page. My style is inconsistent so you have to tell me the specific artstyle you want by sending me my art.

Here's the lineart version for a clearer look

And lastly,

HAPPY 100 FOLLOWERS TO ME!!! 🥹

(i just having a small hope @/itsxroxannex can see this im wild today)

Side acc @zucchichat

[eydilily]

I absolutely love your art and how detailed it is! If you don't mind me asking, how do you draw/break down faces? Your style is like exactly what I'm hoping to get close to when I draw them

OKAY so huge disclaimer. im self taught and i dont know what im doing most of the time! frankly i have a long way to go with shape language and character design so i will always suggest people to go to actual professionals and masters LMAO.

i am NOT qualified whatsoever, but, i tried to breakdown my thought process in how i currently draw things!!! for my mcyt designs, obviously i take huge inspirations from the actual ccs.

tango has similar hairlines and beard patterns to cc!tango. joel's hairstyle is very much inspired from his younger hairstyles, and pearl has a similarly long oval headshape from cc!pearl.

all of which are completely personal preference. some people take shape inspiration from personalities, voices, or whatever prophetic visions they have in their heads!

this would be the case for my cleo and etho designs. Cleo to me has a sharper voice & personality so i tried to incorporate that into what id think their face would be! etho is kind of . wet cat, but his voice for some reason gives me... round?? shapes?? so he has floppy hair and rounder eyes and ears in my design.

(another disclaimer: looks does not equate to personality, but like. its a lil easier 2 draw. and theyre shorthands and associations)

^ cleo has a higher eyebrow arch, sharp inner eye corner. etho has ears that stick out, uneven haircut, and his roots are darker :D

so its basically 2 big steps! Picking the face shape and then picking out details that would be unique to that character. to make characters different, i try to always pick something different between each person. so more contrast!!!

pearl and gem are easy since theyre opposites visually -- oval vs square, sharp vs round. for skizz and tango, i draw their eyes very similarly. but i decided my skizz would have a longer face and rounder cheeks, whereas tango has a bushier mustache and flatter face.

i am personally very fond of super stylized artstyles,,, i think cartoony / stylized artstyles take a lot of skill and a lot of character design thought into creating unique silhouettes that are still very recognizable! (for instance, huge fan of @/wasyago and @/alienssstufff)

unfortunately my artstyle isnt geared towards that lol, and alot of my face shapes tend to be very similar. so instead, i try to change up eye shapes (very common method of separating characters) and hairstyles! i have a long long way to go and i have a lot of bad habits lol but i hope this shows a little bit on how each of my characters are detailed differently.

[synthetickitsune]

may i please request florist!san who secretly likes a regular at his flower shop, then he learns that she finally recently broke up with her ex so he does all kinds of things to cheer her up like slipping in cute notes or chocolates in the flowers she buys and to also maybe shoot his shot 🥹💕

thank youuu and no need to rush! please do take all the time you need 🫶

San (ATZ) | Flower Shop AU + hidden notes fluff | 0.9k | gn!reader

The change wasn’t immediately recognizable for what it truly was. 

You might’ve missed a few weeks, which was concerning, but San understood that life happens and sometimes there’s just not enough time, money, or even energy to come to the flower shop, to keep the house looking pretty. 

And of course he spent the better part of those weeks worried if you’ll ever show up again.

Some little part of him hoped that you won’t - the unselfish one, the one that only cared about your happiness as he tends to care about all strangers that come to his shop. If you never come again, then perhaps your manchild of a boyfriend has finally grown into a full fledged man and started buying you flowers like you deserve instead of leaving you to do it yourself.

It was just one of the few pieces of information he got from the limited amount of small conversations you had. Your boyfriend would give you a couple bucks and tell you to go buy yourself some red roses. An exact amount that would in no universe be covered by the money he gave you. Truly, San wonders why you bothered with that guy. 

You deserve better. You deserve someone like him - but that’s only what the selfish part of his heart keeps telling him.

Things are different now, though. Something changed. You’re back to getting flowers, but they’re not roses anymore, and the bouquets are smaller. They also suit you more. You seem genuinely happy getting them.

San feels torn about it, although he’s mostly curious.

Until one day he sees your phone light up just as you’re about to pay, a name briefly flashing on the screen. You decline the call with lips pressed into a thin line. It’s not the time to be nosy, it’s not his place to ask-

“Is everything alright?” he asks carefully, then upon meeting your eyes he panics, “It’s just you seemed upset and you’ve been missing before…”

He’s just making it worse, he knows, but he hopes you can just take it as him being concerned about his business and not creepy. You study his face for a moment before sighing.

“We broke up,” you say simply, “And he keeps calling so that’s a little annoying.”

“Oh,” is all he can say.

And oh is all he can think for the rest of the day. Week, actually. And then he gets it together.

‘Together’ in a way that is perhaps concerning in its own way.

It might be too much - it is too much and wholly inappropriate. But San feels like a madman on a mission, hyping himself before the final stretch as he looks at the handful of notes and another small pile of envelopes.

The notes should be fine - they’re just generic words of encouragement, some may be a little too sweet for strangers, but not too much. The envelopes, well, they hold his heart. He must be in his right mind still if he thought to start with the notes and see how you accept them.

…And that doesn’t apply anymore weeks later when he’s stealthily slipping the first envelope into the bouquet before wrapping it for you. His heart is about to burst and you’re looking at him with concern. His hands are shaking, but at least you only noticed now. 

“Are you alright?” you ask, brows furrowed.

“Yeah, of course,” he smiles. It’s easy to make it genuine. 

“I…” you hesitate and he leans closer, nodding at you to continue, “I know I never said anything, but I wanted to thank you for the notes. I mean, you probably noticed I started coming in more. They just really helped me get through the hard times.”

He did notice. He also noticed you slowly opening up, lingering, gracing him with short conversation each time.

“I’m glad,” he says and he means it. Even if nothing comes out of this, making you happy is enough.

“So I was wondering, would you like to go on a date with me?” you bite your lip, “If you’re okay with going slow-”

“Yes,” he interrupts before you can change your mind. He already saw you spiral into overthinking many times, he’s not gonna do it today. “Absolutely. Just, uh, could you give that back to me?”

He points to the wrapped flowers in your hands. You look at him with a suspicion. “Why?”

“I don’t want to embarrass myself and make you change your mind, please?” he begs. Suddenly he can’t remember what’s written in the short letter. He only knows it’s sappy and pathetic.

“Is your number there?” you chuckle.

“Among other things,” he admits. For once he doesn’t like the way your smile grows bigger.

“Then if I like the other things I will text you,” you seem so satisfied with yourself, San is in love - and shambles, “If not, I’ll come here again and pretend I didn’t see anything. You can ask me on the date again if the note doesn’t work.”

That’s not the issue, the note isn’t asking you out, he wants to say, but you’re already turned away from him and walking out. He can’t speak, his tongue feels too heavy and his mind is blank. Slowly, he feels a smile stretching his lips against his will.

Maybe you like losers, he hopes.

[vero-niche]

i would assume its because of the coloring and drawing techniques? if the skin and hair are not in contrast, its more of an effort (and time) to create ways in which these two can be differentiated (via texture or shading). also the character should not blend in with the background either and mangakas can use two colors in total. so the easiest and most efficient design choice is to go white skin-dark hair or dark skin-white hair. then in the cover art where colors are possible they can specify what shade of hair color the characters have

why does every single black character in manga have white hair

[simp-ly-writes]

Lost Souls & Broken Hearts

─────── · ·  For All Time: The Series (pt.1)

─ · · PAIRING: 10th Doctor x F!Time Lord!Reader, 10th Doctor x Rose Tyler

─ · · SUMMARY: You thought yourself to be the last remaining Time Lord but that all changes when a certain Rose Tyler catches you breaking into your own apartment and is dead set on introducing you to the Doctor, your husband back on Gallifrey.

─ · · TAGS: female pronouns used, second person perspective, canon divergence, soulmate au, emotional angst, depictions of anxiety attacks, coarse language, eventual happy ending (but not yet), not beta read.

─ · · MASTERLIST | TAGLIST REQUEST | WORDCOUNT: 4,223 | PART TWO

─ · · A/N: I'm so excited to finally be writing this, hope you all enjoy!

─────── · · 

It was easy blending in with human life, a bit too easy, you thought to yourself while carrying your shopping bags up the stairs and around the corner down the hall towards your apartment.

Living in the city made it easy to blend into the crowd and not be questioned, chased or judged. You could simply observe as the world spun around you day after day and as the human race followed its canonical historical calendar.

Sure you could skip time to make everyday Christmas or take a turn around the stars and be back for breakfast but the utter domesticity and simplicity of taking a boring human job, studying at a boring human university, and generally performing a boring human life was a pleasant enough change from the usual or what was the usual at least, you often thought. 

Once reaching the oak door, you jiggled the door handle with a huff before remembering the silly little key the landlord gave you, like that would stop anyone from coming in.

Patting down every pocket and starting to lose hope, you take one long look left and then right before quickly pulling out your sonic screwdriver from your jacket pocket and point it at the lock.

"Excuse me Ma'am, but can I ask you-" a young blonde woman halts your motions causing you to take a sharp breath in through your nose before turning swiftly on the heels of your leather boots, long coat sweeping with the dramatic motion to meet the younger woman's sheepish stare and greeting her with a plastered smile on your painted lips.

"It's The Lady actually, or Lady for short, but I also go by (name, last/name) now… what's your name and how may I assist you?" You tilt your head forwards, eyebrow raised to observe the woman's fashion choices with intrigue as the younger woman appears to do the same to you with squinted eyes.

"Well hello, Lady,” she drags out your old title with a sarcastic tone, “I'm Rose Tyler and I was just about to ask what the hell do you think you're doing breaking into that apartment with that-" she takes a sharp breath inwards, the recognizable type gasp, you thinks to yourself, eyes gone with with pure panic before kicking open your front door and throwing your bags to the floor before starting to rush inside.

Rose grabs your arm, pulling you back into the hall and pinning you against the chipped plaster wall. Blowing a strand of hair from your face, you shake underneath Rose's hold with a huff before managing to shove her off. "You know on this planet I was told they shake hands in greeting- not the whole bloody body!" you exclaim with a huff, adjusting the jacket on your shoulders, sonic screwdriver in hand.

Rose shakes her head, mouth aghast, "how did you get that?" she asks, fingers pointing towards the device in your  hand, taking a step forwards as you take one step back, "Get what?"

"That screwdriver!" Rose reaches out with both hands now, brain half frazzled with her discovery, the other clouded over with worry as to what this woman must have done to the Doctor in order to get that off of him.

"Oh, this?" you dangle the device from between your fingertips before tossing it upwards and catching it with a wink, "got it from the contractor's store on Yonge Street. They were having a sale, I think you may still be able to get the deal, half-off or something like that-"

"Don't lie to me, I know what that is. Now tell me how. did. you. get. that?" Rose demands, hand slipping into her pocket to phone the TARDIS.

"If not a screwdriver then what is it?" you ask, looking over Rose's shoulder and into your apartment, calculating.

"Just answer my question!" Rose yells, phone starting to ring. 

“What is going on out here?!” You both look towards an older blonde woman who steps out from across the hall in what looks to be a dull yellow bathrobe, “and who the hell are- you’ve got to be kidding me, you’ve found another one? Fucking ‘ell Rose Tyler, I’m starting to think danger follows you better then your own shadow!” 

“Mum! Now is not the time please and you-” Rose begins to speak before realizing you had taken down the hall and slammed the apartment door shut with a heavy BANG! Echoing down the hall. 

“Now look at what you’ve done!” Rose huffs, fingers balling up into fists as she walks past her mother to stand in front of your door, knocking repeatedly. 

“And what have I done?” Rose’s mom stands back, arms crossed as she watches her daughter switch between ringing your doorbell and banging on your door. “I know you’re in there! I’ve got words for you!”

Meanwhile inside the apartment, you are rushing around, tripping over the various groceries that have spilled out onto the wooden floors and knocking into the picture frames across the walls. You were not expecting to have to move so soon and to say you were disappointed to have to leave so soon would be an understatement.

Your features hold a frown as you rip open the closet doors and throw every article of clothing out onto your bed in search of a specific piece of luggage. I know I left you here somewhere girl. C’mon I know you must be just dying to get out there again so now’s your chance! Just have to show me where you- your thoughts are cut off by Rose’s relentless pleas as she yells in through the mail slot now. 

Gods that girl is really getting on my nerves now, is this really any way to introduce yourself? You scoff. Turing back out of your room and down the hall to the guest room and closet in search, nearly tipping over a tangerine on your way there with a curse. 

Never liked those fruits either, clementines are superior in every way, why do I torture myself with these things- why do I- oh! There you are, you look at the red luggage with a smile before unzipping it to find the uncovered stairs within and throwing down various papers and gadgets, anything that could link to her identity within the apartment. 

Textbooks, tea, pictures… you felt yourself pausing on the last one of that list, your fingers hovering over the some dozen faces you saw right through that all contained the same hearts and those hearts that you willingly connected yourself to all those centuries ago…

Shaking your head of those distant thoughts you throw the frames down into the luggage before taking one last look towards your… open front door? Shit. You spin on your heel, darting off towards the guest room and falling into your luggage, tumbling down the stairs and finding yourself at the console. 

The machine stirs to life with a joyous tune, Hello! Hello! Welcome back, I have missed you so! You laugh at the voice in your head, I’ve missed you too, girl. Now who’s ready for an adventure? You watch as the room comes to life, every bulb shining to full illumination, switches and dials spinning without your hands to command them and that familiar buzz underneath your feet has you giddy in your shoes- it had been quite awhile since you’ve had a frill… since… you remind yourself not to have such memories before inputting a time and destination and lean back against the rails waiting for the vworp sound to commence. 

But before you can begin to enjoy the sound, a voice calls out to you and not the two you had accounted for in your brain. Grabbing the edge of the console and poking your head around you look to see… Rose?! 

“Do explain yourself,” you cross your arms with squinted eyes. 

“How’re you alive?” Rose rebuttals. 

“Answering a question with another question again?” you tease a smile, biting your lip to hide its spread across your cheeks as you try and maintain a straight face. 

“What are you smiling about? Gods you are just as worse as him! And you started the question-answer thing!” Rose exclaims before taking in a deep breath and meeting your eyes once more, “Okay. I decided to follow you. I was… curious. I’ve travelled with your kind before but had never seen another one of… well you unless you’re the Doctor and decided to regenerate again… but then again we’d be in a blue box not some luggage.”

“The Doctor?” you question in a raised tone, you feel your hearts skip a beat in your chest, no… that couldn’t be… 

“Yeah, the Doctor. Do you know him?... Them? They? I don’t know how you refer to each other in the past,” Rose explains, starting to walk around the console, picking up on the various differences between the two machines she’s travelled inside. 

“I don’t know them,” you lie, turning back to the console and flicking some levers. 

“Really? You don’t know the Doctor?” Rose asks again in a much softer tone. You can feel the disappointment in her tone rattling your bones causing you to shiver at the sound of his name. You could distantly remember the sound of his voice calling after you regenerations ago, feel his touch against your skin, feel the way his essence buzzed with pleasure being combined with your own- “No. I… kept to myself back on Gallifrey,” you lie again. 

“Huh, do you know any other Time Lords?” she peers into the valves at the centre of the console, watching as the flicker between yellow and blue hues like a rampant fire. 

“What is this?- an interrogation Miss. Tyler?” you tease, walking behind the girl to reach the other side of the console as you correct your travel angle to a quarter of the degree, “I’ve met one other one… but he is long gone now…” your voice trails off as you stare at the specks of dirt on your outfit with utmost intrigue. 

Rose apologizes, “sorry.”

“For breaking and entering? Or for questioning me?” you joke, bumping the bad mood off yourself and into her shoulder as you smile at the girl. 

“May I ask a few questions? Since it seems you’re stuck with me now for the next hour or so,” you look down at your watch before tipping your head in the direction of your kitchen, “tea?”

“Yes please.” 

─────── · · 

Rose tells you all about her travels with the Doctor across the years, you don’t miss the sparkle in her eyes nor the sound of her heart soaring, pupils dilating everytime she brings up his name. You remember being that person, in utter awe of his intelligence, wit and wisdom. Put under a spell of his charm, weak to his touch… But with every word she adds, every memory that resurfaces, a new pain settles across your skin that you pick at, eyes flashing with a burning pain at the physical proof that he moved on from me… thought me good as dead… didn’t think of our bond…  

“Are you alright there?” Rose asks, reaching across the table to hold your hands, “I’m really sorry now. I was not thinking how painful it must have been to be alone for so long… you don’t have to be alone anymore though, you could take us back to earth after this adventure and I could introduce you to the Doctor and-”

You squeeze her hands in yours, leaning forwards across the table and letting out a long breath to only answer in a whisper, “it’s okay dear. I rather liked being alone… gives me time to think and after what you’ve told me… I think I need more time than ever.” 

Rose nods, “Are you sure- I think he’d love to meet- I mean okay! But do let me know if there’s anything I can do.”

“I will,” you nod back before dropping your touch and leaning back in your chair, “now I do believe you had more questions and I have many answers.” 

“I wish for only the truthful ones,” Rose smiles as you mirror hers to hide the guilt gnawing at your hearts. “How old are you?”

Coughing up a part of your tea with the shock of the question, you laugh, “you know it's rather rude to ask a Lady her age,” you tease, “but I’m.. old… I think I’ve recently reached 900 but I would have to count again. I’ll get back to you on that.” 

Rose nods, “what planet do you like the most?” 

“Earth,” you say instantly. 

“Why?” 

“It's become a second home to me.”

“I’m sorry about what happened to your home planet.”

You look away, remembering the skyscrapers that reached the reddish glow of the homeworld atmosphere. “It was a sad necessity or else the wars never would have stopped,” you explain. 

“Is that what you truly believe?” she whispers, tone anxious, knowing that she really shouldn’t have asked but can’t help but desire to know. You partially admire this trait of hers. 

“It’s what I know,” your head falls, eyes cast to the remaining tea leaves at the bottom of your cup, observing the abstract picture with a frown.

“Lighter question, where are we going?” you shrug, “It didn’t really matter to me then… but with a human aboard…” you stand, speaking to yourself as you look at the travel log on the console, huh, why Earth?

“Say Rose, does Earth, January 2025 ring a bell?” 

“That's the first time I met the Doctor!” Rose smiles, jumping up from her spot and running down the hall to meet you, eyes cast over your shoulder with intrigue. 

“Great,” you smile tightly before slowly turning back to the screen, cursing your TARDIS.

─────── · · 

You could laugh at yourself, back where you started just a few years behind at some random street corner in Scotland. “Now this is not where we met but the time’s the same,” Rose says, eyes cast over wet cobblestones reflecting the setting sun. You let out a breath in relief. 

The streets were quiet as people prepared themselves for work the next day and you took off down the street, peering into various storefronts and cafes, a whole sleepy city all to ourselves, and to think I doubted you girl. You can hear the TARDIS buzz excitedly before quieting down once more within your head. 

“What’re we doing here exactly?” Rose asks, you turn around and shrug, placing your hands into your pockets. 

“Enjoying the world like we’re the last ones on it,” you reply with a smile before tilting your head, “how does a walk around the park sound?”

“Sounds a bit too easy than what I’m used to,” Rose laughs, looping her arm around your own, “usually when I’m with the Doctor the worlds about it end.”

“Is that so?” you mumble, “and what does he do about it?”

“Well, he saves the day of course!” Rose deadpans, scoffing at your question. 

“Does he shoot them? Kill them? Converse with them? How does he save it?” you keep your stare forwards so that Rose cannot pick up on your minute expressions, I know how he ‘saved the day’ last time… you think to yourself bitterly. He left you behind, better left for dead, you watched him do so without a second glance back and now he was with the girl on your arm that you walked around with in a barren Scottish park.  

You cursed yourself in this moment for not being able to move on centuries later, for waiting to feel his soul call out to you once more. You could still feel a part of him, maybe it was hope but you thought-no, knew him to be alive after all of these years. You wondered if he still felt you too but then again… he wouldn’t have gotten with her then… right? You ask yourself.  

You could remember his smile on your skin on your soul-bonding day, your wedding day where two became one for all time, for all existence, until the very end… or at least that's what you gave to him, the promise of forever… but at least he’s happy now… but that thought almost hurt more knowing what he was happy with someone else, you curse yourself for the selfish thought. 

Rose notices you stopped listening to her as she stops walking, causing you to pause alongside her. She walks in front of you, grabbing your shoulders as you tense in wait, remembering how the morning went. “I’m not gonna shake you for all your worth again, don’t worry about that but what’s going through your head? You stopped listening long ago…”

You stare at her, observing her youthful features, worried smile and kind eyes. You feel a stake driving through your chest, the last strand of your bond wilting away painfully slowly, untying itself from inside you causing you to grip your chest as you heave over your knees, falling to the ground. 

“Oh my god, you’re not okay. Shoot, shoot, shoot! You we’re supposed to tell me if I could help with something! I’m going to call the Doctor, okay? He’ll know what to do with a sick Time Lord better than I will, just gimme a minute okay? Don’t go anywhere,” she warns you like a stern mother, finger in your face as she waits for you to nod. You just stare blankly up at her, a singular tear falling from your eye that opens the floodgates to a waterfall. 

You cry out your pain, knowing this to be how heartbreak feels. You remember reading about the science behind the bonds in your youth, enraptured with them. You would become soulmates with someone from them… two parts always able to recognize the other no matter what and even after death. And when treated right, the bond could strengthen and so would the couple and when weakened… so would its parts. 

You felt it vividly. A fire starting up from your feet spreading up to your head as you shook off a sweat in the grass watching as the moon came up from the horizon… I wonder if he’s looking too, feels this too…

─────── · · 

“Doctor!’ Rose yells down the line, eyes watching as you rock yourself back and forth refusing to meet her gaze, actively wincing everytime she tips her head trying to chase your own stare. 

“What? Where are you? I’m waiting outside your flat and your mother keeps staring me through the window like I’m the creep,” the Doctor replies, he feels a pang at his heart as he stares down at his chest, eyebrow raised in question as he touches the hurt gently before hitting his chest with a grunt and standing up straight one more. 

“I’m currently in Scotland-” Rose begins to speak before being cut off by a worried Time Lord. 

“What on Earth are you doing there?! When did this happen?” 

“Well only about two hours or so ago, I met another Time Lord and I kinda became a stow-away, she’s really nice! A bit sassy but I take that’s a part of your species DNA,” Rose rambles, kneeling down by your form, hand outstretched that you flinch away from, she pulls away quickly, feeling guilty for trying in the first place. 

“A what?” the Doctor gasps, vowels open alongside his jaw as he stares at Jackie, not believing a word he hears. 

“A Time Lord, you know console, sonic screwdriver, time travel and all that jazz,” she explains, “and she’s hurt, I don’t know what happened but she looks to be in a lot of pain. Please come quickly… I'm scared for her, I don’t like the thought of you being the last one left when we could have done something about it.”

“C-can you tell me her name?” the Doctor asks gently, sprinting back to his TARDIS.

Rose pauses, did I really just hear the Doctor stutter? She asks herself before responding, “She said her title was Lady but takes on a human name now-”

“Are you absolutely sure that was her name?” the Doctor asks, a sudden wave of sickness has him crashing into the console, gripping its ledge as he sways side to side, impossible, he thinks to himself. 

“Yeah, I’m sure.”

“I’ll be there soon,” the Doctor says with utter determination, with utter need, he must see this for himself… see possibly you, “keep your phone on Rose, I’ll track the signal to your location.” 

─────── · · 

You hear as their conversation ends and you stare up at the star filled sky above as the oil lamps flicker on around you both. “If-” you wince at your weak tone, clearing your throat before beginning again, “If he’s coming here then this is where we must part ways… it was… nice getting to meet you Rose. Please, treat him well,” you smile softly up at Rose as she stares down at you, shock evident across her features before they are sculpted sharp into a frustrated expression. 

“You lied to me! You told me you didn’t know him, who are you truly?” she demands, watching as you stand with a wobble on your feet. You can hear the Doctor's muffled voice in her pocket, demanding to know what is going on. You look between both voices before turning back and walking towards your red luggage left on the street corner, “Goodbye Rose!” you yell hearing as she chases after you. 

“Please just tell me who you are, please stay, please-”

You fail to turn around, one foot in your TARDIS, the other on the cobbled streets, another play of history about to be written on these very stones. “I’m the Lady, I’m (name, last/name), and I’m leaving behind the past like I should’ve many centuries ago. Live a good life, Rose. The best life, with many walks in the park… make sure he does the same, okay?” 

Rose stares at you for a long moment, you both look up to watch as a blue box descends from the sky at a rapid speed. “But why can’t you tell me who you are?”

“Let the Doctor tell you whatever he wants you to know… I don’t want to become between you both,” you smile at her one last time before shutting and locking the door behind yourself and setting a course off somewhere you knew yourself never to be found, at least not for a long time. 

─────── · · 

The Doctor falls out the door, cursing as he sees the red box flicker before disappearing before his very eyes. He chases after the spot in which you last stood, shaking his head in disbelief as he grips his hair before turning towards his companion. “You really weren’t lying, there was another Time Lord here,” he blinks rapidly, hearts squeezing in his chest- impossibly tight as he coughs, feeling his airways somehow becoming affected. 

“Doctor? Are you alright?” Rose races to his side, shocked when he flinches away from her touch as if she burned him. “I’m fine just a little under the weather is all, should be good in a minute or two,” the Doctor rushes out to explain, “and are you positive that was her name?”

“Yes!” Rose replies exasperatedly, “why do you keep asking? Who is she? Why- how do you know each other?” 

The Doctor remains silent, choosing his next words carefully as he slowly walks back to the Blue Box, Rose in tow. “We grew up together…but that's a story for another time.”

“Why another time, why not now? She had the same reaction you're having,” Rose presses, taking a step forwards, cornering the man in between two sets of rails. The Doctor keeps his head low, “Is she your friend, companion, ex?” The Doctor does not even breathe. 

“She’s your ex, huh… girlfriend? fiancee?... wife?” Rose whispers the last title underneath her breath catching the way the Doctor’s breath hitches as he takes in a sharp breath of air.

“So that’s why you could never call anything official?” Rose questions yet she knows the answer. She blinks rapidly, stepping back as she is confused as to how to feel. She knew him to be a centuries old creature, lived longer and will live longer than she ever could, ever would and yet… she couldn’t help but feel disturbed knowing that in the few years they shared together… he hadn’t been entirely truthful. 

“What else are you hiding from me, Doctor?” she whispers underneath her breath. The Doctor remains silent, simply staring down at his converse, gripping the rail behind him with white knuckles. “I thought her to be dead, could feel it up in here,” he points up to his head in explanation.

Rose strides forwards, painted finger poking at his chest, he swears to feel it underneath his suit, gritting his teeth at the pricking feeling that spreads across his warm chest. “But you failed to listen here, didn’t you?” 

─────── · · 

PART TWO

↳ Taglist: @just-levyy

[lght-roastcoffee]

⋆ ˚｡⋆ Jealous ⋆ ˚｡⋆

prompt: "Are you jealous?"┆Tuna-Tober ⊹ Day 3

pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!Reader

wordcount: 1.6K

warnings: slight language

author's note: So I've only watched the netflix show and have yet to read the books, so my knowledge of the series and universe is from that. I love Benedict though. He's the himbo rich boyfriend I've always wanted. ♡

˖ ᡣ𐭩 ⊹ 𝘯𝘢𝘷𝘪𝘨𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 ˖ ᡣ𐭩 ⊹ 𝘵𝘶𝘯𝘢-𝘵𝘰𝘣𝘦𝘳 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘵𝘴 ˖ ᡣ𐭩 ⊹

“Why do you insist I wear these silly gowns, Mama?”

My mother huffs as she swats at my fidgeting hands, trying to find a more comfortable angle in this ridiculous corset. She straightens the damned thing back to how it was, one of the bones digging its way into the side of my waist.

“Because, darling,” she begins, smoothing my hair to the side, “tonight is your first ball back into society. I know you enjoyed your time in the country with your aunt, but it is time you find yourself a husband.”

Taking my gloved hand in hers, she places a dance card on my wrist and leads me into the Danbury estate where tonight’s social event is in full swing. 

“Now, remember.” Mama turns to face me, cradling my face in her hand. “Tonight is for you to socialize and get to know those of the Ton. If you do not find someone who has caught your attention tonight, I will still love you.” 

Mama smiles at me before taking my hand again and guiding me inside the grand ballroom. It was filled with a vast assortment of fellow debutants, bachelors, and families mingling. In the middle of the room, couples were participating in the dancing, others talking near the lemonade tables, and others hovering around the dance floor conversing with their neighbors. Off to one side, I spot the one person I was hoping to see tonight dressed in the ever-recognizable blue color nearly all the Bridgertons wear. I quickly say goodbye to Mama, who was already conversing with Lady Danbury, and rush over to my friend.

“Eloise!” I greet, catching the girl’s attention. “It is so great to see you, my dear!” 

Eloise’s face lights up in recognition, turning to hug me. “Y/N! How was the country? You will have to recount your time to me! I’m sure your aunt taught you much in your time together.” 

My mother thought it best for me to get away after my failed engagement to Lord Pedleton, a filthy man double my age of twenty years. My father thought the union would bring fortune to our families, but all it brought was harm after Lord Pedleton was found bedding his maid. The scandal it brought to both our families caused my father to break the union and my mother convinced him it was best I spend some time with my aunt.

For the past year since, my aunt has taught me everything she knows and how to be in society as a woman while enjoying the more… improper joys in life. She took me to gallery openings of her friends, invited me to parties and gatherings with equal minded artists and intellectuals who did not look down at me for being a woman. She encouraged me to begin writing and worked with me to finish my first novel, publishing under a pseudonym and watching as others enjoyed my craft. To say I thoroughly enjoyed my time away was an understatement, and Eloise knows as I’ve written to her through the year and sent her an advanced copy. 

“It was wonderful, Eloise,” I sigh, a slight smirk forming on my lips. “The things I’ve done would make you blush.

She laughs, throwing her head back and grabbing my arm. “Oh, I’m certain! But I’m sure you missed me, or more accurately,” she leans in, mischief dancing in her eyes, “you missed my brother, did you not?”

My cheeks flare as I swat the girl away in playful annoyance. “Eloise!”

“What?” Eloise raises her hands in defense. “I only speak the truth! It is not like you haven’t been smitten with him since we were children!”

“Smitten with who, exactly?”

Speak of the devil and he shall appear. That’s how the saying goes, is it not?

Benedict Bridgerton struts over to the two of us from whatever corner he was hiding in, butterflies erupting in my chest at the sound of his voice. His face lit up in boyish excitement as he stepped to his sister’s side. 

“No one!” I quickly reply, glaring at my friend before she can speak any more. 

Benedict chuckles, looking between Eloise and myself. “Well, I do hope whoever has your eye is worth it.” 

I roll my eyes. “There is no one that has my eye, Ben. Eloise was just asking about my time in the country.”

“Ah, yes! How was it?” His blue eyes pierce mine as he engages in the conversation. The look he gives is filled with an emotion I haven’t seen before.

“Oh you know,” I shrug, trying to avoid the total truth, “my aunt introduced me to her friends and I learned how she lives. She is always lively company to keep.”

“Well, I’m glad you enjoyed yourself, and that you have now rejoined us!” Benedict slightly bowed in a playful manner, pulling a laugh from myself and an eye roll from Eloise. “You’ll have to join us sometime for a game of pall mall. It hasn’t been quite the same without you there to taunt Anthony.”

I smile widely, returning his bow with a curtsy. “Of course, Mr. Bridgerton. I wouldn’t miss it for the world!”

The three of us stand in our corner recounting the past year together and catching up. I didn’t quite realize just how much I had missed my friends, but I am glad to be back in their company. 

While in the middle of Benedict explaining his recent work of art, I feel a tap on my shoulder, pulling the attention to the young man behind me. 

“Excuse me, miss,” he says. The man is young, not that much older than myself, with dark hair and a scrawny frame. “I apologize for interrupting, but I was wondering if I could take your next dance.”

I blush slightly out of both embarrassment and disbelief. “Oh, uh, sure.”

He takes my hand in his, filling out a line on my dance card before leading me to the dance floor. The music begins and the familiar tune fills the room. The man bows and I curtsy before getting swept into the dance. My partner is nervous, I can tell. His dance moves are clumsy and rushed, palms growing clammy. He refuses to meet my eye and is silent the entire time. 

Not very far into the dance, I glance back to where I left my two friends, Eloise silently laughing at my misery after getting tripped over and Benedict watches with a hard look on his face. I continue moving, but I cannot take my eyes off Benedict. The look on his face, eyes hard, jaw clenched, is one I had only seen when he was frustrated or angry. Why would he be angry?

Soon, the music ends and I remove myself from my partner, excusing myself back to my friends quickly. 

“Well that was quite the show!” Eloise laughed. For what felt like the hundredth time tonight, I rolled my eyes at the girl, but joined in her laughter.

“He might not be the greatest dance partner, but he wasn’t hard on the eyes, was he?” 

At my jest, I hear Benedict scoff before crossing his arms across his chest. “Please, the boy could hardly keep up.”

“Are you jealous?” I tease, stepping closer to him. Up close, I see his eyes shift across my face, shock dancing over his eyes briefly.

“Well- I-” Benedict stutters.

“I believe mama is calling me,” Eloise announces, clearly trying to leave and nearly tripping over another girl as she backs away. “I shall catch up with you later, Y/N.”

I huff before the feeling of a hand on my forearm is dragging me outside to the gardens. I struggle to keep up with Benedict’s quick strides before I stop around a secluded corner.

“Ben, what-” He interrupts me.

“What if I am?” Benedict stares at me, eyes wide and darting between mine.

“I’m sorry?”

“What if I am jealous?” He steps closer, but I stand my ground. He slowly closes the distance, taking one of my gloved hands in his.

“I would say that I have been jealous as well.” 

He leans in closer, face mere inches from mine, allowing me to see the creases and lines on his gorgeous face. His blue eyes, with flecks of green scattered like stars, dilate at my words. His other hand comes to rest on my cheek, thumb rubbing against my cheekbone. 

“You are so beautiful,” he says shakily. “You have been since I first met you.”

The breath catches in my throat, my hand slightly squeezes his still in my grasp. My eyes dart from the intensity in his eyes to his lips just briefly, but just enough for him to notice. Suddenly, the feeling of his lips on mine is the only thing I feel, my head spinning as I return his kiss. My free hand trails along his arm to rest at his shoulder, the other letting go to do the same while his finds my waist.

“Wait-” He carefully pulls away slightly, searching my eyes. “Are you sure-”

I pull him back in, arms securing themselves around his neck as he melts into my embrace. We continue before the need to breathe takes over and we part, chests rising and falling with each inhale. The sight of him, hair disheveled, lips slightly swollen, is a sight I’d like to see everyday if he’d let me. He smiles, still catching his breath before laughing quietly. His infectious personality has me joining him, my head falling to rest on his chest with his arms wrapping around my frame.

His hand tilts my head up to look at him. “I am glad you’ve returned, my love.”

[marvelstoriesepic]

Like a Phoenix (5)

Pairing: Mercenary!Bucky x Princess!Reader

Series Summary: An attack on your palace thrusts your only hope for survival into the hands of a mercenary who is forced to protect you, all due to a vow he made many years before. Though, those are circumstances neither of you have chosen.

Word Count: 9.3k

Warnings: Reader having an epiphany; violence; murder; blood; injuries; Bucky being intense and protective; guilty feelings; mentions of swords, knives and pain

Author’s Note: Struggled with this a little, honestly. Took me longer to write. But I hope you like where this is going. Enjoy ♡

Series Masterlist | Masterlist

You are back in the forest.

Bucky always chooses the forest. Perhaps he doesn’t like the idea of walking out in the open.

Admittedly though, the new boots Bucky bought for you at the market make it easier to walk the ground.

The aromas of moss and pine have become so recognizable to your senses that you hardly notice them anymore. The twigs and undergrowth snagging at you are ignored.

Your calves still ache and your shoulders droop but you long since learned to swallow your complaints.

And the night at the inn actually alleviated the stiffness in your neck and helped relax your muscles somewhat, owing to the fact that you slept in a bed again for the first time.

And you had it for yourself.

Bucky was sitting in the chair when you dozed off and remained there when you awoke at daybreak.

He was unaware that you woke up. Thus, you took your time to observe him.

His posture was deceptively relaxed, though you saw the tension in the line of his jaw, the way his fingers occasionally flexed as if reaching for his weapon. The smirk you came to know was gone, faded into something more reserved. His gaze was fixed somewhere beyond the window, though you doubted he was actually seeing anything. He almost looked soft for a second. So lost in thought.

As soon as his gaze touched yours though, something in him shifted and he rose from the chair almost urgently, as if sitting in front of you a second longer would render him more vulnerable in your presence.

He reprimanded you for sleeping in, although his tone didn’t suggest that he was upset about it. And he could have woken you up, after all.

It has been two weeks since everything you knew burned to the ground. Two weeks since you walked the tightrope of sorrow and dread, since you’ve stumbled along behind a man who barely spoke to you, dragged forward not by choice but by the cruel momentum of survival. Two weeks of aching muscles and dirt-streaked skin of cold nights and colder silences. Two weeks of walking, stopping, eating sparingly, and sleeping fitfully.

And still, you walk.

Bucky’s steps are purposeful in front of you. He scans the path ahead, the trees around you, and he even slows sometimes to glance at you with an expression that seems almost suppressed.

He never says anything during those moments but the way his gaze lingers makes you wonder if he is checking for signs of weakness, if he is measuring your ability to keep up.

The woods come alive around you, filled with the softest rustle of leaves, the far-off call of birds, the sporadic break of a twig, and the soft buzz of crickets sending their melody your way.

And you’re unsure what to do with the shift in your emotions regarding this noise throughout the journey.

Because it grew familiar.

Maybe you would even call it comforting.

Because for all the difficulties - the sore legs, the persistent hunger, the cold that permeates your bones at night and makes them seemingly shrink - there is an aspect of this ceaseless walking that feels like a release.

You know you should not feel that way.

Not after everything that has happened.

But there is a faint glimmer of light beneath the ash of your ruin.

And it does its best to remain ignited.

There is no curt tonight, no stares lingering too long, no pointed tiara digging against your skull. There are no expectations pinning you in place, no endless corridors of duty stretching out before you like a luxurious prison. You are no one here. Not a Princess, but also not a pawn.

You think about the way nobody at the market paid you a single mind. Eyes skimmed over you and Bucky without interest, moving on to the next transaction, the next distraction.

You expected suspicion, braced yourself for recognition. But it never came.

You were a ghost in this place. Just another face among many. They didn’t know you. They didn’t see you. You were no Princess to them, nobody to be played in political games.

You were just a girl.

Just a girl walking beneath the stars, free from the burden of her title. If only for an instant.

And isn’t that what you wished for? You have dreamed of this for as long as you can remember. Thought of this in the safety of your chambers, seeming so long ago. To escape. To run. To taste the air beyond the walls of the palace, untethered and carefree.

Here, in this wilderness are no watchful eyes, no polished manners to perform, no fake smile to force up, no tiara to wear.

You never imagined it would feel like this. Freedom. Brutal and lonely, but somehow lighter in a way you know you should not feel.

No one is here to whisper in your ear how you ought to behave.

You don’t have to hold yourself like a queen in waiting anymore.

You can slouch if you want to. You can scruff your shoes against the dirt, even though your upbringing screams at you that it is improper. You can walk with your hands swinging at your sides, uncoiled from the forced grace that has been drilled into you since you were old enough to toddle.

But for the first time in your life, no one cares if you trip over a root or stain your hem in the mud. No one cares if your hair is tangled or your hands are full of scratches.

Well, perhaps no one except him.

You glance up at Bucky again, your eyes tracing the broad line of his back visible beneath his pack, the way his shoulders tense as he scans the path ahead. He is so watchful in a way that makes your nerves tingle.

And you have seen the tiniest bit of something else underneath the hardness of him. A care and concern he conceals in small gestures. The way he slows his pace when you lag behind. The way he tosses you his bedroll without a word every night. The way he pressed his hand to your back the other day, guiding you over a steep incline. The way he lets you have the first sip of water every time you fill it up at a river.

It unnerves you how much you notice these things. How much you notice him.

And yet, for all the reprieve you feel, it’s guilt that makes you stumble slightly. How can you even feel the smallest measure of peace when your kingdom is gone, your family lost, your life reduced to ash?

You tell yourself it’s not peace you feel. Only the sense of survival you need.

But this strange life you are leading - this wandering existence - is, in some way, closer to freedom than anything you have ever known.

You don’t have to curtsy or smile until your cheeks ache from how wrong it feels. You don’t have to listen for hours and nod and pretend to understand politics or tolerate the infinite games of appearances.

The gown you wore for the most part of the journey had once been one of the finest things you owned, a masterpiece of silk and embroidery to make you stand out. A statement, not of your own choosing, but of who you were supposed to be.

It was comically out of place in the forest - the delicate stitching snagging on branches, the long skirts dragging through the dirt, the soft lilac dulled to something almost grey.

So when Bucky handed you the blue fabric he picked up at the market for you the morning after the inn, before paying for you to use the restroom, you glanced at the last relic of your old life lying discarded on the ground, its crumpled form like the shed skin of something you no longer recognized.

It didn’t feel like yours anymore.

It didn’t feel like anything anymore.

And when you pulled the blue fabric over your head, it felt like slipping into a new life.

It’s simple, unadorned, and practical. Not meant to dazzle or impress or represent anything. It’s meant to be worn.

The blue is soft. No shimmering silk, no ornate beadwork, no stiff corsetry designed to shape you into something unnatural. Just fabric. And it’s beautiful in its simplicity.

It fits differently. Not perfectly though, because it’s not tailored for you. Everybody could have bought it.

But it feels good on your skin. Less constricting. Less forceful. Less pretense.

It’s simply a garment made for moving, for breathing, for living.

Even Bucky let his eyes sweep up and down your figure when you left the restroom to find him leaning on the wall beside it, guarded emotions in his eyes but with the faintest quirk of his lips.

It’s not a crown or a title that makes you you, after all. It’s not the richness of your clothes or the recognition in strangers' eyes. It is this - this ordinary moment, this glimpse into the freedom you always longed for, stepping into something that is entirely your own.

Here, you are just a girl in the woods. Hungry and cold and tired, sure.

But unimportant.

And it makes you think.

Oh, how it makes you think.

Your throat tightens. A lump rises.

Because the weightlessness of anonymity comes with its own gravity.

For the first time, you saw your life not through the glazed mirrors of the palace, but through the unflinching lens of the world the townsfolk are living in.

These people who have never had the luxury of silk or knew the feeling of heavy crown jewels.

They aren’t worried about alliances sealed with a handshake or whatever duke might be offended at the arrangement of the banquet table.

Their days are shaped by the price of grain, the tightness of worn-out boots, and the pain in tired hands.

Your problems, the ones you have clutched to your chest like they are the heaviest load to carry, now begin to feel fragile. Insubstantial.

You have swaddled yourself in stories of how hard it is to be you. A symbol of power and nothing more.

The court's environment has been stifling, the expectations intolerable, and still-

A crown? A title? What are those compared to hunger? To cold? To wondering whether you could feed your family tomorrow?

But this realization does not feel noble.

It does not feel freeing.

It is bitter. Pungent. It attacks your senses.

It is a piece of rock stuck in your chest, not heavy enough to crush you but sharp enough to scrape against every breath you take.

It is shame for how little you have truly understood about the people you were meant to rule one day.

You thought yourself wise in your suffering, so convinced that your confinement was the most severe of all jails. But now you see the truth and it is uncomfortable. The walls of your life have been gilded - but they were also soft, padded, built to keep out the tougher truths.

It makes you feel unmoored. It causes your skin to prickle, as if it no longer fits your body. Too tight in some places, too loose in others.

You are no longer bound to the strictures of palace life, yet troubled by a strange feeling of loss for the kind of security you didn’t even acknowledge you had.

The air itself seems lighter though the weight of your guilt bears down on you just as firmly as any crown.

Your hands itch - restless and searching for redemption, for something to fix, to erase, to change.

But will you be able to do something with that realization?

Perhaps not as the Princess you were, living in the palace. But maybe as the Princess you are now, living in the woods.

Bucky stops abruptly, his hand rising in silent command for you to halt.

You freeze, breath catching.

Every muscle in his back is coiled, his neck stiffens, and from what you can see his jaw is locked shut. His shoulders rise and stay there. You watch him move his head almost mechanically, darting his narrowed eyes around. One hand is at his blade, the other still in the air, making sure you don’t get the idea to move.

“Stay behind me,” he throws over his shoulder with his head still forward. Low and gravelly.

You nod faintly, heart quickening. Moments like this remind you of how much he carries. Not just your safety but every decision. Every choice that keeps you both alive.

Your body leans instinctively toward him.

You wait a few tense breaths.

“Is something wrong?” you whisper quietly, voice unsure.

He shakes his head, but his hand doesn’t stray from his knife.

You bite down on your lip, observing how his gaze wanders through the trees and the gaps between them. You hate how acutely you observe his breathing, the manner in which his hand clutches the hilt of his sword at his side, and how the muscles in his jaw are moving. And the way you only allow yourself to release your breath again when he does, exhaling sharply and letting his shoulders droop ever so slightly upon spotting a deer further back in the bushes that flees, causing the twigs on the ground to snap.

But most of all, you hate the part of you that doesn’t hate it at all.

****

You wake up to a hand over your mouth.

Or rather, you startle from sleep violently because of a hand tightly pressed over your mouth.

Your breath rips awake with a panicked surge, though it has nowhere to go.

The scream that barrels up your throat dies before it can be born, trapped beneath a rough and large palm that clamps over your lips with a firmness that has your eyes snap open like a whip crack, wide and wild.

Blackness bleeds into the periphery of your sight, and the shadows around you are thick, pooling over the forest.

The sky is only beginning to stir, dawn gently brushing over the horizon.

But it’s not enough to tell who or what has you.

Your body twists out of instinct, trying to thrash free, trying to fight. But the grip only tightens and a face enters your field of vision.

It’s Bucky.

The shadows sculpt his face, carving his features into sharp and harder lines.

The first thought that punches through your terror, so loud and irrational, is him trying to kill you. It slams into you with all the force of your worst fears. Maybe this is the moment he decided you have outlived your usefulness, that you are a liability too large to carry and he puts an end to it now.

You just thought he would rather use his knife on you.

Your pulse is a thunderstorm in your ears and you stare up at him, your chest heaving against his hand.

He is crouched over you, the breadth of him stealing the last scraps of your vision. His hair falls loose, the strands tangled and catching faint light. His jaw is a block of stone, but his eyes are what is pinning you in place.

They are fierce, glowing in the dim light like embers smoldering in ash. The intensity is terrifying and all-consuming and you can’t look away.

The scream inside you is still trying to jump out, but his gaze holds it captive, caging it as effectively as his hand over your mouth.

His pointer finger slowly moves to his lips. A warning clear in his gesture. Be quiet. Now.

Your body locks tight. The panic in your chest swells, but you clamp down on it, forcing yourself still. You think you nod - just barely - but he doesn’t immediately move. His eyes stay on yours, boring into you so piercingly, you forget how to breathe.

It’s only when you stop squirming completely, when he seems convinced that you won’t give you both away with a scream, that he slackens his grip.

Slowly, agonizingly slowly, his hand pulls back. The sensation of his touch lingers, the illusion of his hand still resting against your skin.

You suck in a shaky breath, and you think for one fractured second that you might cry. But his finger remains at his lips and you swallow the sound before it can rise.

His hand is still stiffly hovering near your face. The line of his shoulders is taut. His breathing is almost mechanical.

He is listening, you realize. Straining for something you can’t hear.

You try to follow his breathing pattern, slowing it, even though your heart is hammering so loudly in your chest it feels like it might give you both away.

Bucky’s face is closer than you’ve seen it. The sharp slope of his nose, the faint stubble lining his jaw, the way his hair clings to the sweat at his temple - it’s all there. So close. Stark and shadowed in the low light. His lips are pressed into a grim line and his eyes constantly shift from you, meticulously surveying the shadows beyond the trees with the kind of precision and control you would only expect on a predatory animal.

But he is on edge, more so than you’ve seen him. Every muscle in his body seems poised for something - a fight maybe, or a chase.

Your thoughts are scattered and tangled, but you realize that something is wrong.

You want to ask. You want to whisper, to demand what has him so wound tight. But his intensity and the sharpness of his movements keep your mouth shut.

And then, just barely above a whisper, he leans in. His breath brushes against your cheek, warm and fleeting.

“Don’t move! Stay down!” His voice is low and rough. And it’s not a suggestion. It’s a command and it roots you to the spot.

You can only stare at him.

“I mean what I say, Y/n. Stay down!”

His words hit you harder than his hand had moments ago.

Or the single word he used.

Your name.

Not princess not your highness not even darlin’ he used before to needle you. No, he said your name. It’s startling in its intimacy.

Your mind trips over it, stumbling, trying to make sense of the sound. He never called you by your name. You didn’t even expect him to know it. But now he took it in his mouth, has taken it, stripped it bare of ceremony and expectation, laid it before you like something unguarded.

It shouldn’t matter. It’s just a name. And hearing it out of Bucky’s mouth of all people should not make your heart pause the way it does. It’s like knowing how it sounds but somehow still hearing it for the first time.

He didn’t lace it with reverence or mockery, didn’t use it to wield it like a weapon to remind you where you stand.

No, the sound of your name rolls from his tongue as if it’s important. And it makes it stick to your ribs, makes it burrow under your skin and settle there.

Your name, stripped of its title, has never sounded so human.

“Do you understand me?”

You are face-to-face at this point. You could count the lines on his forehead. There is a freckle on his nose.

There is something in his voice that makes your skin crawl uncomfortably.

Is he afraid? The thought almost doesn’t compute. Bucky never seemed outright nervous, not even walking through the marketplace. But now, with his eyes like steel, his knuckles whitening against the hilt of his blade, the way he can’t help but keep his hand hovering at your side - It really seems like fear stitched into the corners of his expression.

But not for himself. For you.

Your throat bobs as you swallow against the knot rising there.

“I understand,” you whisper back to him, so hushed, he only hears it because of his closeness.

His eyes dart between yours with a swiftness that has you holding your breath. He is searching you, testing the truth of your words.

And when he finally moves away, it is slow, reluctant, as if some part of him still doesn’t trust you to stay put.

The woods abruptly seem overly silent. The type of hush that descends before something terrible happens. This isn't the peaceful, tranquil silence you have become accustomed to, even finding comfort in, during this never-ending journey. Silence from the birds. Silent foliage. Silent everything. Even the wind, typically so turbulent, halted in caution.

A snap of a branch.

Rigid Bucky.

Another snap.

Bucky positions himself in front of you.

Then you see them.

Fife men, all clad in mismatched finery, that seem to lose its luster. Their faces beat marks of wealth - sharp cheekbones, powdered skin - but their eyes are dark and hungry.

The uniforms. You know them. They are remnants of the royal army. Those men belonged to your father.

A shudder is rushing up your spine. Because they don’t carry themselves like that. They have cruel air around them. Arrogance. Greed. Spite.

Your breaths turn sharp, frantic.

There seems to be a leader. A man with hair as black as the shadows around you walks at the front. He’s taller, bulkier than the rest. And he stops a few inches before Bucky. The man oozes with haughtiness, his hand resting casually on the hilt of a jeweled sword.

Bucky is standing still in front of you. Like a stone wall. You watch the grip on Bucky’s blade tighten.

“Well, well,” the first man drawls, his voice slick with mockery. “James Barnes. The mighty soldier.” He lets out an ugly short laugh. “It really is you, eh? Went quite off the map. Imagine my surprise hearin’ you’re still up and breathin’.”

Bucky doesn’t respond. He doesn’t move. But his rage is silent. Sharpened into something lethal. He looks almost different now. More like a machine.

Boots crunch against leaves as the arrogant man takes another step toward you. His companions hang back. They look eager.

“What’s the matter, Barnes?” The leader tilts his head sardonically. “Nothin’ to say? No loyalty left to that golden crown’a yours?”

Bucky still doesn’t respond. But you notice the slight shift in his weight, the faintest tremor in his hand.

The man circles slowly then. More leaves crunch.

“How’s that little girl doin’ huh?” the man continues, his wicked smirk widening, voice dripping with feigned thoughtfulness. “Rebecca, was it?” He drags it out.

Something changes within Bucky then. Something terrible. It’s not the sharp, visible kind of anger, the kind that burns bright and loud.

It is darker. Ferocious.

Your stomach turns to water, your spine to ice.

Bucky doesn’t snarl or shout. He simply turns his head, fixing the man with a gaze so cold and venomous it sends a chill through your veins.

He holds the knife in his hand low, deceptively casual, the blade tilting forward as though it is leaning into the kill before he even moves.

You try to press yourself further into the shadows. Watching with wide eyes. It’s all you can do. Your hands are curled, knuckles white and nails pouncing on your soft skin.

You don’t know what is going on, but it seems like Bucky knows these men. You don’t like it. At all.

The air grows thicker, cunning, and it prickles on your skin, making you shiver.

“Lookin’ good for a dead man, soldier. Got a lotta nerve showin’ your face after all this time,” the leader hisses, clearly losing patience.

“Likewise,” Bucky says lowly, malice in his tone.

Your mind becomes a crowded room, thoughts bumping into each other, none of them clear, all of them loud.

“We’re just here for the girl, Barnes.” The man’s tone is casual, with a humorless laugh accompanying it. His head jerks toward you and Bucky immediately shifts deliberately to block more of your form. “Hand her over and maybe we’ll let you walk away this time.” His tone suggests that that’s a lie.

A shorter man standing behind his leader with crooked teeth and a twitchy demeanor nods fervently, licking his lips.

You feel a quiver in your throat. It rises too fast, pushing past breaths meant to fill your lungs but only causes them to stumble out of the way. It vibrates so enormously, seemingly coming from beneath your ribs, a sound dredged from the depth of your body, where words were never meant to go.

A dangerous stillness settles over Bucky.

His cheekbones catch the faint glow of the early light, making the hollows beneath them look darker, deeper, like they hold shadows he’s never managed to shake and now try to control him.

The leather strap across his chest strains with every considered breath he takes, each inhale swelling his upper body with a contained kind of violence, each exhale releasing a promise of it.

“Turn around, Rumlow,” Bucky says almost flatly. Though there is a hint of ice. “This ain’t worth it.”

Your heart is trying to run away from you, desperately asking your legs why they are still frozen in place.

“She’s the king's daughter, ain’t she.” It’s not a question. “They’ll pay through the nose for her, dead or alive.” A cruel grin. “Preferably dead. I’d expect you’d want that too, Barnes. What happened?”

Your stomach drops. A freefall into emptiness.

The blue of Bucky’s eyes is glacial, like the frozen water of a lake that will crack and shatter and make you sink to your icy death if you step too close.

“I won’t say this again.” Bucky’s voice is dangerous. Too calm. The tendon along his neck stands out against his skin. “You don’t want to do this. Walk away.” There is a readiness in the way his feet shift slightly against the forest floor.

You realize with a shudder that his eyes assess them, weigh them, calculate the angles and weaknesses of the men he seems to know.

The leader barks a laugh, sharp and hollow. “And you’re just out here wastin’ her, eh?” the leader sneers. He spits on the ground, his face twisted into something ugly. “What, Barnes? You keepin’ her for yourself? Tryn’a ransom her back and cut us out? That your plan, huh?” There is bitterness in his voice. It is startling. Almost making you flinch. Bucky doesn’t so much as twitch.

Rumlow lets his head swing back to you, greedy eyes boring through your skin. You feel like prey caught in a trap. “You gonna be a good little princess and crawl over to us, eh?” His voice is wheedling. Hungry. The insult that is your title lands hard.

“Say one more word to her and I’ll make sure you choke on it,” Bucky growls, voice rumbling like thunder.

The morning mist swirls around his feet, as though it’s afraid to touch him.

“Oh, we’ll happily take her over your dead body.”

“You’re welcome to try.”

The first man, short and younger looking, lunges, but Bucky is already moving.

He sidesteps the attack with the precision of someone who has seen this play out a thousand times in his mind. His blade flashes for a second before slicing through the air to meet the man’s neck. The sickening thud of a body hitting the ground echoes through the clearing, but other than you, Bucky doesn’t flinch.

The second and third men come at him together. And you see the difference between them and him. They are noblemen who pick up their swords with comfort and arrogance, muscles padded with blinding rapacity and movements not entirely thought through.

Bucky is just brutal.

His steps are effective, his stance is strong. There is no hesitation, no wasted motion.

This is not the guarded, sarcastic Bucky you have come to know in the last two weeks.

There is an awareness lighting in you that this fight is about more than just your protection.

His lips curl into a snarl, his teeth bared as if he is more wolf than man. But beneath it all, there are other emotions carrying the blade in his hand, making his actions seem like not quite his own. Something personal.

The next man barely has time to swing his blade before Bucky disarms him with a brutal twist of his wrist. The attacker crumples to the ground with a strangled cry, clutching at his arm, but he is already sidestepping another attack.

He doesn’t fight like someone who enjoys violence, he fights like someone who has lived it. Who has been forged in it. His strikes are not just attacks, they are statements. Declarations of his interest to survive, to ensure no one leaves this clearing alive but him and you.

But there is no recklessness in him. Another strike, another block, another dodge - wanton, as though he has anticipated the outcome of each move before he made it.

He fights like a man who has nothing to lose and everything to prove. Like a man who has faced death before and came out the other side as a new bitter and harder version.

You press yourself closer to the ground, heart hammering so loudly you think it might betray your presence. But your eyes can’t leave him. You can’t look away - not from the fury in his speed, not from the way he keeps glancing over his shoulder to make sure you are still there.

Rumlow lunges, blades are clashing, the metallic ring sounding so shrill, it hurts your ears. Bucky grunts as their weapons lock, the veins in his arms straining as he shoves the other guy back.

“Girl’s worth more dead than alive. You know that better than I do, Barnes,” Rumlow shouts, spit flying from his mouth.

“Shut up!” Bucky’s voice shakes with fury and he dives in again.

He meets the man with a force so brutal, it makes you flinch.

Your hands grow restless.

Your chest is constricted.

There is that helplessness again. The worthlessness you despise within yourself, the initial thought for a reason Bucky might have, to grow tired of you and end your life when he clamped his hand over your mouth earlier. The uselessness that grates against your ears and makes you want to cover them with your hands.

You see something glinting.

But it’s none of the weapons currently used only a few feet away. It’s a blade glinting in the dirt not far from you, knocked loose perhaps from the first fool who lunged at Bucky. Who’s now a dead body on the ground. You try not to pay him any mind and rather keep your gaze on the discarded dagger.

The world narrows to that single point - the weapon within reach, the chance to do something.

And you do. Scrambling forward, fingers curling around the hilt.

You stand. Your breath comes in short, panicked gasps as you struggle to find out what to do with it.

But your hesitation was enough time for one of the men to catch your arm, yanking you back with a force that sends you sprawling. The blade slips from your grasp, skidding across the ground, and you barely manage to twist as he leaps on you.

You don’t know what he aimed to hit but due to your squirming, his fist connects with your shoulder, the impact radiating pain through your entire body.

But you don’t cower back.

Fueled by adrenaline and sheer desperation, you lash out, your hands wildly searching the ground for something. And there is something. A snaggy branch is lying in the dirt and your hands fumble to grasp it. You swing with all your strength, the wood splintering as it connects with the side of his head.

Your attacker stumbles and curses and you scramble to your feet, lagging the grace you knew.

Your heart pounds as you turn to search for Bucky and find him engaged with the three others, including the leader.

“Y/n!��� He shouts, visibly aggravated. There is blood on your temple, the branch in your hand is trembling. His expression is dark. Almost panicked.

“Stay back,” he roars, not even looking at the man he’s ruthlessly shoving to the ground, a knife embedded between ribs.

Your gaze is drawn to Bucky, not noticing that your earlier assailant charges at you once more, anger fueling his strength.

Bucky yells your name again. He’s furious.

You barely manage to dodge in time, a blade grazing your side. The pain is sharp. One of your hands clutches your side, your fingers instantly slippery with blood, the dark warmth of it a horrifying contrast to the chill in the air.

You gasp at the sting, stumbling slightly, uncoordinated, and in that moment, you let go of the branch. It thuds to the ground and you step back, the soldier before you, only grinning at you. It’s cruel and dark. There is blood on his teeth. He is playing with you. He is enjoying your show of weakness. Making fun of the way he can easily overpower you. Making fun of the way you are scared despite him not doing anything.

But that dagger you dropped still lays and glints on the ground, and you scramble to reach it. Holding it in front of your chest, you grip it with an intensity so strong, your hands are shaking, partly to stabilize yourself and prevent this wound from overpowering your senses and breaking you down. The nerves in your hand are screaming at you to raise it and swing the weapon at your opponent once more, but the shock in your mind is resounding even louder.

Your assailant takes a step toward you, tilting his head in mockery when you take one back, despite the dagger lifting higher.

Your heart is racing, your side is throbbing, your head is swirling, and the man facing you seems poised to leap at you again, done with his taunting antics.

But before there is anything he can do, there is a wall in front of you.

Bucky. His back.

He is moving with a reaction that is instantaneous. Like he couldn’t afford to waste even a second. His knife slashes through the air so fast and fluid, your head is spinning, deflecting the other man’s strikes with a grace that is effortless.

The way Bucky is moving is terrifying and mesmerizing all at once. There is a fury in him, unbridled rage that you’ve only seen glimpses of before, but now it’s fully unleashed. His opponent falters. Just for a second. But it’s enough for Bucky to put an end to this.

He drives his elbow into the man’s gut with a force that makes him groan loudly, then follows it with a swift and clean slice of his knife. Another body slumps down.

Bucky turns before it hits the ground, focus snapping back to you. He quickly, almost urgently, scans your body, taking in every detail. “You okay?” His voice is unnecessarily loud, but not bitingly so. It sounds more like worry.

For a moment, with him standing there before you, blade dripping crimson, shoulders rising and falling with the effort of breathing, stormy eyes so intently fixed on you, he looks almost otherworldly. Like a fallen angel - beautiful in its lethality, terrible in its wrath.

You nod weakly, even though you’re not okay. Not even close.

The ache in your side is like a persistent, pulsing signal, and your sight blurs just slightly at the corners of your periphery. It gives you the feeling of a cruel kiss that burns hotter with every breath you take. But you succeed in standing a bit straighter, gripping the dagger still in your hand more firmly. Shivers move through your fingers around the hilt but you hold on tight. It almost feels grounding.

Bucky’s eyes are wild when he sees the blood.

“He got you,” he grounds out roughly. The cords in his neck tighten, his jaw a stark line against the pale light. Teeth click together, sending out a sharp sound that feels loaded with frustration.

He doesn’t say anything more, but his hand shifts and you let him carefully press against the wound to staunch the flow, and you bite back a cry. His lip twitches, caught between a word unsaid and a growl restrained.

His eyes resemble steel, yet they flicker with chaotic elements that spin and swivel so rapidly and then slip away, leaving you unable to comprehend them and grasp their meaning.

Suddenly, there is a rustling behind Bucky and your heart lurches. It’s the leader. Rumlow. The one Bucky fought before rushing to you. He’s not down yet. He’s battered and bloodied, red streaks lining his face, movements sluggish and uneven. His breaths are labored, but he is still standing.

Bucky’s focus is entirely on you. And Rumlow sees that. He sees the momentary distraction, the second of vulnerability. You watch with fear the way he angles his body, the way his eyes are fixed on Bucky’s unguarded back.

Bucky hasn’t noticed him - he’s too focused on you, his attention divided at the worst possible moment.

Slowly at first, Rumlow moves. Then faster, his sword trembling in his hand, but raised as he closes the distance between himself and Bucky with tottering steps. His face is twisted with hatred.

Panic floods your system, so cold and all-consuming. Your grip tightens on the dagger in your hand, palm clammy with sweat and blood. There is no time to think. There is merely time for instinct, untamed and primal.

You take a breath - a shallow and painful breath - and pull your arm back, the motion pulling slightly at the wound on your other side and it still feels awkward and shaky, but you are driven by the horror of seeing it unfold in slow motion in your mind.

You let the dagger fly. For a heartbeat everything else fades away - the pain, the terror, the sound of your own ragged breathing, the feeling of Bucky’s hand on you. There is only the blade, its trajectory, and the hope - the desperate, fervent hope - that it will hit its mark.

And it does.

The leader staggers, his eyes widening in shock as the dagger buries itself in his side. His body jerks with the force and his momentum falters, his steps stumbling as he plummets to the ground. Slipping from his grasp, his sword lands uselessly in the dirt beside him. His breath hitches in broken gasps until he lies still.

Bucky spins around, his eyes immediately locking onto the man on the ground, then snapping back to you. For someone whose expressions are typically inscrutable, he looks rather shocked right now.

He blinks. And then he just stares. In disbelief. Lips slightly parted. He even loosens his hand at your side for a moment in astonishment. His chest rises and falls with heavy breaths, the strong tension in his shoulder visible beneath his blood-caked armor.

“You-” He starts to say something, but his voice falters, words stuck in his throat. He swallows hard, his gaze darting from your face to the wound in your side, then back to the man on the ground.

“He- he was going to-” You start to defend yourself, but he cuts you off with a rasp.

“I know.” He clears his throat. There is something more translucent in his eyes now, wild elements settling in place. It’s fierce and protective and proud and stunned all at once. His shoulders slump slightly. “I know.” It still sounds hoarse.

Neither of you speaks for a while. The forest is quiet again. But there is a distant chirp of birds that comes with the morning. And more light is shining through. Your hands feel weightless, the trembling so fine it’s almost a vibration.

Bucky’s hand steadies on your wound, his touch firm but not harsh. His gaze stays on you as if he is memorizing every detail of your face in this moment.

Then, with a slight shake of his head, as if remembering himself, he carefully lowers you to the ground, deliberate but brisk, as if afraid even the air might injure you further. He makes you sit on a tree stump.

He’s muttering something under his breath, perhaps a curse at the situation, or maybe just words to fill the silence, but you can barely hear it over the roaring in your ears. Pain lashes through your side and you hiss.

You don’t register if Bucky’s following words were an apology, or a curse, or something else entirely. Your ears are muting your surroundings, every sound collapsing into a muffled rush that swells in your head. You only see his muscles ticking.

Bucky is kneeling in front of you, his knee pressing into the dirt. Shadows dig deep into the lines of his face, his brows furrowed so deeply, giving the impression they are bearing the full force of the world.

Anger, worry and emotions much more deeper are stretching his mouth into a grim line.

He pulls the cloak he bought for you, the one you had shrugged off before the fight began, and drapes it around your trembling shoulders.

He grinds his teeth while doing so, hands tugging at the edges of the cloak, pulling it snugly against your frame.

His broad form casts a shadow over your shivering body.

He turns for a second and then the gleam of his knife catches your eye. Before your heart can even skip a beat he brings it to your new dress. To the part where your wound is sitting. You gasp. The tearing sound that follows makes your stomach twist and you flinch, but his hands hold you in place.

“What did you do?” you breathe, in shock. Staring at him. Staring at your side. Staring at the torn fabric.

“I need to see the wound,” he answers, not meeting your eyes. His voice appears to aim for indifference, but he doesn’t quite pull it off. Perhaps there's even a slight hint of an apology in his tone.

“Hold still,” he murmurs, softer this time, as though he genuinely regrets acting this impulsive. His fingers brush against your skin, warm and calloused, as he pulls the torn fabric away from the wound.

You take in a sharp breath at the exposure, the chilly air nipping at the tender areas of your wound. His jaw tightens. His hands go stiff.

“Damn it,” he grounds out, and you see a faint slip in his control. His features are taut, pulled into opposite directions. He is angry - there is a flash in his eyes that confirms that much. But the frustrated vibrations in the set of his shoulders sags lightly, and there is a hesitation in his fury. It shimmers underneath the blue. It’s crackling and colliding, crawling and fighting to reach the forefront. Guilt. Bitterness. Desolation.

A sharp exhale leaves him and he drags a hand down his face.

There is a tremor in his hands. And he leaks of tension. But there is something else, too. Something softer. Something deeper.

You saved him, and he knows it. But you can’t tell if that makes things better or worse.

Glancing at you then, his eyes search yours for something you’re not sure you can give. You think he might say something, but then he just releases another profound breath.

Sitting up slightly, he takes your hands and presses them to your wound. “Hold this,” he instructs stiffly, his fingers guiding yours to show you how to keep the pressure firm.

His touch lingers for just a moment before he pulls away to reach for something in his pack. You do as he says, though your hands tremble, and the blood soaking through your fingers makes you want to vomit.

You want to say something. Anything. To apologize for disregarding his orders to stay put, for being reckless, for putting him in this position. But the words don’t come. No words come. Your lips are barriers no word dares to cross. Your tongue is heavy. And you can’t really bring yourself to look at him. Especially his shifting eyes.

Instead, your gaze averts to your boots, then to the forest ground, but only to the sections that lack a corpse, your shocked mind desperately attempting to undo everything that just took place.

Squatting down in front of you again, you take notice of what he retrieved from his pack and your skin grows hot with uncomfortable blisters.

The flask glints in the morning light. Bucky unscrews the cap and the sharp tang of whiskey wafts into the air.

You press your hands more firmly to your wound in hopes of shielding it better. You start to shake your head, but he sighs heavily.

“We need to clean that wound,” he explains, and for a heartbeat, his voice carries an unfamiliar softness. Maybe it’s vulnerability, maybe it’s tenderness. You can’t tell. “It’ll stop infection.”

Your gaze drops to the ground. To the dirt, the blood, and the remnants of the torn blue fabric that litters the space between you. A defeated breath falls from your lips and you build up all your courage to let your hands slide off your wound.

“It’s going to hurt,” he says with the same tone and still only holds the flask up in his hand, waiting for your permission to continue.

Your mouth is still guarding your words. But you manage a nod.

And with that he quickly tears a strip of clean cloth from the hem of his own shirt, soaking it in the alcohol. His hands are steadying themselves, but there is that uncoordinated twitch in his fingers, a quiver, when they linger too long.

“Bite down on this,” he says, handing you another piece of cloth. You hesitate, but the heat in his eyes compels you to take it and press it between your teeth.

With a last glance at you, and another nod from you, he presses the soaked cloth to your wound.

The pain is a searing fire that tears through your side and sends a strangled cry spilling from your lips, muffled by the cloth. Your entire body jerks, but his hands are there to keep you stable.

“Easy,” he says, low and strained, but you keep on hafting to the note of reassurance. “Easy.”

Your breaths are sharp and irregular gasps, and tears prick at the corners of your eyes.

The world compresses to the searing torment in your side and the pressure of his hands on your skin, anchoring you even as the pain risks dragging you under.

“Almost done.” His voice is barely a whisper, as though the words aren’t even meant for you, but himself. His gaze falls over you, your face, lingering longer than necessary, trying to gauge your condition.

Finally, he pulls the cloth away and examines his work. “That’s the worst of it,” he says almost through gritted teeth, voice a little thicker than he surely meant it to be.

You watch him some more when he retrieves a bandage from his pack and wraps it around your side carefully.

When he finishes, he sits back on his heels, exhaling heavily. “That’ll hold for now.” His voice is low. He doesn’t look at you. His gaze is fixed on the ground. Then it’s fixed on his hands that hold your blood and the ones of the dead men lying around the clearing. The muscles in his face are tight.

You don’t look at him either. You don’t even know where you look.

All you see is this man you killed. His face is there every time you blink, imprinted into the dark of your eyelids like a haunting. His eyes wide and disbelieving, staring at you - not Bucky, the man who shielded you and bought you here - but you.

You, with the dagger in your shaking hand. You, who let it fly. The way his body had jerked, the dagger sinking into flesh, his mouth opening as though he wanted to speak but couldn’t. The way his knees buckled, and he fell to the ground like a heap. The way he didn’t get up. The stillness. Utter stillness.

No amount of air you fill your lungs with feels like enough.

The memory is too much. The knowing that he lies in eyesight on the ground is too much. Too much to hold. Too much to process. Too much too much too much-

You have killed before. In stories, in the sanctuary of your imagination, where brave princesses slayed dragons or vanquished evil knights.

But this is not a story.

This is not a knife thrown at a wooden log, or an idle thought in a quiet moment.

You aimed your throw not at a tree, but at a man. He was flesh and blood. A living, breathing man. And you made his breath stop.

Guilt twists its way up your throat like bile.

You saved Bucky - that much you know. That much you hold onto, even as your chest heaves and your heart races. If you hadn’t thrown that dagger, hadn’t acted, perhaps Bucky would’ve been the corpse on the ground instead. He might have fallen, lying in the dirt, lifeless, blood pooling beneath him.

The thought sends icy shivers up your spine.

But it does not undo what you’ve done. It does not change the fact that a man died at your hands.

This wasn’t just any man. He was a royal soldier. A soldier who should have answered to the crown. To you. He was someone who once swore an oath to the crown, to your family.

He should have presented himself with pride, with the discipline you’ve always imagined in the soldiers who served under your father's banner.

Instead, he had snarled your name like a curse, his words full of malice and predatory hunger.

He wore the insignia, the armor. He belonged to you, and yet he hadn’t acted like it. There was no salute, no respect, no recognition. Just malevolence in his eyes and voice and the gleam of his sword.

And, somehow, Bucky knew him.

There was something in his face, something dark and old and full of personal hatred.

Both their words held venom that spoke of history. Betrayal. Something you don’t understand.

How could this have escalated so quickly? One moment, you are shivering in the forest, trying to decipher Bucky’s moods and the significance of your choices. The next moment there is blood and violence and death and so many questions.

Here you are now, your thoughts shattered and wailing, grasping at fragments of logic and reason that continuously elude you.

You glance at Bucky.

He is pacing now, a few feet away, his movements sharp, almost agitated. But still controlled. He is wiping his blade clean, cloth coming away crimson, and the sight makes you nauseous.

There is a river not too far from where your clearing is. He’s told you, you would make a stop there today when you made camp here the day before. He could have cleaned his blade then. But it seems like he can’t wait to get the blood off right away.

His shoulders stand like armored gates, guarding a pressure that seems to press on him. The muscles in his forearms ripple with every tiny motion.

His features are half obscured by shadows and blood but the look in his eyes is clear, and it makes him seem more like a weapon than a man.

You are hit with the reality that you don’t know anything about him. Who is he? Really? What has he done? What has he endured? The man who carries himself like an unbreakable force, who moves with lethal and deadly precision and a soldier's instinct.

All those things said by the man named Rumlow, those accusations thrown, the ugly words about you. They try to choke you from the inside out.

Who is Rebecca? What happened to her? Who is she to Bucky?

And why did this black-haired man speak to Bucky about his loyalty to the crown? Why did he call him soldier?

Bucky has saved you. Protected you. But he did it because he promised your mother he would.

And those things Rumlow has said, the looks they all gave him - it tells a story you don’t know.

He is a mystery to you. A mystery with ghosts that still haunt him, if the look in his eyes is anything to go by.

Your eyes return to your hands. Your palms are still sticky, coated with dirt and blood - not all of it yours. You gulp down, feeling nausea knotting in your stomach once more.

Heat rises to your skin, clammy and unpleasant, a fever that clings without flame.

You saved him. That's the reality you continue to grasp at, yet it seems fleeting, hard to catch.

You saved him, but in doing so, you ended someone else’s life.

Layer upon layer of shame tightens like a noose around your neck.

It constricts. And the feeling spreads. It migrates - to your shoulders, your chest, your belly, your hips, pressing and squeezing even tighter around the part where your wound sits.

You threw the dagger at a human being. And you hit him. True enough to kill.

You want to feel relief. You want to feel proud, even. Bucky is alive and walking, and you had a hand in that. But all you feel is the way the world shifts under you, how unsteady it’s become.

You sense the chilling tendrils of guilt, winding around your chest, your throat, your thoughts.

Guilt for what you’ve done. Guilt for feeling guilty.

The cloak slips from your shoulders, and you let it. Your head bows, fingers curling into the fabric of your garment. It was new. It was blue. It was beautiful. Now it’s ruined.

“They were soldiers.” It leaves you in a breath. Maybe it makes it easier to handle that truth when spoken aloud. It doesn’t.

Bucky pauses mid-step, his back to you, his shoulders stiffening even more at your words. “Yeah.” His voice is unreadable.

“They- they served the crown,” you press. To him, to yourself, to the forest, to the corpses on the ground. You have no idea. It doesn’t matter. “They served-”You stop short, swallowing a lump down. Swallowing tears back.

“They served themselves,” Bucky bites out, his tone sharper than earlier, laced with something dark. He turns to face you then, anger shooting through his eyes, but not at you. “Swearin’ loyalty to a banner doesn’t make a man good. Men with badges and titles might do worse than those without.”

You flinch at his words. They fall. Like seeds dropped into cracks you didn’t know you had. You feel the heaviness of them. The thud in your chest, your heart catching something it wasn’t prepared to hold.

And all you can do is snap your mouth back shut.

You lower your head again. Fingers shake around the fabric of your garment from how tightly you’re gripping them. The guilt festers, tumbles, grows, and you sit there, silent, unable to reconcile the princess you once were with the murderer you’ve become.

“She was never quite ready. But she was brave. And the universe listens to brave.”

- Rebecca Ray

Part six

Taglist: @cjand10 @unaxv @bellamoret @singsosworld

[ratatouillewastakendammit]

Hiiii! How are you???

I loved the love-quirk piece you wrote for Touya/Dabi and was wondering if you could do the same trope for Hawks please please please??? 🥺🩷

Ugh I lovvveee Hawks and I hope you enjoy!

Pairing: Hawks x Reader

Summary: Love-quirk trope but Keigo Takami edition because he deserve some nice fluff

Warnings: Language; suggestive

Word Count: 2.9k

The wind whipped through the stray strands of your hair, stinging your eyes as you ran toward the scene. It tousled the fabric of your hero suit, wrapping around your body as you took a moment take in your surroundings.

Despite the fact that the commotion seemed to have calmed down a bit, it was easy to see that chaos had just recently erupted. Haphazard concrete was littered across the street, a lamppost smashed through the middle strewn directly in front of you. Its dying bulb flickered amidst the debris, a beacon of energy among all of the destruction.

You had gotten the call maybe seven minutes ago. At the time, you had been peacefully drinking your morning serving of coffee. The word of criminals attacking the Northern side of the city rumbling over the agency forced you to push the steaming cup aside, ignoring the look of dejection stemming from the kind intern who had brought it.

Hawks had gotten there significantly earlier, thanks to his widely known speed and the fact that you were on the opposite side of town.

Speaking of your partner, he was nowhere to be seen, but the stray streaks of red plumage floating through the air alluded to him being close by, most likely taking down remaining villains in the nearby vicinity.

If the multiple unconscious bodies were anything to go by, he had already taken care of most of the assailants. Still, there seemed to be a few scattered around, all of which immediately began gunning for you.

You weren't exactly worried, however. Groups like this believed their abundance in numbers would make up for a noticeable lack of skill.

There was one left moments later, armed to the teeth, but visibly sloppy when it came to close combat.

Arms forward, you readied yourself for a quick win as a flash of color registered in your peripheral vision. You turned, almost positive that it was your partner, but wanting to make sure. That recognizably cocky grin and friendly wave confirmed your suspicions.

That grin faltered for a moment as he watched you pause, fists growing limp and face showing no reaction to the scythe-wielding villain running straight for you.

Reaction time as extraordinary as ever, Hawks shot forward and rammed his body into yours, the both of you colliding into the road as he tried your best to protect your head within his arms. A wall of feathers were unconsciously sent towards the criminal, the man currently screaming and banging on the now iron-like plumes.

Hawks took a breath, your face still buried in his shoulder and cradled beneath his biceps. His attempts to ignore the speed of his heart at your nearby demise went in vain, even as he forced that usual lighthearted upswing into his tone. "What the hell happened? Trying to keep me on my toes or something, sweetheart?"

Pulling away slightly, he readied himself for that usual glance of annoyance he'd receive when using the nickname. Surprisingly, your features held none of that discernible exasperation.

One of embarrassment and guilt lay there instead, your eyes flitting towards the ground.

"I'm sorry... I guess I got distracted." You lifted your gaze to meet his. "I just was thinking that you looked really nice today."

The absolute deadpan expression he wore would've had you chuckling any other day, laughter bubbling at the way his eyes seemed to almost double in surprise. Regardless, a saccharine smile, sweet and alluring, was what you offered.

His flirtatious remarks towards you were nothing new. He had liked you for a while, sure, but his usually amorous persona was known by many, so he wasn't sure you thought much of it. You had definitely never indulged in it, however, usually brushing it off with some sassed retort for the sake of professionalism.

The way you looked at him had his mind in shambles. It looked like you were on cloud-nine, blithe and unbothered despite your near death experience.

"Excuse me?"

Hawks jumped up, lacing an arm beneath your shoulders to take you with him.

A navy-clad police officer stared back at you both.

"Thanks for your help." She cleared her throat, trying to wipe away the look of surprise she was wearing. "We can take the cleanup from here."

"Thanks," he offered her a friendly nod before turning around and walking away, a hand wrapped protectively around your wrist. Craning his neck slightly downward, he muttered a quiet, "You okay?"

"Mhm. I feel fine."

"Uh-huh." Golden eyes glazed over your form, unconvinced.

"I am kind of tired, though. Can you fly us back?"

He stopped.

There had been a few instances where Hawks would fly you back to the agency's building after a mission.

Or, more so, he would offer, you would kindly decline, and he would sneak up from behind, pulling your body into his before taking off without warning.

It was something about the way you were forced to wrap your arms around his neck, hanging tightly in fear despite the fact that he would never allow anything to happen to you.

And even though the display of your annoyance didn't go above the usual huff of complaints after landing, you had definitely never asked for him to do it.

There was something wrong with you, that much he could tell. And while he was covertly enjoying this overly affectionate version of you quite a bit, the worry he felt for your well being easily overshadowed any satisfaction he was feeling.

Still, he nodded, not keen on letting you out of his sight as of now, sliding a hand behind your back and under your knees before pulling you close and rising into the air. He watched your expressions closely, well enough versed in the layout of the city to be able to not pay attention to where he was going.

As usual, your features were brimming with quiet anxiety, but nothing else exactly seemed to be all that different. Besides the way you clung onto him without the slightest bit of protest, of course.

It had been mere minutes before the agency faded into view, mirrored windows reflecting the splendor of an early evening sunset. His landing was just as graceful as the departure, combat boots sliding just barely across the cobblestone road.

You hopped out of his hold, but kept an arm laced around his own as Hawks led the both of you inside. Photojournalists were a constant outside of his agency and he was sure a shot of you two, your head resting beneath his shoulder as you practically hung off his side, would make them go crazy.

And while he didn't exactly mind, he was almost certain that you would be peeved if the paparazzi began spreading word of some dating scandal.

That could wait until you were more than just rumors.

Keigo was nothing if not persistent.

Especially when it came to you.

Automatic doors shut behind you, the soft click of shoes against polished marble echoing off the lobby's walls. The receptionist, a elderly woman with silvery hair and glasses much too large for her face, offered Hawks a wave, expression faltering slightly as she saw your hand laced with his.

"Are you okay, hon?" She leaned over her desk as you came into hearing range, aged voice lowering into a whisper. "He bribe you or somethin'?"

You laughed, the sound light and carefree. It gnawed at the edges of Keigo's chest. "Not at all!"

The older female flicked her eyes up to her boss, eyebrow raised in overt suspicion.

"Yeah, I'm not really sure what's going on yet," he sighed, running a hand through his golden bangs. "Can you get me the security footage from earlier today?"

She took a moment, face wrinkling in thought before looking up. "You!"

The subject of her call, an intern carrying a tray of steaming cups from a nearby coffee shop, jumped in surprise. Hawks had recognized him from around the office, but his name was lost, mix up in the sea of other employees that came on for the Summer.

"You're good at the screen stuff, yeah?"

Nodding hesitantly, the worker moved closer, eyes locking with the both of you. Panic washed his features as his gaze went back and forth over the heroes in front of him, each orbital shift making it seem like he was trying not to vomit.

As he reached the desk, he practically ducked under your line of sight, reaching the receptionist's computer, fiddling with it for a moment, and scurrying away without another word.

The suspicions in regards to the intern followed Hawks as he took you upstairs, ignoring the looks of confusion from some of his other coworkers. As the door to his office shut with a soft click, he pulled out his desk chair, slumping down with a sigh.

"Alright, lovebird. You're gonna stay in here while I look through some videos. Got it?"

You flashed in a grin. "Think I'm gonna get in trouble or something?"

"Seeing as I had to save your ass half an hour ago, maybe." A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Ya know, I don't think I got enough groveling for that."

"Yeah?" You moved over to where he was sitting, sliding a leg over both of his and sliding down until you were able to straddle his lap. Wrapping your arms around his neck, you looked up at him, eyes glossy and voice dripping in temptation like honey. "Thank you, Hawks, for saving me."

If there was ever a time he wanted to tell someone his given name, it was now. Every inch of him wanted to hear that needing tone lilt through his name, not the famed honorific the world knew him for.

Hearing you moan it would be even better.

Still, the possibility of some mind control or body swap being behind your strand behavior gnawed at the peripheral of his mind.

He was desperately trying to ignore the thought of how nice your hips would look between his hands.

Responsibility and desire wrestled in his mind, the latter getting dangerously close to a KO when the knocked sounded from behind his door.

"What?" The sound came out sounding significantly ruder than how he'd usually like it, but that couldn't be helped.

The frosted glass entryway slid open slowly, a trembling hand pushing it forward. A figure followed it, the fidgeting intern from earlier that Hawks had almost forgotten about.

"May I speak with you, sir?" He swallowed, eyes flickering from you both to the ground. "Alone?"

Cocking an eyebrow, Hawks turned to you. "I'm just gonna be a few minutes. Can you wait outside for me, sweetheart?"

You nodded, but the slight pout running through your bottom lip displayed your aversion to the idea.

It easily had Keigo's pants tightening.

Once the door had shut behind you, the intern took the open seat in front of the desk, hands wringing one another in a desperate attempt to smother some anxiety.

Based on his expression, it definitely didn't seem to be working.

"So, uh... I know why she's acting like that..."

Those unanswered suspicions from earlier jumped in Hawks' chest, despite the fact that they had been forgotten mere moments before.

You were a distracting little thing.

Maybe this debacle was as dangerous for him as it was for you.

But if you were his undoing, he wasn't sure that he would mind.

"I promise I wasn't trying to do anything wrong," the worker continued, voice meek and entangled with nerves. "I just... I just wanted to see if she liked me back."

Jealously burned in the back of Keigo's chest, a feeling distasteful enough to be difficult to ignore, but your well being was currently more important.

He ran a hand through his hair, one of the few physical tellers he exhibited when exasperated. "What did you do?"

Swallowing, the man in front of him continued. "Well, um, I have a love quirk and I usually bring the other heroes their coffee, so I kinda sorta used it while it was handing it out to her this afternoon."

Silence hung in the air like some toxic, poignant type of humidity.

"What?"

The worker bowed in an apology, the top of his head barely missing the wooden edge of Kiego's desk as it was thrown downward. "I know it was stupid and I promise I'll never do it again. Please don't fire me."

The number two hero wasn't exactly known to get angry.

But dammit, if he wasn't downright terrifying when he was.

"Are you serious? Didn't you stop to think that she could've gotten hurt?" Hawks stood up, the heels of his chair skimming across the floor. Golden irises flared in vexation, matching the sneer resting on his mouth. "She could've died! Fuck, she almost did!"

Now trembling a bit, the intern let out a sniffle. "I'm sorry. It's just... she's so pretty and is always nice to me."

Sitting down, Hawks took a minute to breathe, letting the indignation filter out before he said, or did, something he would regret. Some part of him couldn't exactly blame his employee; he had fallen for you just as easily.

He sighed, rested his face on the palm of his free hand. "And how the hell would making her fall in love with you prove whether or not she was interested anyway?"

The worker looked like they were about to keel over. "The quirk only works if the effected individual makes eye contact with someone they have feelings for."

Fireworks went off in his mind, blowing a usually cunning train of thought to shambles. To say he was fucking giddy was an understatement and if he hadn't been so pissed off at his own intern, he might've thanked him.

Still, he had one more question.

"So, how do you, ya know, turn it off?"

"You gotta," his employee cleared his throat. "You gotta kiss her."

Anger from moments before and pure glee were fighting for dominance in Hawks' head.

"If anything like this happens again, you're out. Understood?"

The intern nodded fervently, practically sprinting out of the office and offering sputtered words of thanks all the way. You followed shortly after, eyes darting around to make sure you weren't interrupting any meetings.

Hawks stood, immediately walking over to you.

"Is everything okay? That guy seemed kinda ner-"

He pushed his lips against you, swallowing your words with a soft moan as he hands found their way around your waist.

When he pulled back, he watched you blink away the confusion. He could practically see the gears of your mind turning. It didn't take long for embarrassment to wash over your features, a look of amusement falling over his own as you lifted a hand to your face in awe.

"Oh, shit," you breathed. "Oh my gosh, I am so sorry. I swear I didn't-'

"Ah, come on, you don't have to be shy. I thought it was cute." A smirk found its way onto his expression.

You turned away from him, trying to ignore the blistering heat finding its way into your cheeks. "What even happened?"

"You're just too trusting." He looped his arms around your body, leaning down to rest his chin on your left shoulder. "What am I gonna do with you?"

Boyish charm dripping off his features, he continued. "But don't worry, I think I might like it better when you're pretending you aren't obsessed with me. It's more satisfying when I get you flustered that way."

"I'm not..." If the lack of confidence coating your words were any indication of their untruthfulness, the way your heart beat seemed to increase with every syllable was the real betrayal.

That was one of Keigo's favorite parts of his quirk, the way his heightened senses could pick up on every hitched breath, every quickening of the muscle in your chest that reinforced your lies.

He spun your around in his arms, gently taking your burning face in his fingers and forcing you to meet his eyes. They raked over your body, hungry and arrogant. "Liar. You were practically grinding on me earlier."

"Fuck." You groaned, the sound seeming to do nothing but widen Keigo's grin.

"Don't worry, gorgeous. I like you too." He gave your waist a little squeeze using his free hand. "And you can get off on me all you want. I'm free right now actually if-"

"Shut up." You gave a lighthearted smack to his chest, but the soft smile brimming from his own confession seemed to abandon any real animosity.

"So, you gonna let me take you out or what?"

You huffed, trying to ignore the way the flirtation lacing his tone made your chest constrict. "Fine. We can go out for coffee or something."

His expression darkened, limbs tightening as he pulled your body into his, head resting atop your like he was scared you would slip out of his grasp. You tried to wriggle out of his hold, cursing those annoyingly attractive muscles that had built up over years of hero work. "You're not allowed to drink coffee anymore."

[skzdarlings]

the kingsguard ; jisung x reader ; part iv

part one | part two | part three | part four | part five | part six | tba | ao3 link

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.

chapter word count: 12000 words.

<3

-

Your body inevitably surrenders to its exhaustion.  You sleep through the sunrise and past noon, opening your eyes to a day gone by.  The deep gold of afternoon sunlight fills the room like a dreamy mist. 

The golden shade obscures all your worries.  You forget where you are.  You forget who you are.  You feel well-rested and well-loved, a warmth blossoming in your heart, reminiscent of a hopeful spring in this rotting hot summer. 

You are brought back to reality by voices outside your door.  Memories of the past day flood your mind, everything from the violence to the impossible kindness.  You sit up in bed, straining to hear. 

“—had me ride ahead to see the queen was safe.”  That voice sounds like Changbin.  You have only heard him speak a few times but he has a recognizable pitch, not to mention his tone when he says, “You look like shit.”

“Thanks,” Jisung replies.  He sounds tired.  You can only imagine what he looks like.  Did he sleep at all?     

There is a beat of silence.  Maybe Changbin is waiting for more, but Jisung is not forthcoming. 

“Did something happen?”  Changbin asks. 

“Huh?”  There is some clattering as Jisung moves.  “Yeah,” he snaps, in a tone more agitated than you have heard from him.  “Someone tried to kill the fucking queen.”

“Hey, watch your tone with me. I know that, but you—”

Changbin stops halfway through his sentence.  Jisung’s expression is evidently enough to quiet him. 

There is some more movement, the swish of fabric, then Changbin says, “Go change into clean robes.  Take a nap. I’ll guard the queen.  When you’re done, I’ll ride back to the others and report.  We should all arrive by nightfall—”

“I’ll ride back,” Jisung says, his voice and footsteps already sounding farther. 

“Hey!” Changbin hollers.  “You need to rest!”   

There is no reply.  You hear the creak of booted steps on the stairs, then Jisung is gone. 

“Be careful with my horse!”  Changbin shouts.  “Ahhh, if he leaves her in the woods…” 

Changbin keeps muttering even though Jisung is long gone.

You sink into the blankets. 

It does not matter how far he goes.  When you close your eyes, Jisung is still there, looking back at you.  In a few short days, Han Jisung has inextricably twined himself around your heart.  Despite all the horror of yesterday and the cruelty of your holy husband, you were able to sleep without nightmares because of Jisung’s selfless tenderness. 

You obviously do not love this stranger yet but you think you could.  You want to love him.  You want to know him better and you want him to know you. That warmth in your heart is him, a blossom unfolding in the spring of your new becoming, but it aches – not because a love is ending, but because it can never begin.

Jisung has saved you yet again.  He took care of you last night, disregarding himself as he has done before.  You would give anything for him to experience the same devotion he has bestowed upon others.  You want to leap out of this bed and saddle a horse, chase after him, find him in the woods and –

And what?  That plan did not work last time. 

You linger in bed for a long time, awake but nonetheless dreaming, pondering.  Your duty, your family, your people.  The king, the marriage, the cruelty.

Jisung.  His eyes, his voice, his everything. 

Hunger finally lures you out of the covers.  You dress yourself in the gown gifted by the innkeeper’s wife.  When your hair is pinned up as neatly as possible, you step into the corridor and greet Changbin.  You go downstairs and the innkeeper prepares you a meal.  You eat by the unlit fire, the same place you sat with Jisung last night, before –

Your whole body burns when you think about it.  Whether you are with the king or on your own, you doubt you will ever touch yourself without thinking of Jisung and last night. 

“Is the food all right, Your Majesty?” Changbin asks.  His nose crinkles as he looks down at the bowl, as if he expects to find the source of your misery there.  “It smells all right.” 

“Oh, yes, it is,” you say.  You suppose morosely poking at a bowl is bad manners. 

The inn is bustling with workers preparing for the royal arrival.  When you finish eating, you find the innkeeper’s wife and ask for something to do.  Though she says the queen should not lift a finger, you insist that you prefer to stay busy.  You tell her you have genuine technical skills and she relents, perhaps seeing the sincerity in your pleading.  You do not want to sit in silent thought right now. 

That is how you find yourself with the mending.  Changbin loiters nearby, not hiding his boredom very well.  He starts lifting random objects to exercise his already-ample muscles.  He tries to challenge himself but it loses novelty quickly as there is nothing especially heavy in the room. 

You ask if he wants to sew with you.  He gives you a wary look but takes a seat.  You show him some basic stitches.    

“Kingsguards don’t do their own mending, I suppose,” you say.

He furrows his brow with concentration.  He has thick fingers and struggles to thread the needle, but he cheers for himself like the winner of a game match when he succeeds. 

“Ah, no,” he eventually answers, stabbing the needle into a torn shirt.  “The squires take care of it.  I haven’t touched a needle since my training.” 

You chat about his time as squire for the kingsguard.  Unlike Jisung, Changbin comes from a noble family, though he is the youngest of ten.  Knowing he would never see a penny of inheritance nor an acre of land, he devoted himself to the gods.  He claims beyond prayer, his only real skill is crushing skulls.   

“Well, I don’t know about that,” you say, resuming your own mending now that he is easily sewing on his own.  “You’re quite the seamstress.”

He giggles.  That bubbly laughter in that bulky body makes you laugh too. 

“Well, it never hurts to have more skills,” you say.  “I don’t think any work is beneath anyone.  If you don’t take care, you may forget just how much effort goes into menial tasks.”

“Hmm.”  Changbin looks thoughtful.  “Yes, that does happen.” 

The day passes with a few chores and some conversation.  The sun begins its descent sooner than later.  You are eating supper when the royal party arrives. 

You promptly lose your appetite.

You and Changbin wait in the front room while the party loudly organizes itself outside.  The contrast of quietude makes it feel like there is a bubble around the room – weak, vulnerable, about to burst.  

Changbin looks at you sideways.  He has spoken freely this afternoon and appears to debate whether he should question your wellbeing as a person or stay silent as a kingsguard.  He rocks on his feet, fist curled around his sword hilt.  His mouth opens with a question when the door swings open.     

Chan enters first.  He and Changbin exchange a nod, then Chan bows to greet you.  “Your Majesty,” he says. 

He moves aside swiftly.  The king enters right behind him.  Your knees knock but you conceal your fright, hoping your queasiness does not show on your face. 

“My queen,” the king says.  His tone is warmer than usual.  He has only ever addressed you with open contempt, but now he approaches you with his hand outstretched and a respectful dip of his head.  “The gods have surely blessed you to survive such a trying ordeal.” 

You flinch when he grabs your face, though he does not strike you.  That would have been less surprising than the kiss he places on the top of your head. 

He drops his hands and walks away without another word, leaving you standing there in shock. 

The other kingsguards follow.  Minho does not show much expression but Hyunjin rolls his eyes at the king’s display.  His aggravation seems as red hot as ever, barely concealed as he bows appropriately.  When he rises, he gives you a look, one you can only describe as a warning. 

The shock passes.  Maybe it is not strange the king is acting nice.  He would not want anyone to suspect him of your assassination attempt.  Feigning affection for his wife would redirect the accusations. 

Hyunjin and Minho move along.  Seungmin and Jeongin bow next.   You wait but Jisung does not show, just an array of courtiers and servants that have been travelling in the retinue. 

“Wife,” the king says, though bellows or commands is more appropriate.  “Sit.  Eat.” 

You do not have an appetite.  You sit beside the king as he glowers and mutters complaints about everything and nothing. 

Part way through the meal, Jisung arrives.  He makes some excuse to Chan, something about minding his horse after its ordeal.   

You stare at Jisung across the room.  He shakes out his robes, brushing a few twigs of hay from the black cloth.  His dark hair is pushed back, his face open as he turns his face to the room.

He catches your eye before anyone and anything.   Your heart reacts with an eager leap. 

Last night was overwhelming.  You remember his desperation towards the end.  You can only imagine what was on his mind.  You have spent all day in turmoil, alternating between reassurance and berating yourself.  Perhaps he just needed to decompress, or perhaps he regretted ever telling you a word, that he would prefer to never look upon you again. 

He looks at you now and you realize that was nonsense.  It is the same longing, intense stare as last night, one that moves like a hungry touch.  You shiver even though the heated room is packed full.   

The king pays him no mind.  Jisung bows from across the room and it is only for you. 

He does not look at you after that, sitting with the other kingsguards while he eats his meal.  When it is over, the king asks for music so Jisung fetches his guitar.   His singing soothes your anxious spirit.  It is so calming after so much turmoil, your eyelids start to feel heavy. 

You fall asleep to his music.   You wake to a gentle touch on your shoulder, finding yourself slumped over the table, head on your folded arms, a very un-queenly pose.  You surface groggily, blinking slowly up at the guard who touched you. 

It is Minho.   The front room is empty except for the innkeeper, some servants, and two kingsguards chatting, evidently manning the front door.  The king is gone, perhaps already to bed.  You sigh with relief as hopefully that means he will not bother you. 

Minho has been assigned to guard you tonight.   He sweeps through your room, checking the windows and locks, but thankfully does not stay inside.  You prefer privacy, though you would not mind if it was Jisung, even if it is dangerous to think that way. 

Yes, very dangerous, as you close your eyes and imagine his dark eyes, watching you from across the room.  You kiss your fingertips and touch your neck, just like he showed you, feeling that tell-tale flush of warmth when you imagine his lips on your throat.  Your body feels tight, everything from your waist below clenching inside. 

Your hand slips under the covers.  You do not think of the king even once, all your thoughts rivetted to Han Jisung.  You follow the natural call of desire, going so far as to curl your fingers inside yourself.  You dare only a little touch but it still makes you gasp.  You bite your lip to stay quiet, even though you want to scream a certain name when you stroke the place he showed you and come apart with the same earth-shattering release.  You picture his face the entire time, specifically the dark and desperate way he looked at you when you put your fingers in your mouth.

You do it again, imagining those fingers are his, imagining kneeling in front of him like you desired last night.  You take your fingers to the knuckle and wonder what he would say, what he would do.  Just watching you made him blaspheme, the gods on his tongue as his whole body shook with a deep breath. 

You fear you may be an insatiable, lecherous creature on top of irredeemably sinful, as you lower your fingers and do it all over again. 

You whisper his name as you come over that crest of pleasure.  It sounds like a prayer in the quiet dark. 

-

A long day of travel looms ahead of you.  You do not want to give the king any excuse to berate you, so you rise early and dress quickly without assistance.  You intend to be the first downstairs. 

You open your door without warning, causing the guard to stumble backwards because he was leaning on it. 

The guard is no longer Minho. 

Jisung spills into your path, eyes flashing with surprise.  You are surprised too.  The guards must have traded posts overnight, allowing the first group to get some sleep.   

Of course, no one thought anything of assigning Jisung to your room.  No one would have reason to believe you would stand like this in the doorway, staring at each other so intently. 

You make no sound, just the gentle exchange of breath, but your heart races towards him in a noisy stampede.  Given how he leans towards you, as if enthralled in a spell, his own heart is doing the same. 

“Ah, uh, Your Majesty,” he finally says, sweeping into a bow. 

His dark hair falls over his face.  Unable to resist the soft allure of each dark wave, you touch the back of his bowed head.  It is a quick caress. 

He makes a wounded sound.  When he stands, his face is flushed. 

“Are you, ah, ready for me to take you?” he asks.  His eye twitches.  He clutches the hilt of his sword very tightly.  “Downstairs,” he says quickly.  “Are you ready for me to take you downstairs?  Yes.  That.”      

You nod.  You have not spoken a word out loud, but you suspect your gaze gives you away, because Jisung looks into your eyes and makes that same sad whimper before darting down the corridor.

“Downstairs,” he says, a sing-song as he scuttles down the stairwell.  “Downstairs, downstairs, la la la—”

The king arrives while you are having breakfast.  You are soon gathered outside the inn, preparing to travel.  There is a long stretch of countryside between this city and the capital.  The next several nights will be spent camping in the woods, then you will arrive in the capital province and reside indoors, then finally traverse the great city to the palace. 

You are not sure what fate awaits you there.  It seems so impossible and far away, but the interim is only a handful of days. 

You stand on your own, watching the activity around you, anxiously twisting your fingers around the sleeve of your dress. 

In the midst of the hustle, your eyes find Jisung.  He is adjusting his saddlebags, surreptitiously glancing at you from a distance.  If anyone caught him looking at you now, you fear they would see far too much of everything.  Those eyes betray him every time.  Right now you see anxiety burning in them.  Perhaps he is picturing what you are picturing: that you will have to ride with him, your back pressed to his front, and you will not be able to think of anything except the other night. 

You make your way over to him.  He turns his attention to his saddle, securing and re-securing every strap, rein, and buckle.  He keeps his eyes occupied and his hands busy, even when you finally step into his periphery. 

“Jisung,” you say.  

“Hmm?” He tightens a strap he just loosened. 

“Is it all right if I ride with you?” you ask. 

“Of course!” he says, his voice bright and joyful, like a bard entertaining a crowd rather than a man in conversation. 

“I just thought I would ask, in case there was a problem,” you say.  You get more anxious the longer he does not look at you.   

“That’s nice,” he says in that same boisterous tone.  “Why would there be a problem, ha-ha?” 

He steps away, circling the horse to adjust something on the other side.  You blink at the empty air then follow.  The horse dips its head you so you take a second to stroke its muzzle.  To anyone passing, you and Jisung look perfectly occupied and uninterested in each other.  Truly, you can feel the distance straining.  You step a little closer. 

“Can you look at me please?” you say softly. 

His frantic hands finally stop their fluttering.  He looks the other way.  It is towards the king’s carriage where the other kingsguards are organizing.    

In the blink of an eye, that cheerful bard disappears and a much more solemn character stands before you. 

“No, my queen,” Jisung speaks in a low voice.  “Not when you’re this close to me.” 

It is good he has the sense to look around because you forget about everyone but him.  You are rooted to the spot, your breath caught.  It comes in a shallow gasp at last. 

“Why not?”  you ask.  

His brow furrows with utter confusion, like he cannot fathom the question because the answer is so obvious. 

“You know why,” he says.    

You are not sure how religious you are anymore.  You have drowned in the silence of the gods.  When Jisung says those words, this quiet but honest acknowledgement that he is just as affected by this power between you, you feel a force of nature rise within you.  It is the closest sensation to the breath of the gods, the supposed life force they breathe into their chosen ones.  It moves through you like lightning.  You feel dizzy and not from the sun as it creeps towards its midday pinnacle. 

 You look at Jisung.  He looks at nothing. 

“Your Majesty,” Chan’s voice breaks the wall of intense silence. 

You and Jisung both whip towards him.  If Chan saw anything untoward in your nervous behaviour, he does not comment.  He strides to you with the confident steps of an authoritative man.  He dips smoothly into a bow.  When he rises, one hand rests in a fist above his heart.  The other sits on his sword hilt. 

“As I’m sure you know by now, yesterday was not just a robbery,” Chan says, getting to the crux without wasting a breath.  “Jisung is a very capable soldier but if there is another attempt on your life, the safest place will be with me.  If it’s all right with you, Your Majesty, I would personally escort you to the capital.”   

There is no reason to refute his request.  Perhaps it is better you do not even try.  With the intensity of the last few days, maybe it is better to let all these passions simmer.  When they have burned themselves to ash, it will be easier to sweep them away. 

“Of course,” you say.  “Thank you, kingsguard.” 

Chan guides you towards the front of the train.  You do not look at Jisung until you are perched on the horse.  You intend to merely glance over your shoulder, but he is staring intently and it locks your gaze on him. Before it lingers too long, Chan swings onto the horse and blocks your view. 

You let yourself settle near the kingsguard leader.  All the while, you feel a different pair of eyes on you.   

It feels like ages before you finally depart.  After some time on the road, the others begin their chatter and sing-song.   Jisung starts the singing, as is his wont.  You wonder if anyone else notices how he starts the songs but never finishes them.  As soon as the others begin their jovial singing, Jisung goes silent and remains quiet until prompted again. 

You do not have to turn around to know his expression is solemn between bouts of entertaining giddiness. 

Chan does not sing or chat much.  He has a clear respect and even affection for his men, but he puts his duty first. 

Chan is also better at keeping an appropriate distance between your bodies.  Perhaps that is because the king’s carriage is close enough that you can catch a glimpse inside.  Some of the king’s favourite courtiers ride with him, all of them adjusted to the uneven road as they play card games and drink while talking.  You are sure some of their gossip is about you given the side glances and whispers. 

You are not sure if Chan notices.  You get periodically tense and he is close to you, so maybe he can tell.   Perhaps that is why he lets his horse fall back just enough to lose view of the inside of the carriage. 

With the king’s judgemental eyes no longer snapping towards you, you can breathe easier.  You even dare start a conversation with the kingsguard leader, though it feels intimidating in its own right.  Riding with Chan is not like riding with Jisung.  A conversation with the devout leader is very different than giggling with the bard. 

“Why doesn’t the king want me to ride with Hyunjin?” you ask curiously.  “He seems like a competent soldier.”

“Ah.”  Chan laughs, a nervous little giggle.  “He is.  It’s, ah, not for any real reason.  Really.  Just that, well, Hyunjin is good-looking, I guess.” 

“But he’s a kingsguard,” you say. 

“Yes, he is,” Chan answers more seriously.  “Honestly, I know they all joke about it but… Hyunjin is one of the most devoted soldiers I have ever known.  There’s a reason he’s in the order.  He can’t really helps what he looks like, but whatever you hear: it’s not true.  He’s good, Your Majesty.  They all are.” 

“I believe it,” you say.  “I’ve never known a more loyal group of men.  They live up to their reputation.”

“Yes, they do,” Chan says with obvious pride.

You were seeking that warmth in his voice, the respect with which he clearly regards his men.  It makes the real question inside you burn.    

“May I ask something more serious?” you finally say. 

“Of course, Your Majesty!” Chan says. “You can ask me anything.” 

There is not a hint of insincerity there.  You truly do believe Chan wants to do the right thing, but you are still wary in conversation with him.  Chan is steadfast with his responsibilities.  To him, the right thing will involve the king in some capacity, so you cannot be as free as you were with Jisung. 

“The matter does not necessarily concern me,” you explain. 

“Hm, you’re the queen,” he answers.  “If it’s about the kingdom, it’s to do with you.  Ask me.”

He lends himself easily to trust.  With his competency and sincerity, you see how he easily rose the ranks of the kingsguard.  Jisung mentioned Chan was one of the youngest squires in history, setting records for length of time spent in training.  Those years of study and prayer make him incomparable.   He is the best and worst person to ask this question. 

“The guard who ran off,” you say, “and the king’s former mistress… What will become of them?”

The king has not forgiven nor forgotten the treachery.  It contributes to his constant stream of anger.  You cannot imagine anyone, even this spoiled fool, possessing the energy to rant and rave so incessantly, but his passions will not be tempered.  He has mused aloud all his gory desires, threats you know he will manifest if given the opportunity. 

It makes you sick to your stomach.  The details of the king’s fury are nauseating, not to mention your personal connection to the couple.  You saw them with your own eyes.  You saw their hope and their desire as they risked everything for freedom. 

You know that Han Jisung was involved.

All those gory images dance across your mind like tableaus from some horrible play, too gargantuan and horrifying to be real life.

“Ah,” Chan says.  Though he encouraged your question, he does sound a little hesitant now.  “I understand.  That was a… bad introduction to the kingsguard, I guess, wasn’t it?” he says.  “We couldn’t spare the resources to search for them, not without delaying our return.  The king wants to launch a kingdom-wide search once we are settled in the capital.”

“You’ll be the one in charge?”

“Well, I’m issuing it to Changbin and probably Minho, because I’ll have to attend to my usual duties.  But I’ll oversee it.  Why?”   

“How much will a search like that will cost?” you ask. 

The question surprises Chan.  Perhaps he did not expect such a pragmatic question, but there is an emotional underbelly to your query.  That is your family’s money the king will use to satisfy his own petty grievances, rather than putting it towards the kingdom he is sworn to protect. 

“It won’t be nothing,” Chan finally admits. 

“What purpose will finding them serve?” you ask. 

You want to turn around and shout it: that the king is pursuing them to soothe his own damaged ego and not because they are any threat to the wellbeing of the kingdom.  Surely, a man as capable and intelligent as Chan must know that.

You wonder how it must feel for this dedicated guard to be sworn to this type of king.  He deserves better.  Everyone does.       

Chan bristles, hearing the unspoken accusation in your question.  You feel his upright posture straighten even more.

“They broke the law,” he answers, his voice steadier than his body.  “He broke his vows.  She broke her promises.  There are consequences.”

“Consequences?” you ask.  “Or punishments?” 

“Your Majesty,” he says as sternly as he can without being rude.  You suspect if you were a foot soldier, you would have been told to shut up.   “The kingsguard is pure.  When we give up our earthly goods, that doesn’t just mean literally, it means emotionally.  We trade our present life for eternity.  Everything we do, we do in service of the gods who provide for us.  Then and only then can the kingdom thrive.  A slight against the king is a slight against the gods.  Corruption can’t be allowed to spread.” 

“Corruption,” you say softly.  “You truly believe in the king’s purity?” 

When he does not answer right away, you look at him.  He looks at the carriage.  His brow is furrowed, his jaw set, looking very austere and cold.  He softens his expression when you meet eyes. 

“I think you’re a good kingsguard and a good leader, Bang Chan,” you say.  “Your men are good and they put their faith in you as much as the gods.  Whatever you believe, I will believe too.” 

You know Chan will not speak ill of the gods-chosen king.  You also know he will not commit a sin like lying.  So when you ask if he believes in the king’s purity, you are not surprised there is no answer.  He simply sighs as he turns his gaze ahead. 

“Maybe we should talk about something else,” he says.

It is all the answer you need. 

-

Your journey follows a river that flows to the sea now behind you.  The course ahead lays inland.  Rest comes a few hours into travelling.  It is at a clearing not far from the river.  You can hear as it rushes and pours in a steady stream that leads far away from here.  

Everyone mills about, stretching their legs or sitting in the shade, while some prepare food and share drinks.   The king is with his courtiers, Chan close to him as usual.   You sit near the remaining kingsguards, close enough to be guarded but not so close to make them uncomfortable.  You know they will not speak freely in the queen’s presence so you grant them privacy.    

It means they are distracted just enough, blind to the way you and Jisung lock eyes across the breadth of woodland space.  After your conversation with Chan about the potential fate of the runaway lovers, you have fought to restrain all those deep, complicated desires.  You are less committed to true obedience, resigned to your own tragedy if the king moves against you, but you cannot be so careless with Jisung’s fate. 

It should be easy.  You hardly know the man.  Yet those dark eyes find you and see you, always right down to the core of you, and it is so difficult to wrench your gaze away.  

Jisung turns first.  He mutters something to Minho who is sitting beside him.  Whatever he says makes Minho freeze, a drink halfway to his lips.  His eyes dart over to you.   

Your back straightens, goosebumps rising, wondering what Jisung just told him.  Whatever it is, Minho makes the same report to Seungmin who also looks your way. 

Startled with all the attention, you resume focus on your idle task.  You dug some embroidery tools out of your trunk, so you sit on a stump threading patterns with no particular end design in mind.  It is just way to look and feel busy.  Your loneliness is less acute when occupied with a familiar task. 

You are disrupted by the crunching of the dirt path under booted steps.  You lift your head, gaze travelling long dark robes until you meet Seungmin’s eyes.  Seungmin is not exactly the friendliest, but there is an honest simplicity to him.  He does what he must, when he must, and he does it well, with no subterfuge or obfuscation of true intent.  So he must mean it very sincerely when he tips his head towards the circle of guards, clearly inviting you to join them.

“Your Majesty,” he says.  “The kingsguard would be honoured by your company.” 

“Oh,” you say, surprised.

Seungmin does not leave time for argument, taking your embroidery out of your hands and offering his arm.  You accept it, ushered along before you can think twice.  You are soon a part of the kingsguard circle.  You take a seat between Seungmin and Hyunjin. 

Seungmin returns your tools once you are settled.  The boys continue their conversation while you work, a tenderness and warmth in your heart that was not there before. 

“I can do that too,” Changbin says, pointing to your embroidery.  It makes Hyunjin inelegantly spit-spray his drink everywhere, the others similarly laughing.  “I can!”  Changbin protests.  “Tell them,” he says to you.  “Tell them how good I am.” 

“Tell them, Your Majesty,” Jeongin reminds him, nudging him with an elbow.   

“You don’t have to call me that,” Changbin jokes, ruffling the youngest’s hair. 

“Yes,” you say.  You laugh at their antics, but lay a hand on your heart and declare with teasing solemnity, “It’s true.  Kingsguard Changbin is quite a natural with a needle, I must swear it so.” 

Seungmin whistles, the others still chuckling.  

“I believe it then,” Hyunjin says, a twinkle in his eye.  “If the queen swears it, it must be true.”  There is a hint of seriousness to the proclamation, a knowing glance cast aside.  “It’s easier being a queensguard when the queen is true.” 

Though it is not unusual to refer to the kingsguards as queensguards in relative context, it is rarely done, and certainly no one has said it yet.  You suspect this king would not be so partial to acknowledgement of shared power.  Any reminder of your own latent holiness just angers him. 

Not to mention, while Hyunjin does not mention the king directly, the proclamation it is easier to guard a true monarch nonetheless carries a hint of accusation. 

You say nothing to refute nor encourage the claim, anticipating someone else may correct or shush him. 

Instead, Minho tips his cup in your direction. 

“Mm, hear to that,” he says casually, before taking a sip. 

“To the queen,” Jisung says, lifting his own cup too. 

Your gaze flies to him.  He smiles from across the circle, his arm outstretched and his cup tilted towards you.   Strange to say you have missed that sincere smile after so short a time, but you have, and it moves you more than the toast.  It reminds you of the first time you saw him, the first time he saw you in turn, when he stood above a crowd and sang to you across hundreds of people. 

The other guards follow his prompt.  They lift their cups and take a drink, leaving you more than a little flustered. 

“You’re the queen,” Seungmin says with that wide, cheeky smile, lightly nudging you with his elbow.  “You’ll have to get used to this.”   

You find it unlikely anyone but the kingsguard will ever toast to you, but you smile and express your gratitude.

Conversation has scarcely resumed when Chan comes stomping over.  His agitation ripples like rings in a disturbed pool of water, spreading to his men who follow his flow.  They all sit straighter, looking at him for orders. 

Chan just huffs and takes a seat. 

“Jeongin,” he says.  “Go stand guard over the king.”  He unwraps some food and takes a bite, shaking his head all the while. His irritation clearly gets the better of him because he mutters through his teeth, plenty loud enough for the others to hear, “I can’t listen to more complaining.”

“Is he mad about the weather again?”  Changbin asks with a laugh. 

“He’s the chosen one,” Minho says with a sly grin.  “Why doesn’t he just make the sun less hot?”

Chan clears his throat loudly, though he doesn’t berate them beyond that. 

“Jeongin,” he says, making a vague gesticulation in the direction of the king.

“Why do I have to go?” Jeongin asks, wearing a petulant pout that only the youngest could get away with.  You suspect anyone else would have received a lecture, but Chan just gives him a look, eyebrow quirked, and Jeongin complies with a tired sigh. 

“That’s what you get for eating so fast,” Seungmin says, earning himself a smack up the head as Jeongin passes him. 

“He’s right,” Minho says.  “You eat like a horse.” 

“Whoa, hey, man!” Jisung says.  “Don’t insult our horses like that.” 

There is some more laughter.  Jeongin shakes his head but his deep dimples show his amusement.  You giggle too, though it is probably inappropriate to jeer and chortle with a group of guards.  It is just too funny.  You watched moments ago as Jeongin shoved a truly impressive amount of food in his mouth, all but unhinging his jaw as he crammed it in like it was going to be taken away.  The jokes are mostly to that effect as the youngest ambles over to the king for guard duty.   

The conversations splinter after that, everyone more or less talking in pairs.  You just listen while working on your embroidery.  When Seungmin goes to relieve himself, it opens an empty space between you and Chan.  The others are engrossed in their conversations – and playful but rowdy debates – while Chan just smiles and listens.  He occupies his hands with sharpening the point of a dagger. 

You shuffle closer to him.  The motion catches his eye and he looks at you.  Though your conversations on horseback were polite after the initial topic, he still looks wary, perhaps now recognizing the look in your eye.   

“May I ask a question?” you ask. 

“You know you can,” he says, though he looks even more concerned. 

“It’s about the kingsguard vows,” you say.  “I know you said it prevents corruption – but how and why?”

“Why those vows?” Chan asks. 

He picks up the sheath for his dagger, eyes there as he slides it back in place.  The other guards notice his contemplative attitude.  Their conversations trail when Chan begins to speak. 

“The kingsguard is an old service,” Chan says.  “Almost as old as the kingdom itself.  The gods chose favourites even before the palace had walls, and those favourites become kings, yes?  But with palaces, and money, and power comes corruption.  There was a king who lost his way.  He stopped listening to the gods.  Sin and lust and anger: he let it conquer him.  The kingsguard was formed to save him from himself and, when that was impossible, to save the kingdom.  The first kingsguard order burned all their clothes, put on the black cloth, and vowed to never be swayed by any worldly temptation or sin.  It is not an order you can just join.  It is not a vow you just make.  The king, your brotherhood, and all the kingdom rely on your sword.  The corrupt king was executed by the kingsguard so the gods could choose another.  Since then, there has been no need for intervention.  It has been a perfect harmony for centuries.  So we maintain the vows of those first kingsguards and so the kingdom stays in harmony and order.”

“So it is of utmost importance both the king and the kingsguard keep their vows,” you say. 

There is a beat of silence, like Chan knows you are going to say something that will make his forehead throb, but he relents and says, “…yes.” 

Rather than torment him with more implications the king is not pure, you ask, “What makes a sin?” 

His eyes dart over the other guards.   Their attention is moving between you and Chan as if watching the volley of an intense game match. 

Chan slowly turns to you and says, “Anything that distracts from the gods.” 

The guards look at you. 

“I see,” you say.  “Such as lust and anger, as you said?” 

Their eyes flick to Chan. 

“Yes,” Chan says.

Their eyes flick back to you. 

“Yet I fear I feel the gods most strongly in the throes of such things,” you say.  “The gods created all those feelings. I have spent much of my life suppressing the call of great emotion.  Perhaps it is not a coincidence that since being chosen by the gods, I have felt their designs all the more powerfully.”

Their eyes practically bulge out of their heads.  Chan just stares at you, barely even blinking. 

“Perhaps the king does too,” you say, your voice innocently light.  You draw your needle through the fabric, watching the colourful thread as you draw it heavenward.  “Perhaps that is why his relentless wrath is considered a permissible action.”

Hyunjin makes a sound, a short, sharp cackle, throwing a hand over his mouth before it can grow.  The others wear long faces, not daring to remark.  Jisung is wide-eyed.  When you glance at him, he tips his head, at once curious and concerned. 

You tear your eyes away from him.  You smile at Chan. 

“Ah,” Chan says.  “Well.”   

“I think it might be the same for other so-called sins,” you say.  “Lust for example.  I think… I think it’s a lot like prayer.”

“I’m sorry.”  Chan shakes his head rapidly back-and-forth.  His eyes close in a painful wince.  “Like.. like prayer?”  He looks at you like you just smacked him.  He probably would have preferred it.  A kingsguard can take a hit, but you are not sure they are built to withstand the queen speaking like this.   

“Yes,” you say, smiling.  You look down at your embroidery, threading a little flower.  “I think intimate intercourse is like praying.  It is the highest expression of gratitude and love, showing appreciation for the life the gods have given you, and the appreciation of the life they have created in another.  I think this can be turned into a sin, of course.  When it is stolen, when it is forced, when it is coerced, when it is taken without care or consideration for the other…  Yes, I believe this great gift can be corrupted.  But I believe it can be the holiest of all earthly actions.  I dare say there is no way to be closer to the gods.” 

There is a long gap of silence.  Hyunjin still has a hand over his mouth, like he doesn’t trust himself otherwise, and Jisung is still wide-eyed and more than a little flushed.  Tufts of dark hair are flicked up at the nape of his neck, a scarlet tinge to his complexion.   

Minho and Changbin eventually say, “Wow.” 

“Um.”  Chan clears his throat. 

“I know,” you say, smiling at him.  “We should talk about something else.” 

You focus on your embroidery, humming to yourself. 

Seungmin returns and sits down in the silence.  He looks around the quiet circle and lifts an eyebrow. 

“What did I miss?” he asks. 

-

Rest comes to an end.  There is a bustle as everyone packs up and prepares to continue the journey.  You will travel a few more hours, at which point the sun will begin its descent.  You should reach the predetermined site to build camp before nightfall. 

You wait near Chan’s horse, stroking its muzzle, lost in thought.  You imagine what would have happened if you died yesterday.  Would the king have the audacity to celebrate, even in the face of his solemn guards?  His success might have emboldened him, made him feel justified, like the gods were on his side.  You would like to think his failure has tempered him, that he will take it as a sign of the gods’ disapproval, but you doubt it. 

You spot Changbin in the middle of the crowd.  He is helping the servants with some heavy lifting, packing cooking instruments on the wagon.  Chan looks like he will be another minute.  While he is distracted, you wander over to Changbin. 

Changbin puts the last piece of equipment on the wagon.  A servant bows and thanks him profusely.  Changbin grins and lifts the servant out of his bow.  He winks, saying, “Ah, no work is beneath anyone!  You don’t need to thank me.”

You smile as Changbin gives the flustered servant a friendly pat on the back.  Of course, Changbin is quite strong, and the willowy servant stumbles, but it is still a sweet moment.  Once confirming the servant is all right, Changbin approaches you and bows. 

“Your Majesty,” he says.  “Can I help you?” 

Changbin is in a good mood.  The kingsguards did not seem angry with your earlier words, just surprised, even amused.  You think they just like to see their incorruptible leader so flustered. 

“Not so much,” you say.  “I just have something on my mind.  Chan told me the king intends to launch a search for the missing guard and mistress.  He said the primary duties may be relegated to you.” 

“Ah.”  Changbin’s eyes darken with the furrow of his brow.  His grin disappears and he looks very morose.  “Yes.  Most likely.  Do you have something to report?” 

Flashes of that night play in your mind.  You shiver as you suppress them. 

“No,” you say.  “I just have a great deal of respect for the kingsguard.  This is a difficult situation for you all, I am sure.  I wished to make my allegiance to you known.  In the event of any… complications.”

“Complications,” Changbin repeats. 

“Yes.”  You weigh your words very carefully.  You can either win Changbin’s confidence or push him further away.  “Like Chan said, the vows are so important, and your brotherhood relies so strongly on each other.  I’m sure Felix meant a great deal to you, at a time.  This must be very difficult.” 

“Yes.”  Changbin’s brow unfurrows, his face softening in a moment of obvious reminiscence.  He seems to stare right past you, lost in some faraway thought.  He sighs and runs a hand through his black hair, smooth strands falling back over his forehead.  “Felix was a good man,” Changbin says.  “You… remind me of him, a little.  The things you say.  Ahhh, this is all wrong.”  He shakes his head, his expression pinched with frustration.  “It shouldn’t be like this.  I don’t like the idea of going after him.”

You restrain yourself, not leaping too eagerly at the brazen remark.  With the well of emotion rising in your chest, you ask, “Then why do it?”   

“Because those are my orders,” he says, like it is obvious.  

“What if those orders are wrong?” you say. 

“They’re the king’s orders,” Changbin says, not quite an argument, not quite an agreement. 

“Yes,” you say.  “And the king is heaven’s earthly sovereign, who rules us all by the will of the gods.  But what if those orders are not actually coming from the gods?”

Changbin’s expression abruptly shifts to panic.  You realize the king must be nearby.  Changbin’s reaction is too late to spare you. 

The king shouts your name like it is a blasphemous slur.  The scream is imbued with so much fury, it sounds as though he means an exorcise a demon. 

Although you told yourself you were resigned to his wickedness, the terror of that voice makes your whole body shake.  Bravery is much easier in theory, a whispered voice in the back of your head that extends no further than stolen words in shadows, but it is different to stare down a hateful man whose cruelty knows no bounds.

You turn to face the king, grateful for the length of your skirt as it hides your trembling legs.  You summon your many years of etiquette practice, feigning the most stoic countenance you possibly can. 

The king gets right in your face, screaming so loudly it blows a loose curl out of its pin. 

“You have the audacity to blaspheme against your king?”

A deathly hush has fallen over the forest, all conversations ended.  You hear nothing but the shuffle of bodies as people either retreat or approach the action.  Servants make themselves scarce, courtiers gathering with eager eyes.  The kingsguards swarm, abandoning their horses and forming rank with a hand on their swords.  You are not sure who they mean to protect.

Chan is the only one to directly intervene, shoving through the throng to reach the king. 

“Your Majesty,” he says, skidding to a halt, his black robes swishing around him.  “What happened?” 

“This blasphemous creature dared to question the will of gods before my people,” the king snaps. 

“I did not,” you say, wrenching your voice from the nauseas pit of your gut.  “I did not question the gods.” 

“You have the nerve to call my authority into question?” the king asks, taking another menacing step forward. 

You instinctively stumble back.  Your gaze darts when you move, eyes finding the other kingsguards.  Minho, Changbin, and the younger two watch the scene intently, hands on their sword hilts.  Hyunjin has partially withdrawn his sword, hilt firmly in hand and a shiny length of metal catching the sunlight. 

Jisung has one hand on his hilt but his grip is loose.  He is the only one moving, taking tentative steps towards the scene.  His wide eyes are concerned, his shoulders tensed, entire body braced.  A fist uncurls, hand lifting.  You are not sure if he is reaching for you or warning you. 

The king is still ranting.  All he does is repeat the same accusation, hurl the same slander.  There is a wretched delight to his snarling ire.  Because of the assassination debacle, he has been forced to feign a modicum for respect for you.  Your remark serves as justification for unleashing all that contempt once more.  

He calls you every foul name a man can call a woman.  No doubt you are also subject to his anger for the mistress.  It makes your hands curl up in fists at your side.   Your trembling body is building adrenaline with every quivering shake.  You think of the mistress, of Felix, of Jisung, of a cluster of crying servants, of your own body slumped in a carriage with an arrow in your heart, when all you ever wanted to do was love your people. 

“I would never speak ill of the gods,” you snap.  Perhaps it is your shaking or perhaps it is heavenly intervention, but you feel your voice as it thunders out of you.  It reverberates in the arching trees and quakes underfoot like an earthen tremor.  “Even in moments of my greatest doubt, I use them as my example in how to conduct myself.  I would never speak against them.  I would never act against them.  I would never assume I have the perspective to rebel against their will.  No matter how someone might offend me, I would not attempt to intervene on the god’s will by bringing harm anywhere near to them.”     

This is in retaliation to his comments but everyone knows the attack yesterday was not just a robbery.  No one is speaking the accusation aloud even though it sits on the tip of every tongue when the subject is broached.   Yes, everyone here knows what the king has done, and when you make your declaration, it is all anyone hears. 

Only one of you has kept your vows.  Only one of you is righteous. 

He backhands you, clean across the face.  It lands even harder than on the wedding night.  That slap burned like a hot iron welt, but this one strikes heavily.  It knocks you to the ground, the earth rushing up so quickly that you cannot even catch yourself.  Your cheek hits the dirt, your body crumpling on impact. 

Your face is downturned but you hear the zinging slash of sword after sword as the kingsguards reveal their weapons.  When you look up, you see every blade partially drawn.  Hyunjin is the only one to fully draw his weapon, his sharp, intense face focussed on the king while the other guards look at Chan.

Jisung is the only one who looks at you.  He does not draw his sword.  His hand leaves his hilt and he runs straight towards you.  He slams onto his knees with so much impact, it sends leaves and gravel flying.  His hands are on you, shameless and without delay. 

“My queen,” he says.  He holds your shoulders, guides you upright into a sitting position. 

You can barely see him through your tears, watering from the sheer physicality of such brutal pain.  You face is numb so you do not even realize Jisung is wiping it clean. 

His efforts accomplish very little because the king kicks you over, a sharp jab in your side that makes you cry out.  It is more unexpected than the smack and makes everyone gasp.

Jisung catches you, drawing you protectively into the cradle of his arms.  You imagine his face, his wide, startled eyes turned up to the king in questioning terror as he clutches the queen to his chest.  You fear he will be kicked for insubordination.  You press against his chest and will the world to disappear to around him. 

“Are you seriously going to allow this?”  Hyunjin’s voice rips through the clearing. 

You turn your face, cheek pressed to Jisung’s chest.  Hyunjin has stepped forward but he does not address the king, anger bright red on his handsome face as he stares at Chan. 

Chan looks at him but it is the king who answers, spinning on his heel to march up to Hyunjin.

Bellowing, the king begins, “The kingsguard does not allow or disallow me anything—”

“The kingsguard has a right to intervention in the face of injustice!” Hyunjin shouts back, driving his sword into the dirt a mere foot from the king. 

It draws the king to a halt, a flicker of intimidation crossing his face as he looks at the guard.  He quickly shakes it off, pointing a threatening hand at Hyunjin. 

“What do you dare accuse me of?” the king demands.  “Do you have the audacity to make so formal a claim against me?  Tell me, kingsguard!  Use your rights!  Make your claim!  And I shall make mine, rest assured!” 

Hyunjin cannot say anything more.  He stares at the king, fuming.   Chan was not exaggerating when he spoke of Hyunjin’s devotion to his beliefs.  More than a pretty face, indeed.  He does not budge an inch for the tyrant king. 

While the king is distracted, Jisung helps you up.  You rise on shaking legs, using his arms for leverage.  He murmurs your name, not your title, so soft an utterance that no one else hears.  It affects you more deeply than the king’s shouting. 

Your watery eyes lift to Jisung.  You are clasping his forearms for support but you want to fall against him.  You have been in his arms at your most vulnerable moment, bare and open and overcome.  It makes you feel like if he is close, there is no height you cannot safely reach, no harm that can ever pursue you there.       

With your eyes locked so reverently on Jisung, you do not see the king approach until too late.  You turn your face as he throws Hyunjin an arrogant, challenging look.

The king reels back and punches you. It is clumsy and too emotional, his anger getting the better of him, so it lands with less force than intended.  You still feel it right down to your toes, a shock of awful pain.  You are not sure what actually hurts, if he hits your nose or you bite your own cheek, but you taste blood, tangy and metallic on your lips and tongue.  Jisung catches you when you fall, keeping you upright while you spit blood onto the forest floor.   If anyone gasps, you cannot hear it over the ringing in your ears. 

Hyunjin instantly explodes.  He attacks the king with his bare hands, his swing far cleaner, a swift punch that strikes the royal face so hard, it makes a cracking sound.  Hyunjin is lean but strong and the king reels upon impact. 

Hyunjin does not let him recuperate.  He lands another blow, then one more, coming at a different angle each time.  The king hits the ground on the third punch, landing with a humiliating scream and thud. 

Everyone is chattering and shrieking now, even the most eager courtiers retreating from the violence.  Minho and Seungmin spring into action, charging Hyunjin before he can chase the king to the ground. 

“Hold him back!” Chan shouts at them.  Like everyone else, pure shock delayed him. 

Minho and Seungmin seize Hyunjin by the arms, hauling him away from the king while he froths with anger.  The king recoils from him, then starts to rage because he has been so humiliated.  Hyunjin shouts back and there is so much piercing chaos that you hardly make sense of it.

“This ends now!” Chan shouts above it all.  He does not need to draw his sword or swing his fist to command obedience. 

Hyunjin finally goes silent, shrugging Minho and Seungmin away.  Even the king ceases his hollering to spit blood onto the ground. 

Your own mouth is still streaked red.  Chan looks at you, his hard expression softening. 

“Your Majesty, are you okay?” he asks. 

The king begins to answer, a furious exclamation that he is obviously not okay, then he realizes Chan is speaking to you. 

“How dare you address that creature—” the king begins. 

“That creature is the gods-chosen queen!” Chan snaps back.  Where Hyunjin and the king raged with a red hot fire, Chan is cold, the harsh narrowing of his eyes speaking for him.  It cuts across the clearing.  Everything, high and mighty or low to earth, seems to bend in acquiescence.  “The queen is not to be struck under any circumstances,” Chan says, a hand on his sword hilt, his eyes on the king.  “I am making a formal accusation against you as I just witnessed the offense with my own eyes.” 

The silence is more deafening than the chaos.  You watch as Chan shakes his head.  His booted steps roll like thunder on the dirt as he approaches you.  His arm is outstretched, a word on his lips, but he is interrupted by the king.

“I want the guard flogged.” 

Chan freezes.  His back is to the king and all the courtiers, guards, and servants.  Only you and Jisung see the flash of fury, barely tempered as Chan clenches his jaw then draws a breath. 

“Hyunjin is a kingsguard and the gods spoke to him,” Chan says, frighteningly calm.  “They told him to defend the queen who should never have been struck so carelessly.”

“And for that I won’t have his head removed,” the king snaps.  He spits blood on the ground again, looking at Hyunjin as he does.  Hyunjin stares back but has the sense to not act again.  The king lacks any and all sense.  No sense of duty, no sense of responsibility.  He points at Hyunjin like an infant points at a child, stamping his foot and crying to his parents of some petty, childish plight.  “Twenty lashes,” the king demands.  “Ten for each time beyond this so-called defense he dared laid his hand against the holy king.”   

Chan turns.  He looks at Hyunjin.  Hyunjin stares back, a silent conversation unfolding in the space between them.  You see the calculation, the surrender.  Chan shakes his head and Hyunjin clenches his jaw. 

Your hand twitches at your side, instinctively searching for Jisung.  He finds it and clasps it, hiding your joined hands between his robes and your dress. 

“Jisung,” you whisper. 

“It’s all right,” Jisung whispers back.  Despite his words, he sounds upset.  “Hyunjin can take it.” 

In proof, Hyunjin does not await further instruction.  He rips at his outer robe, tearing it off his body and dropping it in a heap on the forest floor. 

“Jeongin,” Chan says.  “Get me a horsewhip.”

You jolt.  Jisung squeezes your hand, holding you back and shushing you gently.  You watch with your heart in your throat as Hyunjin tugs off his under-shirt.   He drops to his knees where he stands, Minho and Seungmin backing away, their faces plastered with practiced stoic looks.  Seungmin betrays only a hint of thought, shaking his head an infinitesimal degree as he backs away.  Minho flashes Jisung a look of similar aggravation. 

You still taste blood, even when you wipe your mouth with a shaking hand. 

Hyunjin prostrates himself on the ground, a full bow as if at prayer.  Chan has the whip in his hands and he snaps it open at his side.  You do not know if your eyes water from pain or sorrow. 

The king stands nearby, arms crossed and a smug look on his face.  You look at him as Chan swings an expert arm and brings the whip down.  The king does not flinch at the first crack, his pompous self-satisfaction only deepening.   

You jump at the sound of the whip, eyes racing back to Hyunjin.  There is a welt across his skin, his back pale as it is never exposed beneath those layers of black.  Despite all the jests made at his expense, Hyunjin does not remove those robes for anything.  He keeps his vows with an unrelenting determination.  He is a good kingsguard.  It is not his fault he has a bad king. 

“Stop,” you say.

Jisung tries to hold you back but you drop his hand.  You are still dizzy and speaking with a mouth full of blood, but you march onward.  The king is probably looking at you with all that heated aggravation but you do not care.  You look at Chan, the only authority you respect. 

“Hyunjin was defending me,” you say.  “He acted on my behalf.  I will take his punishment.” 

There are immediate protests, not just from the kingsguards but from servants and even scandalized courtiers.  Their vocal protestations make chaotic discord, the forest shaking with every shout and holler. 

You hear Jisung above the rest. 

“Chan!” he says.  “Don’t you let her, Chan!  Chan!”

You and Chan are the only ones who remain silent, staring each other down.  You are perfectly calm as you hold the leader’s gaze.  He looks at you like he is reading a book in a language he did not even know existed, scrutinizing the shape and sound of everything foreign that lies in front of him. 

“Silence!” the king finally shouts, curtailing the worst of the chaos.  He marches over to you, hand out like he intends to grab you.  “Stand down, woman!  You’ve caused enough problems today!” 

You storm towards him too, wiping the blood off your face with such a flourish that it flicks towards him.  He takes a step back, so surprised by your approach that he almost trips over his own feet. 

“Am I not correct in saying that a citizen has the right to stand in for another when a punishment has been issued?” you ask. 

“You are not a citizen, you fool, you are the queen,” the king snaps. 

“Oh, so now there’s some fucking rules about propriety!” you snap back.  “Punching me in the face did not account for it, but this does?  I am curious where your lines are drawn, Your Majesty, and which gods drew them, as they certainly do not resemble any teachings I know.” 

The look on the king’s face is more satisfying than any welt or punch. 

“Enough,” Chan says, not raising his voice.  He drops the horsewhip to the ground and Hyunjin lifts his head.  “This has gone on long enough,” Chan says firmly.  “We have a long journey to make today.  This was a petty disagreement and a misunderstanding, and it is an insult to the gods and all of us present to draw it out any longer.  Hyunjin, get up.  You’ll spend the night in prayer asking the gods for forgiveness for any slights they perceived.  Accept their revelation and be done with this.  Everyone, back in formation.  Now.”    

Finally, the crowd disperses, speaking lowly amongst themselves as they return to their former tasks. 

Chan faces the king.  In the same tone, he demands, “You too, Your Majesty.” 

The king boils with such a quiet, fiery rage that you are amazed he does not burst.  Chan does not relent in the face of his threats, standing firm until the king storms away.   Once he is gone, your own adrenaline cools.  Your legs feel weak again.   You stumble.

Jisung catches you.  His arm swings wide, catching your waist and drawing you into him. 

“She’s still bleeding,” Jisung says. 

“Take her,” Chan says, nodding sharply.  “Get cleaned up.  Meet back at the horses soon.  He’s not going to be in the mood to wait.”  Chan rolls his eyes and turns away. 

You and Jisung are the only ones left.  You are standing very close and you know you should move but you want to be closer. 

Jisung takes a step, guiding you towards the sound of the river.  When you try to separate, he pulls you back into his side, that hidden strength revealing itself.  Your feet skirt the ground as he practically carries you the riverside, like if he lets go for a second the gods will sweep you away from him. 

Jisung holds the briars as you cross through dense brush.  The riverbank is on the other side.  You step onto the gravel bed, breathing a sigh of relief as you feel separated from the world again at last.   

Jisung touches your lower back, just a press of his fingertips to get your attention.  It certainly works as sparks shoot up your spine as if he traced the length of it.  Despite the sensation, his hand is still and steady, his palm on your lower back as he nudges you towards the water. 

Earlier, he could not bring himself to look at you.  Now you are the one hiding your gaze.  After a tumultuous day of warring with yourself, of provocations and retreats, accusations and regrets, you feel tired and unsure, hurt and embarrassed. 

“What were you thinking?” Jisung asks. 

You simultaneously kneel at the river’s edge, the cool fresh water lapping at the edge of his robe and your skirt.  It is paid no heed.  You gather water in the cup of your hands, bringing it to your face in a gentle splash.  The water runs pink as it spills over your lips.  You scrub your mouth on the sleeve of your dress. 

“It doesn’t matter what I do, does it?” you ask.  “It doesn’t matter if I follow every rule he makes or if I break them in front of him.  He is going to hurt me.  He is going to find ways to justify it.” 

Jisung is still bad at hiding his emotions, looking at you with sad, shiny eyes, his face long with sorrow. 

You spare him a momentary glance, too affected by his empathy.  It would be easier if he did not care.  It would be easier if he did not look at you.  It would be easier if he did not gather every undone curl to pull them back over your shoulder. 

It makes you shiver like the first time.  That chill is swallowed by heat as you remember him looking at you through that mirror, drawing your hair off your shoulders, firelight warm against your naked skin as he choked on his breathing. 

Even now, his hand lingers on the back of your neck, then your shoulder, your arm.  Every touch is just a second too long.  He looks at his hand like it belongs to someone else, curling his fingers towards his palm like they hurt. 

“My queen,” he says, not much louder than a whisper. 

“You can use my name,” you say, just as quiet. 

The roar of the river makes you bold.  You are alone but even if you were interrupted, you could never be overheard.  It makes everything feel so natural, so right, like the gods themselves have aligned the world in such a way that you would be here with him at this exact moment.   Yet at the same time, that is impossible.  The gods chose you for the king.  It was you who chose Jisung. 

“I know,” he says.  With a laugh, airy and humourless, he runs a hand through his hair and says, “Believe me, I know.” 

His eyes are drawn to your mouth because you missed some blood.  You fold your hands neatly in your lap, the very picture of lady-like perfection if not for your bloodied lips and the aching swell of your cheek. 

Jisung cups water into his own palm.  With one hand, he holds your face, thumb and forefinger curled around your chin to tilt your head.  He brings the water to your lips and pours as neatly as he can. 

“You’re incredible,” he whispers.  “I mean, you’re crazy— Fuck, I shouldn’t say that to the queen – Fuck, I swore again – don’t listen to me – Your Majesty, with all due respect, you’re just—” 

He laughs, truly and deeply, wiping blood off your cheek while you stifle your own giggles. 

The ordeal is still too fresh to have any perspective, but you suspect you will be reeling later tonight as you remember your own adrenaline-fueled actions.  

“Don’t tell anyone I told you that,” he teases. 

“Our secret,” you say, smiling. 

His eyes are on your cheek, his thumb scrubbing a mark.  When you say that, his gaze flicks to yours. 

Your whole body reacts to his eyes.  You feel – tight, clenching, stomach twisting with heat.  There is at once an impossible emptiness at the centre of your being and also a penetrating fulfillment as he looks at you so intensely that you feel it deep inside of you.  You think the king could come to your chamber every night, could do whatever he would, and it would not feel half so thorough a claiming as one glance from Han Jisung. 

“I, um, oh.  Oh.”  Jisung shakes his head.  He looks down, hair falling into his eyes as he swoops over to cup some more water.  He still holds your chin with his other hand, fingers loosely clasped. 

He straightens, tossing his hair out of his eyes, focussed on your lips. 

You know it is just because he is cleaning the residual blood, but his searching glance moves through you.  It deepens when he wets your lips, as he lets that little bit of water pour off his skin and onto your mouth. 

Your lips part, trusting.  His fingers on your chin tremble just a bit.  When he exhales, it flutters through a loose curl. 

“Thank you,” you murmur, lips moving against his fingers. 

“Your Majesty.”  He tries to be jovial and laugh but it comes out like a croak.  “It’s why I’m here,” he says in a voice that sounds as rough as it did the other night.  “I’m supposed to serve you.  And… And I…”

His thumb runs slowly across your bottom lip, his eyes entranced with the way it gives under his touch, where it softly springs back.   Your breath spills over his fingers and he swallows. 

“And…” he tries again, breathing deeply when you do.

“And?” you say on that breath.

His gaze moves from your lips to your eyes.  He drops one hand as if startled, fumbling for nothing, accidentally finding yours in its descent.  You clasp that hand in your lap, heart racing as he so tightly curls his fingers around yours.  It is such a desperate clutch, but it does not hurt.  No, it never hurts. 

“And…” he says, those other fingers still curled under your chin.  It would make any defense impossible, his fingers so obviously  guiding your face closer to his own.  His mouth is a breath away, every exhale soft against your lips.  “And I want to serve you, my queen,” he says in a soft, low murmur.  “I need to serve you.”

You make a noise that could be mistaken for pain, wounded and sharp, but it is not that.  It is the sound you make when you draw your kiss-wet fingers down your own throat, the way his damp fingers now trace that same descent.  You tilt your head, offering him all that vulnerable skin, shivering under the long, slow touch. 

He recognizes that sound too.  He heard you make it two nights ago.  You remember him looking at you just like this.  You remember him slouching in that chair by the fire while you dreamed of nothing more than kneeling before him.  What would you even do from that vantage?  You do not know.  You just know it beckons to you like a call from above. 

“Oh,” you say, trembling for a very different reason than earlier.  “Jisung,” you whisper, “I want to serve you too.” 

It is that remark that petrifies him, his hand freezing, his eyes wide.  He stares at your neck like it is more dangerous than a sword-hand.  A million complicated thoughts seem to flash across his face. 

His fingers splay open across your throat, your pulse beating under his hand.  You swallow. 

“What are you doing to me?” he breathes. 

Then his fingers are under your chin again.  Your faces come close.  His lips are near yours but it is not a kiss, just the promise of one, so painfully close to kissing that your mouths brush with the slightest twitch or breath.  Still, he does not close the space entirely.  He leans into it like he will but then he collapses with a pained whimper, abruptly letting go, turning his face to the side. 

“Fuck,” he says.  He puts a hand over his face and shakes his head. 

You turn your face the other way, closing your eyes too and breathing hard.  You also touch your face, fingers shaking as you touch your unkissed lips, still tingling from the proximity. 

Your other hand is in your lap.  It is still tightly clasped around his. 

“Oh gods,” he says. 

“Yes,” you say.  “I feel them too whenever you’re near.” 

You look at each other.  His mouth opens, some sentiment on his lips that is desperate to be uttered but he only manages to move his lips a few times before surrendering to muteness.  He stands.  With a gentle tug, he brings you with him. 

The river laps at your feet.  There is a swirl of pink where your blood spilled.  You look at it for a long moment. 

“In the banquet hall,” you say, watching the pink wash away.  “In the wedding ceremony.  On the road.  In that inn.”  You lift your eyes to his.  “I felt it everywhere,” you say.  “The gods, or just you, all around me, like nothing I have ever felt before.” 

You lift his hands, bringing them to your lips as he did last night.  He just stands there, watching as you kiss his knuckles with the same devoted press.  Where he was all desperate teeth and lips, you are tender, a soft kiss that lingers on his knuckles, scraped and scarred from so much work.   

“These hands are a testament to years of hard work, kingsguard,” you say.  You give his hands one final squeeze before letting go.  “They should be worshipped too.”

He makes a sound you can only describe as a comical squeak.  Your sweet, complicated, funny guard.  Big eyes blink at you as you step back. 

“Shall we?” you say, nodding to the brush, to the world that waits on the other side. 

He nods, still too stunned to speak, staring at you as if in a trance.  You bow your head to him, clasping your hands politely in front of you.  You turn to leave.

You have only taken one step when you feel his hand on the back of your neck.  It sends a bolt of fire shooting down your whole body.  Your heart, moments ago doused with cold water, comes roaring back to life, firing heat to every extremity. 

He wraps his arm in a possessive grip around your waist, just like before, but more.  The other hand stays on the back of your neck, buried in your half-pinned hair, leaving it even more dishevelled. 

The state of your hair is a perfect visual metaphor for what you feel inside: unravelled, undone. 

He pulls you right into him.  His name has scarcely left your lips before he swallows the sound, mouth pressed to yours in a hot, hungry kiss.  His lips, his tongue, his teeth, all of it there, soft and hard and needy.   

A kiss is the most you ever received in your life, a cordial exchange that amounted to nothing.  

But this –

This is everything.    

“Jisung,” you say, like begging, almost a cry against his mouth before he steals the sound again. 

You are both clumsy from lack of practice, or maybe lack of time.  You are desperate to feel everything in the few moments afforded to you.  There are lifetimes of desire packed into that kiss, eternities surrendered to the passionate press of his lips on yours. 

He breathes your name, cups your jaw, tilts your face just so, kissing you slowly despite the ticking clock.  You shiver and hum a sweet, amorous sound against his lips.  The taste of blood is long gone, replaced with him.  Just Jisung, on your lips and your tongue.  You want it everywhere else. 

You would give yourself to him if he asked.  You would forget about everything and do it the moment he asked. 

Fortunately, he has more sense than that.  He lets you go, takes a small step back.  He breathes unevenly while raking his fingers through his hair.

“We can’t do that again, okay?” he says.

You blink at him.  It must be a convincing argument because he groans then grabs you by the hips and pulls you back into him.  He kisses you again, mouth open against yours, coaxing all those tender sounds you did not know you could make.  It feels wet and messy and it should be awful, this frantic animal hunger, but it just feels good. 

You just – feel.  

“Okay,” he gasps.  He clutches your waist, holds your body in his hands and counts under his breath.  Finally, he steps back, nudging you away from him.  “Okay,” he says, wiping his mouth and shaking his head.  “That’s fine.  That was – that was just.  Exactly, you’re so right.  Yes.  All right.  Very fine.  Very good.”

He clears his throat, adjusting his black robes neatly like he did not just ravage your mouth in his holy garments.  He tips his head back and stares up at the sky, holding the briars back for you, pointedly not looking down even when you approach. 

You could walk right past him.  You should walk right past. 

You lean towards him and whisper, “I thought of you again last night.” 

You step through the brush.  You listen as he somehow slams them all in his own face, sputtering as he fights through the greenery to join you.  He shakes himself out like nothing happened. 

“Right,” he says.  “Right.  Right.  Right.  Go.”  He points ahead. 

You walk a few paces ahead.  He escorts you back to Chan.  When you are perched on the horse, you look back over your shoulder, once more intending just a fleeting glance.  Jisung is already looking at you, fingertips pressed to his bottom lip.  He lowers his hand.

You smile softly.  Like something heaven-sent, he smiles back. 

[myhornysaga]

mmmm what is that certain incident... do graves and lawyer reader have kids ?? Or.... 👀 👀mmmmmm im watching from the shadowzzz

𝐌𝐲 𝐖𝐚𝐫 𝐂𝐫𝐢𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐇𝐮𝐬𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐝

A/n: thank you for reading my work anon♡ the secret will be revealed, stay tuned

I'm planning on this chapter be divided in two parts so this is part 1 of this chapter. Songs recommended, in order: people in the front row, end of beginning, angel of the morning.

Tags: mdni, graves x Lawyer wife reader, established relationship, mentions of sex, pregnancy.

Part 2, Series masterlist , M.list

You and Graves had a kid.

A daughter.

She was born with the best of you and your husband Phil.

Just after a year of being married you discovered you were pregnant. Thanks to the little rendezvous the night before your husband was leaving for his 364 days deployment in the middle east.

He was in Marines back then and you worked as a full time criminal lawyer at your father's Firm, one of the three top Law firms specializing in International Laws and Extradition.

You were learning international criminal law under one of the most recognizable lawyers and a dear friend of your father, Mona De La Sierre.

Everything was going smooth, your career was at peak and you were only in your late 20s, till you discovered...

You have missed your periods for 2 months.

At first you had your doubts, no way you could be pregnant right? But its been 2 and half months since you and Phil had- no! Lets not have false hope. A simple pregnancy test will reveal whatever it is!

You sat on the toilet seat of the housing quarter. You had done 3 pregnancy tests and they all came... positive.

And it started.

You couldn't believe you were pregnant. You wanted scream and yell out of happiness and let everyone know Mr and Mrs Graves are having a kid!

You wanted the first person to know about this to be none other than the perpetrator! You couldn't just wait to call him. But you had to wait because you can only call him at night due to different time zones.

Despite staying awake past midnight and 14 calls, none were answered. You tried one last time before giving up and call next day.

The 15th call was answered by someone else.

"Hello? Phil? Babe?", you asked nervously.

"Hello?" The voice said

"Ahem... I'm trying to reach Sergeant Phillip Graves. I'm his wife is he there?" You questioned on the line.

"Uh no maam im sorry but the Sergeant will not be available for four weeks."

"4 weeks? You gotta be kidding me!", you huffed in frustration.

"Thats what im told Mrs Graves."

--------------------------------------------------

4.5 weeks later.

Location: Marines Reconnaissance Base in [Redacted]

Sergeant Graves had returned to the base after leading a successful Recon mission without any casualties.

"Sergeant!" A marine called out for Graves in his tent, "sir you have a letter from home"

"Just in time", he chuckled as he sat down on his bed after a long and hard few weeks, finally resting on a proper bed instead of a dug out pit.

"The envelope looks big. Look out Graves, this could be divorce papers" one his teammates joked.

"Yeah totally. Chicks throw you divorce paper if you don't talk to em in every two hours. Haha", another one joined in

"Nah boys i don't think its that.", Philip tried to convince.

"Thats what captain Jerome said", another one jumped in and everyone started laughing. While Graves just shook his head while chuckling along and opening the envelope and started reading it.

He stood up straight out of shock, letter still in hand.

"Told ya its them divorce papers", the guys said.

"What is it Graves?", one of them asked in a serious tone now.

Everyone could still see the absolute shock on the Sergeant's face.

His heart was racing out of excitement, "Holy shit boys, im gonna be a father!", Graves said to his teammates.

Everyone in the tent started congratulating him and hugging the man. Some quipped with the question whether the kid is his or- Graves wouldn't let them finish and just hand them the DNA papers, solidifying his paternity.

The letter,

"My love, i hope you are doing well. I tried to reach you several times through call but i was informed that you are not available for 4 weeks.

Its an awful long time to wait to let everyone know. But remember this, i want YOU to be the first to know of this, that you are going to be a FATHER soon!

I checked in with the doctors and its confirmed! I am 3 months in. By the time you arrive, we'll be a family of three my bub.

And before you or your jarhead boys start questioning the legitimacy of OUR child, i will be attaching DNA tests as well, have fun.

So thats that. You are going to be a dad Phil! You better come back in one piece!

With love and warm hugs

Y/n L/n Graves xo".

.

Part 4

[that1geek06]

Hi, how are you? Could you write Harry Hook and male reader? The reader is Audrey's brother and super shy, and he meets Harry when the group of VKs went to save Ben.

HOWDY THERE, I'm alright thank you for asking :D I hope your doing good as well, but I can DEFINITELY do this, I'm so happy that my descendents work has been liked by the fandom and its time for the FIRST ROMANTIC FIC YAYYY so I apologize if its not amazing, lmk if there's anything I can do betterr

-SEEN-

Harry Hook x Male!Reader

Warnings: None (lmk if that's wrong)

Audrey Rose, the most popular and recognizable child of Aurora and Phillip. But not many people know or realize that she has a twin brother, Y/N.

He doesn't blame people for not knowing his lineage, he was the complete opposite of his sister. He preferred comfort over style, singularity instead of popularity, and quiet rather than loud. The only one Y/N really talked to was Ben, who would often hang out with the twin when he courted his sister. But even when the VK'S came and he got with Mal, Ben still showed his friendship and even introduced him to the darker group.

And Y/N loved the VK'S.

They just didn't care, and he admired that, without having to talk to much he became close to the small group. They almost took him under their wing and looked out for him. Basically, he never had any issues with Chad once the VK'S started hanging out with him.

So when he heard about Mal running back to the isle and the plan to get her back. He begged to go along. Ben disagreed at first but with some convincing Y/N was allowed to go with.

He had never been so excited for something before, as Evie dressed him and Ben up the clothes felt so nice, the darker tones of red and grey felt suiting, she even made his outfit to be incorporated as a hoodie which he loved.

And then finally they were off.

Ben was very nervous about being there, but with some guidance from Evie, Jay, and Carlos, they got the ways down quite quickly.

They finally made it to Mal's hideout, and Ben went up to talk to her. Y/N waiting for him to return at the bottom of the steps with the others. Though the stomping of his footsteps proved their conversation didn't go to well.

"She's not coming." Ben said annoyed and stomped off through the streets. The others paced and tried to get the attention of Mal. But Y/N ran off to catch up with Ben.

After a small jog he's back at his side, "T-try not to worry to much Ben. Mal's going through a lot, I'm sure she'll come around here soon." He said in a soft tone, trying to comfort the soon to be king.

But Ben just sighs and shakes his head, "I doubt she will, I pushed her to far.."

The two turn a corner, when suddenly they see 2 other shadows, with a low chuckle one spoke. "Well ain't this just perfect, Uma will be please with this catch. A king and a prince, aye now that's somthin' special."

They step into the light, the taller one had a kind smile on his face surprisingly, his eyes set on Ben. "I knew I recognized you Ben! My dad wishes yours would rot in the underworld by the way." Y/N was confused by the guys happiness, and turned to look at the one the spoke earlier, only to find his eyes already on him.

The boy in the red coat smirked, twirling the handheld hook in his hand. "That you did Lad. Now, lets get this crown an' beauty to Uma." And then everything went black. But Y/N wasn't scared, he only thought one thing.

Did that VK really recognize him?

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Y/N slowly opens his eyes, the smell of salt water stinging his nose. He squinted and looked around, eyes adjusting to the light, he tries to move, but he finds himself tied up to a pole.

A light chuckle makes him look up, "Welcome back sleepin' beauty, sorry ya didn't geta kiss like your mum." The boy from earlier smirked, but instead of feeling threatened, Y/N's heart skipped a beat, cheeks turn a light shade of red.

"...w-who are you?" He asks in a small voice, earning a large smile from the other boy. "How rude of me, tha names Harry, and I'm sure this piece o' metal can help ya fill in the rest." He answers, twirling it around once again.

He just nods, putting together he was Captain Hooks son. "Your a quiet one aint ya. Never really talkin' much at those fancy meetings up there." Harry comments, a teasing smirk on his face as he looks him up and down.

Y/N's eyes widened at that, "You've.. noticed me? You know who I am?" He asks in such a quiet voice it was barely a whisper. And he watches as Harry's face falls for a second. He goes to answer when Ben starts to wake up. And that crazed facade comes back as he turns his attention onto the young king.

After a few minutes though the other boy who helped capture him who he learned to be Gil announced Mal and the groups arrival. They had actually brought the wand. But when she pretended to use it on dude, Y/N knew that something wasn't right.

But Uma believed it.

Harry cuts the ropes off of Ben and Y/N, complaining about how his fun was ruined, though it felt almost as if his touched lingered a little longer than normal when he cut the ropes off of Y/N.

Then Mal and Uma trade, and the two royals were back with their group.

Mal starts trying to rush Ben away as Uma attempts to use the wand, and like he suspected, it didn't work. And then a big fight breaks lose.

Y/N fights, but nothing to harm anyone, he couldn't do any such thing. Finally they get space between them and the pirates and are getting ready to make an escape, until-

"BEAUTY!!" Y/N hears Harry yell, he looks back and makes eye contact with him, the pirate smirks, still dripping wet from grabbing his hook out of the water, clothes clinging to his body.

"I always noticed ya!" He yells again, answering Y/N's question from before.

He felt is face flare up and his heart drop as he stare into the other boys eyes. Only for the contact to be broken by Jay pulling him to follow out.

In a daze Y/N followed, mind and heart hooked on the pirate that had noticed him..

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

YAYY I loved this sm I hope you do tooo, and anon I hope this makes your day dreams a little easier to imagine <3

-Also, if anyone's interested, I'd be willing to make this a part two?? Tell me if I shouldd-

Lmk if there's anything I can do to improve I welcome any and all help, also, PAUSE. RN. GET A SNACK. Reading is so fun on a full stomach, but anyways, HAVE A GOOD DAY/NIGHT MY GOOBERS, happy readingg 👾

[contamination-zone]

first rendered art on this account !! hope its still recognizable as fresh heehoo

[Fizz by @peachphernalia] + extra under cut :-] [I really like how the hands turned out X) ]

Honestly I just think that fizz looks cute in this one...