#ugh yes yes yes

[fredmundo]

“you’re peter.”

[smollkittykat]

I kind of don't like how a lot of people forget that despite all the angst and the drama around Dean and Cas they are fundamentaly best friends.

How many times did Dean say it throught the entire show? Bobby in season 6 saying "Well, you just lost the best friend you ever had."

For Bobby to say that, knowing Dean better than even Sam in some regards, how many times had Dean been sitting with Castiel on the couch in his living room?

Cas doesn't sleep, and rarely does Dean, with the Apocalypse looming right behind him.

So all they had left, in those quiet nights were each other. And they were okay with it, because they liked each other's company.

[theoldkyokodied]

One wedding and three funerals

Background paintings under the cut

[yongbbokkie]

oooooh... oh yeah. this chapter was definitely.... something.... whew *fans self*

ugh the pinning!! the need!! the constant warring with what they want vs their duty and loyalty to the gods askgfghamajjaananhsjasj yaaaaaassss it's so painful and so delicious imma chop my own head off!!!

the queen being so naive about certain things and Jisung's quiet panic coz now he has to teach her for her own sake, but also how THE FUCK is he supposed to survive that and stay true to his vows, but also his vows are to protect her and this technically falls under that, really if you think about it, so it's should be fine he just has to be super fucking careful except then she's moaning and whimpering and saying his name and holy shit she's licking her own goddamn fingers and WHAT ARE THE GOD'S DOING TO ME?!?! IS THIS SOME SORT OF TEST?! OR PUNISHMENT!!.......... Poor Jiji hehehe

Also, I love all the little references and nods to SKZ lore, like Hannie and Hyune hating each other in the beginning, and Felix and Hyunjin being good archers, Han being comically clumsy despite being quite athletic... also "towering titan" okay, mountains, I see you.... pretty sure I saw something to do with collision too, but idk if it was a coincidence.

gah. yes I adore this a ridiculous amount and am all too excited for the final part!!

I saw in an ask reply you mentioned you had been thinking about possibly doing something in this universe with felix, and I am all for that no joke... and Chan too... Honestly, I need to see him play some part in the demise of the king coz our Channie would never let anyone get away with this kind of behaviour no matter what vows he took.

I hope you're doing well and taking care of yourself!

the kingsguard ; jisung x reader ; part 3/4

part one | part two | part three | final part | 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 worldly temptation. When he stands in as proxy for the royal wedding, all those vows are tested.

content info: reader is described with curly hair, mention of curves.

content warnings: a royal affair between queen reader and guard jisung. the king is a violently abusive man and continues to disrespect reader in this part. this chapter has an additional content warning for violence, assasination attempts and explicit sexual content: guided masturbation, mirror action, and skirting the breaking of chastity vows.

word count: 13000 words.

-

As promised, rest comes an hour later.  Some stay in the woods with the wagons while the king and his party make for the nearby village. 

The edge of the forest slopes downhill, the bustling city centre at its base.  Civilians gather to watch the arrival of the royal retinue.  Most of them duck out of the king’s path well before he reaches them.  You suppose the party might have stopped at this village on the journey in and you can believe the king did not leave a kind impression on its denizens. 

You struggle with your skirts on the steepest slope. Because your husband pays you no mind, Jisung helps you, swishing back the length of his own robes as he climbs onto a boulder to reach you.  You thank him, placing your hands on his shoulders while he clasps your waist.  He swings you down on the path. 

No sooner have you stepped down does a little voice ask, “Is that the queen?  Why is her hair down?” 

You look over.  Some children are gathered nearby, staring at you with wide, curious eyes.  A mother scolds the loud one, putting a hand over the child’s mouth. 

“Your Majesty, I’m sorry,” the woman says, bowing deeper than necessary. 

“It’s all right,” you say.  You smile as you approach, maintaining some distance as they seem skittish.  You drop into a crouch to look at the children.  “Yes, I am the queen,” you say.  “I’m sorry I’m bit dishevelled.  The road is very bumpy and I was quite uncomfortable, but I am very happy to be in your village now.”    

When they determine you are not going to lash out at them, the children get closer.  Soon they are all yammering away, each of them wanting your attention for an introduction or story. 

“Can you have lunch with us?” a little boy asks.  He looks back at the woman.  “Mama, can the queen have lunch with us?” 

“Oh, I would love to,” you say, smiling to placate the very startled woman.  “But my guard needs to eat too and we shouldn’t keep the others waiting.” 

“He can come too!” a little girl says. 

A little boy goes right up to Jisung, his eyes wide with awe.  Though Jisung is not especially tall, the boy looks at him as though he is a towering titan. 

“Whoa,” the boy says.  “Are you a real kingsguard?” 

“Aha, I am,” Jisung says.  “Are you?”

“Me?” the boy asks.  “I’m not a kingsguard!” 

The children all squeal with laughter, Jisung grinning down at them.  You find yourself smiling too, surprised by how easily and naturally it comes. 

“Is that your sword?” one of the children asks, tugging on his black robe but eying the silver sword hilt.  “Can I touch it?”

“Ah, maybe no pointy objects,” Jisung says, giggling nervously. 

“What’s the delay?” Chan asks, striding over.  The king has already entered a nearby inn to eat and drink.  A few kingsguards linger outside, minding the door. 

Remembering your actual place, your smile fades.  You stand and smooth the creases of your skirt.  You remember the king insulting your appearance and making comments about weight, so you are not particularly keen to sit down and eat a meal with him.  Anxiety swallows your hunger.   

“We were invited to lunch,” Jisung says, laughing.  He looks from Chan to you, his grin faltering when he sees your solemn expression.

Chan notices too.  His thoughtful gaze flicks between you and the children.  After some deliberation, he nods. 

“Right,” he says. “The king is occupied anyway.  Would you like to spend time in the village instead?”  

Your heart brightens.  You nod. 

“I’ll send Jeongin for extra security,” Chan says.  He shoots Jisung a stern look.  “Protect the queen.” 

“Always,” Jisung says, hand over his heart as he bows. 

You know it is his duty, nothing personal, but that brightness in your heart turns incandescent with pleasure. 

You sit with several villagers at tables in the square.  There is more food than you can reasonably eat as several different families jump at the opportunity to feed the queen, at least once they realized you are more polite than the king.  You easily eat your fill. 

Jeongin and Jisung stand behind you, eating their own food as they pace and supervise. At one point, they agree to let the children see their swords.  They even conduct a short bout of fencing while their little crowd oohs-and-awes. 

You chat with the local craftsmen and some working women.  One of them makes a less than flattering comment about the king’s manners.  It garners Jeongin’s keen eye, flashing in his direction.  When the kingsguard looks at him, the villager ducks his head in shame, but he does not retract the comment either. 

You do not say anything, merely remark that you are proud to be chosen by the gods and you are serious about the responsibility they have bestowed upon you. 

“I care about this land very much,” you say. 

“Well, we’re all just glad someone at the capital does,” a worker says. 

“The gods have chosen a queen we can be proud of,” says another.    

You are better at offering kind words than receiving them, flustered by the compliments. You demure and look away. When your gaze wanders, you see Jisung already looking at you.  He nods, offering you a smile so warm and kind that it leaves you even more flustered than before. 

Lunch ends and the king returns.  The villagers wave until you crest the hill, then it is a quiet trek to the horses and carriages.  The group in the woods have packed away their things too.  Everyone is ready to depart. 

The king once again disappears without acknowledging you.   Jisung helps you onto the horse, holding it steady while you mount, then he swings up behind you.  A little girl gave you a ribbon to tie your hair, but he still gently brushes the low tail aside.  He is wearing black riding gloves, the leather up to his knuckles, his fingertips bare as they leave goosebumps on your nape.   

It does not take long to get back on the road.  This path dips south towards the sea and the great cliff, so this is the last city for a while as the forest trail winds uphill.  The next village is a day away.  It lays on the other side of the descent, so camp will be constructed in the woods tonight. 

You are not sure if you will be sharing a tent with the king.  He claimed he would not have you until back in the capital, but that was before his mistress ran off.  You shudder, imagining him taking those frustrations out on you.  You may have to put that sleeping draft to use sooner than later. 

“Are you cold?” Jisung asks. 

Before you can answer, he presses his hand gently on the curve of your hip, guiding you back, closer to him.  He is just offering his body warmth, mistaking your shiver for a chill.  You remind yourself that he is a kingsguard.  He has sworn a vow of chastity that he takes pride in maintaining.  You are the silly one, starved for a kind touch, who feels the burning imprint of his palm long enough after he stops.    

The journey continues.  Songs are sung to pass the time, though Chan throws a look over his shoulder when Jisung starts a relatively dirty one.  Jisung presses his lips together, smothering a laugh.  You suspect his relentlessly goofy shenanigans are for your benefit as he keeps trying to make you laugh.  It always works.  You find yourself giggling helplessly into your hands on more than one occasion.  He seems determined to wring an embarrassingly loud guffaw out of you. 

The joviality does not last.   

No one is expecting the arrow that flies straight through the window into the queen’s carriage.   You and Jisung are a few feet behind it and he rears back, swift but startled, the horse baying its own agitation.  You also yelp, clutching the saddle as he stabilizes the horse. 

Minho was close so he also rears back, settling faster without the extra weight. 

“Arrow!” he shouts.  It starts a cascade of action, the guards shouting orders back and forth to each other.    

You do not really hear them.  Your heart pounds from the sudden jolt, but it worsens as you stare at the carriage.  If you had still been in there, that arrow could have pierced a leg, shoulder, or even your throat. 

“Jisung…” you say, an instinctive utterance, voice wobbling.      

He lays a protective hand across your middle, all his silly theatricality gone, replaced with a sterner determination.   His eyes dart around the treeline.  His moves the horse just in time for another arrow to whizz past. 

Chaos unfolds as a veritable horde pours out of the treeline, charging the royal train. 

You never fathomed being at the centre of such violent mania.  You were always at home, a safe and sheltered place, with bandits and assassins relegated to the world of stories.  You liked to imagine you would be brave under duress, but the reality of such quick-moving danger is very different than a slow-told story. 

You are terrified, especially after two close calls, though you have no time to deliberate on the coincidence.  You are too lost in panic, clutching your chest like you can restrain your racing heart. 

The kingsguards take formation to combat the onslaught.  Jisung opts to retreat, prioritizing your safety, especially when another arrow flies your way.  He is quick dodging it, racing further down the line.

Chan, swinging his sword from up on his horse, seamlessly takes down an adversary while shouting,  “Get the queen to higher ground!  Hyunjin!  Go with them!  Fuck, I wish Felix was here.  Go!”

While Chan barks orders, you look at the man he cut down.  Even though these bandits are the instigators, it is still a vile sight. You have never seen a man die under such violence. Your panicked heart seems to stutter and stop and start again. 

Jisung is unphased, quick to follow Chan’s orders.  He turns the horse and gallops towards the opposite treeline.  Hyunjin comes thundering after you.  All the kingsguards are armed with an array of weapons but it is fairly obvious which tools are favoured by which guards.  Hyunjin has the most arrows and the most elaborate bow.  You wonder if Felix was the other bowman, hence Chan’s exclamation.

They race you through the trees.  You can only trust they know their way, seeking higher ground where they can defend you until the horde has been dispatched.

You look back and shriek.  Some bandits are giving chase on horseback.  You have never moved this quickly in all your life but it still feels too slow. 

“Hyunjin,” Jisung says, loud but calm. 

They criss-cross their horses, racing past each other.  Hyunjin whips around, in a single motion dropping his reins and seizing his bow, then firing a shot behind him.  It knocks the closest bandit off his horse.  The other three fall back and continue their pursuit at a safer distance. 

Hyunjin takes his reins.  The horses cross each other again, making it difficult for anyone behind you to get a clean shot. 

All you can do is hold on for dear life, keeping your eyes ahead.  The guards race uphill.  Once situated at an advantage, Hyunjin dismounts and takes position, firing an arrow without delay.  The bandits below duck and take cover.  You curl towards Jisung when they fire an arrow back.

“Take her further in,” Hyunjin says, lining up another shot.  “I have this.” 

Jisung continues into the woods.  You are very far from the trail now, surrounded by clusters of tightly packed trees.  Weaving in and out slows your pace. 

After a time, Jisung eases his horse to a stop, giving you both a moment to catch your breath. 

“Are you okay?” he asks.  His hands are thoughtless, touching you more than a guard should, but his concern is obvious.  His comforting hand settles on the back of your neck, his thumb rubbing a soothing circle, while the other pats your side to inspect any injuries. 

“I’m fine,” you say, though your shaking voice betrays you.  “All things considered.”

“All things considered,” he repeats with an airy laugh. 

You let out a laugh too, halfway to a sob, an exhale of emotion.

You turn your face towards him.  You are curled right into him, his hand on your nape, the other wrapped protectively around your waist.  Your heart is a wild animal, frantic in your chest, and adrenaline fills your whole body with warmth.  When you meet his gaze, that warmth gathers low.  It finds all that tangled anxiety and loosens every knot.    

His thumb slows.  The arm around your waist lifts, just a bit, his hand hovering.  He seems to realize you are too close, even with all things considered, but his own adrenaline holds him.  He does not let go, though he knows he should, instead staring back at you, his dark eyes running all over your face.  

“Your eyes are so—” he starts then stops.  His face contorts with more terror than it showed during the attack. 

“Pardon?” you say. 

He swallows.  You watch the bob of his throat.

“I mean—” he starts, but then he hears something.  The softness in his gaze hardens as he whips his head up, catching sight of different bandits approaching on foot. 

“They’re after me, aren’t they?” you say, thinking of the arrow in that carriage, the men on horseback.  You are not sure if they intend to kill you or ransom you, but it is obvious they are less interested in the wagons than you.

“It doesn’t matter,” Jisung says, seizing the reins. “They won’t have you.”   

He is faster on horseback but the trees are so dense that it is still slow-moving.  The bandits on foot gain speed.  One lets loose an arrow.  Jisung dodges it, but the next arrow flies so close that you feel the wind as it breezes past your face. 

“Fuck,” he says.  His arm tightens around your waist, so firm it steals your breath.  “Hold on,” he says.  “We need to dismount quickly.”

His idea of a quick dismount is essentially throwing himself off the horse.  It surprises the bandits but it also surprises you, wrenching a scream as you fly towards the forest floor.   He keeps his grip and yanks you into his arms.

“Run,” he says, taking hold of your hand.  “And get behind me when I say.” 

 You run through the trees, holding your skirts in one hand and his hand in the other.  He is much faster but your adrenaline propels you.  You already anticipated sore legs from so long on horseback, but you are going to be in agony from so much running.  Provided you survive that long. 

“Jisung,” you say in a warning voice.   The treeline ends up ahead but it does not open into a clearing; it opens to the edge of a cliff, looming over the sea.  You can smell the brine before you see the blue beyond the branches. 

Jisung does not seem surprised.  He barrels right towards it.  When the edge nears, so close you can hear the ocean crashing into the cliff face below, he spins on his heel.  Somewhere in the swirl of black cloth, he draws his sword, twisting it in the air and catching it as swiftly.  He braces himself in a fighting stance.       

“Get behind me,” he says.  “And maybe close your eyes.”

His first order is easy, your shaking legs happy to halt.  The second order is more complicated, because you cannot help but watch as he runs straight towards the three adversaries.  Your own adrenaline peaks.  You want to chase after him and somehow help, but your remaining sense wrestles that instinct back under control.  There is nothing you can do.   

He does not need help anyway.  Someone charges him but he disarms the man in two short moves.  You do not even see the moment Jisung reaches back, but suddenly there is a knife in his other hand and he sends it hurtling towards the farthest opponent.  It thunks into the man’s chest and the spurt of blood startles you out of your frozen panic.  You finally obey his second command and close your eyes, covering them with your hands for good measure. 

You have many skills but swordplay is not one of them.  You do not like the sight of gore.  You never imagined needing a stomach for it.  Is this my life now? you think, trembling to the sound of metal on metal.

Through all your fear, there is one constant reassurance: Jisung will protect you.  You do not doubt him for a moment.

When someone touches your shoulder, you do not scream, knowing it is him before you open your eyes. 

Those familiar brown eyes gaze back at you.  You release a long held breath in an embarrassing sputter, eyes filling with tears.   

“It’s okay,” he says, cupping your cheek, the leather glove warm against your skin. 

You are shaking with adrenaline, your hands still raised.  You look behind him, catching sight of three bodies strewn across the forest floor. 

He moves his head to block the view.  He carefully takes your quivering hands.  He squeezes one gently. 

“I know, it’s a lot,” he says.  “The first time is the worst.  You’ll be okay.” 

The first time.  There will be more.  Of course there will be more.  Your shaking worsens with the thought.

You cannot find your voice.  You lift your eyes and meet his gaze, imploring with a glance and nothing more.  His lower lip wobbles with an unsteady breath, his brow furrowed.  His eyes are deeply sympathetic. 

He seems to battle some internal thought, then shakes his head and surrenders, quickly bringing your hand to his lips and kissing your knuckles.  His other hand goes behind your head and he pulls you towards him, wrapping you in an embrace. 

You grab him around the middle, burying your face in his neck.  Your chest is rising and falling rapidly against his steadier body, but his relative calm tempers you.  Some of your hair has fluttered loose from the ribbon, unsurprisingly, and he smooths some of it down. 

“It’s okay,” he says. 

Your shaking slows but your heart still races, all that anxiety twisting again.  You keep your arms around him, lifting your head as you ask, “Are there more?”

As if in reply, there is a disturbance in the trees.  Jisung spins, drawing his sword again.  He sweeps you behind him to block your body with his own.  

Hyunjin emerges from the trees on horseback, a hand on his bow and the other clutching his reins.  Jisung exhales then curses, sheathing his sword. 

“You missed all the fun,” Jisung says as Hyunjin rides past the bodies.  “Were you fixing your hair?” 

“Funny,” Hyunjin replies dryly.  “Where’s your horse?”

“She’ll find her way,” Jisung says.  “Are there more of them?” 

“There might be,” Hyunjin says.  He dismounts and walks up to Jisung.  They clasp hands but do not linger, both scrutinizing the forest, their gazes calculating.  “I don’t like this,” Hyunjin says.  “That wasn’t a robbery.  They were after—”  He glances at you but does not say it out loud. 

You look at Hyunjin, at the hair that has come loose from his tie, the sweat along his forehead, the sharpness of his gaze.  You remember him getting catty with Seungmin, his haughty expression and pointed glance.  That playful agitation was very different from his expression now.  Rage burns behind his dark eyes.   

“Whoever planned this,” he says, bitingly, “is targeting the gods, as far as I’m concerned.  And I don’t care who he thinks he is.”  He swings his sword free just to stab it into the ground.  “And I don’t care what Chan has to say about it.  This an offense too fucking far.  She’s the queen.” 

“I know,” Jisung says, softer but just as thoughtful.   He looks at you, pity in his eyes.  “It’s not right at all.” 

“Fuck this.”  Hyunjin yanks his sword out of the ground and sheathes it again. 

That anxiety turns to lead inside you, your stomach sinking.  You want to curl up on the ground and stay there.  Even Hyunjin has deduced the attack was too targeted to be a coincidence.  He is trying to sound vague, but you hear the underlying accusation in his thoughts; someone wanted to kill you and someone was probably the king. 

It makes sense.  The union has been sealed.  The money has been granted. The only thing that would stop him from killing you is a sense of honour and responsibility, but this king has neither.   Of course he would try and eliminate you, but he could not do it himself.  The king is a font of power, a representative of the gods on earth, but he is bound to his own holy vows.  The queen is chosen by the gods.  He cannot kill you himself as that would be an unholy offense.  

No, if he wanted you dead, he would have someone else do it, and he would never consult the kingsguard on the matter, knowing their holy order would be vehemently opposed.  The kingsguard protects the king.  It also metes his punishment if he betrays the gods.  It is why their own oath-breaking is so serious a crime.

Before further accusations can be made, distant shouts carry through the woods.  It is not the kingsguard, nor any of the king’s men. 

Jisung unsheathes his sword.  Hyunjin draws his bow. 

“Get the queen out of here,” Hyunjin says.    

“Where are we supposed to go?” you ask, shoulders already shaking as the voices get louder. 

Jisung turns around.  His eyes dart right past you, but there is nothing there except the expanse of sea.  He stares at the open water, shimmering under the afternoon sun. 

He looks at Hyunjin.  Hyunjin seems to understand him without any exchange of words.  He sighs and gives Jisung a withering look.  

“You’re crazy, but I guess you’ve had worse ideas,” Hyunjin says.

“As usual, Hyunjin, your confidence in me is inspiring.”

“I miss when we hated each other.”

“I love you too, man,” Jisung says.  “We’ll meet you at the inn.  Tell Chan we took a shortcut.”

Hyunjin snorts and shakes his head.  The guards part ways.  Hyunjin swings onto his horse and rides towards the noise while Jisung sheathes his sword and sprints back to you.   You take his hands the second he offers them, needing the comfort.  He squeezes yours tightly. 

“You trust me, right?” he says. 

“Trust you?  Yes.  Why?” you say hesitantly.  “You’re not about to suggest something crazy, are you?” 

“What?”  His eyebrows jump.  “Crazy?  Me?  Of course not.  I mean, if it makes you feel better, I don’t have to say out loud—”  He looks sideways again. 

A sea bird calls as it swings over the water. 

“You are not suggesting we go over the cliff.” Your voice shatters on a high-pitched squeak. 

“If anyone else comes this way, they won’t assume we went over!” he answers quickly.  “They’ll assume we went farther into the woods and look for us there!  It’s perfect!”

“Yes!” you say.  “They will assume that!  Because that is the sensible direction to go, not over a cliff into the sea!  Over the cliff!  Over the cliff!”    

While you rant, he removes his leather riding gloves.   You fall silent when he touches you, his bare palm curved around the slope of your jaw.   He guides your face to his so he can look at you, really look at you, his eyes intense. 

“Trust me,” he says.  “I swear on my life and my honour as a kingsguard.  My queen.  Please. I won’t let any harm come to you.”

Those intense eyes first found you in a room full of people who looked right past you.  They have found you again and again.    

You exhale. 

“Yes,” you say, scarcely more than a breath.  “All right.  I trust you, Han Jisung.” 

“Hold my hand,” he says, drawing you close.  “We’re high but not fatally high.  It shouldn’t hurt but we are going to break the surface quickly.  Whatever happens, don’t let go of my hand.”

“I won’t,” you say.  “I promise.”

He squeezes your hand.  You squeeze back. 

You never had a fear of heights but maybe that was relative.  Taking a running leap off a cliff is certainly one way to find out for sure.

It seems feasible with your eyes ahead, the sea rolling out in a vast carpet before you.  Then your feet leave the ground and it feels as though the cosmos shift and the entire universe drops out under you. 

It lasts like an eternity but also seconds.  You break the surface quickly, just like he said, with a crash more forceful than the white waves on the cliff-face.  It feels like a shatter in the fabric of reality.  For half a heartbeat, you think it killed you, the force so impossibly brutal. 

Then it settles.  You open your eyes underwater.  As promised, Jisung did not let go of your hand even though you landed heavier and faster, weighing more especially with your dress.

Your dress.

You try kicking towards him.  He is pulling your arm but it only draws him deeper, sinking with you.  His black robes swirl around him, the material light and loose in the water, but your dress turns into a silk anchor. 

An instinctive cry leaves your lips, a desperate attempt to say his name, but it bursts in a flurry of bubbles.

You grab at him when he kicks down towards you.  He guides your arms around his neck.  You cling to him, not thinking sensibly, but with the frantic desperation of a dying animal. 

You do not pray to the gods.  It does not even occur to you.  They have answered you with nothing but silence.  You put all your faith in Jisung.  He does not let you down. 

Jisung tears the back of your dress, ripping the apart the seams with his bare hands.  You feel the threads pucker and pop, the cloying material giving way around your neck.  You help him, pulling at the neck and pushing at the sleeves.  You get the bodice down your hips, then the rest falls away.  It sinks without hindrance.  You are left in a white shift, long but light, so freeing that you can practically taste the air. 

Jisung grabs you.  You cling to him.  Together, you kick towards the surface.   You shoot through it with a gasping breath, coughing and sputtering. 

He shakes his head, whipping water droplets everywhere, then smooths his hair back in a single sweep.  The blackness of his hair looks even darker when wet, an obsidian tinted blue in the sunlight and seawater.  You think it is ridiculous how he cannot look bad even when soaking wet, while you feel like a drowned rat, your copious amounts of hair plastered to your face. 

“Are you okay?” he asks, laughing in spite of himself.   

You splash him and he laughs some more. 

“If that wasn’t your worst idea ever,” you say, “I’m not sure I want to know what was.” 

“No, probably not,” he says, still giggling as he paddles towards you. 

You duck underwater to smooth back your hair.  When you surface, he is close – so close, too close.  The flow of the water pushes your bodies together.  There is very little between you, black and white material, so thin you can feel his body heat.  You are not sure if that racing heart is his or yours.  

Your hands find his shoulders instinctively.  He keeps his hands out, treading water, keeping you both afloat. 

“I—” he starts then stops, staring into your face.  He releases a breath.  “Come on,” he says.  “Let’s get to the shore.”

-

You emerge from the water, drenched and dripping, your white shift not only translucent but clinging to every curve.  You notice first and a fiery storm of embarrassment ignites inside you.  You wrap an arm over your ample chest and try to tug the material away from other sensitive places.  

Jisung has his back to you.  He is wringing out his black robes as best he can.  When he does see you, his eyes widen, then he slips on nothing and faceplants in the sand.  The tiny grains stick to his wet body like a second skin.

It makes you feel a little better about your own state, watching as he lifts his sand-covered face off the ground.  You laugh and also apologize for laughing as he gets back in the water to wash it all off. 

“Um, right,” he says, still scrubbing his face as he marches ashore.  He does not look at you, glaring ahead at nothing while pushing his hair back.  “Just… just wait.”

He gathers the hem of his robe to squeeze it dry.  You watch, still flustered, but also a little bit…

You do not know the word.  You just know that if Jisung thought you were unappealing, he would have no problem looking at you.  But he determinedly keeps his eyes off you, muttering what sounds like a prayer. 

You are about to make a comment, a joke at your own expense, when he abruptly strips off a layer. 

Your eyes widen as you stare at his back. 

It is true that Jisung is not as bulky as Chan or Changbin or even Jeongin.  His build is a more slender athleticism.   Those robes nonetheless concealed more than you thought.  His under layer is far more revealing, a sleeveless black shirt and pants.  His shoulders have a fair breadth, sturdy and strong, and his torso tapers down to a slim waist.  His exposed arms move with a subtle musculature that catches you off guard.  

You thought he was handsome this whole time, but the starkness of his sudden masculinity has your knees knocking.  A regular man seems to emerge from the robes of the kingsguard and that is somehow more intimidating.  You feel your own exposure more keenly.   

Jisung folds the material over his fists and wrings it tightly.  It makes the soft slope of his lean biceps strain.   

You drop your gaze too.  It makes for a comical effort when he tries to pass you the robe when neither of you is looking.

In the end, he turns around, holding the robe to block his face.  You laugh shyly and step into it.  He wraps it around your shoulders and you pull your arms through.  Even though it is also wet, it does a better job of covering you. 

“Thank you,” you say.  You meet his gaze and say sincerely, “For everything.”    

He laughs a short laugh, an airy, empty sound.  It sounds more disbelieving than humorous.  He tilts his head as he looks at you, like he has to think deeply, like there is something he does not understand.  It makes your stomach twist and your heart skip.  Even when he caught a glimpse of your body, it did not feel as raw as this regard.  He looks at you and he sees through to something far deeper than skin and much more vulnerable.   

“You know,” he finally says. “The king has not thanked me once.  Not for anything.” 

You do not know what to say to that.  You hold the neck of the borrowed robe closed, fidgeting with it.  He seems to remember himself and he shakes his head.  He looks away, towards the trees that line the beach. 

“Ahh,” he says.  “It’s fine.  The king shouldn’t have to thank me.  And neither do you.  It’s my duty.”

“It’s not because I have to,” you say defensively.  “I want to.  Jisung, I want you to know that it wasn’t meaningless.  Everything you’ve done – I appreciate it.  I appreciate you.” 

He looks at you again, his face a storm of different emotions.  The pinch of his brow looks almost sad.  It makes you want to reach out and touch his face, smooth out his features under your fingers. 

He steps back before you can. 

“Your Majesty,” he says, bowing.  He does not look at you when he stands, strutting past, heading down the beach.  “Come on,” he says.  “It’s still a couple hours to the city from here.”

You walk on foot to the next city, the one that will take the retinue a day to reach.  Going over the cliff is certainly faster than travelling through the forest path, though obviously a less sensible approach.  You entertain yourself with thoughts of the king’s carriage careening over the cliff. 

It is a warm summer’s day so your wet clothes do not bother you.  It feels rather refreshing.  With the king far behind you, you can breathe a little easier. 

You and Jisung amble along the beach.  There is an awkward silence at first.  Though he was chatty on horseback, having the other guards around made the conversations feel less personal.  Now it is just you and him.

Fortunately, he is a natural showman.  It does not take much to wrestle funny stories out of him.  He has many, gleefully recounting every embarrassing story about his fellow guards.  He tells you how he and Hyunjin didn’t get along at first.  When you ask if it was for any political or religious reason, he laughs and says, “Nope! Just hated that handsome face.  Seriously, who looks like that?  Everything he did was annoying because he did it with that stupid smoulder.”   

You laugh.  At least an hour has passed and the sun has dried your clothes now.  Your curly hair is partially dry but a tangled mess.  Everything feels a little stiff and grimy with seawater, but you find you hardly care.  Here, under the sun, cool from your impromptu swim, you feel more alive than you have in weeks.   

“Why would it matter if he’s so handsome?” you ask.  “With all due respect, it’s not as though that is especially handy in your occupation…”

He laughs maniacally at that.  You swat his arm.    

“It’s a valid question!” you exclaim. 

“It is! It is!” he says, hands up in surrender.  “And I don’t know, ha-ha.  Old habits, I guess.”

“It wasn’t hard?” you ask.  “Giving up your worldly goods?  Swearing your vows?”

“No,” he says, a little more serious.  He looks down at the ground, kicking a pebble along.  “I didn’t have much to my name.  And for the other part – ah.  It’s never been that hard for me, to be honest.  Serving the gods felt right.  Before I was a guard, I didn’t really have a purpose.  A reason to be here on this earth.  But now… now I do.” 

“I see.”   

“Did you…”  He clears his throat.  He seems to know his question is audacious, inappropriate for a guard, but you give him an encouraging look.  Maybe because you are alone, or maybe because you have shared an ordeal, or maybe because you are in his robes, he gives in.  “Did you ever want a different life?” he asks.  He then winces as if suddenly remembering last night.  “Sorry,” he says.  “That insensitive.  I’m sure you—”

“It’s all right,” you say.  “I know what you mean.  It’s just… the question is a little overwhelming.”  You look across the sea, stare at the long edge of the horizon.  “Last night was…  I felt a lot of things for the first time.  I didn’t really know how to process it.  I grew up with expectations.  I didn’t know I would marry a king, but I was raised to expect a match.  I knew I was in a position of privilege and that meant conceding other things.  I… I just wanted to make things good for other people.  I don’t know if that makes sense.”

“It does,” he says sincerely. 

You smile at each other.

“Good,” you say.  There is a moment of silence.  You look at the horizon again.  “I don’t think I really know how to want something, to be honest,” you say, more to yourself than to him.  “Not deeply.  Not truly.  I was wealthy.  All my needs were met.  And I was never aimless.  I always had someone telling me what to do.  If there was ever time I wanted something, something I couldn’t have, I don’t remember.  Maybe that’s for the best.  I imagine that would be more painful than not wanting at all, right?  Maybe it’s better to suppress it and commit to my duty.  But I don’t know if that makes sense either.”

“It… it does,” he says.  “It does.” 

You eventually leave the beach and cross a short forest trail, intersecting the path the royal train will ride tomorrow.  You walk into the city and look for the inn.  It will be empty tonight in preparation of the royal visit tomorrow. 

You reach the doors at dusk.  The innkeepers recognize the kingsguard and usher you both inside.  When Jisung introduces you as the queen, they fall over themselves, apologizing for being unprepared. 

“It’s all right,” you say.  You share a laughing glance with Jisung. “We took an unexpected shortcut.” 

You are seated by a fireplace and given some food while they prepare a room for you.  The innkeeper’s wife provides you with a more appropriate cover so you can return Jisung’s robes.  He drapes them loosely around his shoulders, but they are stiff with seasalt.  Fortunately, you will both have an opportunity to wash. 

When the room is ready, the innkeeper’s wife escorts you upstairs.  She has prepared a bath in the bedchamber.

Jisung departs for a moment, just long enough to wash himself in another room.  His outer robes are taken to be washed along with your grimy shift, though he stays in his shirt and pants as a kingsguard is not supposed to wear anything but his uniform.  His spare robes are in his saddlebags. 

You wash your hair while the bath water is hot.  You try to focus on the heat, the water sluicing over your skin.  You fight to keep your panic down as you think about encountering the king tomorrow.

You are wringing out your hair when the door opens.  At first, you think it is the innkeeper’s wife returning for some reason.  When you see it is Jisung, you duck down so the water covers your shoulders. 

Jisung stumbles to a stop, eyes widening when he sees you in the tub. 

“Oh!” he says.  He spins around and walks right into the door. 

You cover your mouth, watching as he stumbles back into the room, holding his face.  For such a skilled swordsman, he can be remarkably clumsy. 

“Are you okay?” you ask.  You kneel in the deep tub, pressing yourself to the edge so it covers everything sensitive. 

“Fine,” he says, pinching his nose.  He waves a hand in your direction.  “Fine.  Sorry.  They told me you were washing, just not in a bath.” 

“They just sent you in here?” you ask.  “Why?”

“Uh, well, I mean…”  He dances over the threshold, rocking back and forth with uncertainty.  He keeps his back to you.  “I mean, it, uh, it is my job to, um, watch you.”

“In the bath?” you ask dryly. 

“Well, everywhere.”  He pinches his nose again and takes a breath.  “It’s not unusual.  The vows and – you know.  The kingsguard is a different order.  The gods see everything and we serve the gods.  It, uh, it is fairly normal for at least one guard to be around at all times, regardless how the king… or queen… is… um… occupied.” 

You feel a bit flushed, not just from the hot water. 

“At all times?” you ask. 

“Yup,” he says, popping the syllable.  “The king used to have Felix stand guard in the room all night, even when he was with his mistress and ohhh wait a minute.  Wait a minute.  Hold on.  I think I just put something together.  Yeah, wow, okay.  That was probably a bad idea for everyone involved.”

He always makes you laugh, even when you feel anxious or embarrassed.  It untangles that knot of dread faster than anything else. 

You fold your arms on the rim of the tub and rest your cheek there.  He is still standing with his back to you, the door open.  It is letting in a slight draft. 

“Jisung,” you say.  “It’s your duty.  It’s fine.  Can you please come inside and close the door?  It’s getting cold.”

“Ah. Right. Okay.  Sorry.”  He finally enters the room, though he pointedly does not look in your direction.  He busies himself with closing and bolting the door, taking far too long testing the locks. 

His hair is a bit damp.  He runs his fingers through it and your own fingers twitch.  You have never wondered what it would feel like to run your fingers through someone else’s hair, not until now.  His hair looks like it would be pleasant to the touch. 

You shake your head and look away.  Such foolish thoughts.   You settle in your bath and leave Jisung to his busy work.  He inspects every corner of the room and verifies the windows are securely sealed and locked.  Eventually, he seats himself in a chair near the fireplace, warming his hands and staring into the flames.   

You absently splash a bit of water, watching the droplets plink around you.  Your thoughts stray to the king then his absent mistress.  You cannot imagine any woman willingly and happily submitting to that man.  You wonder when she and her kingsguard connected.  You are glad she got away.  You hope it stays that way for their sake. 

Your own future is less certain.  The king wants you dead.  You do not know if he will make another attempt soon or if he will concede defeat for the time being.  You already know he will never like you.  It is obvious he is not that type of man.  He was born to power, raised believing he was divine.  Rather than use that blessing to aid his people, it has given him a cruel sense of superiority over them.    

The best outcome is that he will decide it is too much work to kill you.  

Or maybe death would be better.  You thought so last night, which seems so long ago now.  You remember the king’s violent hands on you, the demands he made, the way he looked right through you, treating you like a wretched thing.  You shudder to think he intended to hurt and use you, knowing he was planning to kill you the next day.   

“Are you all right?”     

Jisung’s voice draws you out of your reverie.  You are slouched in the tub, the water preserving your modesty at his distant vantage.   His face is illuminated in the firelight, the flickering light revealing his obvious concern.  Those dark eyes are wide as they gaze at you. 

“Yes,” you say.  He lifts a disbelieving eyebrow in reply.  You cross your arms over your chest, though it is your heart that feels exposed.  “No,” you whisper.  You whisper every last word, as though you can conceal it from the gods even while their servant listens.  “I’m sorry, Jisung.  I know he’s the king.  I know he is heaven’s earthly sovereign.  I know I’m his wife.  I know, no matter what he has done, if he has done anything, I have a responsibility, but I—”  You wipe your tears when they start to fall.  You sink a little lower in the tub.   

Your posture gives away your discomfort.  Jisung stands.  He goes to the bed where the innkeeper laid out a robe for you.  He smooths it out and picks it up. 

“Here,” he says. 

He does not look when you step out of the tub.  He wraps the robe around your body.  The fleeting contact makes you shiver.  You pass each other, avoiding each other’s eyes.  He returns to his seat by the fire and you sit on the edge of the bed. 

The room is quiet except for the crackling of the flames. 

“It’s not right,” he says after a moment. 

You were picking at lint on the robe, your thoughts asunder, but you look at him now.

“Pardon?” you ask in a small voice. 

He grimaces.  His hand is curled in a fist.  He unclenches it slowly, then occupies his hands by removing his sword belt.  He holds the weapon in his hands, running his thumb across the silver hilt while he frowns.   

“It’s not just because you’re the queen,” he says.  “You’re— you’re kind.  You’re good.  Your people cried when you left.  The king’s people only cry when he returns.  The way you talked to the villagers...  The respect between you...  The way you… the way you were good to those children…” 

You recall the story of his own childhood, a poor peasant boy on the capital streets with nothing to his name but a song. 

He rubs his forehead, then shakes his head. 

“You shouldn’t have to suffer,” he says.  “No one should.  But you...  It’s not right.  It’s not right.”

“I’m not special, really,” you say, not even to be self-deprecating but because you can see him sinking into his thoughts.  You do not want him hurting for your sake. 

“You are!  You’re the queen!” he exclaims.  “By the will of the gods!  And  I really do believe that.  Because you...  You are everything.” 

You jump when he drops his sword at his feet, the metal clattering on the wooden floor.  He puts his hands together as if he intends to pray, but then he looks at you, aglow in the firelight. 

“Your Majesty,” he says.  “You are good and kind and funny and gentle.  You are a heaven-sent queen.   You are everything I ever dreamed of worshipping.” 

Your wild heart breaks free.  It is not with the pounding terror of adrenaline, but like a drumbeat, low and steady, a rhythm that has you taking a long, shuddering breath. 

No words suffice in reply.  You sit in tense silence until the innkeeper’s wife knocks at the door.  She has come to empty and clear away the tub.   

Jisung lets her in.  You smile and chat while she works – because she adamantly refuses to let you help – and she confirms everything is to your liking.  You assure her that everything is perfect and she can be proud of her work.  Jisung watches silently the whole time, leaning against the fireplace, loosely holding his sword. 

When the room is clear and the bed turned down, the woman leaves, and the silence feels even heavier than before.  You sit on the bed in your robe, drying your hair with a cloth. Jisung locks the door then takes his seat by the fire again.  You suppose he is going to stay there all night. 

He slouches very low, his elbow propped on the armrest and his hand on his face.  His knees are spread wide enough that you can imagine kneeling between them.  You do not know what would follow, just that you want to be there. 

Yes, you want that, you realize.  You want to be there, looking up at him with a reverence equal to his words.  It would be easier than finding something to say.  Your gaze would speak for you, in a position that should be reserved for the king and the gods. 

You know you cannot do that.  Your roles are very different.   When he says speaks of devotion and worship, it as a kingsguard, not a man, even if your heart aches – because whether or not it is blasphemous to imagine, you would worship a man like that all the same. 

The very thought has you breathing a harder.  You imagine him looking down at you, his hand your face like before – guiding, gentle, good.  You cannot imagine Jisung ever touching you the way the king did.  No, it would be different.  The king seized your waist with a proprietary aggression.  Jisung has touched your waist again and again, always to help you, always to protect you.  You know that touch would not hurt.  You know that touch would not leave you curled in pain for hours afterwards. 

You know what it would not be, though you cannot imagine what it would be.  You just know the thought makes you tremble. 

But that is not your fate.  It is ridiculous to imagine.  It will be the king in this room tomorrow night. 

You tremble for a different reason. 

“He’s going to hurt me,” you whisper.  You are not sure if you even want to Jisung to hear, but you simply cannot keep it inside.  You speak, like if it leaves your mouth it will materialize and you can face it, fight it. 

That does not happen.  You just shiver worse. 

“Even if he doesn’t kill me,” you say.  “He’s going to hurt me.  He already tried once.  I won’t be able to stop him again.” 

You dare a glance at Jisung.  He is staring at you with those wide, sympathetic eyes.  After a moment of contemplation, he stands.  He paces a little, back and forth, seemingly debating himself in his head.  It turns to incoherent muttering as he pinches the bridge of his nose. 

“Jisung—” you say, prepared to apologize.  It is not appropriate for the queen to complain to a kingsguard about her duties.  You are putting him in a difficult space, because he is a good man who does not want to see you suffer, but he is a holy man and he should demand you pray and do as the gods bid you. 

Instead he claps his hands together and sighs a musical sigh. 

“There are—”  His voice breaks and he laughs, a nervous little giggle before clearing his throat.  He says more seriously, “There are, uh, ways – things – um – yes – that you can do – so it doesn’t – so it doesn’t hurt.” 

“Ways,” you repeat slowly.  “Things.” 

“Yes,” he says, gesturing nonsensically, waving at nothing.  “Ways.  And things.” 

“What ways and things?” 

“You know.”

“I don’t.”

“You don’t?” 

“You do?” 

“Ahhh…”  Jisung looks sheepish, crossing his arms tightly over his chest.  He gives you a too-toothy smile.  In spite of everything, warmth moves inside you, a bright and delightful joy, even if it is temporary.   “Well, um.  I’m chaste, obviously, so I don’t – I don’t know much.  But I maybe know some things…  There’s a ritual the kingsguards do… before they are, um, initiated…” 

“Do…?” you say.  You wave him onward with an amused smile. 

“Uh, yes.”  He stands ramrod straight and clasps his hands behind his back.  “Don’t tell anyone I said anything, but, um.  They send you to a brothel.  It’s for a decent reason!”  His hands fly out again, waving defensively even though you did not say anything. 

You prop your elbow on your knee and your head on your fist, more entertained with his ranting than anything. 

“You know,” Jisung says, speaking as much with his hands as his words, “They just want to make sure you are actually going to be okay with a vow of chastity, especially if you’re a virgin like, um, like I was.  Am.  Was.  Am.  Anyway.  They don’t want a Felix situation, you know?  Where you change your mind later.  The vows are a serious, serious, serious thing.  Felix was an exception, that whole thing was just – it was crazy, you know?  But the vows.  The vows.  Oh, I was ready for the vows.  My life… it wasn’t great, you know?  I was worthless.  I was a street kid.  I was a thief.  I came back from the war to nothing.  The kingsguard gave me a reason to live.  So I wasn’t tempted, oh nooo, I was never tempted.  But they, um, they sent me anyway to make sure I knew what I was giving up.”

“I see,” you say.  You want to correct him when he insults himself, but you suspect he will deflect any argument.  Instead you ask, “What happened then?”

“Um, a very nice lady took me to a room,” he says.  “I told her what I told you.  I was ready for the kingsguard.  I had my calling.  I was finally going to matter.  My friend had helped me and I couldn’t let him down.”

“And what did she say?”

“She just… listened,” he says, looking a bit fond in his recollection.  You find yourself feeling a little jealous, not so much because he is thinking of someone affectionately, but because you have no one to think of that way.  You have done your duty and reserved yourself and your affections for marriage, only to be given a very unaffectionate man.

You can only watch as Jisung reflects and says, “She said she knew a lot of men like me which, personally, I don’t think is true, I’m one of a kind, thank you.  But she said, um… she asked if I wanted to, um, watch her.  Touch herself, I mean.  And, um, I, uh, did.  Just to, you know, make sure.  It didn’t count anyway because I didn’t touch her.  It, um.  Yes.  Yes.  That happened.  So now I know ways and things.” 

You blink at him.  His awkward story-telling coupled with the twisting narrative leaves you more than a little perplexed. 

“Touch herself,” you finally say.  “Touch herself how?  What does that mean?” 

Jisung squeaks.  He looks at you pleadingly, as if you can rescue him from the conversation he started. 

“You don’t…” he says.  It starts desperate but turns a little morose, his shoulders flattening with a sorrowful defeat.  “No,” he says softly.  “You don’t know anything, do you?”  

He does not say it offensively but you bristle at the accusation regardless.  You sit straight and lift your chin. 

“I know exactly what we are talking about, thank you,” you say.  “I am not a child, Jisung.  I was raised to know my duty as a wife.  I am very aware of what copulation entails.” 

He raises his hands in surrender, not pushing the subject.  You sit there, maintaining an air of haughty disinterest while he takes his seat again.  He rubs his bare arms, absent-mindedly squeezing a bicep as he massages himself. 

Watching someone touch herself, repeats in your head, your eyes on his hands as they move up his arm, rubbing his own shoulder. 

Your wild heart gets the better of you. 

“Do you mean… it doesn’t always hurt?” you ask in a slurred rush.  When he looks at you, you look away, ashamed as you say, “I still don’t know what you mean by ways and things.” 

“Well...”  His tone is kind, patient.  He waves a hand through the air.  “I just mean… No.  No, it doesn’t always hurt.  Or it shouldn’t hurt, at least.  So I’m told.  I’m, uh, chaste.  Obviously.” 

“But you’ve seen a woman touch herself.” 

“Yes.”  The tips of his ears go red, or maybe it is the firelight.  He scratches the back of his neck. 

“And that… helps,” you say.  “So it doesn’t hurt?”    

“Yes, I think so,” he says, rubbing his hands together in a nervous fidget.  “Again, I don’t really know for sure because I’m chaste.” 

Yes, you know, especially with his constant reiteration of that fact.  He has given you much to think about, though.  Everyone always told you that a wife’s nightly duty was a painful, unpleasant thing, something to be endured to keep a husband content and create children. 

You feel very foolish, much like you did last night when you tried and failed to run away.  You have always considered yourself very intellectual and pragmatic, but lately you are feeling so many foreign things, encountering the world for the first time.  It makes you feel younger than your age. 

That anxiety twists in you again, its tangles and knots familiar by now.  It is the nervous kind of adrenaline as you consider your next words carefully. 

“Could you…”  You cannot look at him, staring at the fire while you speak.  “Could you… instruct me?” 

“In-instruct you.” His voice breaks again.  It feels as though you are both pubescent fools, falling over each other as you dart around this perilous subject. 

When you look at him, your eyes meet, and that twisting anxiety becomes something else entirely.  It burns hot as the fire, coiling inside you like some impossible, holy flame. 

“Just… just so I know,” you say.  “I don’t expect you to do anything like – oh, Jisung, I would never ask that, you know I would never.  You’re a kingsguard.”

“I’m a kingsguard,” he repeats, like for a second he wasn’t sure.

“Yes, of course,” you say.  “I’m sorry.  It was a foolish question.  I just – I trust you.  And I just hoped—”  Hope.  Something you should stop doing.  The gods have made their decision and there are no prayers that will move them.  You must resign yourself to your fate, whatever that is.  “Forget it,” you say.  “I know my place.  Whatever happens, whatever he does –I will bear it.  I will.”

You smile a forced smile, but it is bright and encouraging.  It usually fools people. 

Jisung does not smile back.  He runs his hand through his hair again.  He takes a long, deep breath, and releases it as slowly.  You swear, it is as loud as the flames, louder than the thunderous heart in your chest.  

Despite it all, you keep smiling, determined to mask your emotions. 

Then he looks at you and your mask immediately crumbles.  Why do his eyes have this effect? 

“Come here,” he says. 

When the king commanded you, your body felt weak, terror coursing through your veins.  It felt like an injury, so discombobulating that it incapacitated you long after.   

Your body feels weak now, but the terror is not the same, not that dark, cold dread.  It courses hotly, like the water on your skin, like the heat in this room, like the look in his eyes.  You try to convince yourself that your body is just sore from so much riding and running, so of course your legs feel shaky as you stand and approach him. 

But you know.  You know.  Well before you reach him, well before he guides you towards the floor-length mirror, you know. 

You look at your reflection.  You almost do not recognize the woman looking back at you, so undone when she has always been so meticulously composed.  No emotions got in, no feelings got out, no wants were had, and no disappointments either.  Now your eyes burn too, meeting his through the reflection. 

He carefully, gently, gathers the hair that is loose around your shoulders.  You shiver, fingers twitching, that coiled heat unravelling.  He draws your hair back, guiding it over your shoulders and down your back.  He briefly runs his fingers through half-damp curls.  He stares at his hands, eyes wide like he is holding some much more precious than hair. 

He swallows.  With a final pat, he lets go.  His hands fall to his sides where they curl into tightly bound fists. 

“I can’t touch you,” he says.  “That’s not – I’m not – I mean.”  He closes his eyes and shakes his head.  “This is not that.  But you’re the queen and you shouldn’t suffer.  It’s just not right, okay?”  He looks at you again through the mirror, eyes shiny and sad.  “I’m a kingsguard,” he says.  “It’s my duty to protect you.  From everything.”  He smiles weakly.  “Let me show you how to protect yourself, okay?”

“Okay,” you say, surprised by the rasp of your voice. 

“Okay,” he says, rasping too.  He clasps his hands behind his back, standing straight as if preparing for a military inspection.  “I’m a kingsguard,” he repeats.  You know that, so you are not sure who he keeps reassuring.  “I’m not – I’m not looking at you like that, okay?” 

“I trust you.”

“Right.  Right.  Um.” 

His hands are restless.  At his sides, behind his back, now crossed protectively over his chest.  You find yourself looking at the subtle curve of his bicep. 

 “Lower your robe,” he says.  Your startled eyes dart up the mirrored reflection.  “Just as much as you want,” he says gently. 

You stare at him through the mirror.  You never imagined your own eyes could look so heated, but they are twin to his, and you see a sort of beauty in yourself because of what you see in him. 

You shrug the robe down your shoulders.  He pointedly does not look down, keeping his eyes on yours.  That is for the best.  That is for the best? 

You let it fall a little more.  You feel the flickering heat of the nearby fire, warming your skin as it is revealed.  Your heart jumps at the sensation, the feeling of exposure. 

You forget how to breathe.  In that held breath, you let the whole thing spill to the floor in a soft puddle of fabric.   

He blinks, once, twice.  On the third, his eyes dart down, but just as quickly up.  He swallows.  His voice shakes as he says, “Close your eyes.”  

You look at those warm brown eyes one more time before obeying.  You slip into the dreamy darkness, acutely aware of the world around you.  Everything feels more pronounced.  You feel every touch of heat like a burning mark, his breath like a kiss on the back of your neck.  That coiling heat tightens again. 

“What now?” you ask.

“Bring your fingers to your lips.  Yeah, like that.”

You raise your hand, resting two fingertips on your bottom lip.  You feel his slow exhale.

“Kiss them,” he says.  The word kiss feels like a touch.  “On your tongue.” 

It feels a little ridiculous but you do as he says, wetting the tips of your fingers.  It does not garner any particular sensation.  No, pleasure comes from knowing he is watching.  You cannot see him, but you know his gaze is fixated on you, rivetted to every movement to ensure you comply with his instructions. 

It makes that heat turn molten. 

“Okay,” he says, his voice a much lower rasp than before.  He clears his throat but it still comes out rough when he says, “Touch your neck – on your pulse, right there – slowly.  Slowly.  Bring your fingers down your throat.” 

You do so, shivering a little at the wet trail it leaves as you trace your fingers from your jaw to your collarbone. 

“Does it feel like a kiss?” he asks.

At his suggestion, the touch no longer feels like yours.  You imagine him in front of you, his open mouth, his tongue darting past his lips.  Your whole body tightens and that heat rushes inside you.  You imagine him taking his time, his tongue travelling from your jaw to your chest. 

“Oh,” you say, a musical note of a sound.  You hear his breath catch. “Yes.” 

“Good.”  He clears his throat again.  “Keep – keep doing – that.  Bring your hand – yes.”  His voice gets softer, barely more than a whisper as you bring your fingers down the curve of your breast.  “Yes.  Like that.” 

“Like this,” you repeat.  It is easier to follow instinct with your eyes closed, listening to the beat of your own heart, the call of your own skin.  You trace your fingers around the tip of your breast, where the peak is already stiff.  You breathe harder, your heart faster, as it sends a shock of sensation firing through your body.  “Oh.  Is this what you meant?”  The small touch feels torturous.  You cup your whole breast and squeeze.  The pleasure leaves you trembling.

“Yes,” he says.  “But there’s, um.  There’s more.”

“More?”  You already feel dizzy.  You never knew so many sensations were hidden under the surface of your skin.  You cannot imagine what else is waiting. 

“Lower,” he says. 

There is a leap in your bloodstream as you obey. You chase it to no conclusion as the caress of your waist does not feel like much. 

“No, um.”  He moves; you can hear him.  Maybe his hands are making gestures, maybe he is running his fingers through his hair.  His voice is still rough so he clears his throat again.  “To—towards the – the centre.  The centre of your – body.” 

Your hand hovers above your middle.  You feel flushed, suddenly understanding his direction.  Your apprehension must show, because he says softly, “You don’t have to.  You can just—”

“I want to,” you say.  The truth spills out of you in a rush.  You want.  You have never wanted so much.  It has never been so clear in your voice. 

“You do?” he repeats.

You answer by following the call of desire and touching the only place that makes sense.  You make a noise when you do, surprised when you find evidence of all that coiling heat, wet on your fingertips. 

“Are you – are you wet?” he asks. 

You nod.  “Is that good?”

“Yes,” he says.  “That’s – that’s good.  Very good.” 

You soak in the praise, humming a sweet little sound as you move your fingers inexpertly.  You brush somewhere sensitive, feeling like you have struck every nerve at once.  Your gasping cry gives it away. 

“There,” he says.  “Right there.  Touch yourself.  Don’t stop.” 

You shuffle your feet apart, just a little.  A jolt of pleasure shoots down your body when he nudges your bare foot with his booted one, easing your legs further apart.  He does not address it so neither do you, accepting it as a simple gesture of help. 

“You can use your other hand,” he says, because one is between your legs and the other is just curled at your side. 

You take his advice and cup a sensitive breast with your free hand.   The noise you make will embarrass you later as it echoes in your mind, but right now you let it carry you away. 

You cannot use both hands for long.  Your free hand moves through the air, grasping at nothing.  You need an anchor.  Your legs are shaking and you are swimming in the darkness of your closed eyes.  Spots of colour begin to dance across your shielded vision, twirling in dizzying motions.  Your core feels tight. 

“Oh – Jisung.  Jisung, I—”  

“It’s okay,” he says, his voice more strained than ever.  “Trust me.  Don’t stop.”

“Trust you,” you murmur.  It sends another wave of heat rolling through you.  The dizziness overwhelms, your legs buckling.  You reach behind you instinctively and blindly reach for him. 

He catches you, his soldier instincts fast.  Your eyes fly open as you crash into his chest, so much of your weight supported in the clasp of his arms.  His eyes look so dark, almost a solid black, his whole face flushed as if he was the one exerting himself. 

You whimper at the sight of him, at the sight of yourself in his arms, all sloping curves and fire-hot skin, soft and naked against his firm, darkly-clothed body. 

You feel his hands on your sides, clutching you tightly, his front slotted along your backside.  His clothes brush your too-sensitive skin, his hands hot on your body. 

You move just a little, rearing up under your own hand.  When you shift, you feel him, his body behind you.  He is undeniably hard, straining at the material of his uniform. 

He sucks in a breath, his groan a low, scraping sound, but he does nothing about his own desire, even while it makes you gasp. 

He does not dare move his hands.  He does not dare look away from your eyes in the mirror. 

“Come to me,” he rasps.  “I got you.” 

All that coiling tension gives way.  It feels like the moment the cosmos shifted, when the world disappeared under you, when you crashed through the surface of the water and felt as though you entered another world.  You see stars and your body throbs under your fingers.  Your mind is gone, your body in animalistic pursuit, needing him, pressing against him. 

“Shhh,” he says gently.  You are gasping, every breath a watery sound.  He exhales roughly, his own arms trembling.  Even his breath is shaking, his nose pressed to your temple as he holds you for another second.  “Shhh,” he says again.  “That was good.  You’re okay.”

“Oh.”  It is all you can say.  You slowly withdraw your hand, your fingers embarrassingly wet. 

You are not sure what possesses you.  Perhaps the same instinct that compels you to clean blood off a finger pricked from needlework.  Whatever it is, you listen to that instinct and bring those fingers to your lips to suck the evidence away. 

“Good fucking gods,” he says, his eyes wide. 

He abruptly lets go and steps back.  Fortunately, you have your footing now, so you do not fall, but it leaves a chill along your exposed backside.  You shiver.    

He looks around the floor for your discarded robe. When he sees it, he swift dives down to gather the material in his hands. 

He is on his knees when you turn around. 

For a long moment, he stays down there, staring at the fabric crinkling in his hands.  His knuckles lighten with the intense strength of his grip. 

“Jisung?” you say softly.  With your adrenaline dwindling, you feel shy.  Even so, your heart is still an erratic thing.  It seems physical release cannot temper whatever has taken hold of that creature.  It continues to pound and stomp as Jisung lifts his head.

“Your Majesty,” he says, his voice so shot it is barely above a breath. 

You feel a jolt inside you, some trembling aftershock, intensified because he looks at you.  Oh, he looks at you, forgetting himself at that vantage, his eyes everywhere from the curve of your knee to the slope of your thighs.  Shiny brown eyes roam slower than a lover’s touch to the place between your legs, up the curve of your waist, your heaving breasts, and meeting your eyes with a near-crazed desperation. 

“Jisung,” you say, a whisper as well. 

He drops his head again, cursing under his breath as he closes his eyes.  He shifts to one knee then finally rises, stumbling a little once upright.  He wraps the robe around you without any delay, then he throws his hands out to his sides like he is issuing surrender. 

“Good,” he says, avoiding your face, avoiding everything as he stumbles towards the fireplace and his discarded sword.

You close the robe around yourself.  You do not know what to say.  Words seem woefully insufficient, especially with his frantic energy as he fumbles with his sword belt, fighting to get it secured around his waist. 

“Thank you,” you finally say.  You sit on the end of the bed, holding the neck of the robe closed, looking at him with nothing but raw and open emotion.  “I – I don’t know what else to say.”

He stares back at you, a hand on the hilt of his sword.  The other sits over his midsection, curls around his belt.  He looks like he might burst into flames, all that white and gold flashing behind him. 

“If I can ever repay you…” you say. 

You don’t mean it like that, but his eyes flash with want –  unmistakable desire, then terror. 

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” he says, bowing low.  “You owe me nothing.  You’re my – you’re my queen.” 

He moves so quickly, it makes you jump, raising from his bow and striding across the room.  He is at the door in a matter of seconds, his hand practically crashing onto the lock.  There, it freezes, his fingers curled around the iron. 

You stare at him.  His shoulders are tense, lifting and falling with his deep breathing.  Your lips part though you have no idea what to say.  There is a feeling inside you but you cannot name it, cannot catch it with your voice.  You can only take another breath. 

He whips back around.  You jump again.  Before you can even think to move or speak, he is back in front of you.  He slams down onto his knees and bows again, more frantic than before, the top of his head hitting your legs. 

You reach for him instinctively, the curve of his neck looking so desolate and desperate.  He seizes your hands before they can touch them, bringing them together then to his lips.  He kisses your knuckles, though it such a hard and needy press, it feels more like a collision.  You feel his lips and the bump of his teeth.  He hisses on an exhale and drops your hands. 

Without another word, he stands.  He marches to the door.  This time he does not hesitate, flicking open the locks.  He steps into the hall without looking back.  The door closes between you. 

You hear his body hit the door, the drag of it as he sinks to the ground.  He is sitting on the floor outside. 

You move towards that door without thinking.  You sink to your knees as well, pressing your ear to the wood.  You can hear him breathing on the other side – heaving, frantic breaths that almost sounds like crying. 

Perhaps it all the sensation catching up to you, but your own eyes fill with tears as you slump against the door.  You fall asleep there, listening to each other with the divider between you. 

[egophiliac]

now that I can think semi-coherently again...whooooo's ready for Friday WEEHOO

[ivoryratdoggerythethird]

dazai making up a whole language with fyodor that no one else can understand is amazing but imagine him using codes that, very objectively speaking, you could crack, it's just that no normal person would ever make the insane leaps in logic that it requires. except for someone familiar with dazai's weird thinking patterns, that is.

i just love the idea of dazai's unhinged antics being dialed up to an eleven when he was in the port mafia, and oda being the only one who simply wouldn't bat an eye at it but chuuya was the only one who would actually get it.

like imagine ango at the end of the jailbreak, his boss saying he should allow himself to sigh and lean back and maybe indulge himself, pat him on the shoulder, tell him what he pulled off reading heart rates wasn't easy and he should be proud for being able to keep up with such a plan

but ango i-drank-with-teenage-dazai-and-also-had-the-records-for-every-soukoku-mission sakaguchi can only remember the time dazai was like using greek sign language through his breathing patterns to communicate from a submarine from beneath the pacific ocean or something, and chuuya could not fathom how no one else could understand him.

and that was the day mori signed off on skk being exclusive partners because every subordinate in the room was crying tears of blood by the time chuuya finished explaining which blood pressure level was warning them about a bomb, which blinking sequence was him conveying the vault password and which series of inhales was just him calling mori a bitch.

(ango also pointedly did not want to think about how smug dazai had looked after the mission when mori confirmed skk would only be each others' partners for efficiency and to maintain everyone else's sanity

or about how when he called chuuya to tell him about dazai's prison break scheme he could only get like 3 out of 276 steps into the plan before chuuya rolled his eyes, said "got it" then hung up and pulled the whole thing off without a hitch.)

[evelyn-and-art]

Who in the world gets entertained by this stuff? Hey, won’t you tell me? With a smile—up, pull, pull. (MoeChakkaFire by Issey)

[officialmiintee]

wind breaker / the most beautiful moment in life

[cl0wnc4rzz]

ew

[labotor]

my bougie dwarf LoF rook Tyarva and her sugar baby silly charming professor who she adores so very much <333

[thelesbianoffrontiers]

now im excited that rook can visit the grand necropolis with their companions

rook: “and over here is the tomb where some undead found me as a baby”

companions: “what.”

[krytus]

can we also appreciate ballister nailing this guy in the dick and then using the shield which is still attached to him

[catkettle]

is it gay to share an umbrella with your crush

[just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi]

Oh the simple joy of watching your favorite characters being tied to a chair

[artiificiial]

struggling w art n motivation a lot rn so i forced myself to draw something silly featuring the robins!

my vision of what they are saying below vvv

[kozmicmizuu]

silly sanegiyuu/giyuusane thing because the recent episode has fueled this.

also yes this is like kimetsu gakuen/modern au thingy for my sanity

- - - -

sanemi: genya, i’m going on a date, stay home and don’t do anything stupid.

genya: mom said i have to go with you!!

sanemi: what- no- YOURE NOT COMING TO MY FUCKING DATE—

*cut to them being at a restaurant with genya sitting between giyuu and sanemi.*

sanemi: ….

giyuu: what are you ordering, genya?

genya: oh- i’m ordering a burger :)

sanemi: i fucking hate my life..

- - - -

sanemi can’t have shit when he has a big family, this is probably not the first time he’s had to take his siblings to his date nights