Autumn sighs

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[sinkingnotsoslowly]

Come Autumn, I'll see you again You can call me Autumn, or love, or yours, anything you wish Primary blog- @cheesytangerine ♡ masterlist Autumn's sighs- little soft thoughts about our favourite boys Guidelines ♡ Tell me more - a safe place for all your soft thoughts and the most random ones too. No hard thoughts I'm afraid.

If my writing can provide you pleasure please think of reblogging. With love.

[sinkingnotsoslowly]

What goes on in the Royal Minds...

Pairing: Lee Know x (f) Reader x I.N.

Warnings: Each chapter will have its own warnings

Synopsis: It is never pleasurable to get involved in royal matters, even if the matters are the two princes themselves.

Do not steal my work. Reblogs are appreciated.

masterlist

Autumn's sighs- little soft thoughts about our favourite boys

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

[skzdarlings]

the kingsguard ; jisung x reader ; part iv

part one | part two | part three | part four | 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.  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.  Not the shade or the sunlight or the mist can hide him.  Even when you close your eyes, he is there, looking back at you.  In a few short days, Han Jisung has inextricably twined himself around your heart.  You don’t love him yet, but you could.  You want to love him.  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 want to chase after him, swear new vows to him alone.  You would give anything for him to experience the same devotion he has bestowed upon others.  You want to fly 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: 

You.  Your duty, your family, your people.  The king.  The marriage, the cruelty, the wedding bed.   

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.  “And 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. 

Your shock settles.  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 and 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 roving, 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, engaged in conversation while he eats.  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 soft, quick caress of your fingertips. 

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—”

The king arrives while you are having breakfast.  Before long, you are gathered outside the inn, preparing to travel.  There is a long stretch of countryside between this city and the capital.  The next few nights will be spent camping in the woods, then you will arrive at the capital city and stay at an inn, 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.  “But 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, Your Majesty,” 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, unblinking and not breathing.  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 hot, 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.  Fortunately, before it lasts 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, and 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 the guys 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 the warmth that is now 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 always 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 only just 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.  But 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 blindly, ushered along before you can think twice.  You are soon seated, this time a part of the kingsguard circle.  You take a seat between Seungmin and Hyunjin. 

Seungmin returns your tools once you are settled, skirts neatly arranged around you.  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 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 are follow his flow.  They all sit straighter, looking at him for orders. 

Chan, clearly frustrated, 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 it 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, hiding it behind your palm.  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 leaves 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 sharping 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?  But 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, eyes flicking towards him then towards you.  Their conversations trail off 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 couldn’t happen, 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 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 shoulders fall with a sigh of relief, though it doesn’t last.  His eyes dart over the other guards, aware they are waiting for an answer too. 

He slowly turns to you and says, “Anything that distracts from the gods.” 

“I see,” you say.  You can feel the kingsguards looking at you, their attention moving between you and Chan as if watching the volley of an intense game match.  It makes your skin prickle, sweat on your nape as you swallow your nerves.  “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 light, like this is a simple remark.  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 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 back 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 – I have a great deal of respect for the kingsguard.  This is a difficult situation for you all, I am sure.  I just 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?”

The king is close to you.  Changbin sees him first, but 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 right here, right now. 

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. 

“Whoa, whoa, 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 silver 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 but not frightened, 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 help 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.”  You speak loud but steady, looking the king in his startled eyes. “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.”     

Ostensibly, 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, but 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 drums like a storm.  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. 

“Your Majesty,” 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 man 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.  Your heart and body both call to him.  You are overwhelmed with the memory of being 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 reach, no harm that can ever pursue you there.       

With your eyes locked so reverently on Jisung, you do not see the king approach.  You turn your face as he throws Hyunjin an arrogant, challenging look.

Then 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 something else, 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 evidently strong because 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 humiliated.  Hyunjin shouts back, 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.  Hyunjin finally goes silent, shrugging Minho and Seungmin away.  Even the king ceases his hollering, spitting 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 shouts.  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 sharply, 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 interrupted by the king.

“I want him 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. 

“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, 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, shushing you gently.  You watch, 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, 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, his pompous self-satisfaction only deepening.   

You jump at the crack of the whip, eyes racing back to Hyunjin.  There is a welt across his skin, 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, holding his 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 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 too close to him, his familiar heartbeat pounding against yours, and you need to rip away but you want to be even closer. 

Jisung takes a step, guiding you towards the sound of the river.  When you try to separate further, he pulls you back into his side, that hidden strength revealing itself.  Your feet only 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, sparks shooting up your spine as if he traced the length of it.  But no, it stays there, palm on your lower back, nudging 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 kneel at the same time, 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.  You close your eyes, relishing in the cool kiss of the stream.  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, on 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. 

“Your Majesty,” 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.” 

You finally look at him.  His eyes are drawn to your mouth, but that is 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, 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 truly 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 says, trying to be jovial, trying to 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 kneeling, just like this, looking at you, just like this.  You remember him, slouched in that chair by the fire while you dreamed of nothing more than kneeling in front of 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 like a sword-hand.  A million complicated thoughts seem to flash across his face, one after the other. 

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 touching 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, 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, 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, mouth open, watching as you kiss his knuckles with the same devoted press.  Where he was all desperate teeth and lips, you are tender, a soft wet 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, shooting heat to every extremity. 

You remember the strength of his arms.  Yes, you will never forget.  He wraps one 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 dared to steal over the years, silly childish exchanges 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, humming 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 right here on this riverbank. 

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 towards 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 accidentally 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. 

[sinkingnotsoslowly]

Sometimes I come across writings that get me involved emotionally. This is one of them.

[minhosblr]

I have no words. None.

[minhosblr]

I can't decide who's cuter

[wolfchans]

[sinkingnotsoslowly]

Name: Kim Seungmin

Occupation: Professional bias wrecker

[sinkingnotsoslowly]

boom boom

chk chk boom!

[yangjeongin]

HYUNJIN | ATE MASHUP VIDEO

[sinkingnotsoslowly]

Muse

Pairing: (f) Reader x Hyunjin

Warning: angst if you squint, royalty au

DO NOT STEAL MY WORK. REBLOGS AND FEEDBACK ARE APPRECIATED.

masterlist

Autumn's sighs- little soft thoughts about our favourite boys

Life in the palace was lonely. The tall ceilings and dark walls seemed never-ending. The end of the hallways looked like black holes, once they suck you in there’s no way out. The only place Hyunjin felt at ease in the entire palace was his bedchamber. It was devoid of the darkness that seemed to engulf everything in the palace. Instead, it was decorated by splashes of colours here and there, paintbrushes scattered across the floor, several complete and incomplete canvases kept wherever Hyunjin could fit them and even the bed unmade. It was not what any other person would call ‘decorated’ by any means. Even Hyunjin knew it was a mess, “But a pretty mess” he would argue.

One would think life was easy for the royals. They could have whatever they wanted, and with the whole nation at their feet achieving so was as easy as pie. And maybe it was true to a certain extent. But unfortunately for Hyunjin, he did not desire anything that the royal life was able to provide. What need does he have for power and wealth? The little prince used to ask his tutor. And the only thing everybody he asked this to had to say was that he was the eldest prince, the future king, and he ought to have the power to rule the nation. Hyunjin did not want to rule anything.

 “Your brother is being made the crown prince” the royal guard stomped onto the balcony where Hyunjin had set up his easel and canvas.

“And I remember telling you not to pester me when I am painting, Changbin.”

The sunset was becoming too yellow, this wouldn’t do. Hyunjin started mixing some red with the yellow on his palette and looked up to see the guard still standing there, looking at him with a face of disbelief. “Do you have anything more to say?”

“Don’t you have anything to say? You were supposed to have that title Hyunjin”

Hyunjin went back to put some orange on the canvas. Now the sunset had some texture. “I am happy for Yongbok is what I have to say”

“Hyunjin”

Sighing, he put down the brush to look at the guard frowning. Changbin was the only person in the palace he could call upon. He was a little dense at times and maybe that was why when everyone left Hyunjin to his own devices, he followed him like a lost puppy.

“I never wanted that title. I am glad that the King deemed me unworthy. I would have much rather enjoyed being born to a simple farmer. Work hard during the day and paint at night. It is a dream indeed.”

“And it will remain a dream. There is no point in dreaming what you cannot achieve. Hyunjin, you could have handled the business affairs during the day and painted at night-”

“I do not want to handle the business. Yongbok is far more willing and capable of it. It is the right decision to make him the crown prince. I am happy like this” Hyunjin picked up his brush to continue the finishing touches. It was almost dark now; he couldn’t sit out here much longer.

“So, you are all right with people making you out to be mad?” his brush stilled for a moment. “Yes. Yes, I am. It is nothing new. You should leave, I want to finish this painting before it gets too dark.”

Hyunjin had expected to be at peace after his younger brother was made the crown prince. The King now had no reason to fret and Hyunjin could go about doing his own things. But he was wrong. His peace of mind did not last long as not even a week later the King decided that it would be best for the eldest to get married. Perhaps a wife would help his delirious mind.

To Hyunjin that was worse than being the next King. A wife? It was the nation’s ruler who was mad not him. Having a wife meant letting an outsider enter the little delicate space he had so tenderly sewed. An outsider who would judge him for his choices, call him a lunatic and tear apart his safe abode. Then there would be nothing remaining of him. How would he survive? These thoughts kept him up at night. And when finally sleep came he was haunted by nightmares, where a faceless woman would smirk at him, looking at him with disdain and make a mockery of him.

No amount of pleading stopped the marriage. Even the younger prince tried to convince his father against it after seeing his brother in so much distress. The King stood firm on his decision. And so the wedding preparations began. Hyunjin was certain that the King had lied about him to make a man marry off his daughter to a prince like him. Or maybe this man did not value his daughter enough to pick a worthy husband for her. Either way, Hyunjin did not think his to-be wife would treat him differently than the rest of the masses. So he did not bother to show any interest whatsoever in the maids’ gossip about the unfortunate lady who was to become a part of the royal family. But Changbin enthusiastically visited Hyunjin to tell him about her whenever he heard something new. And so he’s heard that the lady was the princess of a small kingdom far south. Their nation was suffering from famine, so their King was marrying off his daughter to save their people. More of a trade than a marriage. Hyunjin should have known that his father had played some cards for a nation to give up their princess to him.

The first time Hyunjin saw her was at the altar. Dressed in white with accents of gold and a veil drawn low upon her face. Still, Hyunjin could make out her features; as delicate as a flower, full of innocence, untainted by the harsh condemnation of the world. At once Hyunjin thought of how exquisite she would look sitting in one of the garden chairs among all the other flowers while he painted her. And when she shyly looked up at him, gauging the features of her new husband, Hyunjin knew he was done for.

The first few weeks after the grand wedding passed with the newlyweds awkwardly shuffling around each other and stumbling over their words like babies learning to speak. “This is intolerable. Both of you make me want to smash my head against the wall " Changbin barged into the library, where he knew he would find the older prince. He’d had enough of the couple.

“And what did I tell you about disturbing me when I’m in the library Changbin?” Hyunjin said as he flipped through yet another romantic novel, he says inspired him to paint. Changbin ignored the prince’s blatant show of uninterest and continued, “Do all of us in the palace a favour Hyunjin, grow a pair and talk to your wife properly. You cannot keep running away forever”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Although Hyunjin chased away Changbin he knew that it was becoming ridiculous. He had not touched his paintbrush since the night before the wedding when he locked away all his paints and brushes in drawers, hid the easel under the bed and all his finished and unfinished paintings in trunks. And when his wife stared at him with a questioning look when he insisted on always keeping those drawers locked, he had stupidly said, “I’m a very paranoid man.”  Hyunjin never considered himself to be awkward when conversing with people, he could be very charming at times. So he kept wondering why this sudden idiocy had seized him.

Hyunjin was certain that he had reached a point of restlessness where he would spontaneously combust at any moment if he did not get his hands on even a pencil and a piece of paper to sketch. And of all times now his head was swarming with inspirations when he could not put them down on paper. Ridiculous is what it is, he thought. He did not even know why he was hiding himself from his wife when he never bothered to do so for any other person no matter how many vile words they spewed at him. Maybe he did not want those doe-like eyes, wide with curiosity, to look at him with disdain when she would find out that her husband was not right in his head, that he devoted all his time not to his duties to the nation but to playing with paint. He did not want her to be disappointed since he was not what she had expected.

But as the fates worked their way it turned out that his wife was not the one Hyunjin had expected. It was one night when Hyunjin was sitting with his nose in a book when (Y/n) seemed to no longer able to hold her tongue and asked, “Do you, perhaps paint milord?”

Hyunjin looked up from his book looking like he was caught with his hand in a cookie jar.

“What- how did you know?”

“I noticed the smell of paints on the very first day and I couldn’t hold my curiosity anymore,” seeing Hyunjin’s face ashen she hurriedly continued, “I paint too. Well, at least I used to before I came here.”

“You paint?”

“Yes,” Hyunjin couldn’t believe his ears.

“Would you- would you like to see my paintings?”

“I would love to.” This was the first time he saw her smile that bright since the wedding day. There was no doubt that it was true, that she was not just mocking him. Hesitantly, Hyunjin unlocked one of the trunks and brought out a small painting of a magnolia they had in the palace garden. (Y/n) gasped and Hyunjin quickly looked at her face for signs of disappointment. “That is so beautiful. It looks more real than the paintings I have seen in botanical books,” her eyes were dazzling with amazement. This encouraged him as he brought out more of his paintings, always checking to see how (Y/n) was reacting.

One would say that the chambers were back to how they used to be with how canvases were spread across the room. And amidst those paintings were the princess and the prince, in their little world. “Will you teach me how to paint like this milord?” shyly she asked. But even her shyness could not hide the excitement in her eyes.

“Of course. But only if you stop calling me milord”

“Then what should I call you?” Hyunjin chuckled at how adorable she was.

“Hmm, you could call me Hyunjin, Hyune, darling, love, whatever you wish angel.”

(Y/n) hid her face in her hands. Hyunjin could only giggle seeing her flustered. But even his ears felt hot. He did not mind; he was happy. This was not the type of happiness he felt after completing a sketch or reading a ‘happily ever after’ ending. He hadn’t felt like this for a long time, since after his mother passed. He did not feel judged when (Y/n) picked up the canvases and looked closely at them. She was not disappointed in him, rather she looked like this was everything she could ever ask for; she looked happy. And Hyunjin wanted to paint that happiness on the white canvas, he wanted to paint her. Hyunjin had found his muse.

[sinkingnotsoslowly]

Muse

Pairing: (f) Reader x Hyunjin

Warning: angst if you squint, royalty au

DO NOT STEAL MY WORK. REBLOGS AND FEEDBACK ARE APPRECIATED.

masterlist

Autumn's sighs- little soft thoughts about our favourite boys

Life in the palace was lonely. The tall ceilings and dark walls seemed never-ending. The end of the hallways looked like black holes, once they suck you in there’s no way out. The only place Hyunjin felt at ease in the entire palace was his bedchamber. It was devoid of the darkness that seemed to engulf everything in the palace. Instead, it was decorated by splashes of colours here and there, paintbrushes scattered across the floor, several complete and incomplete canvases kept wherever Hyunjin could fit them and even the bed unmade. It was not what any other person would call ‘decorated’ by any means. Even Hyunjin knew it was a mess, “But a pretty mess” he would argue.

One would think life was easy for the royals. They could have whatever they wanted, and with the whole nation at their feet achieving so was as easy as pie. And maybe it was true to a certain extent. But unfortunately for Hyunjin, he did not desire anything that the royal life was able to provide. What need does he have for power and wealth? The little prince used to ask his tutor. And the only thing everybody he asked this to had to say was that he was the eldest prince, the future king, and he ought to have the power to rule the nation. Hyunjin did not want to rule anything.

 “Your brother is being made the crown prince” the royal guard stomped onto the balcony where Hyunjin had set up his easel and canvas.

“And I remember telling you not to pester me when I am painting, Changbin.”

The sunset was becoming too yellow, this wouldn’t do. Hyunjin started mixing some red with the yellow on his palette and looked up to see the guard still standing there, looking at him with a face of disbelief. “Do you have anything more to say?”

“Don’t you have anything to say? You were supposed to have that title Hyunjin”

Hyunjin went back to put some orange on the canvas. Now the sunset had some texture. “I am happy for Yongbok is what I have to say”

“Hyunjin”

Sighing, he put down the brush to look at the guard frowning. Changbin was the only person in the palace he could call upon. He was a little dense at times and maybe that was why when everyone left Hyunjin to his own devices, he followed him like a lost puppy.

“I never wanted that title. I am glad that the King deemed me unworthy. I would have much rather enjoyed being born to a simple farmer. Work hard during the day and paint at night. It is a dream indeed.”

“And it will remain a dream. There is no point in dreaming what you cannot achieve. Hyunjin, you could have handled the business affairs during the day and painted at night-”

“I do not want to handle the business. Yongbok is far more willing and capable of it. It is the right decision to make him the crown prince. I am happy like this” Hyunjin picked up his brush to continue the finishing touches. It was almost dark now; he couldn’t sit out here much longer.

“So, you are all right with people making you out to be mad?” his brush stilled for a moment. “Yes. Yes, I am. It is nothing new. You should leave, I want to finish this painting before it gets too dark.”

Hyunjin had expected to be at peace after his younger brother was made the crown prince. The King now had no reason to fret and Hyunjin could go about doing his own things. But he was wrong. His peace of mind did not last long as not even a week later the King decided that it would be best for the eldest to get married. Perhaps a wife would help his delirious mind.

To Hyunjin that was worse than being the next King. A wife? It was the nation’s ruler who was mad not him. Having a wife meant letting an outsider enter the little delicate space he had so tenderly sewed. An outsider who would judge him for his choices, call him a lunatic and tear apart his safe abode. Then there would be nothing remaining of him. How would he survive? These thoughts kept him up at night. And when finally sleep came he was haunted by nightmares, where a faceless woman would smirk at him, looking at him with disdain and make a mockery of him.

No amount of pleading stopped the marriage. Even the younger prince tried to convince his father against it after seeing his brother in so much distress. The King stood firm on his decision. And so the wedding preparations began. Hyunjin was certain that the King had lied about him to make a man marry off his daughter to a prince like him. Or maybe this man did not value his daughter enough to pick a worthy husband for her. Either way, Hyunjin did not think his to-be wife would treat him differently than the rest of the masses. So he did not bother to show any interest whatsoever in the maids’ gossip about the unfortunate lady who was to become a part of the royal family. But Changbin enthusiastically visited Hyunjin to tell him about her whenever he heard something new. And so he’s heard that the lady was the princess of a small kingdom far south. Their nation was suffering from famine, so their King was marrying off his daughter to save their people. More of a trade than a marriage. Hyunjin should have known that his father had played some cards for a nation to give up their princess to him.

The first time Hyunjin saw her was at the altar. Dressed in white with accents of gold and a veil drawn low upon her face. Still, Hyunjin could make out her features; as delicate as a flower, full of innocence, untainted by the harsh condemnation of the world. At once Hyunjin thought of how exquisite she would look sitting in one of the garden chairs among all the other flowers while he painted her. And when she shyly looked up at him, gauging the features of her new husband, Hyunjin knew he was done for.

The first few weeks after the grand wedding passed with the newlyweds awkwardly shuffling around each other and stumbling over their words like babies learning to speak. “This is intolerable. Both of you make me want to smash my head against the wall " Changbin barged into the library, where he knew he would find the older prince. He’d had enough of the couple.

“And what did I tell you about disturbing me when I’m in the library Changbin?” Hyunjin said as he flipped through yet another romantic novel, he says inspired him to paint. Changbin ignored the prince’s blatant show of uninterest and continued, “Do all of us in the palace a favour Hyunjin, grow a pair and talk to your wife properly. You cannot keep running away forever”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Although Hyunjin chased away Changbin he knew that it was becoming ridiculous. He had not touched his paintbrush since the night before the wedding when he locked away all his paints and brushes in drawers, hid the easel under the bed and all his finished and unfinished paintings in trunks. And when his wife stared at him with a questioning look when he insisted on always keeping those drawers locked, he had stupidly said, “I’m a very paranoid man.”  Hyunjin never considered himself to be awkward when conversing with people, he could be very charming at times. So he kept wondering why this sudden idiocy had seized him.

Hyunjin was certain that he had reached a point of restlessness where he would spontaneously combust at any moment if he did not get his hands on even a pencil and a piece of paper to sketch. And of all times now his head was swarming with inspirations when he could not put them down on paper. Ridiculous is what it is, he thought. He did not even know why he was hiding himself from his wife when he never bothered to do so for any other person no matter how many vile words they spewed at him. Maybe he did not want those doe-like eyes, wide with curiosity, to look at him with disdain when she would find out that her husband was not right in his head, that he devoted all his time not to his duties to the nation but to playing with paint. He did not want her to be disappointed since he was not what she had expected.

But as the fates worked their way it turned out that his wife was not the one Hyunjin had expected. It was one night when Hyunjin was sitting with his nose in a book when (Y/n) seemed to no longer able to hold her tongue and asked, “Do you, perhaps paint milord?”

Hyunjin looked up from his book looking like he was caught with his hand in a cookie jar.

“What- how did you know?”

“I noticed the smell of paints on the very first day and I couldn’t hold my curiosity anymore,” seeing Hyunjin’s face ashen she hurriedly continued, “I paint too. Well, at least I used to before I came here.”

“You paint?”

“Yes,” Hyunjin couldn’t believe his ears.

“Would you- would you like to see my paintings?”

“I would love to.” This was the first time he saw her smile that bright since the wedding day. There was no doubt that it was true, that she was not just mocking him. Hesitantly, Hyunjin unlocked one of the trunks and brought out a small painting of a magnolia they had in the palace garden. (Y/n) gasped and Hyunjin quickly looked at her face for signs of disappointment. “That is so beautiful. It looks more real than the paintings I have seen in botanical books,” her eyes were dazzling with amazement. This encouraged him as he brought out more of his paintings, always checking to see how (Y/n) was reacting.

One would say that the chambers were back to how they used to be with how canvases were spread across the room. And amidst those paintings were the princess and the prince, in their little world. “Will you teach me how to paint like this milord?” shyly she asked. But even her shyness could not hide the excitement in her eyes.

“Of course. But only if you stop calling me milord”

“Then what should I call you?” Hyunjin chuckled at how adorable she was.

“Hmm, you could call me Hyunjin, Hyune, darling, love, whatever you wish angel.”

(Y/n) hid her face in her hands. Hyunjin could only giggle seeing her flustered. But even his ears felt hot. He did not mind; he was happy. This was not the type of happiness he felt after completing a sketch or reading a ‘happily ever after’ ending. He hadn’t felt like this for a long time, since after his mother passed. He did not feel judged when (Y/n) picked up the canvases and looked closely at them. She was not disappointed in him, rather she looked like this was everything she could ever ask for; she looked happy. And Hyunjin wanted to paint that happiness on the white canvas, he wanted to paint her. Hyunjin had found his muse.

[sinkingnotsoslowly]

Muse (teaser)

The first time Hyunjin saw her was at the altar. Dressed in white with accents of gold and a veil drawn low upon her face. Still, Hyunjin could make out her features; as delicate as a flower, full of innocence, untainted by the harsh condemnation of the world. At once Hyunjin thought of how exquisite she would look sitting in one of the garden chairs among all the other flowers while he painted her. And when she shyly looked up at him, gauging the features of her new husband, Hyunjin knew he was done for.

masterlist

Autumn's sighs- little soft thoughts about our favourite boys

[sunboki]

— THE ALCHEMIST. a Lee Minho fiction

Lee Minho x f. reader

TROPE. historical! au, set in 1940’s Korea, alchemist! au, friends to lovers, fluff, angst

WARNINGS. abusive behavior toward women, impoverished communities, overall sexist beliefs of the time, reader dresses as a man, mentions of death & disease, smoking (not reader or minho), war conflict, making out??

WORD COUNT. 9.6k words

AUG'S NOTES. although it was a bit out of the blue, i had such a great time writing and shaping this universe, thank you to all the love and support thus far<3 also, huge thanks to @comet-falls for instilling the peaky blinders/historical! minho vision in my head with how incredible tooth and claw was, i truly owe it to you :)

SYNOPSIS. Cities stricken with poverty, the lack of male presence in your home while surviving in a male-dominated society leaves meager food on the table and a piling debt. Left no choice but to make a risky decision, you decide that, if biology wanted to fail you, you’d simply try another approach.

alternatively :

In which deception introduces you into an entirely new reality, and The Alchemist.

It’s one thing surviving with the knowledge you can change something, whatever it may be that’s wrong. 

It’s another when that problem isn’t merely changeable, but biological. 

Your problem? You’re a woman. 

Not as easy to fix, right?

.

.

.

With your father lost in the war, fruitlessly straining to support a family of girls, the household is left helpless.

Representation is nonexistent, and merely walking outside frets harassment and laughter struck in your face at the mention of working. 

A woman, working? Hilarious. 

Or, apparently to the men in pubs it certainly is.

Some things you can’t change, yes, but there are always alternatives. And as for now, you’re helplessly searching high and low for that alternative, whatever it may be. 

Selling yourself is possible, though the inability to remain connected to your family eliminates that option. 

When you get so desperate, there’s no incentive in guarding your pride. Because being called derogatory names isn’t as bad as losing them, the people you call home.

October welcomes little warmth, biting your fingertips and sending a tremor of chills cascading down your spine. Minimal sunlight peers through dense clouds, shrouding the atmosphere in a depressing haze. 

You’re on your way to the apothecary, but not to purchase anything. The pennies in your pocket won’t amount to anything in the face of medicinal prices, which happens to be one of your many alternatives. 

Since day one, you’ve had a rock to rely on.

Medicine. 

Lack of money meant improper living conditions, entailing sickness. 

Constantly.

Whether it was your mother, your younger sister, yourself, an infection of some sort occupied your respiratory system, wreaking havoc for wallets and mental health altogether. 

Purchasing necessary medication became impossible the further you drowned in your debt, to the point drastic measures needed to be taken in order to prevent death from infesting itself in the household as well.

Then came the question. If you couldn’t purchase the medicine itself, why not collect the ingredients?

Alternatives.

Behind the apothecary you discovered mint hedges that, if mixed with wormwood and balm, could aid in curing Sun-ja’s current sickness, colic. 

Although, you’d have to be swift in your efforts, ensuring the shop owner didn’t notice your presence.

Too many times had you nearly been caught, risking a good beating from the red-haired, burly man regarded as Mr. Myeong.

Fiery red hair complimented an equally unruly personality you aimed not to cross by. Ever.

Yet, unlike Mr. Myeong, his wife was the polar opposite, an ideal magnet. She was petite and soft-spoken, but out of her appealing traits, you found her resilience to be most attractive.

Mrs. Myeong is stubborn. She’s strong in what she believes, sporting an unquestionably vocal opinion that can’t be quenched.

The woman is, likely, the only woman capable of sealing her husband’s mouth shut.  

Hidden between thorn ridden weeds sits your desired leaves, abundant in supply.

You clutch your satchel closer, plucking as quickly as possible whilst crouched to the ground, maneuvering through tickling grasses and itchy reeds. 

Your mission remains successful, until the wretched sound of a doorknob rips your head upward, the red-haired man in question standing nonplussed, arms crossed. 

He wears a cocked brow, examining what you’re desperately trying to veil away.

Your heart leaps into your throat.

“Stealing, are we?” Black boot clad frame thumping closer, you immediately prepare to run, hair standing on end like an agitated feline.

Instead, his huge hand swoops down to grab your collar, other evidently ready to land a harsh slap to your face.

Instinctively cringing, you brace for the stinging impact.

That is, before a saccharine, lullaby-worthy voice rings from the cracked doorway, belonging to none other than Mrs. Myeong.

“Honey! Have you seen the new envelope that came in?” 

Heels clicking whilst padding over cobblestone to where you two stand, her husband fixates you with a stern, threatening glare. 

Finally dropping your frame to the ground, you slump forward, pulse pounding loud enough you fear your chest may implode. 

Mrs. Myeong, though wearing a taut expression, ushers him off, delivering a curt nod your way, intentional brows furrowed in place. 

‘Thank you’ You wish to say, but hold your tongue, watching them disappear inside.

Another time.

Walking home was rather uneventful (much to your delight), left to enjoy the crisp, cool air sifting through your lungs in steady rhythm, the lazy billows of cigar smoke dwindling from gaping doorways.

Calm. 

Nothing calm ever lasts long.

Stashing the house key back into your decrepit leather draw bag, your footsteps still upon entering, struck terror-filled.

Your mother, strawn across the floor, hacks amongst her rampant coughs, body convulsing in desperate shivers, skin drenched a ghastly blue.

Sprinting to her side, you kneel down, rolling the woman over to find her face utterly battered, new black eye beginning to swell, cheek bruised a mawkish purple against hollowed cheekbones. 

Sharks.

To your left Sun-ja hides in the corner, rags for a blanket pulled to her chest, shielded between the wall and a tipped cabinet. 

Over and over they’ve begun visiting, to the point your mother became recognizable by her continuous black eye, her torn clothing and stooped posture. 

Exhausted, she was exhausted. 

Yet, she took the beatings. The torturous punches. Jarring slaps, traumatic insults, tarnishing. Your mother took it so you wouldn’t, so you and Sun-ja could live.

And it’s at that moment you make up your mind, discover this occasion’s alternative. 

“Cut it off.” 

“Cut.. Cut it off?” Hyunjin gapes, fingers stalling their descent down a strand of your hair. 

You smile, grimacing the longer consideration poises.

No point in thinking too much.

“Yep. Give me the most boy-ish haircut you can.” You emphasize, gesturing toward his scissors expectantly. 

Hyunjin, your personally appointed hairstylist, doesn’t seem too convinced. He’s debating, expertly reading your features.

Currently, you’re holed up in his room, a miniature apartment located near the furthest section of town, close to the coast.

In wee hours of morning you boarded the train here, inhaling salty, ocean-smelling breeze. Back in your old residence you met him, your neighbor Hwang Hyunjin. It’s a miracle you still stayed in contact, bond aging like the finest of wines over countless years. 

Enough to where you trusted him to help you enact this alternative of yours. 

Starting with a haircut.

The man stares at you through the mirror, dark, inky hair matting the longer he runs his hands through it. 

Thoughtfully trying to figure out your reasoning, he evidently catches on the moment you witness his eyes roll, releasing a heaving sigh.

“You cannot be serious.”

A torrential truth keeps you from responding, gaze directed at your feet. 

“Y/n,” He uttered, eyes filling with a concern you avoid meeting, avoid regarding in a whole. “You don’t have to do this, the war is going to end soon and your father will come ba—“

“He’s dead.”

Silence engulfs the room.

Collecting yourself, you scorn his frown.

“He’s dead and gone. Now I need to protect them, provide for them.“ 

You deny the shakiness of your voice.

“So, Hyunjin. Cut off my hair.”

Accordingly, he does without another word. Snip by snip, tress by tress falling below, scattering the tile floor in endless strands.

By the time you see yourself, it’s hard to recognize the person in the reflection. Never had you considered your hair a viable source of identity, but now that it’s so sparse, the effect is eminent. 

Failing to see yourself in your own reflection beckons a different kind of sadness. For the person you’ve introduced yourself as reigns no more. She’s been replaced.

Hyunjin pulls you into his arms, embrace just as comforting as you remembered. His hand reaches to caress your cropped hair, rocking back and forth on his heels, chin resting on your head. 

“Be careful, okay?”

Nodding into his shoulder, you wipe salty streaks from your cheeks. 

Hurts.

“And if you need a place to take shelter, I’ll be here.”

Steadying in his hug again, you pull back, cherishing his kindness with a chaste kiss to the cheek. 

“Thank you, really.”

Shaking his head at your gratitude, urging you out and lingering by the doorway till your figure retreats in the distance.

Next stop, Mrs. Myeong. 

If anyone has any idea how to source the clothing you’re needing, your best chance would be thanks to her. 

An hour later you arrive in familiar avenues, creeping out of sight into the apothecary in hopes the woman you’re looking for is working the counter. 

Much to your pleasure, after a few unsuccessful attempts do you grasp her attention, edging forward under the guise of a regular hoping to converse. 

“I need your help.”

Initially, she carries that sternness, wordlessly lifting your hooded head a bit to notice the latest adjustment. Shock written over her face, Mrs. Myeong drags you along with her, closing the door to a back room.   

“My child, what is going on?” She whispers, tone urgent. You can’t help but feel fond of the affectionate nickname.

“I need male clothing and,” You hesitate, teeth nipping at your bottom lip. “something to bind my chest with.”

Similar to Hyunjin, she steps back, assessing the situation at hand. Spending a brief few seconds roaming your figure, the woman works hastily toward fetching a petticoat, meticulously fitting each article atop your stock-still frame.

“You’re conceited,” she grumbles. “And foolish.” Carefully peeling off your upper-wear, she’s managed to cut a piece of thick cloth to use as a make-shift binder, assembling the fabric over your breast. 

The experience, although strange, wasn’t as painful as anticipated.

“But be careful, and stay in contact.”

Your response is hushed.

“Breathe in,” The older woman instructs, securing her creation with a threaded pin before moving onto other aspects, like a proper coat and pants. 

Mr. Myeong’s trousers, though having to be sewn to fit, make do, and you’re reminded to return tomorrow for shoes. Otherwise, the attire is completed, paired with a curved hat to finish. 

Sure, the entire male concept is foreign, but given time, you’ll gradually acclimate.

Oh, right. 

Your alternative?

Since medicine is what you know, you’ll stick with that. Difference being medicine is a men’s occupation, and so, if you can’t be a female working in the field, why not become male? 

Well, somewhat become male.

It’s a risky wager, easily placing your life on the line in the process. 

For your mother and Sun-ja, however, it’s your turn to take the beating. Your turn to endure.

Observation is a virtue. It can save and preserve, heed to oncoming danger, and simultaneously (and discreetly) supply useful information.

Today, seated on a bench in Daegu Station, your first observation is the abundance of people scurrying like mice.

Some tall, some short. Distinct moles, eyes. Upturned and downturned lips. Mustaches, beards. Much to see.

Your legs cross and uncross, Mr. Myeong’s oversized heeled shoes beginning to sink at your ankles. Hat strung low enough to peer out without attracting attention, your gaze is magnetically drawn to a magazine held on the adjacent side of the train tracks, title on display.   

Prized Alchemist Lee Minho suspected of being the lone survivor of the Red Plagu—

Ignorant to your surroundings, your senses posed numb to the incoming train, blocking off the last few words of the title from view the moment it soars past—nearly sweeping the fedora off your head. 

By the time the last few train cars passed, the man honing said magazine had disappeared, and you were left wondering if the experience was merely a figment of your imagination.  

Although, you did have one lead. A name.

Lee Minho. 

Where you’d find him remained unknown, deciding to rely on a magazine parlor first and foremost for more intel.  

To no surprise, nearly every magazine rack lay lined with haughty opinions regarding the war and its evident cruelty.

Many onlookers of both Americans, Koreans, and foreigners alike chatter amongst themselves about their own take between gossiping hands and fumes of tobacco.

In this town, located far off in the business district by a ship port, people are everywhere.

Wives of sailors, families of soldiers off at war. Women honing gleaning parasols and ivory gloves reaching to their elbows.

Languages you’ve never heard before utter their enunciated syllables, vocabulary petulant with accent—all shrouded in dismay.   

Roaming the store endlessly to no avail, you prepare to adventure back through dusty streets and battered wooden stall-shops before a peculiar name pauses your footsteps. 

His name, The Alchemist, Lee Minho.

“Bring ‘em home I tell ‘ya,” An aged man by the deepened grooves of his face, hollow cheekbones and bunched wrinkles grumbles.

A fat cigar hangs loosely from thin lips, pale baker boy cap adorning a bald head. 

Some sentences estranged, you identify his sentences as French, heavy in dialect, throaty and broad.

And although your fluency stay patchy, exposure from French immigrants who’ve relocated near home allow minimal understanding as to what they’re talking about.

“Say, did you hear that Lee Minho chap was a Red Plague?” His counterpart offered past his own leering cigar, foot tapping incessantly.

The other hacks his bewilderment, feeble fist pounding on an equally feeble chest.

“The Alchemist?” 

The man’s astonishment returned with a nod, you lean closer, pretending to be consumed in an article. 

“Said he was only nineteen when it happened. Shipped ‘em off only for disease to kill them all. One survived, now people are speculatin’ it’s him.”

Either of them sigh out long drags.

“Well I’ll be damned.” Is all the other huffs in disbelief, and upon recognizing the conversation approaching an end, you stir to action, willing your voice to deepen an octave.

Attempting to appeal in your broken French, you stall the two, cautiously claiming you’re in need of his whereabouts for an esteemed business transaction to which, through confused stares, you’re given loose directions.

Loose, but feasible.

80 Kent Avenue, dark blue doors.

Directions that, according to the sudden blank of streetlights, would have to wait until tomorrow. As for now, the world beckoned you to rest, and any progress would prove futile and rather impossible in the dark.

Luckily, a run-down Inn gifted good few hours of shut-eye before dawn peered through the windowsills and you were begrudgingly forced to your feet. 

Fitting the binder snug across your body and fastening your trench coat through minuscule belt loops, you’re taught with much haste the stark difference of men’s prestige entitlement. 

First access to everything, the ability to have their way with a woman whether she willingly obliges or not, and just about ten billion other things someone of your hidden status couldn’t fathom.

A man’s world is a world only possible through disguise. Yours just happens to be a last resort.

Charming the mistress at the front desk was unexpectedly effortless, not to mention how easily she spilled the details as to where Kent Avenue would be located.

Another noticeable attribute of your new appearance, no one asked as to where you were going nor your intentions, they merely dipped their heads and wished you off.

Adjustments.

Adjustments that, if you’d been born different, would be normal.

Kent Avenue lay twisted in shadows. The surrounding area brims in barely flickering labels and creaking doorways leading to who knows where. Quaint isn’t the word for it. More ancient, all-knowing. 

This place has been here for centuries with many stories to tell, most just haven’t heard them yet.

Significantly dark blue doors make the Alchemist’s residence easily noticeable, starkly contrasting with wooded architecture. Massive doorknobs engraved with lions, windows shielded by moth-eaten curtains. Grand, in its own form.

You swore each door stood eight feet tall, the left in particular left slightly ajar.

Wait, ajar?

Doing a double take to ensure your vision wasn’t playing tricks on you, you inch forward, widening the dark gap exponentially until all you faced was a black abyss—apart from the miniature lamp beaming yellow light in a far corner.

Carefully tiptoeing into said black abyss, the further you explore, the greater the visibility increases. Leather cushioned furniture, clean, polished desks. The desk the lone lamp rests upon is a chestnut wooden, ink feathers residing in the upper corner.

Somehow, the matter grants envy, resentment grating your nerves. This man lives comfortably while other’s are beaten for possessing nothing. Maybe it’s a petty, unnecessary thought; and maybe you’re foolish, but all odds are against you, your disposition seems righteous.

Getting too lost in your head turned out foolish as well.

“What’s this?” A voice behind you whispers, voice ghosting chills tickling your neck at an alarming pace. 

Whipping around, eyes struck wide in shock, the person responsible for the remark comes into view, his stature opposing the tone muttered in your ear seconds ago.     

Not a plump business man like you imagined, not adorning a spectacle, no pipe in sight. Instead, one lone button right below the chest fits snug white sleeves cuffed by his elbows, black vest hugging a slim torso.

Conniving, cat-like eyes analyze your expressions while dark brown hair parts to the side, loose strands covering his right eyebrow. And when he reaches up to brush a few frayed tresses to the side you note sleek gloves covering long, pale fingers. 

If anything, this man is more similar to a Vampire.

“Trespassing, are we?”

Collect yourself. This is your opportunity.

Swiftly brushing off your clothes, you clear your throat.

“I have an offer.”

“An offer?” A smile belonging to that of a Cheshire cat adorns his lips, one leg propping itself over the other, fingers intertwining in front of him.

Ensuring your voice is clear and concise (while keeping the deeper, male-ish tone), you state your claim, despising how utterly debilitating it feels being caught under his observative stare. 

Like he sees through you.

“I would be a valuable asset to your studies in alchemy. I know about herbs and their uses better than anyone else, and where they’re located.”

Sure, the bargain might’ve sounded arrogant, but you were technically cosplaying as a man when most men of your time couldn’t shut up about themselves, arrogance was the least of your problems. 

Gnawing at his cheek as you spoke, he pauses a moment, then laughs.

Amused. 

Dark lashes dust above equally dark eyes, nearly black as they study you.

“You want to be my apprentice? Is that it?”

You remain close-lipped.

“I’ll tell you one thing, kid. This world is all about money,” He raises a cane from where he reclined, using the end to tip your chin up and meet his eyes. 

“No?” 

To which you simply stare back at him, refusing to avert eye-contact. 

“I’m sure that’s what you’re here for anyways.” Rising from his place, he sighs heartily. “But see, I’m a greedy man, not a good man.” 

Abruptly, his countenance falls flat. 

“And my job isn’t fun, so you’re out of luck.” 

Immediately, you’re frantic, trying your hardest to ignore his obvious statement to leave. The last thing you need is to run out of luck, run out of options.

And so, you hastily wrack your mind for a solution, an excuse, whatever keeps you in this dimly lit room.

“You- You were part of the Red Plague, weren’t you?” Spitting out words from the depths of your racing mind, The Alchemist stops, fixing you with an unreadable look.

Red Plague as in, the group of young men enlisted during the war that all died of a deadly disease but one. One who, many speculate is the man before you.

Breathe in.

“I may not know much about you, but I know what it’s like to want to save somebody.”

Breathe out.

Now it was his turn to stand there, and for a second you swore you saw a flash of sympathy cross his face.

You wet your lips. “I’ll run your errands and wash your clothing, I’ll clean this place spotless. Plus, it’s not like I’m a woman asking for a job, so please, give me a chance.” 

Slowly, The Alchemist raises a brow, laugh disbelieving.

“Since when did being a woman have anything to do with this?” 

Huh?

How.. odd.

If anything, the majority would wholeheartedly agree, likely hiring you on the spot with how impalpable such a jest seemed.

He would’ve laughed, maybe slapped your back. Would’ve wrapped an arm around your shoulders, proclaimed you his friend.

Yet, you almost feel flattered. Flattered in a strange, unrealistic manner. 

Basking in a deplorable quietness, The Alchemist sighs, combing a gloved hand through silken strands. 

“I have a spare room around that corner.” He points, leather gloves narrowly highlighted by orange lighting.  “Make yourself useful, hm?”

And like that, even if it was a long shot, you landed it. More specifically, landed a job. 

How preposterous. 

How exciting. 

Yet, it began hesitantly. As if he was initially testing your usefulness. Sending you on runs to the nearby gardens, having you make sure a concoction didn’t derange itself while he fetched better flasks. Easy things.

However, you didn’t complain. A boring job was better than no job, and as long as a few coins were emptied into your pocket afterward, you’d continue to work without whining.  

Burdock, oregano. Motherwort that would erupt billows of chemically-infused air when added to oils or sugars.  

Then you noticed The Alchemist. His quirks, his  characteristics. 

He shifts between a long trench coat or tight vests, his hair is always styled a certain way, though some days, when he just wakes up, he has this tiny bird nest of hair atop his head, it’s charming. 

He yawns a lot. 

He wears heeled shoes, maybe from his shorter height, maybe preference. 

And rather peculiarly, the longer you stay in his lair, the greater you notice the many scars littering his forearms, collarbones. Miniature cuts and imprints left on porcelain skin. 

Those observations, conjoined with his reactions, make for a truly interesting character. 

Reactions being his dislike toward loud noises, the matter in which his shoulders scrunch at a loud clap outside, eyes blown wide, fearful. 

The longer you stay in his lair, the more you notice him, nonetheless his fears. Whether suspicion clarifies anything in specific, there’s no denying he’s a man of war. 

Lee Minho has secrets, and as badly as your nosiness itches to uncover them, you, as you had promised earlier, will keep your lips sealed. 

And it makes you wonder, what’s life like on your side of the street? What throng of unfairness left you awash, left you both suffering? 

You wonder about your oppositions and similarities in different points of each other’s lives. Minutes, decades before you ever met.

Certain stones shall stay unturned, but you hope, maybe one day, those questions will be answered.  

Interestingly enough, he never asked about your name; not even when you gingerly introduced yourself as your last name, a rather awkward fit.

Likewise, you don’t complain. There’s only two of you in the house after all.

A week in, you’re finally introduced to something new. 

The Alchemist plans to have you tag along with him to Port Nova, a docking station located on the outskirts of Busan.

Business thrives in ship ports, the sole source of connectivity for a growing country like Korea. Each day, millions of shipments come in from countries you can’t name, so you’re not surprised in the slightest he’s headed there for a transaction. 

You are surprised he decided to have you tag along.

Even more so that, as you hop off the transit, hurriedly tailing his left, he veers off a sharp turn, approaching a worn Burlesque Club, glittering sign halfway dangling from its perch on a scarlet red awning. 

English letters spell out Nova Burlesque, a few missing letters left astray to the side, electrical bulbs spasming with sporadic lighting on the dusty ground below.

In the daylight, the place appears ordinary, blending in with its crumbling, desolate surroundings. 

Although, you have no doubt this place utterly delights in the eve, pink-neon inviting enough to lure unaware foreigners upon first arrival. 

“Mr. Lee,” You utter, returned with a short scoff from the man who insisted you refer to him by his name, Minho. 

“Where are we going?”

It’s hesitant, unsure of whether to intervene, but Minho only smirks, whispering a not-very-assuring “You’ll see” you begrudgingly go along with. 

Inside is the last of what you anticipated. 

Oh dear.

You’ve only been to minimal Burlesque Clubs, but the ornery perspective of faux jewelry, a glittery, hallucinatory stage, and the constant rendition of Why Don’t You Do Right whirling on scratchy records isn’t present here. 

Alternatively, there’s stools scattered around a marginally illuminated clearing, some upturned, others occupied by burly men with equally burly beards. 

And in the middle, a boxing ring is situated. The stench of sweat and blood soaks the air in a metallic, pungent aroma.

A brisk realization crosses your mind, a conclusion of a sort.

Play a fool’s game, earn a fool’s reward.

Only you, Hyunjin, and Ms. Myeong know the lengths you’re willing to go to secure your family's well-being, and now, at odds you can’t compromise, you have to do everything in your power to maintain your act.

This is a test.

Sifting behind you, he murmurs a hushed: “Cover your ears.” That you begrudgingly oblige to, cupping either hand over your ears as Minho clutches his leather holster, concealed within the confines of a frequently worn coat.

In a split second, a gunshot is fired to the ceiling, the bullet's shell casing dropping atop the welt of his pointed shoe.

Stunned silence ensues.

Arm still extending the revolver in the air, you haphazardly remove your hands, dragging the hat further over your face as more eyes focus on the both of you. 

“I’m looking for Reiner and Manfred.”

The longer the tension rises, the further you grow self conscious.

“Already?” A man bellows from inside the ring, breaking the awestruck spell whilst gripping his opponent by the collar, fist poised and ready to strike. 

Unusually, they seem to know each other.

Minho merely exhales a loud sigh through his nose, practically two times smaller than his apparent acquaintance. 

Said acquaintances grumbles. 

“Leave it to our champion to interrupt the show.” 

And with that, he hooks the contender in the jaw, sending him pummeling down to the tarnished mat where hoards either cheer or groan, hustling money left and right over the victor.

Champion of the show? You’re adding that to your collection of never ending questions that’ll likely stay unanswered.

From the crowd arises two men. The victor from the ring and another from the crowd, dressed lavishly opposed to his white tank top-wearing counterpart. 

Reiner and Manfred, you assume. 

Serving as a mere shadow in The Alchemist’s wake, the four of you hustle outside, met with a nonplussed Minho and two, mildly confused (and enormously tall) men. 

Foreigners, certainly.

“..Care to introduce the pipsqueak?” Reiner presumably more talkative, piques, beady eyes scouring your figure enough to where you scorn the beads of sweat collecting upon your temple. 

Pipsqueak my foot. 

You stave down the retort, inhabiting Minho’s shadow as the three discuss matters of a hospital transaction. Almost like you weren’t there at all, as it’s always been.

If it weren’t for the technicalities, you would’ve interjected, made your presence known. Except, other than herbal instances, you’re a novice in the business department. You’ll leave that up to your current mentor to arrange.

Again, lips sealed.

Minho, ignorant to the previous victor’s question, continues to sign legal documents supplied by the calmer individual, Manfred. You internally thank the gesture.

Well, before Reiner’s sordid gaze becomes too stifling to brush off.

“I’m Mr. Lee’s apprentice, L/N. Nice to meet you,” You initiate, fearlessly reaching out a hand he heartily shakes, features graced with amusement, massive hand practically engulfing yours. 

Pardoning a gruff “Likewise”, he nearly sends you flying from the timbre of his voice alone.

“Say,” Reiner mutters, finally completing the last of the package transfers. “Don’t you think this one seems a bit feminine?”

Your jaw ticks, nervousness shrouding your being like an unrelenting fog. Minho’s fingers close around your elbow, pulling you closer, brows knit.

“Perhaps you need your eyes checked, Reiner,” He offers, tone nonchalant opposed to the vice-like grip latched to your arm.

Heftily chortling, the man only pats your back, causing your entire body to surge forward upon impact.

“Well regardless, it’s a cute little thing ain’t it?”

Manfred simply grunts his acknowledgment while you bite your tongue, coveting your retaliation when he referred to you as “it”.

No use growing angered. The feeling is futile.

Luckily, your irritable arrangement comes to a hasty close, more than gleeful to have an understandably annoyed Minho steer you from Port Nova onto a short train back to Kent Avenue, to your newly established home.

A home, but not really a home. Semi-permanent, unofficial.

Either way, you wouldn’t complain. Despite the constant efforts in diminishing your past identity, you didn’t feel as conscious when around Minho. 

Safer.

As if, in an alternative reality, you could tell him. Your truths, your burdens.

No. You won’t jeopardize this opportunity. You can’t.

At least, not yet.

“I’ll be back Mr. Lee!” You shout, wielding a briefcase bag to your person, nudging the ghoulish door open using your hip.

As usual, you’re headed off on a restocking trip.

Except on this occasion, the restocking consists of hunting down a peculiar herb: Chinese Chrysanthemum. It’s an appealing plant with fluorescent leaves and a constant need for sunlight. 

It’s no surprise he’s sent you to fetch such goods. After two months, you soared in and out of the residence routinely, scouring Korea while Minho hunched over a wildly diverse array of vials and flasks, glasses propped on his slightly hooked nose, hands firmly resting on a wooden exam table.

Studious. He is very studious. 

However, a catch diverts itself from eye view. A catch you hadn’t considered until your two feet stepped from squealing train tracks.

Somehow, although unusually intentional, you wound up in a rather peculiar area. An area you never imagined paying a visit to in your wildest dreams.

In the midst of economic outrage and warring circumstances, you’re standing in one of Korea’s most unstable, informal districts. A place that, according to your overhearing ear, was where your precious Chrysanthemum lodged.

This district had an infamous name. 

The Den.

A fitting name in actuality, where a person didn’t realize they were stuck till it was too late, unable to see where they’re going, living in belief there’s an incentive to the finish line in a race run in circles. 

Also, a place the Sharks who torment your family report to.

You can hear your heart thrumming in your ears, nearly ricocheting out of your chest with its horrid cacophony. 

Calm down. 

Calm down. Think of the goal. 

All you have to do is find a flower. 

Grounding yourself, you pinpoint some viable resources. 

Fertile soil, maybe even sandy, likely in the inner portion of The Den.

Plus, you’re dressed as a man, you might as well act outrageously boisterous.

But you’re not, you’re afraid. Perhaps not external, but inside, your lungs feel as if they’re being violently crushed, sinking deeper in an unsteady submersible to the very bottom of the ocean. And for a second, you truly contemplate going back, telling Minho you’re incapable of the task.

Yet, what would you say? You’re haunted by a vision that hasn’t happened? Fearful for a future event with no guarantee? If you had ever done something so horrid, they would’ve found you ages ago.

This time, you’re in their domain, invading what’s theirs as they’ve done to you. 

Greater. You aren’t who you used to be, in more ways than one.

Genuinely, what is there to lose?

That’s it. You’ll complete the mission and return. No run-ins, no fear barricading your job.

In and out.

Initially, you scout out your surroundings, regarding the faint sound of voices funneling in the distance, the smell of mixtures you hate being able to identify, far off machinery croaking before smoke spurs from rusted screws and bolts.

Amongst the chatter of street vendors and the many, notorious gang members patrolling in and out of abandoned shops, you roam avidly, keeping as low a profile as possible.

Number one priority is to not be noticed. Drawing attention to yourself is a one way ticket to failure, and the last thing you need is to arrive back to Minho empty-handed.

However, through the blinding clouds of smoke billowing from exhaust pipes, a specific building, shrouded in the shadows of charcoal residue, douses your peripheral.

A Greenhouse. 

Bingo.

Quickly looking around, you shrink low to the ground, racing forward to carefully creak open glass double doors and slip inside. 

It feels as if you’re enclosed in a furnace. Mere seconds in and sweat already begins gathering upon your temples.

Though that becomes the least of your concerns after assessing what lies inside. 

Hundreds, maybe even thousands of flowers and herbs. Rare species, some critically endangered, just sitting here.

It’s strange. 

Why would, in the case such an abundance existed, not be used? Why hadn’t this Greenhouse been raptured from the inside out for such valuable items? 

It’s not until a commotion stirs ahead of you that you understand the answer to the question. 

With about five plucked Chinese Chrysanthemums expertly sealed into their coordinating bags, a piercing hiss followed by multiple shouts and hollers cause you to shrink back, gazing around haphazardly.

A hiss?

From your perspective nearly kissing the dirt, your vision allows a minuscule glimpse of multiple backs turned, boisterously amused men gathering around something in the front of the Greenhouse.

You feel the need to know more.

Inching forward tip-toe by tip-toe, amidst the roaring crowd, you spare a look between the sea of legs to find an utterly deplorable sight.

A cat. 

No, not just a cat, cat fighting. They’re watching cats maul each other for the fun of it. As if they aren’t living creatures, but toys for their entertainment. 

And perhaps it’s a foolish decision, perhaps laughable being worried, being angered, but you are and you refuse to leave knowing you could’ve done something to help them.

Hastily scouring the floors, a can of Spam discarded below Foxglove stems proves useful enough, tossing it as far as possible where it whacks against the glass wall, immediately averting their attention. 

This is your chance. 

As dark clouds and incoming rain thunder outside, you don’t waste the opportunity, sprinting forward while the men make toward the direction of the sound and hoisting the first cat you see into your arms. 

Sprinting past narrow pathways and dimly lit streets, you force your eardrums numb to the threats they call after you, mind trained on one thing besides getting as far as possible from here.

To Minho to Minho to Minho.

A hand grabbing your shoulder causes you to shriek, swiftly dragged off where you swear your last breaths will be taken, the feline in your arms scrambling with panic.

“What are you doing?” Your captor furiously whispers, hidden in the low lighting of an apparent alleyway.

Wait. You recognize that voice. 

“Hyunjin?”

How does he recognize you?

Just then does a breeze swipe past your head, sending chills trickling down your rain-soaked neck. 

Your hat is gone. Must’ve fell off while you were running. 

“Wh.. what are you doing?” Slipping from his grasp after the men’s hushed conversation becomes inaudible, you regard the man with an incredulous stare.

“Answer my question first,” He reprimands, and as the cat resounds a pained meow do you assess the dire nature of the situation.

You need to get this cat to Minho, and fast. 

“Can’t- Can’t talk right now I’ve got to go—“

“Wait!”

Though, as your footsteps breach the security of the alley, the placating cry of crows mock your left, hurried footsteps belonging to those occupying the Greenhouse heading toward you in rampant haste.

Hyunjin’s hand holding your wrist, you grace a tight-lipped smile his way. 

 “Let’s not see each other like this again, okay?”

He returns a miniature grin, teeming with mischief.

“Agreed.”

Upon letting go, you race off, attempting to speedily navigate back to the train station whilst torrents of streaming droplets cascade down your face. 

“Good luck!” 

“Thanks, I’ll need it!” You respond back, voice permeated against the rain, eyes frantically searching for a place to evade. 

Finally, a crowd appears, swarming amongst diners and flickering street lights.

Your perfect hideaway. 

Swimming through the hive of people, you catapult yourself into the nearest phone booth in sight, fumbling through deep pockets before cashing a coin into the metal slot and jarring your index over slippery metal numbers.

Praying the combination is correct as you hold the wired telephone to your ear, you’re consumed with utmost relief upon hearing The Alchemist’s voice answer on the other side of the crackling line.

Amidst roaring rainfall drowning the booth, you differentiate shouting a ways off, likely belonging to the men from earlier. 

“Mr- Mr. Lee?”

“Yes? Where are you?”

“Are you.. Are you allergic to cats?”

Never in your life did you think you would be so overjoyed seeing blue doors. 

Clambering inside—the rather upset cat in your arms hissing their dismay—you’re overwhelmed with an unexplainable happiness seeing Minho’s face peer from the guest room. 

Relief.

“L/N wha..” 

Words dying in his throat as he gives you a speechless once over, your urge to hug him dissipates instantly, beckoning a new set of garments upon realizing how utterly drenched your precious disguise is.

Simultaneously shoving the cat his way before rushing to your room, you thankfully strip of your fretfully cold attire, welcomed in the comforting embrace of clean clothing.

A mere five minutes later you exit, greeted by Minho’s stockstill frame. Hand half-raised, evidently about to knock.

You forcefully clear your throat, praying the momentary awkward tension is alleviated.

Luckily, The Alchemist takes it upon himself to break the spell, eyes dancing across the floorboards in order to avoid your own.

“Well, she’s stable. Her vitals are fine, nothing too critical apart from a few cuts here and there. Just shaken up.”

Your stare of astonishment earns a confused tip of his head.

“That fast?”

Said (apparently female) cat rubbing her body along your calf with an obviously delighted purr, you appear nearly concussed, crouching down to pat the soft, striped fur lining her back.

Minho snorts.

“What can I say, I get work done.”

Maybe he is a vampire after all.

Mirroring your crouch, he watches your interaction, similarly feline-like inspection unnoticed till glancing up.

And for a swift moment, you swear he saw through you. Lips parted, eyes scrutinizing. Piecing together the building blocks to a wavering structure you’d strived so hard to build, to protect.

No. You’re overthinking. He couldn’t possibly know.

You failed to notice the forlorn look on his face, one that ushers to ask if you’re okay, fetch a hot beverage to warm your evidently cold hands.

“Might I ask how you ended up bringing this one home?”

Leave it to him to take the title as your greatest ally and worst enemy at the same time.

Ah. Right.

“Y’know I was about to get to that-” 

You pause, deriding the high pitch of your voice into something more appropriate. He cocks a brow.

“As I was saying, it wasn’t my intention to bring her back, but the place she was trapped at, the place with the men- the plants..”

According to his expression, you’ve grown two heads.

…

“Go on.”

“Look, the place I found the Chrysanthemum was having cat fights. Do you remember hearing about the dog fights in Gangwon? It’s the same thing. We can’t just sit still while they’re torturing innocent animals.”

“I don’t know what you got yourself into, but I’m an Alchemist, not a hero,” He sighs, and your hand stalls its petting, face falling while the cat in your lap flicks her tail back and forth expectantly.

He has a point. You got yourself into this, you went into the Greenhouse. It’s not his duty to clean up after your messes, but perhaps you can convince him, even by a small margin.

Play a fools game, earn a fools reward.

You’ll mop the floor of your own mess.

“Minho, please. Just this once and I won’t rope you into anything ever again, okay?” 

Stifling silence making an additional appearance, you nervously await the verdict, perched rather hilariously outside of your bedroom door.

Chewing the skin of his cheek, he scolds himself for falling so susceptible to you, though you won’t ever know that.

“Fine, but you’d better have a plan.”

Ah. Great.

You don’t.

At dawn’s arrival you’re swept upward, fixing a hasty bout of tea and toast prior to dressing in the privacy of your appreciated quarters. 

You don a much-needed hat, hopping aboard the first train of the day with a well-dressed Minho in tow.

Retracing your steps turns out easier than you anticipated, The Alchemist tailing you as you had done him at Port Nova.

Though, just when the task seemed a cake walk, you manage a meager detour, regarding your unimpressed mentor.

“From what I can remember, it’s around here somewhere. But I might be wrong, I stumbled upon it by accident and it looks a bit scary but I think—“

“Stop! Stop- Stop talking. Please.”

You quickly shut your mouth, allowing the man to lead instead till the sight of familiar landmarks becomes a gradual reassurance of your location.

Perhaps now it’s safe to talk.

“Mr. Lee, what did Reiner mean by calling you a champion-“

Shoved against the brick wall, your sentence dies instantly, panickedly glancing in all directions assessing the all too familiar pistol Minho‘s drawn, conspicuous in close proximity. 

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” He enunciates, tone unusually gruff whilst scanning your surroundings.

Your face warms an involuntary pink you clamber to ward off, drawn to the sight of his tense jaw and the feather-like arrangement of long lashes, focused on something elsewhere.

Your retort dies not only from his beauty, but upon the familiar Greenhouse coming into view.

“Looks like we found where your little friends are playing.”

Though, as the man begins forward, you grab him by the sleeve.

“Wait! We can’t just waltz in.”

His hand, slipping from the warmth of his pocket, cups your chin, unbearably close to your face to the point you can feel his breath on your nose. 

Curse the butterflies.

“Well there’s no need for an introduction, so let’s listen this time, shall we?”

Left at a loss for words either from your slack mouth or the concerning amount of sweat building upon your palms, you don’t argue back, lingering right outside the door, craning to hear voices. 

By the sound of it, at least four people are inside at the moment, and the longer you stay out here, the more ample time becomes for additional threats to show up. 

As if reading your mind, he slips through the rugged door, gesturing for you to follow while silently navigating through dense, humid underbrush and overgrown foliage.

However, your quiet voyage is quelled when a twig, unbeknownst to the two of you, cracks under the pressure of his foot. 

“Shit,” He mutters, cringing back at the immediate quietness that ensued.

The Alchemist curses as well.

Interesting.

Amidst the men bearing closer, Minho turns to you, tone urgent. 

“When I get up, you run and free the cats. Don’t look back, just go.”

Nodding hastily, you reacquaint yourself with the area, ensuring a dead set beeline to where the cats were held without interruptions. 

Minho, a split second before you can ask a question, whips the gun from his coat pocket, the sound of bullets whipping through the air enough indication it’s time you go.

Finnicking hands make it hard to unscrew the wired cages, surges of adrenaline helping speed up the rescue as you double check every feline has escaped.

Heeding to instruction, you don’t look for The Alchemist, solely driven to freeing the cats and fleeing the scene. No more problems. 

Almost an exact replica to your last visit here, a hand drags you off right as you exit the Greenhouse doors, back pressed against his (whom you realized was Minho, not Hyunjin, thanks to the leather gloves) front. 

And perhaps from running, perhaps from something else, you can feel his heartbeat, oscillating in a nonstop orchestra that sends your own heart pounding from the confines of your rib cage. 

Stifling a shaky inhale you’d held in as the last of the perpetrators scattered elsewhere, you instantly step back, denying every urge to coddle him like a child, fretfully check him for injury. 

A certain fondness lay reserved for Lee Minho, a fondness you can’t discern of at the moment. 

“C’mon, quick, Soonie might get scared if we’re gone for too long,” He ushers, crashing your tunneling train of thought right off its rails in the process. 

“Yeah-“

You stop.

“Soonie?”

“Yeah, Soonie.”

“You named her?”

“..Yes.”

It’s a genuine struggle hiding your laugh.

“I didn’t find you the type to take in cats.”

“Today you’ve been proven wrong, apparently.”

A sort of giddiness you never experienced fills your chest, wishing nothing more than to look back at the man and swoon. 

How could you not? He was very much dexterous, and attractive without a doubt, that much was known to anyone who laid eyes on The Alchemist.  

Your trek home proved relatively easy, able to skillfully get to the station away from prying eyes and trod along a mixture of gravel and dusty roads without issue.

Silently celebrating your success, you nudge your counterpart's hip, the unimpressed side-eye he grants doing little to dull your happiness.

“Aren’t you an Alchemist? How come you’re oddly good with a gun?”

He clicks his tongue.

“Aren’t you my apprentice? How come you’re getting yourself into trouble when your only instruction was to fetch herbs?”

You conceal a smile he obviously catches, glare failing to quiet your bubbling laughter, his own lips tugging upward.

“It was necessary Mr. Lee! And you know you love Soonie.”

“Unfortunately.”

Nearly a month into her residence, and Soonie has become an effervescent force to be reckoned with. Although initially sassy and wary, she’s transformed into the most affectionate cat you’d ever met.

You have to give it to her, she’s grown on the both of you, a lot.

Plus, you might just have to thank her for unleashing Minho’s tender side, whether that’s the two of them cuddling on the couch while he naps or him picking her up and treating her like a baby while you watch from afar. 

Over the course of the five months you’ve been here, you’ve sent countless checks back home—enough to where dues could finally be paid and the hope for a good life came into view.

Everything seems right, seems ideal. 

But of course, on an equally ideal Thursday evening, a thousand pounds of bricks drops right on top of your head. 

“How long were you planning to keep it from me?” 

He, Lee Minho, The Alchemist, voices.

Simultaneously, your stomach plummets to your feet, peeking over your shoulder to find his back facing you, hunched over a straus flask. 

Then the bomb drops.

“You being a woman, that is.” 

Abruptly pausing, you don’t reply, worried you’d say the wrong thing, unintentionally summon the catalyst to this arising catastrophe. 

Yet, you can’t stay quiet for too long. And a fear lingered inside, a fear that if he looked at you, you would break.

“Forever.” 

Doing just what you dreaded, he turns to you, wearing a horribly serious expression. 

You avoid eye-contact. 

“Because you thought I would fire you?”

A nod. 

“And that’s why you said that, when you first came to me? That you weren’t a woman asking for a job?” 

Another nod. 

He sighs, pulling glasses from atop a hooked nose. You remain staring at the floor.

“I don’t decide who to hire based on what they are. If you can do your job and do it well, you’re worthy enough to work.”

Minho spoke softly, the dim, orange lighting of his lamplight doing little to shake how overwhelming the occasion is, how it feels as if your disguise is wearing, thinning to an impossible degree. 

Except, your world isn’t ending like you thought it would if someone found out, so why do you feel so heartbroken? So overstimulated with realization?

“How did you..” you trail off, raging tears longing to spill. 

No, you can’t afford to cry now. You’ve held out so far, it will stay that way. 

Should stay that way.

Minho dips his head lower in order to fully see you in all your lip-chewing, anxiety-ridden glory. The ghost of a smile rests upon his lips. 

“It was impossible not to tell. You’re unusually tiny, those shoes are massive, and, um, I do the laundry.” 

Watching his once bemused expression dissipate, you mark this as the first time you’ve ever seen him genuinely flustered—and, upon realizing he’d likely seen more than necessary as well, you’re also diminished to a bright red. 

The room wilts in stillness before he exhales, stepping a bit closer to where you linger by the bookshelf, your heels tapping against the frame. 

Tone minimizing itself terribly gentle, The Alchemist carefully collects your cheeks in his hands, urging you to see him, see those terribly thoughtful brown eyes granting a terribly kind disposition. 

“It’s been scary, hasn’t it?” 

Well, you had held out thus far.

Cracking into pieces, you melt like droplets of honey in his fingertips. He perfectly catches them in the jar. 

Out of anyone in this world, you can’t help but be grateful he was the one who found out, found you.

Chest bubbling with breaking sobs, Minho’s thumbs caress your under eyes, swiping away the many salty droplets in their continuous descent. 

Own hands shakily reaching up to hold his resting on your face, you stand there, soaking in his wooded, earthy scent and the soft hums he occasionally emits as if a reminder he’s still there, listening to your cries without intent to leave.

“Mr.. Mr. Lee… It was so scary, I’m so tired Mr. Lee,” You hiccup, mentally berating the endlessly freefalling tears, how your once staved emotions reduced your strong, dutiful voice into nothing but a stuttering mess.

Carefully swiping drool from your chin, he leans forward, planting a kiss on your forehead.

“I don’t know why you did it, but I promise it’ll be okay, we’ll be okay.”

Then another kiss to your forehead, staying there until your sniffling and breathing calms.

Gathering yourself if only slightly, you wrap your arms around his waist, pulling him into a warm hug he gradually accepts after a beat of shock. 

“Thank you, Minho.” 

And just when he thought the shock faded, he’s struck again from the sound of his name leaving your mouth.

Minho. 

Mr. Lee had been charming, but Minho, it was different. A good kind of different. 

He particularly favored the way it sounded falling off your lips, two syllables he’d replay over and over, savoring each a little bit more than the last.

More so, he wished to substitute his nagging thoughts with you, have you narrate the phrases bouncing inside his skull.

Perhaps then everything wouldn’t be so loud, if he had your voice to nullify the battlefield.

Unfortunately forced to separate, Minho adjusts his tie, clearing his throat in a manner you can’t help but feel nervous about. 

You like this flustered Minho.

“I’ll.. I’ll run you a bath.” 

You wince at the rawness of your skin when your face wrinkles in a chuckle.

“Do I smell?” 

Minho, frantically scrambling for an excuse, rubs his temples, exasperation evident in the grooves of his face, the curve and dip of prominent cheekbones portraying a mature visage.

“No I-“ He grumbles. “It helps calm you down.” 

Merely able to halfway staunch your irrevocable glee, you call his name as he begins stepping out, ears an adorable pink.

“Y/N. My name is Y/N. L/N is my last name.”

Not allowing you view of his front-side, you listen to his whispering with delight, testing the newly discovered title on his tongue as if to memorize it.

Ah, you’re falling in love.

Or maybe you’ve already fallen.

Hastily closing the door behind himself and letting you get situated in the bath, it’s not long into your relaxing that you notice a shadow seeping through the door’s crack, a figure standing there, debating.

“Minho?” You announce amusedly, watching the shadow jump and causing you to bite your frothing laugh whilst choosing what to say next. 

“Would you like to join me?”

The Alchemist audibly chokes on his saliva outside the door. 

Sparing a few seconds for him to collect his oxygen, you hadn’t been prepared for when he replies a quiet: “Another time”.

Your eyebrows shoot up with surprise. 

Daring. 

Then his shadow, after furious shuffling, disappears, serving as a reminder of your extended time spent bathing. 

Assembling the copper drain and pulling foreign nightwear over dampened skin, opposed to your usual rush to your room, you allow the chilling air to grant its harsh greeting, leaving the steamy room in its wake.

No more secrets. What a breath of fresh air.

Minho, still cooped up at his desk like routine, barely moves when you place your hands on his shoulders, adorning those charismatic glasses, lips pursed thoughtfully.

“You should go get some rest Mr– Minho,” You beckon, response a sleepy blink of his eyes, obviously exhausted.

“...I really wanted to kiss you.”

The remark drifting off as a murmur, you crane to hear him, wondering if your mind was playing tricks on you. 

“Hm?” Humming, you lightly push his back toward his quarters, the man begrudgingly following your inaudible orders. 

At least he’s cooperating.

Abruptly, he turns around, evading your hands that ease his back forward, sporting a pout adorable enough you might just lose your mind.

How unfair that someone could behave like this and expect you to not go insane.

“When you started crying.” His eyes flicker to your lips, if only for a moment. “I really wanted to kiss you.”

A portion of your stock-still frame wants to blame his tiredness, but another so badly wants it to be true, wants those words to be irrevocably real.

Fighting the urge to scream with how stupidly childish he’s making you feel, you reject every ounce of sensibility, looping one arm around his neck, using your other hand’s index to tug him closer by the belt loop. 

Trust, the feeling is mutual.

Why waste the opportunity?

“What’s stopping you?” 

The utterance barely graces air, and in milliseconds he’s crashing into your lips, a wordless confession it is real, not a mere figment of your imagination.

Stumbling to loosen his tie whilst keeping your faces impossibly connected, you fall deeper and deeper into the manner he tilts his head, expertly diminishing you into puddy in his touch. 

Back and forth, memorizing your taste on his tongue. 

Clumsy footsteps lead to his sofa, your fingers tangled in his dark strands, his kneading your waist.  

And it’s not until your lungs cry for oxygen that you pull apart, Minho’s bottom lip tugged and bitten, yours swollen with his feverish kisses. 

Both of you avidly messy, you can’t bring yourself to care, too busy enjoying the afterglow, his dazed smile.

“Whoever you want to save,” He starts, carefully smoothing over your skin with his thumb . “I will save them, deal?”

Returning that same lazy smile he directs at you, the both of you lean back on the couch, a twine of legs and limbs flailing in every direction.

Close, closer. 

A part of you aches at the thought, blinking up at such a stunning tragedy. Aches knowing you can’t return the favor, can’t say the same, promise him that same promise. 

Because according to the Red Plague, he’s lost that person, those people. So you remain silent, merely hoping one day they’ll receive proper eternal rest. 

That's something you might be able to promise.

Tipping your chin up to where it sits right above his heart, those brilliant eyes of yours blinking up at him do little for his well-being. 

Has anyone told you you’re beautiful? Because he thinks you are, he knows you are. 

Just this once and I won’t rope you into anything ever again, okay?

Minho grins deeper, brows creasing, expression doused in unadulterated adoration. 

“And yet, you rope me into something else,” He whispers to himself. 

“What was that?”  

“Nothing, let’s run another bath. I’ll join you this time, hm?”

FIC TAGLIST. @linocz @foxinnie8 @wonniesverse

sunboki, may 2022 ©

[sinkingnotsoslowly]

oh my god so many boops atleast take me out on a date first🙈

[wifegideonnav]

i genuinely hope that boop day inspires everyone to interact more with other tumblr users. because it’s clearly way more fun this way!! even once the boop button is gone, there’s still asks, tag and ask games, comments, dms, fuck it let’s bring back blog rates i don’t care. part of the reason that tumblr is dying is that its way less social than it used to be. let’s fix that!!

[sinkingnotsoslowly]

I'm going around randomly booping people it's so fun

[sinkingnotsoslowly]

yuan fen

Pairing: (f) Reader x Seungmin

Non idol au, slight soulmate au

Warnings: fire, death, one or two curses, little angst

DO NOT STEAL MY WORK. REBLOGS AND FEEDBACKS ARE APPRECIATED

moodboard I || moodboard II

masterlist

Autumn's sighs- little soft thoughts about our favourite boys

(n.) a relationship by fate or destiny; the binding force between two people

It was a very faint memory. So faint that one might think of it as a dream. But Seungmin knew it was a memory indeed. A grand palace, a huge pond in seclusion of the tall trees, and a girl- no a lady. A lady so beautiful Seungmin was tempted to believe she was a dream.

Seungmin had one word to describe his life, lifeless. Every day he woke up tired, had whatever was in the fridge and went to work. By the time he came home, he looked like a zombie. He was just trying to survive. The only thing he looked forward to was sleeping. He knew he would see her once he fell asleep. Eyes looking at him with pure love and a smile so dazzling it blinded him. But he could never recall the face of this lady after he woke up no matter how hard he thought about it. Seungmin could only wish to meet her in this life.

It was very odd how he just knew it was a memory of a previous life. Well, he was very confused when the dreams started three months ago, but something about it just felt right. For once he felt like he was in the right place, right where he belonged. He never thought of believing things about fate, soulmates and whatnot. But if his soulmate did exist, he knew it was the lady of his dreams.

It was mostly different dreams. Sometimes the lady was not there at all. But it was always the same setting. It was some time in ancient Korea. He often found himself by the pond, writing something that he couldn’t make out. Sometimes he was in a luxurious room, accompanied by a few maids, giggling as they watched him blush at something they said. Even though the visions were not clear, he felt every single emotion. A sense of admiration towards someone possibly his father whom Seungmin had seen in his dreams once or twice. The joy of friendship when he laughed along with the maids and pages. And immeasurable love when looking at that lady who smiled so sweetly at him. Seungmin wondered how anyone could hold such sweetness in their eyes. He would forever be grateful to ever have been on the receiving end. He always woke up feeling nostalgic and mournful as if he had lost everything he held dear.

❀ . * . *

“How has my Minnie been today?” a very loud voice of the Han Jisung came in ruining Seungmin’s attempt at focusing on his novel. He sighed, “If my father were to hear you talk in that manner, you’d sure be thrown out of here”. It was very daring of Han Jisung the page to talk to Seungmin so informally. His father had brought in Han when he was about fifteen. A good company for home-schooled Seungmin was what he said. And some company he was. After the initial shyness, Han got very comfortable with Seungmin. He learned all he had to do from the older pages. And when he had nothing but time on his hands, he accompanied Seungmin. And he would swear that not a minute went by when Han was not talking his ears off. But Han was the only one he knew of his age and so he found a friend in him. At least that was what Seungmin would say. But it was Han’s qualities that impressed him. Hard-working, kind, very friendly and a very good listener which was surprising to Seungmin since he only saw him talk. These qualities of his were revealed as the years went by and before he knew Han had built a comfortable place for himself in Seungmin’s heart. You would never catch him saying this but everyone in the palace knew how fond Seungmin was of him.

Ignoring Seungmin’s chastising, Han sprawled across from him with a mischievous look on his face, “So, you have been certainly busy milord”. Seungmin did not have to look up from his book to know that he was being mocked, “You know the last thing I am is busy these days my dear Hannie”.

“I beg to differ for I know that a certain lady friend has been keeping you busy”, he grinned as if he had finally managed to outwit Seungmin. Of course, it was about the ‘lady friend’, Seungmin was waiting for him to bring her up. He knew Han has been spying on him for a few days now. The ‘lady friend’ in question was the esteemed daughter of a noble from the inner circle of the King. Seungmin’s father being part of the council had introduced them to each other with eventual marriage in mind. It was obvious that the attraction was mutual so they kept meeting each other by this beautiful pond she knew of. Seungmin was sure that both of their fathers had gotten wind of this. It was only a matter of time before he had to ask for her hand in marriage.

❀ . * . *

“Guess who got tickets to Garage Junk’s concert?” a sing-song whisper brought back Seungmin from his daydreams. Jeongin, his colleague was leaning all the way over to his desk with a childlike smile on his face. How he managed to be so cheerful in the zombie corporation would forever be a mystery. “Oh I don’t know Yang let me guess, you?” Seungmin humoured. “Oh my god how’d you know are you a mind-reader?” a look from Seungmin shut him up. “You’re no fun. Anyways, so I’ve got two passes from this bet that I won and the passes allow two people each so I wanted to invite you-” “No”

Jeongin pouted, “What, why? I promise you’ll have fun”

“It’s not my thing Jeongin ask someone else”

“Why are you being so mean to the hubae, I’ll snitch on you about that coffee spill to Lee Know hyung if you don’t come with me”

“What coffee spill?” and there’s the devil himself, Lee Know, the team leader who has been making Seungmin’s life a living hell since he transferred here four months ago. He seemed to have a personal vendetta against him for some reason because all Seungmin has been doing for the past few weeks was staying overtime. And it was all Lee Know’s fault. But no one would believe it because apparently “Lee know is an angel in disguise he could never do that”, angel his ass. All those fuck ups and Seungmin had to be the one to clean up all the mess. Lee Know lost his oh-so-important work diary, “Seungmin can you please help me find it?”, his assistant fucked up some calls with clients, “Seungmin help”, Yang Jeongin the newbie needs to be shown around, “Seungmin show him the ropes around here”.

“Maybe he just trusts you more than anyone else”, Jeongin suggested one day after Seungmin’s weekly rambling sessions about Lee Know being an ass. Seungmin was quick to shut down that idea. He did ask Jeongin why he was so fond of him though, “He just reminds me of my hyung back home. And he is so inclusive, he even told me I can call him hyung, youngest privileges I guess”.

“It’s nothing sir, I was just telling Jeongin about how I really want to go to this concert with him”

“Ah, the one you were talking about Jeongin? And I think I’ve been telling you this since I came here Seungmin be casual with me, please. It already feels like a funeral in here the least we could do is be comfortable with each other”, Lee Know said while giving Seungmin’s back a pat.

It seemed like Seungmin had to go to this concert, now that he had lied about it. Maybe for once, he would have a good time.

❀ . * . *

“What are you writing about?” Seungmin looked up from the littering pages to find the owner of the honey voice. “About two lovers finding each other in every universe”, he said looking at her with awe as if he were seeing her for the first time.

“Why do you always look at me like that?”, she let out a shy giggle.

“Because you are art, and art needs to be awed at”.

It was always like this between them. Seungmin, the charmer who never lets an opportunity go to waste. Not that the lady needed to be charmed anymore but he couldn’t help it. She always looked so sweet when he made her blush.

It was after a lot of asking for permission and making arrangements was she allowed to visit him at his palace. They weren’t to be left alone before the marriage, of course, so Han Jisung was diligently sitting in a corner with a Cheshire grin. It was laughable how the elders were pretending to not know that the two lovers were sneaking out to be alone with each other. If the marriage was not arranged by them, then by now chaos would have ensued because of ‘illicit meetings’. Even though this meeting arrangement was almost a formal declaration of engagement, Seungmin did not bother to arrange his space. He was at a very crucial point in his novel, the lovers were on the brink of coming together in this universe which would conclude the end of the novel, and cleaning all the loose pages now meant losing track of everything, so he let it be. He was sure she would not mind a little bit of clutter. After all, she knew how much passion he was putting into this story.

❀ . * . *

The concert hall was five stops away from Seungmin’s place which made him debate about going even when he was putting his shoes on. At this point, the only thing that made him go was that he did not want to deal with an uncooperative Jeongin on Monday. Not to his surprise, Lee Know was waiting by the entrance with Jeongin and some other guy. Obviously, Jeongin had given the other pass to the team leader. He might as well get himself adopted by Lee Know. But Seungmin understood that Jeongin was very pure-hearted. He had a way of bringing people closer. He was young with a different and fresh outlook on society and never let anyone change his optimistic way of perceiving things. Even if it was annoying to Seungmin, he hoped that Jeongin would remain like this forever.

“Hyung you’re finally here, we have been waiting for you for so long”, Jeongin whined as he saw Seungmin approaching.

“What are you talking about I’m not late you guys are just early. Concert starts at 6 and it’s just 5:20 now”, Seungmin said as he checked his phone to look at the time.

“Okay okay, Seungmin meet Felix, my brother. Felix this is Seungmin from work”, Lee Know introduced the other guy who has been silently snickering at their exchange. Seungmin gave him a nod to which Felix smiled so brightly that Seungmin was blinded.

The concert hall was jam-packed and Seungmin felt suffocated. Was it really going to be worth it? And they were seated so far away that they could barely see the stage. He thought that the crowd was loud enough but he was clearly wrong. Nothing could have prepared him for the outburst of energy in the hall when the band members came on stage. They must be some good musicians for this hype, Seungmin thought. He looked to his side to see Jeongin looking at the stage with fascination. He wasn’t sure what Jeongin was staring at because they couldn’t even make out the faces of the performers properly from this far. Some cheap passes they were.

Not even halfway through the concert, Seungmin understood why there was so much hype. Garage Junk was phenomenal. Their music resonated with his soul. All of them were amazing performers. But by the end of the concert, everyone there knew that it was the guitarist’s day. He took it away with his solo and his energy. And Seungmin could say that after a very long time, he had fun. He was still having an adrenaline rush when Jeongin said that there would be a high-five event after. Seungmin surprised himself by accepting to stay. The ones staying for the event were made to walk in a line and pass by the band members who were standing behind a barricade with outstretched hands and big smiles. They too were still running on adrenaline, excited to interact with the fans. Seungmin thought it was silly, he was not even a fan yet. He only listened to their music for the first time today. But he had no way out anymore so he went along with Jeongin and Felix. Lee Know had left first thing saying he had no interest in this. He would be waiting for his brother outside the hall.

The event itself was not very time taking for an individual. They just ran along and high-fived all the members and they were done. So it did not take long before it was Seungmin’s turn. Well if anything he would at least be able to see the faces of the members clearly. He guessed it went in this order- vocalist, guitarist, bassist, pianist and then he stopped. Seungmin couldn’t move as he stared at the pianist. His hand was still touching hers. Her face mirrored Seungmin’s in surprise. And the world seemed to stop as they stared at each other for what seemed like an eternity. And then she said something, so softly that Seungmin wasn’t sure if he heard her right. “I found you”.

❀ . * . *

No one had predicted an attack at such a time when the state was finally at peace. But when did anyone ever expect misfortune. It was not people from outside the borders, but conspirators from within the state. They targeted the houses of the council members. It might be with inside help that they could enter past the guards. They did not have to get far inside to set everything on fire. And they did not stop with the houses of the council members, they set fire to the houses of the people who supported the king which was majority. Within minutes almost the whole capital was burning down.

Seungmin’s father was unfortunately a member of the council. Times like these were when he wished he was not involved in anything, times when his family was put in danger. Seungmin and his lover were deep in the inner chambers. Han had gone to fetch two glasses of water for them and he was yet to come back when the fire started. Seungmin was thankful that at least he was out of there, possibly out of danger. He was stupid enough to come to look for them but the guards would stop him he knew.

It was a terrible sight, as far as one could see everything was on fire. Seungmin was trying to navigate them out through the fire and fumes. But no matter which direction they went every way was blocked. Left. Right. Through the kitchen. Across the garden. All along grasping her hand tightly. Seungmin was frantically looking for a way, he would save her, he had to. He couldn’t think clearly, his lungs were burning from smoke. He looked back when he felt her stop. “What is it? Why did you stop?”, he looked at her concerningly. She had a resigned look on her face, “It’s pointless, my love”.

“What? What are you talking-” “You know I’m right Seungmin. We’ve been going around in circles. There’s no way out left”.

Seungmin knew, the thought had come to the back of his head when they had tried going around the baths for the second time. But he was so desperate that he couldn’t accept it. The only thing going through his mind was getting her to safety.

“Give up my love”, she stepped closer and cradled his face in her hands.

“N-no it cannot be. There has to be a way-”, she kissed him. Soft lips enveloped his in an embrace while the fire drew closer. Seungmin’s delirious brain calmed down at her touch. At least they were together, he thought. “At least we die together”, she gave a teary smile. He did not want to know if the tears were from emotions or from the smoke. Seungmin brought her in his arms in a tight hold for the last time in this life, “I will find you, my love, I will always come for you”. The heat was increasing into searing pain. But she was smiling nonetheless, “I will wait for you”.

❀ . * . *

“I found you”

The world started moving again. Securities came barging to rush Seungmin along. But he wasn’t looking anywhere, he was entranced by her. He did not notice any of the pushing or the firm instructions to move along. He only snapped out of it when she jumped over the barricade to stop him from being dragged away. “No, no stop please I know him, let him go”, Seungmin heard the panic in her voice. He caught a glance of Felix and Jeongin at the side, confusion latched on their faces.

It was all so hazy. Even though Seungmin saw everything that was happening around him, he could not seem to comprehend anything. It was almost like an out-of-body experience. He was just watching everything happen to his physical form. He could only register that he was being dragged away somewhere by the pianist, her hand strongly grasping his as if he would fade away if she didn’t. Away from all the shocked and confused stares she brought him to the changing room, still holding his hand tightly. They stood there looking at each other longingly. No words were exchanged for a minute, just relishing in each other’s presence.

“I’ve been waiting for you, I knew you would come for me”, she spoke up first.

Seungmin stepped closer raising a hand to stroke her face, hesitatingly. He was not sure if she was real, “You are the lady from my dreams” he let out a laugh in disbelief.

He had been looking for her discreetly, everywhere he went. From the moment he stepped out of his house, on the train, scanning everyone’s face on the sidewalk, the convenience store he went to, everywhere, always, he had been keeping a lookout for her. But for some reason, he was not looking for her at this concert, so ironic. Seungmin felt his phone vibrate, Jeongin was probably bombing it with messages. He had half a heart to let him know that he was fine. But his eyes were fixed on her, unable to do anything else.

“I remembered nothing but those words, that you will find me, I-” a sob escaped her, “I’m so happy that you found me. I don’t even remember your name. I’m sorry I- do you remember anything?”

“Yeah, little things. I’m Seungmin, but you used to call me my love”.

“Seungmin”, she tried out saying it, it felt familiar. “My love”, she said looking directly into his eyes with adoration. A rush of emotions hit them both at that, bringing out fresh tears. But both of them were smiling now. It had been exhausting, living without each other. Now they were finally home.

“You found me, my love”, she wrapped her arms around him.

Seungmin brought her head to his chest, smiling in her hair,

“I found you”.

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