She has ringlets.

They drive him mad. There's something about the slender, pale length of her neck, the way her curls brush against her shoulder blades as she pulls her hair back, ties it back into a knot. Something mesmerizing, in the way the red curls around her ear, how he can see her freckles there, beneath her ear, faint and secretive - a private, selfish thrill just for him.

Yearning will certainly kill him someday, Hak thinks.

Yona's hair is long, and bounces behind her as she sighs and gives up, trotting down the hall, ribbon still in hand. She is about sixty percent girl these days and forty percent hair, the tiny princess with a vibrant, frizzy mane - but it does nothing to lessen the burning in his blood. He doubts it ever will.

.

Yona paints her face in the natural light of the day and says, "You don't have to wait up for me, you know. I don't need guarding all of the time."

"Is that so."

The little princess turns sixteen in only weeks. Where does the time go, he wonders, watching, helplessly, as she secures hairpins and ornaments into her hair. It's gotten so long, and he can't help himself from tracing the length of it down her back. The red is stark against the pale pink of her robe, the golden flowers rising from her train like a phoenix, green buds of life crackling like embers.

"You must have more important things to do," she says, tone clipped, as she bites hairpins between her lips, "than watching me try and tame my hair."

"Great warriors take note of strategy in battles."

Through her reflection, he can see her brow twitch. "I doubt you could do any better."

"It's best to observe before taking the offensive."

Yona clicks her tongue and shakes her head. "You think you're so cute," she says, scoffing. A pin is slipped behind her ear and Hak's fingers ache. "Big talk, mister, for someone who has such short hair-!"

He shouldn't push her buttons so often. But it's safer to bury his feelings down deep, he knows that, and Hak isn't young or foolish enough to delude himself into believing, even for a moment, that his (the) princess could ever understand the weight of his attention. Hak plays the role of guard dog slash annoying brother with bittersweet devotion, and clutches the shaft of his blade more resolutely. Grins the crooked half-smile of a bodyguard and says, "That's because I'm low maintenance."

.

"The old man taught me how to braid," Hak mumbles, and Yona's resulting hum is barely audible over the crackle of the campfire. The strands around her face cast tiny pin-curl shadows along her neck.

Princess Yona shivers and tugs her cloak further over her shoulders. It's inappropriate, to be touching her like this, to be handling her hair - hair that has been wept and fought over, hair that requires the finest oils and soaps money can buy - but what else can he do, he wonders, to fill this empty space around them. What else can he do?

He is not trained to comfort. He is a wall of muscle and hardened edges. Hak was never meant to hold something so fragile and precious in his hands - and was never meant to help her down from the pedestal she so merrily sat.

But damp hair is cold and heavy, and the more she shivers, the faster Hak braids. There is no time for savoring this, no time to pretend like this is something he deserves. This is duty.

.

… Except Yona's never really been his duty.

Technically, maybe. If he were to really read the fine print on his job description, protecting Yona was probably his duty. But thinking of it that way leaves a sour taste in his mouth.

Duty makes it seem like it's an obligation. And Yona's never been that. A headache, maybe - and a handful, surely - but his devotion doesn't stem from a sense of right and wrong, of some sort of coveted moral code he supposes he's probably supposed to be harboring right now. Try as he might, Hak knows that running away with her hadn't been because of his sense of justice. It's a bit more personal than that. A bit more selfish.

But the ends justify the means. Hak never plans on acting upon such greedy feelings anyway - Yona's not his to take, not anybody's to own - and he ties off her braid with her old ribbon and tucks a stray lock behind her ear solemnly.

"All set," he mutters.

Yona doesn't move. She sits, knees hugged to her chest, and blinks sleeplessly. It's Hak who finally brushes out her bangs over her eyes and sets the fire out, minutes later. He tries not to think about the distant way she still stares into the afterglow.

.

"Yoon trimmed it for me," Yona says, touching her neck, so pale and vulnerable. "I never liked my hair very much anyway, so-"

It makes him feel stupid for mourning it. Her eyes are a deep violet when she blinks thoughtfully at him, lip buried beneath her teeth, and not for the first time, he longs to reach out and touch her. She'll burn, he thinks, that skin is so virginous, skin that has scarcely ever seen the sun.

But still. he knows there are freckles behind her ears, despite everything. A secret surely few other servants are privy to.

"It suits you," he says, perhaps too quietly. The mistiness in her eyes sort of chokes him up. "I'll bet it feels lighter on your neck, too."

She's caught his smile. Half there, spending half truths - but it's better than being fully gone, and Hak sets a hand atop her head and vows to protect it nonetheless. There is still something here worth protecting.She is still a somebody, still breathing, and that's enough for him. Yona is Yona, no matter the title, no matter the pretense - certainly no matter the haircut.

"... I think your hair is longer than mine now," she says thoughtfully, after a beat.

So it is. "Don't go getting jealous."

"Maybe I should be the one braiding your hair."

The Princess shouldn't tempt him with such novelties. If she's not careful, he might let such sweetness go to his head - and that's something neither of them can afford, not in the world they live in now.

So Hak huffs and ruffles her head instead of dwelling on it. "That sounds like a trainwreck waiting to happen."

"You don't trust me?"

Her hair is soft between his fingers, and that yearning tugs in his chest again, unbidden and ugly. Hak swallows back the desire to properly brush her bangs back from her face and instead just continues to mess with her chopped curls. "I'd sooner let Yoon do it."

"Hey!"

.

She keeps the hairpin.

There's significantly less hair for it to find purchase in. Not that she's going around wearing it or anything - the feelings must be complicated, he thinks (knows), when it comes to Soo-Won and what he must mean to her now - but the thought still lingers, buzzing in the back of his brain like an incessant wasp. Yona doesn't have the hair to dress with such an ornate hair piece anymore but she still keeps it with her, and that's enough proof of where her feelings lie for Hak.

.

He starts tracking time by the growth of her hair. Watches, faithfully, as she combs back her frizzy curls after a bath, fingers working diligently, as she holds a conversation with Shin-Ah and Kija, and wishes, not for the first time, to be released from this all-consuming longing.

It isn't fair. To him or to her.

.

Even now, she's still changing, still growing. Time slips through his fingers, and the days become weeks, even months. Yona's hair is long enough to tuck behind her ear again, and she does it mindlessly sometimes, leaning over the river as she collects water for laundry, as she dresses his wounds, while she listens to Yoon prattle on about the new book he's just finished reading.

Even now, she's still changing, becoming the next version of herself. He still sees shades of the spoiled princess she'd once been in her smile, in the way her cheeks heat up when he's teasing her - but he sees steel in her eyes these days, too. Steel, melted down to daggers, sharpened points, as she draws back her bow and stares evil men down without a moment of hesitation. And that juxtaposition - Yona, simultaneously the princess he loves and the warrior he also loves - makes his head spin sometimes.

He doesn't know what to make of it. It's concerning, knowing that the girl she is now is certainly not the girl her father had wanted her to become - but it's also inspiring, somehow, to watch her become stronger, to watch her take the world that'd been placed on her shoulders and make it her bitch.

It's also hot. Short-haired badass Yona is hot, in a way she's never been before.

It's not that he's never been attracted to her before, because that'd be a lie, obviously, but - but it'd been different, before. He'd never had the space to entertain the thought of what being with her would be like. Hak's known for a long time that happily ever after, that marriage and children and the whole nine yards was never an option for him, not with her - but still, in a faraway sort of daydream, he'd always wanted to hold her and protect her. Simple, chaste things, like kissing her forehead, or like brushing his lips against the back of her hand. Knightly things. Honorable things.

Perhaps honor is simply slipping from him these days.

"I'm fine," Yona insists, rubbing the back of her neck. She's seated before him wearing nothing more than a blanket over her lap and bandages across her chest, and there's so much skin on display that Hak has to remind himself to take a breath. "Yoon said it should heal up within the week, so we can be on the move again soon, and I still don't think it's that bad-"

The way the muscles in her back move is mesmerizing. Hak takes two breaths and then sits behind her, watching, dazed, as her shoulders roll back. He's always wanted her, but this - wanting her - is like wading waist-deep in lava.

"We're waiting for you to heal before we try traveling again," Hak says, staring at the pretty line of her spine. "Don't bother trying to argue."

She scoffs. Rubs her shoulder. "You're so overprotective. It's not that bad."

He wants to kiss her there. Wants to press his mouth to her skin, her shoulder blades, her neck, beneath her ear.

He doesn't. "I trust mother's judgement.."

Yona sighs and pivots, just a little. Just enough to turn to face him, and oh, even her jaw is pretty. He thinks he'd like to kiss her there, too. Maybe tuck her hair behind her ear himself and nibble on the lobe.

Yearning unfurls in his chest, shedding petals like a dying flower. Honor, Hak reminds himself. There are a million reasons why he can't just sit here and ogle her like this, and so he wills himself to stare at her face, instead of getting lost in his thoughts while gazing upon her bare collarbones.

.

She's growing every day.

"I can see stars in your eyes," she says, far too dreamily. He thinks Jae-Ha definitely let her have a few too many sips of his sake, but Hak can hardly complain, when she's got her head in his lap and letting him run his fingers through her hair.

Her face is so warm. Her cheeks buzz with heat, pretty pink blush, and despite himself, Hak brushes his thumb over them. "It is night time, Princess."

"No," Yona sighs, lashes fluttering, "always."

It's the alcohol talking. Hak busies himself with brushing her hair out of her face instead of dwelling on the pensive look in her eyes. It's just them and Shin-Ah still awake, seated around the burning embers of what was once a campfire, and it's serene, just existing with her. Hak would live a thousand lives full of turmoil and devastation if he could live this moment just a little longer, he thinks. Would fight a thousand wars, if she would just keep dozing on his lap, smiling at him, tipsily blinking up at him and sighing his name.

He doesn't deserve such sweetness.

"I mean it," she insists, fingers curling around his wrist.

"Yes, Princess."

"I mean it." Yona holds him there, thumb pressed to his pulse, and he brushes his fingers over her eyes. "It's like - you're like - I can always find my way home."

Her lashes tickle. "Yes, Princess."

.

"I mean it," she sighs, hands flat on his chest, and she weeps like a willow, hair curtained around her face as she rides him. It's just long enough now to cover her face when she's leaning over him like that, and Hak reaches mindlessly to brush it back. The longing to see her is almost obsessive, but - but he wants to watch her bite her lip, wants to see the daylight rise in her eyes and mean it.

He is no longer only the sum of his parts. His heels dig into the mat beneath him, muscles twitching in his thighs helplessly, and Yona is burning all around him. She takes pieces of him he didn't know existed and holds them there in her heart, and she's regal and feral all at once, throat moving as she swallows back her moans. This is the princess, he thinks, as she throws her head back. Her robe droops open and Hak stares openly at the curve of her bare breasts. This is the princess, he thinks, as she whimpers under her breath and buries him deep within her.

His hands slip to her waist. He holds her, starstruck, as she moves her hips, gasping, shivering, hair bouncing around her jaw as she works herself off on him. His fingers find purchase in the fabric of her robe and he wants to crush himself against her, right then and there. Wants to commit this to memory, so that when he wakes up in the morning and realizes it'd all been a dream, he'll have something to remember her by. Hak wants to burn himself on her and nurse the wounds for the rest of his life.

"Please," she whimpers, "please-"

Desire burns a hole in his chest and leaves him gaping, wide open. "Tell me what I can do-"

"Come," Yona cries, commands, begs - it doesn't matter, because the request guts him, right then and there.

His stubborn, spoiled princess, asking for him to indulge in the feeling of her. Who does she think he is? What kind of man does she take him for?

Hak grits his teeth. "You first," he says, raising his hips to meet hers, and Yona chokes on her response. Her nails dig into his skin and he wants to bleed out his love for her, wants her to smear it all over him and lick it from her fingertips. It's hers. She has to know it's hers. Yona can take what she needs from him and that's that.

"No," she gasps, "no, I want- I want you to come."

Too bad. Too bad. He is better than that. He has to be. Hak slips his hands beneath her robe and holds her hips in his hands, bare and sweaty and perfect, and her hip bones feel delectable beneath his palms. Such fabled, forbidden fruit. Perhaps it's the guilt of it all that motivates him to pull her harder against him, driving himself deeper within her.

She flutters around him. It's as addictive as it is maddening - and absolutely taboo, all at the same time.

Her hands grasp for something to ground herself with. They find his shoulders, and her bitten nails embed themselves there, rightfully so. He wants her to hurt him. Wants her to punish him for wanting her so brazenly - and still, he wants something to remember her by.

"Noooo," she gasps again, like a mantra, "No, Hak, I want-"

She's so damn close. He can feel her tightening around him like a vice, milking him for all that he's worth, and it's nearly impossible to keep his wits. Her hair's slicked with sweat and she's never looked lovelier, and the steel in her eyes is smelting, boiling.

Princess Yona melts him until he's nothing more than bones and a beating, battered heart. "I want it inside me," she commands, with all of the regality of her title and the demand of the dragon dormant within her, and Hak can't stop himself from obliging her request.

.

She has ringlets, and they're frizzy from sweat and his fingers, tangled in her hair.

But they're still there, after all this time. Chopped but resilient. Mangled but adorable, even now, just like her.

Yona kisses his open palm with great reverence. It's the final chip in his armor, and it's all too much - the robe hanging off one skinny shoulder, her frizzy curls, the satisfied flutter of her lashes - and Hak admits that she'll kill him someday.

She opens her eyes and stares at him. She's more kitten than lioness now, but it's alright, that's fine; Hak loves every version of her, and it's still his Yona that smiles her smug little spoiled smile and says, "I should be saying that to you, you big lug."

He doesn't have it in him to respond. She maps out the scars on his chest with warm hands and kisses each one, dipping low, and her hair tickles his skin as she does so. It's the sweetest comfort.

unedited and messy. and also mostly written at 2 am! so! you know. thanks for reading!