For the chronically anxious and/or otherwise mentally ill:
This is not a screamer, jumpscare, or any other kind of horror link I don’t know the name of. It will not cause you to question reality and as far as I’m aware, there is no reason it should cause any kind of hallucinations or psychosis. I don’t want to spoil the surprise because it’s DELIGHTFUL but I am happy to tell you it’s very sweet and gentle and also great lowkey stress relief. This is a cinnamon roll link appropriate for all ages (yes, all the way down to babies) and you will enjoy it if you click it. ❤️
genre: historical au, arranged marriage au, enemies-to-lovers
warnings: period-typical sexism, a boatload of family issues, a rapidly increasing amount of sexual tension, like reader is starting to go the tiniest bit feral about it
series masterlist | one | two | three | four | five
summary:
Minho paused, the lingering traces of cheer disappearing before your eyes. The shift in his mood was almost tangible, and it felt as if you had made some sort of misstep in a dance, thrown yourself and your partner out of rhythm.
His gaze flickered upwards, so very briefly, to look at you, before moving downwards. Down to your notes, down to where the space between your bodies was at its narrowest, barely a few fingers’ width between your skirts and his thigh. He took a breath.
An uneasy sleep must have reclaimed you in the night, because you awakened to soft morning light streaming through the windows – and chambers entirely devoid of Minho.
You sat up, unsteady, the beginnings of a headache already forming. Your thoughts were scattered, muffled as if wrapped in cotton, barely intelligible under the dull throbbing.
An empty bedchamber. Did that disappoint you? The sheets beside you seemed undisturbed, indicating that he hadn’t joined you at any point in the night, hadn’t risen from the couch he’d been sleeping on last night when –
Embarrassment – hot, ugly flashes of it – flared within you, so violent that you physically shuddered in an effort to suppress it. You wouldn’t be so careless again, risking something so mortifying and so vulnerable as being caught in a position like that.
A tiny voice in your mind uttered thanks for Minho’s order to keep servants out of his chambers without specific request. You didn’t want to imagine having to untangle these awful thoughts in front of an audience waiting to dress you for the morning.
The more you dwelled on the situation, the more you could feel something in your chest twist. Shame, perhaps. You couldn’t help but picture last night again and again, your awful thoughts painting over your memories, imagining Minho’s eyes open instead of closed, imagining the curl of his lip as he watched you in disdain, maybe even in disgust–
No.
You felt your expression harden, breath expelling from you in one sharp burst. You hadn’t realised how much anger you could summon at merely an imagined Minho. Already, even at just the thought of him, you found yourself itching to rebuke him, to challenge the contempt you had imagined yourself.
There was a danger that you could spend the whole day in this bed, imagining all the ways in which you could argue with Minho.
So, instead, you forced yourself out of bed, determined to focus on the rest of your day and leave last night firmly in the past.
It was strange to realise just how quiet these chambers were. They were so far removed from the bustling of the palace’s lower floors that even now, as scores of nobles and servants alike rose from their beds and began their days, you could almost mistake the palace for being empty.
The spring morning air was no longer a shock of cold, but pleasantly mild. Perhaps you should make use of the weather today, you thought. It would be good to get some fresh air.
And then, you came to a sudden halt – as a flash of orange caught your attention out of the corner of your eye.
You turned your head, startled, to find a tabby cat perched on the low table of Minho’s chambers, staring you down.
This was not the pampered sort of housecat you had seen in the houses of your mother’s friends during your youth. While this cat seemed well-fed, there were tell-tale signs of the fights it must have gotten into. There was a pea-sized chunk missing from its left ear, and a faint scar on its little orange snout.
Perhaps this was a kitchen mouser? But how had it wandered so far into the palace, all the way into Minho’s chambers? How had it gotten past those heavy wooden doors, not to mention the guards stationed nearby?
You dared to take a step towards it – to no response. The cat continued to stare. Its tail twitched from one side to the other, slowly, almost lazily.
It didn’t move as you approached, instead continuing to eye you with an expression so distinctly unimpressed for such a tiny face.
Of course, the second you lifted your hand towards it, it jumped away from you in the blink of an eye. There was no panic to its retreat, just a vague sense of disdain as it withdrew from your reach.
For one brief second, you were bizarrely reminded of Minho.
To your own surprise, laughter bubbled up in your chest, slipping out between your lips. It lifted a weight off of your chest, leaving you feeling just a little lighter as you observed the way the cat shot you what could only be described as the feline equivalent of a scowl before it padded over to the bed and disappeared beneath it.
Deciding against following the cat and disturbing its hiding place, you chose to head for the door and request breakfast be served outside.
It seemed only right that the lingering worries of the previous night’s events would disappear in the light of a warm spring day.
There was something so calming about the palace grounds in the morning. At your request, a table and chair had been set up at the base of a hill, just by the long winding steps back up to the palace itself, in perfect position for you to gaze out at the huge expanses of land in front of you.
Morning dew budded on the still blades of grass. Clouds slowly drifted across the sky above, the sun hiding behind them, only reappearing at just the moment the air grew too chilly. In the distance, a light layer of fog lingered amongst the trees of the royal forest, retreating further and further with each moment.
There was nothing but peace and quiet.
You breathed deeply, savouring the morning air, as you reached for the last slice of bread. Beside it, in a tiny porcelain dish, sat a little pat of creamy butter. You scraped the last of it up with your knife to carefully spread onto the bread.
Your plans for the day were the same as always. Studying, mostly. You were eager to crack open the most recent council records you could find, already making plans to note down the stances of each member, the factions that might have formed, anything that might be useful.
How soon would Minho talk to his father? How much time did you have to prepare? You should have pressed for more details.
You could ask him at dinner this evening, you realised. It was still such a strange idea, to think that you and Minho could talk to each other so…often, now.
Because you shared a bedchamber, a voice in your mind – one that sounded suspiciously like your mother – reminded you. You should be doing so much more than just talking.
A mouthful of bread lodged itself in your throat mid-swallow, making you cough and splutter as you reached for your tea.
Not that you were particularly eager for that, of course. Last night had been a brief moment of insanity, a sudden break from rational thought, brought on by returning to the bed that held so many strong memories. It had infected your dreams, and even seeped into your sleep-addled actions in the dead of night, but now you had recovered.
Now, once again, you were just as uninterested as he was. Moving to his chambers was good enough to mend your image as a successful, stable pairing. It didn’t matter what happened behind closed doors, because you had gotten what you wanted.
But before you could make an effort to divert your thoughts back towards the day ahead, the peace of the morning was broken.
You watched as a group of palace guards marched into sight, descending the palace steps – and you stilled when you saw the person they were accompanying.
Her Majesty, the Queen.
You sat up a little straighter, as your eyes met across the wide-open space of the palace lawns. She always seemed so perfectly put together, her long dark hair twisted and braided neatly into a bun, the soft and sweeping fabrics of her dress somehow spotless even when brushing against the ground.
In her fine features, there was so much of Felix. You almost wanted to look away.
Instead, you followed protocol to the letter, rising to your feet and bowing your head at her arrival. “Your Majesty.”
“I didn’t expect to see you here,” she replied, and there was a genuine soft note of surprise to her voice that reinforced her words. “If you’re finished with your meal, would you like to accompany me across the grounds?”
You blinked, lifting your head in shock. You’d barely spoken to this woman in weeks. You’d half-expected her to ignore you. You’d half-given up on the affection the two of you had grown for each other during your childhood.
“Y-yes,” you replied, and cleared your throat. “Yes, I’d love to.”
She gave you a smile – one so deeply familiar that it made your heart ache for just a second – and inclined her head, silently offering you the place by her side.
You moved quickly, almost without thinking, barely retaining the grace expected for a lady of your position, as you tried to join her before she could change her mind.
Before the two of you could start walking, however, she first turned to glance at the guards behind her. With a firm, clear voice of a queen, she told them. “I trust I’m accompanied by guards possessing the respect of allowing two ladies some privacy while they talk. Am I not?”
The nearest guard’s eyes widened slightly in understanding, and he hurried to nod at her. “Yes, Your Majesty. Of course.”
“Delightful to hear. The usual twelve paces behind will suffice,” she said, her voice so casual that the comment could almost be described as offhand, before she finally set off. You had to quicken your steps slightly to catch up with her.
And, sure enough, the guards waited until you were twelve paces ahead before they followed – at the perfect distance to remain out of earshot.
This was the woman you remembered from your childhood. Always polite, always charming, and just a little cleverer than she seemed.
You fell into step beside her, searching for something to say to start the conversation. “I heard a delegation from the Lakelands are on their way.”
“Yes,” she said, nodding with a warm smile. “Most of the delegates only came to their position after I left, but I know a handful. Among them is a prince I last saw as a young boy. I look forward to seeing the man he’s now grown to be.”
“That will be nice,” you remarked, looking for something else to say. Something clever, or funny, or charming. It used to be so much easier to talk to her. “Do you miss the Lakelands?”
“Occasionally. Especially in the winter. I’ve never developed a taste for the cold that sets in here,” she said, but there was no trace of sadness in her voice. Nothing wistful. “But what about you? Are you keeping well?”
“Yes,” you replied – but it felt like a half-truth at best. “As well as can be.”
“I’m sure you’ve had so many pleasantries asked about your marriage,” she said. “That’s usually all people can think to talk about, with women like us.”
Her words struck something in you, hooking something strange and raw and tugging it out into the open.
“That’s usually the topic of conversation, yes.”
Her lips twitched, the briefest flicker of a smile. “Then we’ll speak about something else. Are you still keeping to your studies?”
“Yes!” you exclaimed, unable to keep your excitement from rushing out. “Practically every day. Mostly, I’ve been focusing on my histories and geography, but I like to brush up on my languages every so often.”
“You did always love studying your histories,” the Queen nodded, and for the first time in your conversation, you picked up on the slightest hint of sadness in her tone.
It sparked a vaguely familiar feeling. An old desire to cheer her, the feeling so ingrained that it felt like slipping on an old favourite coat.
“My new tutor has helped quite splendidly,” you said, with a smile just a touch forced. “I hadn’t realised how much more I could learn with someone following me in my interests, instead of just telling me what I should be interested in.”
The Queen smiled back at you, and hers seemed entirely genuine. “There seems so much to catch up on. I’ve been meaning to talk to you sooner.”
Her words, as light and carefree as she had offered them, managed to hit something deep within you. Your expression faltered, as you felt the words dig into you, like claws gripping your flesh, piercing you.
You blurted out your only thought. “Why didn’t you?”
The question came out in a rush, an outpouring of emotion that you had tried so hard to keep dammed. You watched the way she paused, caught off-guard by your sudden harsh words.
You swallowed, trying frantically to recover some sense of manners. “I mean, I…it’s just I’ve been…I’ve been so alone since…”
“…I know.”
Her gaze grew so soft, as she watched you sadly. There were moments, occasionally, when her eyes were so expressive, just as Felix’s were.
For a moment, you pictured what it must have been like for her, all those years ago. Newly married to a stranger, not just alone but alone in an entirely different kingdom. A kingdom that her father and her father’s father and his father before that had been at war with. A kingdom with a people who mistrusted her, who still mourned for her husband’s first wife, the beloved wife, the wife she must constantly be compared to in public and in private.
You wondered how long it took her to learn to hide those expressive eyes. You wondered if it saddened her to look upon her son, and see those same bright eyes shining back.
“I missed you,” you confessed. “I miss how it used to be.”
“So do I, sweetling,” she murmured. There were only two people in this world the Queen called ‘sweetling’. One was standing in front of her. The other was half a kingdom away, quiet and aching by the coast. “But that’s precisely why I’ve stayed away.”
“What?” You asked, sharp in your confusion. “What are you talking about?”
“There are whispers at court,” she began, before pausing. You detected the faintest of eye-rolls as she continued. “There always are. Right now, they are centred on you.”
“Me?” You repeated. “I haven’t heard anything.”
“Oh, the subjects never do,” she said, her tone sharpening just a touch. You knew she’d had her fair share of experience with court rumours. “It’s no fun for them if the rumour gets dragged into daylight and exposed for the nonsense that it is. Better to whisper in secret, and give their empty brains something to spin from nothing.”
“What are they saying?” You asked. You’d half-expected something like this to happen, but you’d always thought your first reaction would be worry, or fear – and yet, right now, the news filled you with nothing but anger.
“They’re harmless, for now. Idle gossip. But if any fuel is added to them, they could prove dangerous–”
“What are they saying?” You repeated, cutting her off. You needed to hear it. You already had an inkling, but you needed it in words.
She sighed. “…You and Felix. I’m afraid my son will always be a subject for scandal in your future.”
Felix.
You turned away, eyes searching for the horizon, for something to fix on in the distance.
You hated that this didn’t surprise you. You hated that your paranoia, your constant insecurity about how you were perceived, about how your issues with Minho were perceived, that constant nagging feeling of your marriage being forced under a magnifying glass, was partially justified.
“Anything in particular?” You finally managed to ask when your voice returned to you.
“The stories change every week. Nothing has truly taken hold, which is a good thing,” the queen reassured you. “But until you and Minho…well, when your marriage seemed on shakier ground, I thought it was wise to keep my distance. I thought it would make things easier for you.”
Easier.
Right.
A lump was forming in your throat. You did your best to swallow it down.
“I thought you were angry at me,” you admitted. “For marrying Minho, instead of your son.”
“You did marry my son.”
There was such strong feeling in her voice that it forced your gaze back to her. The queen’s jaw was set, her mouth curved downwards slightly. Years and years of learned authority, of power however scant it might be, radiated through her as she stood firm.
“Minho is my son. In every way that counts.”
You stared, silent, as the faintest hint of guilt began to warm your cheeks.
The queen continued to walk, her gaze softening as she fell back into old memories. “He was so tiny when I entered the palace. I helped him take his first steps. I helped him learn his letters, I selected his tutors and I watched him grow.”
She slowed her steps, as you reached the edge of the forest that surrounded the palace. The two of you would have to turn back soon, but you took a moment to observe the quiet of the trees, the way that sunlight filtered through the newly-grown leaves.
“I might not be called his mother, but he is my son,” she finished, quietly. “And I’m very proud of him.”
She blinked rapidly a few times, clearing her throat, and turned to flash you the briefest of knowing smiles. “As mule-headed as he can be sometimes.”
You couldn’t help but laugh – albeit quietly, softly, as the emotion of the conversation still kept its grip on you.
There was a pull in you – that familiar one, the one that urged you to please others, the one that pushed you to say exactly the perfect thing – to praise Minho to the Queen. To call him a good man. You knew she would want to hear it, she would want to hear how happy you had turned out in spite of it all, that by pure serendipity, your marriage to Minho was just as splendid and happy as the marriage with Felix you had been awaiting your whole life.
But the words stuck in your throat. You practically choked on them. Not just because they were untrue.
Because for a second – for such a brief, unthinking second – you had wanted them to be true, just as badly as she did.
Something cold began to take hold of you. It started in your gut, unfurling his long icy fingers, grabbing and twisting and squeezing as it slowly dragged the rest of you into its grip.
Betrayal. In that moment, you felt – you knew – you had betrayed Felix.
Did it show on your face? The queen was watching you now, and you couldn’t imagine the expression you must have had.
You swallowed, trying with all you had to shove that awful pain away.
You needed to say something. Anything.
“Minho…he’s always…he never seems to care when people believe the worst in him,” you said, the words stumbling out of you, as if your mind was two steps behind your mouth. “It’s almost like he prefers it. I don’t understand it.”
The queen took in your words. After one long pause, in which her eyes studied you so intensely that it felt they were about to burn through you, she turned to look up at the palace on the hill. Even from this distance, it seemed to loom over you, waiting so impatiently for you to return.
“This place…” she trailed off. Her jaw tightened - and in that one instant, as her eyes flashed, you saw the teenage girl that had first stepped foot into this court, so far from home and facing such a nest of vipers. “It pulls something out of the people here. A way to protect themselves. My husband already had his ingrained when I came here. I felt it take hold within myself. I watched it form in Minho, that desire to push people away. And you…” she turned to you, briefly, and you blinked at the twist of amusement in her lips. “What opposites you and he are. How perfectly you mirror.”
You stared. Her words were vague, cryptic…and yet, you couldn’t help feel as if you had been insulted. You opened your mouth to protest, but the queen had already turned away back towards the palace.
“You can’t live in a place like this without growing a few thorns,” the queen sighed. “Like the roses in my gardens, I suppose. The ones without thorns are the first to be eaten.”
There was something layered in her words, something sad, something resigned.
You realised then that of all the members of the royal family she had just mentioned, there was one obvious name left unsaid.
“Let us return,” she said, finally. “Before those guards grow too curious and drift too close.”
Not only did Minho keep his promise of returning for dinner again that evening, he arrived even earlier than you.
You almost stopped at the door, thrown by the sight of him at the table, as perfectly poised as he always was, flicking through a sheaf of papers by the side of his plate. He looked up at your arrival, eyes meeting yours, and something caught in your chest.
You hadn’t realised how strange it would be to see him in person after last night, how…affecting.
Clearing your throat, you gave him a tight smile and made your way to your seat across from him – unfortunately for you, as it gave you a clear unobstructed view of Minho at a time when you very much wished for anything but that.
You reached for the decanter in front of you, eager to pour yourself a drink to deal with this building lump in your throat. To your surprise, you found it to be filled with water, not wine.
“How was your day?” you asked, finally speaking, hoping to sound calm and collected.
Minho eyed you carefully, as if you’d offered some sort of complex riddle, and not a feeble attempt at small-talk. “…Slow. Until the Lakelander delegation arrives, there’s nothing urgent to take care of. I’ve been looking over budget proposals for the harvest season.”
The harvest season was months away. In fact, you were almost certain that the fields had only just been sown at all. That truly did seem like a slow day. “I see.”
You knew you should try to continue the conversation, to ask him more about his work. Instead, you let your eyes drop to the plate of food in front of you, words dying on your tongue as you tried and failed to push down the memories of last night.
It felt so…deeply indecent, to sit across from Minho, and pretend you hadn’t touched yourself just a few feet away from him. And it was only made more indecent by the fact that he didn’t know.
It was all you could think about when you looked at him. You knew a secret, and he didn’t.
For dinner, the kitchens had prepared some sort of fish beautifully. Perfectly cooked, tender and soft and practically melting in your mouth.
You barely tasted it. You just kept eating, preoccupied, eyes trained on your plate. You were certain that if you looked up at Minho for too long, you would give yourself away.
In fact, the longer you sat there, the more uncertain you became.
Were you acting unnaturally? Were you too quiet, too reluctant to make conversation?
But, then again, what exactly did acting ‘naturally’ in Minho’s presence entail? You might have finally found yourselves on better terms, but…
“Something on your mind?”
Your eyes jerked up to meet his, caught off-guard.
How long had Minho been observing you? It looked like he hadn’t even touched his food yet, one hand resting on top of his papers, his other arm propped up on the table, hand curled under his chin as he looked at you.
You made an effort to swallow down the food in your mouth, despite how dry your throat had become, and reached for your water with all the nonchalance you could muster. “Not particularly. I was just…”
Think of something, think of anything.
“Wondering about those budget proposals. The harvest season must be months away. Was there really nothing else more pressing?”
Minho was quiet for a second, just long enough to spark the tiniest flicker of nerves in the pit of your gut, before he let out a sigh. “My father likes to drip-feed me responsibilities, one at a time. If there is anything else more urgent, I won’t know until my next meeting with him. And that won’t be for several days.”
There was an edge of frustration in his voice, something long-suffering, as if this were the topic of multiple arguments in the past, arguments that never seemed to resolve themselves in his favour.
He reached for his water, taking a sip, before his gaze returned to you. “That will also be when I talk to him about you joining the council.”
For a brief moment, all thoughts about the previous night and your embarrassing secret disappeared from your mind entirely. You leaned forward, intrigued. “What do you think his response will be?”
Minho tilted his head slightly in thought – and it filled you with surprise at the fact that you recognised this subtle shift in Minho’s body language, that at some point you had come to learn how to read him, even slightly – and replied. “…I won’t mince words–”
“Do you ever?” You retorted, almost without thinking.
Minho’s lips twitched, fighting a smile, but continued without acknowledging your mildest of jabs. “It will be a hard sell. My father is not a revolutionary. A large part of his popularity has come from his upholding of tradition. But he’s been dragging his feet on filling this council seat for months now, and for good reason. It’s a political minefield, and you are the best compromise. I hope he’ll see that.”
Minho was right. Your appointment to the council, however perfect a resolution to the infighting between your father and the blue-blooded nobility, would not be an easy sell at all. “I hope so too.”
The rest of your dinner passed in relative quiet, but the little calm you managed to gain in that time soon evaporated when you exited the dining room – and found yourself confronted yet again with the question of sleeping arrangements.
Minho’s bed was now the site of two of your most scandalous transgressions. Both of which involved Minho, both of which rendered you almost completely unable to look him in the eye whenever you thought of them.
In contrast to your internal strife, however, Minho seemed perfectly at ease.
He transported his sheaf of papers from the dining table to the couch, seating himself comfortably and setting them down on the low table in front of him.
Actually, perhaps ‘stack’ of papers might be more accurate a description than ‘sheaf’. Just how much work went into preparing these budget proposals? Had he done so little in his office all day to bring so much work to do in his chambers? Or was this a far more demanding responsibility than you had assumed?
All evidence seemed to point to the latter, as Minho worked silently throughout the evening, brow furrowed just a hint in concentration. He didn’t look up once, not when you rose to start preparing for bed, not when you returned in your nightclothes, not even when you wished him good night. He returned the words with a quiet murmur, clearly too enwrapped with whatever he was working on.
He was so engrossed, he didn’t see the way you hesitated by the bed.
Should you invite him over? He might have had work to do, but this would be yet another night that you went to bed without him. You were sharing a bedchamber now, surely the two of you should…
At least once, you should…
You tried to decide on the words of the invitation, of how to phrase it. A suggestion that he should bring his papers to bed, if he had so much work still to do? That was a reasonable question, wasn’t it? If he refused, you could press him on it, demand to know why it was beginning to seem as if he were still avoiding you…
“Yes?”
You blinked, emerging from your thoughts, to find Minho had glanced over to you. You likely made a strange sight, hovering by the bed, still yet to get under its covers.
The words were on the tip of your tongue, carefully crafted, ready to ask.
And then, traitorously, you thought of last night again.
Minho had been on the other side of the room, able to sleep through it, but if he’d been next to you…
You pictured it. You pictured jostling him awake in your sleep, the embarrassing sounds you might make. What you might do.
An awful, awful wave of embarrassment crashed through you because what if you tried to grab at him in your sleep?
You swallowed, turning away without even attempting to reply to Minho, and slipped under the bedcovers without another word.
In the morning, you woke to find that Minho had already risen long before you. The bedchamber was empty, and again the sheets by your side were untouched.
When the third night elapsed in just the same way, and the fourth, it became clear that this couldn’t be mere coincidence. Minho didn’t just happen to be so enthralled in his work that he fell asleep on the couch four nights in a row.
He was refusing to sleep beside you. You might have forced his hand in letting you share his chambers, but apparently he would not let that extend to his actual bed.
You were half-convinced he still held that early contempt for you, that he was still stubbornly maintaining that unconquerable distance between the two of you out of disdain.
And yet, he still sat with you at every dinner. He talked with you about his day, about your studies, telling stories about a particular odious noble that had done something to irk him, or listening to you talk passionately about a particular historical figure or event that had come up in your research. He’d even teased you once, when you confessed that you didn’t have the patience to read through the handful of art history books that Seungmin had added to your list.
The two of you were very slowly developing some odd sense of…well, perhaps friendship was still too strong a choice of word, but at least an understanding around each other that definitely hadn’t been present in the first few weeks of your marriage.
Nowhere else had this become so apparent than on your fifth evening in Minho’s bedchambers.
For a change of scenery, you had decided to spend the afternoon catching up on your research in these chambers, taking lunch there with your books, enjoying the little pocket of quiet in which Minho’s bedchambers were nestled within the palace.
To your surprise, and delight, the cat was back.
Initially, it was just as sullen as you remembered. It eyed you from across the room, perched on the low table yet again, sat as tall and imposing as it could make itself.
That was, until you called for a plate of kippers to be brought to you.
Despite its surly appearance, the cat barely needed convincing before it wandered over to you and the plate of fish, taking each offered kipper from your hand without hesitation. After three fish, it allowed you the softest of pets between its ears. After six, it drew closer, jumping from the table to the seat next to you, a little more relaxed as it took yet another fish from your hand.
To your delight, once the plate was empty, the cat did not abandon you immediately. In fact, it curled up near you – not quite close enough to be within easy reach, but enough that you could lean over and give it slow and gentle strokes as you continued to read. It even began to purr, just a little, whenever you scratched just beneath the base of its ears.
The more attention you gave the cat, the more you realised just how cared for it seemed to be. How comfortable it was with being touched, how well-fed it was, how soft its fur was. Even in a palace, this was not at all typical for a kitchen mouser.
“Someone spoils you, don’t they?” You murmured, giving the cat more strokes. “I can see why, you’re lovely. So cute.”
The cat, while not acknowledging your words, leaned its head up into your hand a little, chasing after those little scratches.
You were close to abandoning your studies entirely for the day, ready to devote your full attention to this adorable little creature, when the bedchamber doors swung open.
The cat jolted a little, jumping from its place on the couch – but to your relief, did not run out of the room. Instead, it lingered by the low table, ready to disappear under it, and stared down the sudden arrival.
Minho, mouth still parted slightly in whatever greeting he’d been about to give you, was silent as his gaze flickered between you and the orange cat eyeing him from the floor.
“We have a visitor,” you told Minho, solemnly, gesturing to the cat.
Minho nodded, briefly, still looking between you and the cat. “Yes. Yes, she seems to like it in here.”
“‘She’?” You repeated, raising an eyebrow.
Minho’s expression immediately smoothed into the perfect neutral, refusing to give even the slightest bit of emotion away. “…I assume.”
“Mm. Well, she seems to be a sweetheart.”
“Does she?” Minho repeated, glancing at the cat again, who seemed to have now relaxed. She began to approach Minho’s feet, sniffing familiarly at his boots.
“I may have had to bribe her with a plate of kippers,” you admitted, increasingly amused by the way the cat began to weave her way between Minho’s legs, but managed not to let it show too obviously in your face. “She seems very well-fed, for a kitchen mouser.”
Minho made a non-committal sound in response, not meeting your eyes. “…Yes, well, I imagine people must toss her dinner scraps here and there.”
“I suppose so. But who would be so soft-hearted in this palace, to feed a kitchen cat from their own plate?” You wondered aloud.
Minho’s face was a mask at this point, unmoving, perfectly calculated. He made his way to one of his armchairs, attempting to ignore the way the cat followed him happily, jumping up and perching herself on the arm of his chair.
You continued. “In fact, I wonder what a mouser would be doing here, so far away from the kitchens. That’s quite a distance for a cat to wander unprompted.”
“I suppose so,” Minho stated, perfectly neutral, even as the cat moved from the arm of the chair to seat herself in his lap.
You continued to stare at him, wordless, eyebrow raised – and finally, he relented.
“I might have given her some scraps, once or twice,” he admitted, even as the cat nuzzled into his hand from where she rested nearby. “I suppose she can’t help it if she isn’t good at mousing, and goes hungry.”
“True,” you allowed, thoroughly unconvinced by his façade. “And do you know if this failed mouser has a name?”
“…I think I’ve heard someone call her Soonie,” Minho said, and finally let his hand drift over to Soonie and begin to give her gentle scratching behind her ears. She purred loudly enough that you could hear her from where you sat, utterly content to receive affection from someone she was clearly very familiar with. “Somewhere. At some point.”
“How odd. Not many kitchen mousers have names.”
“Mm,” Minho hummed, noncommittal, but when his eyes dropped down to glance at Soonie, he couldn’t hide the slightest of smiles.
You took in the sight, this cold and prickly prince melting as he pet the scruffy little tabby cat. Minho was still in his usual daily prince attire, all high-necked and formal. His legs were clad in those familiar riding leathers that you never let yourself look at for too long, so you moved your attention instead to his jacket. Instead of a royal scarlet, this one was a dark blue, the fabric glinting in the candlelight from the clusters of beading embroidered within it. It suited him, you forced yourself to admit, far more than red did.
In fact, you tried to remember the last time Minho had worn the colour red, but nothing recent sprang to mind. Perhaps…
“I’m meeting with my father tomorrow,” Minho told you, and immediately your attention was captured.
Tomorrow.
The word sparked something in your gut – not quite dread, or alarm, but something akin to that. Urgency.
You swallowed back your excitement, remaining as calm and neutral as you could. “And you’ll talk to him about the council?”
“That’s the plan,” Minho replied, enigmatic.
You paused, and a quiet fell over the room. It wasn’t as if Minho was expecting you to reply – in fact, as Soonie settled completely in his lap, chin dropping to rest on his knee, he was looking down and away from you.
But something still just…tugged at you. Just a little bit.
Your eyes darted down to the book in your hands, and as nonchalantly as you could, you spoke. “…Thank you.”
You saw Minho move out of the corner of your eye, head raising to look at you.
“…I’m just doing what I’m supposed to,” Minho said, his voice detached and light. “One of my duties is to recommend the most capable candidate I can find. Don’t think of it as a favour.”
His words rendered you speechless, heart beginning to pound in your ears.
Most capable.
You were the daughter of a rich, powerful man. You had been given many compliments throughout your lifetime.
None of them had ever caused the same kind of lump to form in your throat as you felt now. None had caused this kind of strange heat to bloom behind your eyes, this way your heart swelled.
Most capable.
And just like that, you were spurred into action. If you had only one night left to prepare yourself and construct the perfect defence to prove why you deserved to be on the council, you would take full advantage of it.
You began combing through the papers you had with you, reading voraciously, consuming every piece of information available to you. You did this throughout dinner, chewing absently as you turned pages and scrawled notes. You were so devoted to your studies, you made your way through two full cups of tea before realising, upon looking up, that it was Minho who poured it for you each time.
Your eyes met, just as he held the teapot over your cup to pour a third time, and your gaze held long enough to note the flicker of amusement in his before he looked away.
When dinner was over, you retreated back to the couch with more reading to finish. Minho did the same, taking up the same spot he did every evening, that familiar pile of paperwork set in front of him. There was a strangely companionable silence as the two of you worked into the night.
You almost forgot he was there, despite the sounds of his writing and the crisp sounds of paper-shuffling, slipping into a quiet rhythm of reading and re-reading until words began to blur together.
As the candles burned low, and the hours grew later and later, you felt your concentration start to slip. Your eyes would close, just for a few moments, and the will to open them again slowly began to elude you. Exhaustion crept up on you, an old friend, and you found yourself repeating paragraphs, reading over the same sentence again and again and unable to take in its meaning.
Your eyes closed again, and you vaguely remembered telling yourself it would be just for a moment.
Sleep found you instead.
Blissful, calm. Warmth from the fire. Papers slipping from your hand, but never landing on the floor. You felt safe, wrapped in the quiet.
Something brushed your arm. Soft. Fur. Soonie?
Your eyes opened, bleary, only to find grey instead of orange. The wrongness of it jolted you, your hand darting out to grab at something pale and moving.
Skin.
A hand. Soft.
Except for a callus on the edge of a knuckle on the middle finger. You recognised it, for you had your own on the very same finger. It was where the pen sat whenever you wrote.
Your gaze wandered, still sleep-fogged, and there was no surprise when you saw the hand attached to a Minho.
Your grip on him relaxed, fingers slipping from his, and you barely mumbled a half-formed thought. “Your hand matches mine.”
Your eyes closed again, just as Minho stilled, and you drifted back to sleep.
You woke up, neck aching, still upright on the couch. Your books and papers lay scattered around you, from where you’d been too tired to put them away properly. Morning light streamed in from the windows, and despite the ashes in the fireplace indicating that it had long since burned out, you found yourself unusually warm.
Ah. You had fallen asleep in the previous day’s clothes – and with very familiar furs draped over you.
There was a brief flash of a memory, of Minho’s hand pulling the furs over you. You dimly recalled saying something, perhaps, but the details escaped you. You pushed the furs off of you, your movements unusually gentle as you handled the blanket, as if it commandeered an unthinking respect from you. Sentiment, maybe.
As always, Minho had risen before you and left your chambers, but today this observation filled you with equal parts excitement and nerves.
Were they discussing it right at this moment? Did their meetings take place in the mornings? Or in the afternoons? Would other items be brought up first?
It was maddening, to have so many questions and no way to pursue the answers.
With a night’s worth of sweat sticking to your skin, you made up a bath for yourself, even heating the water entirely on your own. The only oils in Minho’s bathroom were lavender, suited for relaxation in the evenings rather than energising in the mornings, but you made do.
The water was a touch cooler than how you usually liked it, but you didn’t have the patience to heat more water. Instead, you stripped and climbed into the bath with as much grace as you could muster and set about cleaning yourself.
This wasn’t the first time you had bathed entirely without servants – in fact, since you had moved into Minho’s chambers, the only times a servant had been permitted to enter was to bring them dinner each evening.
You found yourself becoming…amenable to that arrangement. It gave Minho’s chambers a sense of quiet, a private solace, that could not be found anywhere else in the palace.
Perhaps that was why it was so jarring, almost invading, when you heard knocking from afar, the sound of a door swinging open, and a woman’s voice ringing out hesitantly. “Your Highness?”
You startled, upsetting the water, letting some of it slosh over the side of the bath and onto the floor. “Yes? Is something wrong?”
Footsteps approached – timid, rushed – and the voice drew closer. “You’ve been summoned, Your Highness. By the king.”
Your stomach dropped, your breath cut short.
“He…said it was urgent, Your Highness, but I can let them know you’re still bathing–”
“No,” you blurted out, quickly, sharply. You got out of the bath hastily, dripping water all over the floor. “Help me change into something quickly, and I’ll go now.”
There was only one reason you would be summoned by the king on this particular day, and from the sounds of it, it wasn’t to congratulate you on your new position on the council.
You needed to stand your ground, to explain your reasoning in the face of his refusal. And if there was any chance of persuading him to grant you the position, to ignore the concerns of your gender…
Well, telling the king that he needed to wait to discuss urgent business until the princess finished drying her hair was not the kind of image you wanted to present to him.
And so, you were laced into a dress with impressive dexterity by your maid, the luscious fabric increasingly dampened from your dripping hair. Was it an uncomfortable sensation? Absolutely, but it was difficult to dwell on it when all you could think of was why you were be summoned, what could have happened between the king and Minho to warrant such an urgent demand for your presence.
Discussions must not have gone as smoothly as Minho intended – but not so disastrously as to be dismissed out of hand.
As you slipped on a pair of shoes, your maid gave one last attempt to persuade you to wait. “Your Highness, are you sure…”
You turned, smiling politely at her. “Yes. I’m sure it will dry soon enough. Thank you for all your help.”
She returned your smile, somewhat nervously, eyes darting to the dishevelled aspects of your appearance, but seemed a little more assured. Marginally. Barely.
Before she could protest again, you marched straight for the door.
Of course, as was so often the case with grand gestures, there were certain factors you didn’t think through entirely.
The palace halls were unforgivingly cold, especially as your hair continued to slowly drip water down your neck, soaking into the back of your gown. It made every step uncomfortable, as every little drop of water that landed on the nape of your neck was another reprimanding shock of chill.
You made sure to stand tall, proud.
If your head was bowed, if your shoulders were slouched and your steps more resembling a scurry than a stride, you would have made a pitiable sight. It would look as if you were caught off-guard, as if you were panicked, incapable, scared.
But with your chin held high, with your shoulders back and a confidence steeling you, this was intentional. This was a statement. An image fit for songs, for stories, a princess devoted to her role and to the orders of her king.
As you drew closer to the king’s chambers, navigating through the ever-narrowing hallways, you felt your chest begin to tighten. You realised you might genuinely hate it here, this deep within the very depths of the palace, its cold little stone heart. A king might be well-defended here, the walls witness to nearly a thousand years of history, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that you were descending into a tomb.
And then, you heard the voices.
The last time you had been summoned by the king, you remembered catching a snippet of conversation at the very doorstep of his chambers. That was how close you had to get before Minho’s and the king’s voices could be heard through the thick wooden door.
But now? You heard them in the corridor - because they were loud.
Not quite a screaming match between father and son, but–
“–talk of duty, but what’s your solution, Father? Burying your head in the sand, that tried and tested trick?”
You almost stumbled, shock rendering you clumsy, because did Minho just say that to the king?
“Caution, boy, is not ignorance. How do you mistake the two? You’re well-versed in the latter.”
The two guards in front of you exchanged a glance. You noted that they did not share your horror. In fact, you could almost mistake it as…resigned.
“Was it age that turned your belly yellow? Is that my fate too? Cowardice?”
“I will not be lectured by a son still wet-around-the-ears on age.”
Not just resigned.
Long-suffering.
They’d heard this all before. Frequently, by the looks of things.
And then, as if that knowledge had unlocked something, had lifted the veil over your eyes, you could hear it. The hint of familiarity, the ease with which the two hurled insults at each other.
This was not the first time Minho and his father had quarrelled. In fact, you’d wager this wasn’t the first time this week.
The argument paused when the guards knocked at the door, announcing your arrival. As the doors swung open, you caught sight of Minho and his father – not a hair out of place, not even a flush of anger to their cheeks – glaring at each other with familial exasperation.
Minho looked away first, turning to look at you – and paused.
His Majesty followed his gaze, and you watched those regal eyes blink in surprise at your appearance.
You must have made a sight, your gown on its way to being ruined, your hair still slick and dishevelled, trying hard not to shiver in the cold of these chambers.
“Your Majesty,” you greeted, not even the slightest bit affected, and bowed low. You straightened up before offering Minho’s greeting. “Husband.”
“My dear,” the king spoke, just the slightest bit alarmed. “If my summons caught you at an inopportune time, I assure you it’s perfectly reasonable to delay answering until you’re presentable. Don’t concern yourself so thoroughly.”
You smiled brightly. The picture of obedience, of devotion. “I hated the thought of keeping you both waiting. I imagine I know what this conversation is about.”
The king’s gaze flickered between you and Minho at this, a frown soon beginning to form. Still, there was a subtle note of surprise in his voice when he spoke again. “I see. The two of you are conspirators in this…”
“Proposal?” you supplied, gently.
“Attack?” Minho offered, bitterly.
“…Folly,” the king said, finally, turning back to you.
You dipped your head, keeping your voice soft and sweet. “I’m sorry to hear that you see it that way. I believe it to be a fair compromise, to ease the tensions at court.”
“Yes, Minho said the same thing,” the king sighed, dismissive. “Both of you are blind to the same issue. Any conflicts that your position on the council might resolve are outnumbered by the discord it would certainly cause.”
Minho sighed, eyes darting up to the ceiling. You wondered how many times he had heard that argument this morning. “And yet, a good king prioritises the future of his kingdom above all else, is that not so?”
The king shot Minho a look. It didn’t take much to realise that those were likely the king’s own words that had come out of Minho’s mouth, not his own.
“Son–”
“Talk to her,” Minho interrupted, gesturing to you in pure exasperation. “Listen to her. Ask her anything. She’s more than qualified to be on the council.”
After a moment’s hesitation, in which it looked as if the king was debating whether to indulge his oldest son or nip this matter in the bud entirely, he turned to you.
“…Very well,” he said, giving in. You watched as he made his way to the splendid-looking chair behind a monstrosity of a writing desk, sinking into it. For a brief moment, you thought you caught something of a grimace in his expression.
Exhaustion? Perhaps. It must have been tiring work, running a kingdom. Let alone arguing with Minho too. You had first-hand knowledge of how that could drain your energy.
The king’s eyes became fixed on you, almost pinning you to the floor, as he spoke. “Suppose you were on the council, and a message was received, warning of a great army about to invade. What would you advise?”
Your brow furrowed as you considered the question. You needed to remain calm, measured, and use every scrap of information you had studied.
“Which border is the army advancing toward?” you asked, thoughtful.
The king’s face remained unchanged. “The one we share with the Lakelands.”
Interesting. No cardinal direction given – you assumed that must have been on purpose – but still plenty of information to form an answer. The Lakelands were in the north, and under treaty with your kingdom.
“I would advise you to send missives to Lords Kim and Geum in the north with instructions to muster their forces and man our security garrisons along the border. I would also–”
“Which garrisons?” the king interrupted, gently but firmly.
“Yalrock and Banna. Yalrock is the largest garrison on the northern border, Banna is strategically advantageous because of its position on the river plains. You’d be forcing the army to march along the mountain passes instead.”
The king’s expression remained cold, neutral – and you realised, in that moment, exactly where Minho might have learned the same habit. “Continue.”
“I would also advise you to send word to our allies in the hills and across the Sunrise Sea, informing them that the Lakelands have broken our treaty pact.”
“Broken the pact?” the king repeated. “I never said the Lakelanders were the ones invading.”
“The treaty pact also forbids the harbouring of any forces with aggressive intent towards treaty members. In this scenario, the Lakelanders would be doing just this – unless they themselves were invaded by this army too, which I doubt if we received no summons for aid or word from our ambassador there,” you said. Was this too much detail? Were you rambling? You did your best to keep your words steady, unrushed. “Therefore, the treaty would be broken.”
From out of the corner of your eye, you caught Minho watching you, a hint of a smile on his face.
The king, while perhaps a touch surprised at your answer, pressed on anyway with another question, changing the subject entirely.
“…Suppose Lord Sun’s lands are failing to produce the amount of grain demanded of them. How would you advise me?”
“I would be confused,” you admitted, “because Lord Sun’s lands produce fish, not grain.”
“And why is that?”
“Because his lands are in the east, along the coast. The land there isn’t arable.”
“Why?”
“The weather is too hot in the summer, too dry. There isn’t enough freshwater for crop-growing.”
The quickness of your answer was rewarded with the smallest – almost unthinking – of nods from the king. He paused once more, and spoke again. “Suppose I wanted to–”
“Another question?” Minho interjected, sighing, as he wandered across the room and took a seat by the window. He rested his head against his hand, elbow planted into the plush armrest of his chair.
The king shot him a look, either for the interruption, or for the flippant tone Minho had used, or perhaps even for the way he was lounging in the presence of his king, but he made no move to reprimand him. Instead, he turned back to you. “Suppose I wanted to offer a gift to the Lakelander delegation when they arrive next month to renew the treaty. A personal one, not a grand spectacle of an offering. What would you suggest?”
You paused. This wasn’t a question that could be answered with any of your recent studies of war or economics or geography. This was a question of hospitality, knowledge you needed as a queen, not as a councillor.
It took a moment, longer than it took with the first two questions, but soon there was an answer in your mind. “When the last Lakelander delegation came to this country to sign the treaty, one of the gifts they gave Your Majesty were wild rose seeds. Wild roses that were native to the Lakelands, difficult to grow in this climate, meant to symbolise a new peace and the care needed to maintain it. Her Majesty, the queen, still grows these roses in her private gardens, does she not?”
The answer to your question did not come from the king, but from Minho. “She does.”
“Then, I would suggest a bouquet of these roses. It would be symbolic of the care this kingdom has taken to nurture this new relationship with the Lakelands, a sign that we do not take their gifts for granted.”
The king eyed you carefully for a moment, silent. “…You weren’t present at the first signing of the treaty, were you? You’re too young for that.”
“You’re right, I wasn’t present, Your Majesty,” you replied. “But the queen graciously allowed me to play in her gardens when I was a child, and taught me the origins of those roses.”
Not quite. The queen allowed you and Felix to play in those gardens. She told you the origins of the roses when Felix tried to pick some for you, and accidentally cut open his palm on the sharp thorns of their stems. You remembered him, tears in his eyes, sniffling as Her Majesty held the both of you close and warned him gently that these roses were wild, were Lakelanders just like her and a little like him, and because of that, they were fiercely protective.
You remembered sitting and watching the two of them exchange smiles, and silently wishing that you were a Lakelander too. You wanted to be protective. You wanted to be like the roses, like them.
“Any more questions, Father?” Minho asked, jolting you from your memories. “Or has she proven our point? Impressively?”
And again, just as they had last night, Minho’s words stirred something within you. A kind of warmth, filling your chest.
The king regarded the both of you, silently, before sighing. “Your education is…indeed, as Minho says, impressive.”
Your heart soared, mind so entirely filled with elation that you almost missed his next words.
“But I’m afraid that still does not change the obvious. I did not secure decades of unprecedented peace under my reign by breaking with tradition. A woman sitting on the council is not tradition.”
You swallowed, heart sinking just as sharply as it had risen just moments ago.
“…There is precedent,” you pointed out, softly. “I found records of Princess Jiyoon on the royal council, less than two centuries ago.”
“That is true,” the king conceded, before tilting his head slightly. After a moment of consideration, he pushed himself out of his chair with the same half-grimace glimpsed earlier, and crossed the room towards a bookcase stuffed with leather-bound volumes. His hands hovered over them, fingertips brushing their spines, until he found the one he was searching for and pulled it from its stack with ease.
He made his way back to the two of you, opening the volume and thumbing through the pages as he walked, before offering the volume to you.
You took it, uncertainly, and looked down at what exactly he had handed to you.
Council records – but unlike the ones you had studied with Seungmin, you were shocked at just how much more detail this version contained. You supposed that made sense. The records in the library were likely censored, or edited for public consumption. These were private, a king’s own personal records, passed down from ruler to heir most likely.
Jiyoon’s name was there, listed amongst the other councillors, but these records included a strange symbol next to her name.
You frowned, and the king spoke again.
“I imagine you found no records of any contributions she made, correct? No votes cast, no motions brought to attention?”
“…No,” you admitted, reluctantly, looking up at him as dread began to curl in the pit of your stomach.
“There is a reason for that. Jiyoon filled a particular role. If you scour through the legal treatise of the time – dry reading, all of it, but it is there – you’ll find it. Jiyoon was not granted the role of an adviser, but of an observer. A silent one, there only to watch the council proceedings so that she could better educate her heirs in service of her husband. That is the precedent that Jiyoon set.”
Silent. Heirs. Husband.
Of course.
Of course. You should have known. That was what it always came down to. Centuries of royal women, millennia of royal women, and it was always the same.
Silent. Heirs. Husband.
You should have known. You should have known not to get your hopes up.
“What are you saying?” you heard Minho ask, dimly, as these thoughts repeated endlessly in your mind.
“The observer is required to be silent. She cannot vote, she cannot dissent, she cannot speak even when called upon to do so in session. She observes.”
Minho made a sound of disdain, maybe even disgust. “Then, what’s the point? Why have that great of a mind on your council if she can’t even use it? What a waste.”
“Perhaps, but that is the precedent you argue for. If you seek a compromise, that would be it.”
“A compromise? What–”
“I would accept it,” you interrupted, quietly. Your eyes were trained on the floor, voice barely above a murmur. Your brain still thundered with those three words, again and again. Silent. Heirs. Husband. “If Your Majesty were so gracious as to offer this role, I would accept it.”
You didn’t have to look at Minho to know the way his mouth was parted in surprise, astonished and outraged in equal measure. You could sense it in his tone when he spoke. “You can’t be serious.”
You raised your eyes to look at the king, purposefully avoiding Minho’s stare.
“I hope His Majesty knows that I don’t ask for this council seat out of personal ambition,” you said, softly, lying through your teeth to your king. “You said Jiyoon took the role as a duty to her husband and her children. If anyone objected to my position on the council, I would ask you say the same of me.”
“…You would take the council seat in service of Minho,” the king said, and even he sounded sceptical. You weren’t sure what that said about your marriage, but it wasn’t exactly promising.
“And our future children. We both take that duty very seriously.”
“Do you?” the king questioned, sharply, pointedly, but surprisingly it wasn’t you he was addressing – it was Minho.
You might have tensed at such an insinuation, but Minho practically bristled.
“Don’t,” Minho warned his father, straightening up in his seat. No, more than warned, he practically spat out the word. “I thought we agreed.”
Agreed? Agreed what?
You glanced between Minho and his father, sensing a tension that remained unspoken as the two eyed each other, jaws both set.
You were clearly missing something vital to this exchange, some secret piece of information – and, as always, the idea chafed at you.
And then, with a quiet and cold anger that you hadn’t heard in weeks, Minho told his father. “You owe me this.”
The king’s expression twisted. It was guilt, you realised. “Minho–”
“You owe me something.”
Another pause.
And then, finally, the king broke this staring contest with his son to look at you. “…The role requires complete silence. If I decided to grant you the seat on these conditions, and you flout them immediately, I will not look kindly on it. Do you understand?”
“I do,” you replied, solemnly.
“…Very well,” the king said, eventually. “I’ll make the necessary arrangements.”
You did it.
It was a hollow victory, yes, but a victory nonetheless.
You couldn’t quite muster happiness about it, or even gratitude, but there was a sense of achievement.
You nodded, quietly, and curtsied low before the king. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”
When you lifted your head again, you found the king glancing between your face and Minho’s before he spoke again.
“You do have quite the mind,” the king said, gaze still shifting between the two of you. “You might not be able to speak in the council room but…well, you share bedchambers now. Whatever you might discuss in there is your own private business. Is it not?”
Within days, news of your appointment to the council spread across the palace like wildfire.
You expected this, to some extent. Precedent or not, observer or not, this was still an undeniably shocking development. You knew there would be whispers about it, gossip passed around, growing and contorting with each telling and retelling.
All of this, and still you did not expect the conversation you happened upon one evening as you took a shortcut through one of the palace courtyards on your way back from a tutoring session with Seungmin.
The sun had just descended below the horizon, casting the square into shadow wherever the dim glow of torchlight did not quite reach. You caught snatches of voices as you walked, whenever you passed doors to parlours, to sitting rooms, to the dozens upon dozens of meeting places for the elite that resided within the court. Some of these doors were cracked open to enjoy the fresh air brought by the open-air courtyard on their doorstep, unaware of any passers-by.
And then, one particular comment caught your attention.
“Perhaps the poor girl is simply bored,” a haughty voice said, with a hint of laughter. “That council room might be a dreary place, but I’d wager it’s a damn sight better than her bedchambers.”
You froze, half within shadow, half without.
There was only one person that comment could possibly be referring to.
Immediately, you slipped behind one of the stone pillars lining the courtyard, heart pounding.
Finally, after all this talk of rumours, of whisperings at court behind your back, you finally had the chance to listen for yourself.
“Careful, Park,” another voice cautioned, although sounding more amused than concerned.
“A prince too scared to share a bed with his wife for weeks after the wedding,” the first voice – Park – scoffed. “What, did he hope no one would notice?”
A third voice chimed in, low and gleeful. “You want to hear something good? My wife heard a maid talking the other day. They change the sheets of that marriage bed every day. And they’re always pristine.”
Your face heated, something approaching bile threatening to burn the back of your throat. There was something about hearing your privacy be so…violated, and said so casually. Your bedsheets? They all talked about your bedsheets?
“You know my theory,” the third voice spoke again.
“Your wife’s theory,” Park corrected, sounding dismissive.
“It makes sense. She’s saving herself for the other brother. Traded one for the other before, maybe she’s waiting to trade back when he comes home.”
Felix.
Traded one for the other. Is that how they saw it? Is that how they all saw it?
“He’s not coming back,” Park scoffed. “Not for a long time. Not unless His Highness fancies looking down and wondering why all his children have the Lakelander look to them.”
Your heart stopped. You felt the blood in your veins freeze, matching the ice-cold anger settling into your bones.
“Gods be good, close the door before you say horseshit like that. Moron.”
This was more than fury.
This was wrath.
You stepped out of the shadows, just at the right moment to lock eyes with Lord Park as he stood by the doors, his too-late hand stilled on the handle.
“Good evening, Lord Park,” you said, voice so syrupy-sweet and cloying, and watched the blood drain from his face as he stared back at you in horror. You craned your neck to peek over his shoulder, catching a glimpse of the two other men with him. “Oh, I see Lords Song and Ryu have joined you. How nice.”
“Y-Your Highness,” Park stammered, and there was genuine fear in his eyes.
He knew what you had heard. He knew the words that had come out of his mouth, and how close those words danced along the line of treason. It would take you only one conversation with Minho, or with the king, and his career would be done. His family. His fortunes. Possibly even his life.
You smiled brightly at him. “I look forward to seeing you next week at the council. I’ve heard you’re quite the contrarian. You’ve voted to reject the last, what is it, seven bills put forward by my husband?”
Park didn’t answer. Perhaps it was more accurate to say Park couldn’t answer. You wondered what could possibly be going through his head at that moment. You wondered if he had ever felt this afraid in his entire pampered little life.
You tilted your head slightly, eyeing him. “Perhaps from next week, you might find yourself second-guessing a decision like that. Don’t you think so?”
Park’s face, still pale, twisted into something approaching realisation. He seemed to grasp exactly what you were hinting at – the threat that remained unspoken.
“…Y-yes, Your Highness,” Park agreed, nodding erratically.
“And your companions? Perhaps they’ll have similar changes of heart?”
From behind Park, his friends stammered their assent, just as rattled.
You beamed.
“Perfect. Have a nice night.”
You attended your first council meeting the very next week, finally taking that last empty council seat that had remained vacant for so long.
Sixty-two members attended the session in total.
You felt sixty-one pairs of eyes on you throughout.
You recognised quite a few of the faces in this meeting. Lord Young, as delightful as ever, sat just a few seats removed from the royal family – a position of great honour, especially for a man with neither blood nor marriage ties to the crown.
Lord Park had also made an appearance, and blanched the moment your eyes met his.
Good.
You paid the stares little notice, attention completely and utterly captivated by the debates that took place. Every idea proposed, every motion considered and accepted and denied, every opinion volleyed back and forth, you noted down.
You might have been silent, but you wrote feverishly. Pages and pages of scrawls, near indecipherable as you worked to keep pace with the spoken word of the other council members.
Minho was seated next to you. Of course he was – he served as a visible explanation for your presence there at all. To be useful to him, to educate his heirs and better his legacy. In the eyes of everyone else, your seat on the council was essentially just an extension of Minho’s.
You weren’t sure what to expect of him during these council meetings. You knew just how seriously he took his position as heir, and his duty to the kingdom – but you also remembered that carriage journey home from Lord Young’s orchards, the disdain he had for politicking, his derision in his voice when he talked of strings attached.
It turned out that in council meetings, Minho kept up the same perfect princely mask he always did in public. Never once raising his voice, never slipping into anger or mockery. Exemplary behaviour from the first second of the meeting to the last.
Except for one moment, when an old lord from the Tan family had loudly proclaimed an argument so poorly constructed, with parts so moronic that you made sure to underline his exact wording for its stupidity, that you heard the quietest of noises from Minho. When you glanced up at him, he was watching the debate with apparent rapt attention. If you weren’t sat so close to him, you would have missed the slightest way his jaw clenched, as if to fight a look of disdain as he watched Lord Tan blather on.
Minho proposed only one new bill – investment in a new mill, to be built in one of the kingdom’s slowly-dwindling rural villages, in the hopes of creating employment opportunities. You paused your notetaking to watch each council member cast their votes for or against the bill.
Most supported it. Some rejected it. Your eyes sought out Lord Park again, and you watched as he reluctantly raised his hand in favour of the bill, gaze nervously flickering towards you as he did so.
What an astonishing change of heart from the man. Who could have predicted?
Still, despite it all, the council meeting ended without incident. The issues tabled for the next meeting were fairly standard: a new maritime trade deal with a kingdom across the Sunrise Sea, preparations for next year’s census, the ongoing reports from the Lakelander delegation slowly making its way to the palace. You made note of it all, jotting down your own thoughts on each matter when you were able to, and kept the notes closely guarded on your person.
You made sure to take them straight to your bedchambers as soon as the meeting finished, intending to lock them away in your desk until dinner that evening, when you could discuss them with Minho.
To your surprise, instead of making his way back to his office to spend the rest of the working day, Minho followed you back to your shared chambers. You tried and failed not to focus on his footsteps, how they matched your pace precisely, echoing along the empty corridors.
The slightest sense of frustration sparked within you. If you had to be watched by gossiping onlookers, why couldn’t they at least see this? Minho ignoring his usual duties to accompany you back to your bedchambers? Let them whisper about that, sordid or not, that could at least be useful.
You pushed away the thought with one last scoff at your own poor luck, reaching your chambers without so much as a single pair of prying eyes to witness you.
“So,” Minho said, as the doors swung shut behind the two of you. “How did you find it?”
Frustrating. Exhausting. Borderline insulting.
“Informative,” you replied, collapsing into a seat. Your hands ached from how feverishly you had written throughout the meeting, and you began to clench and unclench your fists in the hopes of relieving the pain. “I made a few notes.”
“I noticed,” Minho commented, eyebrow raising as he appraised the pile of papers at your side. “They look…detailed.”
“They are,” you confirmed, picking the papers up and beginning to flick through them. “If I can’t speak my mind in that room, writing will just have to do.”
For now, you added internally. You refused to accept that this silent role would last forever.
“Can I…read them?” Minho asked, and his question came out hesitantly, almost cautiously.
You looked up, surprised. You weren’t sure how much use these notes would be – you were both just at the very same meeting after all – but there was something about the request that was almost…endearing.
Minho. Endearing.
Hell had truly frozen over.
“Of course,” you replied, holding the notes up.
Minho paused for a moment before, slowly making his way towards you. When he sat next to you, he was close enough that his jacket sleeve brushed your bare arm.
You cleared your throat, focusing your attention on anything but how close he was. “These pages are about the logging site proposals, this one was on the Lakelanders’ progress, this…oh, this page is actually about Lord Tan.”
“Lord Tan?” Minho repeated, one eyebrow raised.
“Yes. He’s…” you trailed off, trying to think of a polite way to phrase it. “…He’s a blithering idiot, honestly.”
Minho, to your surprise, laughed. Openly, loudly, with a note of genuine delight. A few weeks ago, you wouldn’t have thought him capable of producing such a sound.
“Do you know how many hours of my life I have wasted listening to that old man ramble incoherently?” he asked. “There were moments I was driven half to madness. But he was my father’s first real supporter when he became crown prince, so he’s adamant on keeping the man around.”
You watched as Minho turned the page over, half-smiling to himself.
“He’s a sentimental old fool like that, sometimes,” Minho said, too lightly to really be considered critical – or treasonous.
“Who was your first supporter?” You asked, curiously.
Minho paused, the lingering traces of cheer disappearing before your eyes. The shift in his mood was almost tangible, and it felt as if you had made some sort of misstep in a dance, thrown yourself and your partner out of rhythm.
His gaze flickered upwards, so very briefly, to look at you, before moving downwards. Down to your notes, down to where the space between your bodies was at its narrowest, barely a few fingers’ width between your skirts and his thigh. He took a breath.
“…Felix,” Minho said, softly, discreetly shifting away as he held your notes out to return them. “He was the only one to never doubt me. Not even for a second.”
Yes. Yes, that sounded like Felix.
You took back your notes, and tried not to notice how Minho avoided your touch as your notes exchanged hands.
A new silence fell between you.
Stifling.
Deafening.
You tried to take a deep breath, and stood up, making your way over to your desk to lock away your writings from prying eyes.
From behind you, Minho’s voice brought you to a halt.
“We haven’t talked about Felix,” he noted. “…And we probably should. At some point.”
He said it so plainly, so devoid of nuance or emotion. As if it were a mere observation, a comment about the weather and nothing more. As if his words didn’t strike something deep and vulnerable within you, like fingers clumsily probing a freshly-formed bruise.
You hated his apparent nonchalance. You despised it, and you envied it because you might never be able to do the same. To speak Felix’s name as if it meant nothing to you.
To speak his name as if…
To speak…
You…
Realisation – cold, violent realisation – hit you at once.
You had not. Not once. In months.
It had been months. And you had not spoken Felix’s name.
Not since your wedding day.
Others had. Countless others had. They murmured it gently and sweetly like Her Majesty, or they crowed it before you mockingly like those noblemen, or they threw it at you, cold and cryptic and horrifically empty like Minho.
They dragged him out of your memories where you kept him locked away.
Away, where he was safest to you. Safest from you. Safest for you.
“…No. We haven’t,” you said, and the words were quiet. Pained. Final.
The two of you did not speak again that day.
Soon enough, your father found you.
Your mother, all those weeks ago when she summoned you for that painfully awkward afternoon tea, had at least shown you the decorum your new status demanded and sent you a formal request.
Your father, a proud man, a pragmatic man, had no patience for such etiquette.
You were in the library, sat with Seungmin and poring over budgetary records with tired and bleary eyes, when he came marching in. He was flanked by two panicked guards, too fearful of your father’s status to lay their hands on him, too mindful of their duty to let him wander freely.
They fixed you with beseeching looks. “Your Highness, we – no one told us…y-your father…”
“Desires to speak with his daughter,” your father finished, in a tone you’d never heard from him before. “Urgently.”
Usually, your father was calm, collected, never one to show even a hint of vulnerability.
Now, here, he was impatient. Almost rattled.
You rose to your feet, so thrown off-kilter by the situation that you were a touch unsteady. After a moment, you nodded to your guards. “Very well. Please leave us.”
They did just that – and so did a third guard who had been sat just a few paces away from you and Seungmin.
Your father’s eyes darted to your tutor. “Him too.”
Seungmin, however, stayed seated. Slowly, he laced his fingers together and rested his hands on the table in front of him, returning your father’s glare with an unimpressed stare.
“It takes a bold man to order around a princess,” Seungmin remarked. Gently, as always, but firmly.
Your father’s expression hardened. He opened his mouth to speak back, but you cut him off at the pass.
“He’s right, Father,” you said. You couldn’t quite shake the nerves from your voice. You supposed that was only natural, after a lifetime of loyally following his orders and keeping your mouth shut in the process. “What’s wrong? Has something happened to Mother?”
Your father stared at you for a moment, almost…bewildered. He recovered quickly enough. “Your mother is fine, which is more than I can say for the state of your…of…” he gritted his teeth, swallowing back whatever he desperately wished to say, and instead cut straight to the point. “You took a seat on the council?”
His question, and the venom behind it, almost took you aback.
Still, you lifted your head, trying to stand firm. “Yes, I did.”
“How could you be so…foolish?” your father demanded to know, anger giving way to frustration. “I could have protectedyou there.”
It took you mere moments to read between his words.
You didn’t take a seat on the council.
You took his seat.
“Could you?” you said, swallowing. “Or would you have protected your own interests?”
Your father’s eyes blazed at the accusation. You knew the look. Your own temper was a family trait – and it certainly didn’t come from your mother.
He thundered his response. “You are my daughter! My interests are your interests!”
“Are they?” You shot back, your voice rising to match his.
“We are family, we are blood–”
“And what have I done, except increase our family’s legacy?” you interrupted him. “I did that, I secured our first council seat.”
“And what seat is that?” he replied, incensed. “A mute councillor, never to vote, never to speak?”
Your face burned, as you tried to think of a rebuttal to his questions. Something began to twist in the pit of your stomach.
Your father sighed, fixing you with a stern look. “Let me be frank, girl, if you’re so eager to play politics. Your position is not secure.”
You swallowed. “I know–”
“No, you do not,” he snapped, briefly raising his voice, before dropping his voice to a more controlled volume. “You inspired the love of the people, but what else? I know half a dozen lords are plotting your annulment, and another dozen with their own girls waiting in the wings. What will you do with that council seat, when a proposal comes to terminate your marriage? Watch silently when they vote to cast you aside?”
You stared at him, as that twisting sensation in your gut finally earned a name: dread. You tried to respond. “Royal marriages are a king’s prerogative, they can’t–”
“Yes, they can,” your father said, simply. “Any silver-tongued politician could convince the king that your marriage is a matter of the state. Perhaps if you were married to the younger prince, you’d be safe, but you’re married to the heir–”
At those words, coming out of your father’s mouth of all people’s, your vision turned red. Your response, when it came, hung heavy in the air.
“And whose fault is that?”
Your father’s eyes widened, and he hissed. “Mind your tongue.”
“I did,” you said, your voice cracking. Before you could top yourself, words began tumbling out of your mouth, every secret silent thought that had festered in the darkest, most vulnerable corners of your mind, spilling to the surface. “I was happy and content and loved, and I still bit my tongue and let you scheme to take it away. I married the right brother for you, are you still not satisfied?”
In an instant, your father stormed his way towards you, eyes blazing as he loomed over you. “Be careful, girl.”
For a moment, you thought he was threatening you. Your own father.
And then you watched his body crumple slightly, panic and concern finally bleeding through all that pomp and anger. “Especially about…that. Him.”
You watched him take a deep breath, rendered speechless. You had never – not once, in all your life – seen your father like this.
He seemed almost…scared.
“If there are plots to annul your marriage, there are plots for something far darker. Annulment would be catastrophic, but bearable. But any whispers of adultery, of treason? To see you executed…”
Gently, he lifted his hand to cup your cheek. And for a moment, you were four years old again, showing your father your very first letters, beaming as he called you his little princess, long before the rest of the kingdom was obliged to.
“You are my child. My only child. Doubt my intentions, if you must, but do not doubt my love.”
You were stunned into silence. His words should have been touching, and you supposed on some level that they still were. But you felt almost numb as you absorbed them. Was it shock, hearing your father speak of his emotions so plainly? Perhaps.
There was a small part of you that whispered if this was all just too little, too late.
Your father dropped his hand and stepped away from you, silence filling the air between the two of you.
Then, he paused, and turned his attention to something behind you.
For a moment, you felt confusion, turning to follow his glare – before embarrassment consumed you.
Seungmin, of course, had been sitting there the whole time.
“And you,” your father interjected, his voice cold and bordering on menacing, pointing at your tutor. “If you breathe a word of this–”
Seungmin, despite showing the very clear signs of awkwardness one would expect from someone who had just witnessed such an intense and private family dispute, managed to keep calm as he replied with unfailing honesty.
“I am no fool. This position keeps my family fed, and will see my sisters marry well. I am only here at Her Highness’s request, and if the princess goes, this job goes with her,” Seungmin said, fiercely. “…And if nothing else, I know about your reputation, sir. I would rather like my tongue to remain inside my head.”
Your eyes widened.
That was a bold insinuation on Seungmin’s part. Tongue mutilation had been outlawed years ago, deemed too brutal a punishment when death was a surer way to guarantee silence.
You half-expected your father to deny this with bluster and offence. And yet, all he did was eye Seungmin silently, before nodding once and turning to the door.
As he approached it, your father spoke one final time to you.
“Keep your wits about you. You’ve made a dangerously bold move, and your enemies will use it against you,” he warned, before finally leaving, letting the heavy door slam shut behind him.
The echo of it reverberated across the library, as you stared after him with far more questions than answers.
It was Seungmin who first broke the silence, clearing his throat with just a touch of unease. “…Well, I imagine you’re no longer in quite the right mindset for last year’s harvest calculations. Would you like to finish our sessions early today, Your Highness?”
You didn’t speak. You barely looked at him, in fact, as you silently sank back into your chair.
Seungmin waited a moment or so longer, beginning to tap nervously on the smooth wooden surface of the table in front of him. “…Your Highness?”
“I…” you trailed off, as you realised the incriminating words that had fallen from your own lips just moments ago, and your head jerked towards Seungmin in panic. “Don’t… I don’t know how much you report to Minho about our lessons. But…please don’t tell him what I said about being…you know, about…”
“Biting your tongue?” Seungmin supplied for you, but his tone was heavy, knowing. He knew that wasn’t the offending part of your outburst.
“Yes,” you replied in the same tone, and when your eyes met, you knew you had an understanding. “He’s a smart man, I’m sure it’s nothing he doesn’t already know, but…it just seems cruel. I think. To hear it directly.”
Seungmin observed you for a moment, brow furrowing just a touch. He opened his mouth as if to say something, hesitated, before speaking anyway. “Actually, you should know that I don’t ‘report’ anything to Minho. Sometimes, he asks questions about what we study, and I answer them. Nothing more.”
You blinked, and before you could stop yourself, your curiosity won out. “What kind of questions?”
Seungmin eyed you again, and for a split-second, you could have sworn something akin to amusement quirked the corner of his mouth. Whatever it was, it disappeared in an instant, as he replied. “He asks about what interests you. Once, he asked about a book he’d seen you reading, and took a copy for his own use.”
“Oh.”
Whatever you were expected, it wasn’t that. A strange, unbidden feeling began to spread in your chest, warm for just a moment before common sense returned and drove it away.
“Well, I suppose that makes sense. Minho sometimes takes an interest in my education. Perhaps he wants to test me on it, make it a competition or something.”
“Yes, Your Highness,” Seungmin said, perfectly politely. “Or something, indeed.”
Soon after that, the first move was made against you.
Details were leaked about the maritime trade deal discussed in the council meeting. Confidential details that were now freely gossiped about, within the palace and without. No one could say for sure who was the source of those leaks, but the evidence was damning.
Before you joined the council, there hadn’t been a single leak in years. And now, after you attended your first meeting, sensitive information was being bandied about within days.
There was only one simple conclusion to be drawn about the identity of the leaker.
You.
Your father was right. Whoever your enemies were, they’d been scheming, and they did use your position on the council against you.
Perhaps the library would have been a better place to take a breath, dwell on the knowledge a little longer, turn it over in your mind alone to work out the whos and whys and how to press forward.
But your feet drew you to your chambers, through the doors, and even once inside they refused to let you sit idle. You paced, backwards and forwards, going over the situation, the accusations about to be levelled at you, the defences you might need, the evidence you had and did not have to prove your innocence.
You paced and paced, and thought and thought, until your head spun and your feet threatened to leave its imprints in the stone beneath you, until it became clear to you exactly what you were doing.
You hadn’t chosen these chambers for silent contemplation.
You were waiting here.
Because when you imagined defending yourself, you didn’t picture a faceless mob before which to protest your innocence. You didn’t picture the king, and his councillors, and the lords scheming behind your back.
You pictured Minho. His expression flickering between accusing, betrayed, angry, cold, pitying, wounded. It was him you wanted to convince before any others, as illogical as it was.
It was hurt, perhaps, maybe, at the idea that Minho thought you would betray his trust. You knew how he’d pushed hard for your position on the council. You would never throw it back in his face like this, and you needed to make sure he knew that.
You questioned just when Minho’s good opinion of you had become so…important.
Eventually, the chamber doors opened, and your words came spilling out at the mere sight of Minho in the doorway.
“I didn’t do it,” you declared. You wished you could be calmer. You feared that the panic in your voice would mislabel you guilty.
Minho, blinking in surprise for a moment at your sudden outburst, regarded you calmly. “Ominous words to hear when entering a room.”
“I’m not the leak,” you clarified, with little patience for his cleverness. “And don’t pretend you haven’t heard about it. I know the information being spread, and I know fingers are pointing in my direction. With some reason, I suppose, but it was not me.”
“You seem agitated,” Minho remarked, maddeningly, all but ignoring your words as his hands moved to begin undoing the fastenings of his jacket. It was some sort of rigid construction, high-necked and broad-shouldered, and perhaps once the imposing princely sight of him in it might have intimidated you. Now, there was a familiarity to the sight – and a bizarre comfort that came along with it, perhaps. “Usually I’m the one to spark it. It’s actually quite bemusing when something else is the source.”
You stared at him for a second. Off-guard, waiting for any kind of actual response to what you were saying. When none came, irritation sparked in your chest. “Minho–”
“You’re innocent,” Minho said simply, halting you in your tracks. “I know. I told my father as much.”
It took you a moment to register exactly what he said, your head too full of practised arguments to leave much room for the recognition that Minho didn’t need to hear them.
He believed you without them.
It felt as if you had been barrelling towards something at high speed, a runaway horse, only to come to a sudden jarring stop. Air left your lungs in one unconscious breath, like a weight that had crushed your chest had been lifted.
“…Good,” you said, haltingly, and then relief struck you with such a violence that your eyes began to sting with tears.
At the sight of them, Minho’s expression shifted instantly from flippancy to something bordering on horror.
Frustrated, and more than a little mortified, you wiped them away impatiently. “Don’t. I’m fine.”
Minho opened his mouth, about to speak–
“No,” you interrupted, pointing at him, embarrassment warm in your cheeks. “This is just a serious allegation to be faced with, and I’m…relieved that I don’t have to waste my time defending myself.”
You managed to regain your composure, with no more tears threatening to make an appearance and humiliate you further. Taking a deep breath, you refused to look at Minho, refused to know if he believed your words or if that damned expression still lingered on his face.
“People are talking,” you said, finally.
“…People always talk. We’ve discussed this before.”
“It’s different now. I thought it was just idle gossip before, but…” you trailed off. “My father came to me a few days ago. He believes some of the nobles are scheming to dissolve our marriage. Free you up to marry a daughter of their own, and have me removed.”
Or worse.
You hadn’t fully comprehended what your father had hinted to you that day, not until now. You could see it all now. The image of your execution, a hundred smirking noblemen awaiting it, ready to thrust their own girls into your role. Perhaps to perish after you. Their scheming would not end with your death. They would simply turn on each other, try again and again, a dozen dead brides falsely accused and outmanoeuvred and doomed from the start.
And then, you snapped out of your dark thoughts when you realised that Minho had closed the distance between you, standing almost toe-to-toe.
His eyes sought your gaze, and held it.
“They can’t do that,” Minho said, firmly, gently. Certain. “We are married, and nothing can change that now.”
“It could. It would be easy, really,” you argued. “There’s no real proof of our consummation. You could say it never happened, and our marriage could be annulled by day’s end.”
“I would not,” Minho said, firmly. “Believe what you will about me, but I would never break off our marriage with a lie like that. Those are a craven’s actions, not mine. I swear it.”
Perhaps to your surprise, you found that you believed him. Minho could be called a great many things – indeed, you have called Minho a great many things – but ‘craven’ was not one of them.
Minho’s lips set into a grim, serious line. “Is that what concerns you? That I would set you aside?”
Would he?
Even after so many years around Minho, after weeks of being married, you still could not guess his true intentions.
“…I don’t know,” you confessed.
Something small flashed in Minho’s eyes. It looked like hurt.
“You have done a lot for me these past few weeks. More than I ever expected. More than I could ever ask for, truthfully. I think…I hope that we are friends, or at least something approaching it,” you told him, because it was true, and the lastthing you wanted was to destroy this budding trust you had developed between the two of you. Still, he deserved total honesty. “But I know you didn’t want this marriage, Minho.”
Minho was silent for a moment. You knew he couldn’t refute it, and he didn’t try to.
Instead, to your surprise, his hands lifted to rest gently on your shoulders. You could feel their weight on you, and how warm it was. Solid. Grounding.
He held you there and when he finally spoke, his tone was serious – grave, almost.
“…The night before Felix left for the coast, he came to me,” Minho admitted. “He made me swear – on my life, on his, on my mother, on my crown, on everything I have ever valued – that I would protect you from harm.”
Your lips parted in shock.
Felix.
“I love my brother, more than anything. He was once my only friend, in all the world. The very best of me,” Minho said, words beginning to pour out of him, as if finally freeing thoughts he had kept buried deep inside for months, perhaps even years. “I didn’t tell him how much he meant to me, not really. And now…”
Minho swallowed, eyes closing for a brief second, before meeting your stare again with a quiet intensity.
“He will never forgive me for marrying you. Never. The least I can do is honour the last thing – the only thing – he has ever asked of me.”
You didn’t know what to say.
A sudden realisation hit you. A small piece of an inscrutable puzzle, revealed.
“Is that what you meant, when you told your father he owed you something? For making you marry me?”
Minho swallowed, pausing for a second, and answered.
“Yes, in short. My father and I have had our squabbles but this marriage…it was the first true fight we had. The first time he’s ever had to order me to do something as a king, not asked me as a father. We haven’t seen many things eye-to-eye since. He doesn’t…understand,” he said, and then, almost to himself, “but he doesn’t need to. I know I’m doing what is right.”
There was a terrible sadness in his eyes, a shocking vulnerability. It was almost alien to see such an expression on Minho’s face, to glimpse beyond the walls he so skilfully kept up.
Unthinkingly, you surged forward and wrapped your arms around him.
He stilled in your hold, tense with surprise. You ignored it, squeezing him tightly, pressing your face into his chest. It was an awkward embrace, perhaps. The hard edges of the embroidery on his jacket dug into your cheek, stitching rough against your soft skin, and Minho’s movements were stiff and unpractised as he returned the hug.
But it didn’t need to be perfect. It only needed to prove the one thing you intended to show him.
Trust.
That night, when dinner was cleared, Minho retreated to his couch and paperwork. You left to change into your sleepclothes in private, as usual, and returned to slip quietly into bed.
There, however, you fidgeted and fumbled with exactly what to say before finally, bravely, breaking the silence. “…You can sleep in the bed. Next to me. If you were…unsure about it.”
Minho’s stare in response was indecipherable. But he nodded once, and when he finished whatever report he had picked up from the pile of papers, he disappeared to the bathroom and reappeared dressed for bed.
White linens. Thin, soft. You remembered them from your wedding night.
It was enough to make your breath hitch – and, embarrassed, you rolled to your side to avoid looking at Minho, lest you stared too openly at him.
You heard him pull back the covers on his side, and felt the weight of him sink into the mattress. He seemed to keep his distance, as not a single part of you touched, and yet you were painfully aware of his presence there.
Silence fell over the two of you, interrupted only by quiet breaths in tandem.
Something squeezed gently in the pit of your stomach. You recognised it as something like anticipation, which was bizarre, as you knew nothing was going to happen.
Nothing would happen.
…And yet, you supposed it would be easy for Minho to shift closer towards you. You could imagine him reaching over, and setting his warm hand on the curve of your hip.
Would he turn you, so you were facing him? Perhaps, but you could also see him keeping your back to him. Letting you hide your face, a small mercy, because he would probably know how embarrassed you would be.
Your eyes drifted shut.
It would be easy for him to press his face into the back of your neck, his mouth into the crook where your neck and shoulder met.
And perhaps he would whisper, soothingly, as his hand travelled lower, seeking the hem of your nightgown, sliding it up your thighs and…
No.
Your eyes snapped open as you scolded yourself, a mixture of excitement and shame heating your face. You banished every remotely inappropriate thought from your mind, turning to lie on your back and stare up at the ceiling.
You wondered, briefly, if Minho was looking up at the same thing too. You refused to glance over at him to check. The thought of seeing his face after all…that that had been swirling in your thoughts? Absolutely not.
It took far longer than usual to fall asleep in the deafening silence, but eventually you managed to.
The next morning, you awoke and realised, for the very first time, you had woken up before Minho. He was sleeping peacefully, unaware that the two of you must have turned to face each other in the night, bodies still a careful distance apart.
With one exception – Minho’s left arm lay outstretched, the knuckles of his hand just barely kissing the delicate skin of your wrist.
You stared at where your hands touched, skin-on-skin.
he wants you. you want jeno. desire is a jealous little thing, isn't it y/n?
PAIRING. slytherin!haechan x hufflepuff!reader ft. gryffindor!jeno
WC. 12.1k
GENRE. harry potter au!, smut
WARNINGS. cursing, drinking, depictions of breaking a bone, solo male smut, haechan is sort of a perv in one (1) scene, oral male receiving, just really sloppy head <3, haechan does fuck someone in detail and he's mean abt it, but it's not y/n (oops spoiler of sorts), blonde!haechan, he's not a good person, so don't expect him to be. he's a big ole meanie with a longtime crush on reader.
A.N. this has been in the drafts for like three years. i want it out, so i'm splitting it into two parts :)
The Mirror of Erised - The mirror shows the most desperate desire of a person's heart, a vision that has been known to drive men mad.
He loves you.
But he fucking hates it.
First year he was holding hands with you, sitting next to your huddled body on the train, and later sharing a meal in the great hall. Second year he saw you clinging onto him as he flew you over the quidditch field. Third year he watched the both of you sneak out to explore the restricted section in the library and run around the castle late at night. Fourth year he saw you in a beautiful dress as he took you to the yule ball. Fifth year he was kissing you on the astronomy tower. Sixth year you went down on him, and all he could do was watch and pretend that his hand was your mouth.
Now it’s seventh year.
Though the actions changed, it was always you he saw in the mirror, and he fucking hated it. Ever since first year, when all he knew was that you were cute and funny, there you were, taunting and teasing him in that godforsaken mirror.
And yet, he always comes back to sit and watch.
Just like tonight.
The train only arrived an hour ago, but instead of filing into the great hall to see which house the first years would be sorted into, he’s sitting on the floor in the room of requirement, back against a dusty chest of drawers, and eyes narrowed down to slits as he watches the scene unfold in the mirror before him.
It always starts with you appearing out of thin air. You’re wearing your house colors – a small grey skirt, barely covering the swell of your ass and a yellow button up. You’re rid of the required tie, but only for a second, only until Haechan shows up to stand behind you in the mirror with it stretched between his fists.
He shifts in his place on the ground. It wasn’t real, but lord have mercy, he wished it were.
In the mirror he watches himself loop the tie around your wrists, which were set behind your back. You were so beautiful, smiling up at him with those luminous eyes, and your lips parted in a sinful smile.
Under his robes, his hand inches across the flat of his stomach, towards the growing bulge in his pants. It was becoming hotter in the room, almost stifling, but if someone were to come in, he couldn’t be caught half naked. He’d have to get by fully clothed.
God, he despised the way you made him feel; so desperate for any sort of friction, anything to help relieve himself of the aching lust he felt in the pit of his stomach.
When his reflection is done tying your wrists together, a desk appears. He recognizes it as the one from potions class. His mouth drops open in an O as he watches himself back you up, so you were sandwiched between the desk and his broad chest.
His hand disappears under your skirt, and he could only imagine what his reflection was doing. Could only imagine how good you probably felt clenching around his fingers, gasping at his touch. Feeling pleasure because of him.
Your body arches against his, head dropping down to rest on his shoulder. He watches his lips move against your ear, but he couldn’t hear what he was saying.
Biggest fucking curse of the century.
Stupid mirror should come with speakers, he thinks.
It was becoming increasingly more difficult to keep his composure, skin slick with sweat, and hands buzzing with the temptation to touch himself.
Fuck you, y/l/n
He watches as his mirror persona spins you around and pushes you flat against the desk, yanking your skirt up around your waist to bare your glistening pussy.
It’s never been this explicit, and he can’t help himself. Tentative fingers wrap around his cock. He throws his head back and hisses between his teeth; it felt too fucking good. His eyes snap open. There was no way he was going to miss the rest of the show, not when it was just getting good.
In the mirror, his cock replaces his fingers. He watches himself inch his way into you slowly. Watches your mouth loll open, eyes glazed over. You were already fucked out and he had barely started.
Haechans hands stroke himself under his robes as he watches the scene in front of him. He was having a hard time keeping his hips still, bucking up into his fist. He softly groans to himself when he sees his reflection grab your tied hands and pull back, fucking himself into you faster.
It was so unfair, so embarrassing, that he had to resort to getting off in front of a mirror displaying his deepest fantasy. It was so unfair that it was always you.
So Haechan sits there, watching the mirrored version of himself completely ruin you, while trying to pretend that his hand is your dripping cunt. He sits there thinking of all the things he would do to you if you would give him the time of day.
Fuck you y/n.
The first years had already been sorted by the time he arrived. In fact, dinner was almost over.
He makes his way to the Slytherin table where his friends were loudly joking. Renjun was the first to notice when he sat down and slides him a half-eaten piece of pie.
“Where were you?”
Through a mouthful of blueberry pie, Haechan acknowledges him, “I had to take care of some things.”
He shuts the discussion down quick. No need for them to know he shoved in a dusty room with his cock in his fist, and his mind full of you.
Speaking of which...
His eyes scan the great hall till he sees you sitting with your roommates, Jihyo and Mina. He almost chokes on the next bite when he realizes you were wearing the same outfit you had on in the mirror.
“Fucking hell man, don’t die,” Chenle slides him a glass of water, “We thought we were gonna have to sneak you some food back to the dorms.”
He gulps down the water and taps the glass with his ring clad pointer finger, automatically refilling it. The silver metal makes a tink sound against the glass. “Well, like I said, I had some things to take care of.”
Why the fuck did his friends have to be so damn nosy. A guy couldn't disappear for an hour?
“And was Y/N one of those things?” Chenle snorts.
The rest of the table bursts into laughter, louder than the entire great hall combined, and it makes you peek your head in their direction. Haechan drops his gaze away from you, grabs a stray spoon and chucks it at Chenle, hitting him square in the chest, “Shut up.”
“Dude, we all know you've been sweet on her since, what, first year?” Renjun snickers.
Chenle wipes the gunk that splattered off the spoon from his robes, ‘Yeah, we’re not blind man. I mean, she might be, but not us.”
"Sweet on her? What the fuck is this Renjun, the nineteen-fifties?" Haechan doesn't do anything but scowl. He hates how his friends knew. Hell, pretty much all Slytherins that knew him, knew.
His eyes flick up and catch yours. A soft smile forms on your lips, and he returns it. He hand twitched up for a wave, but Jeno, the infamous Gryffindor Seeker, sits beside you and steals your attention away.
“Ah look, now you’re too late.”
“Could’ve had a chance dude.”
Haechan turns to his friends and gives them a death stare, “Next word out of you guys and I’m gonna stuff the rest of this pie down your fucking throats.”
With a roll of their eyes, they turn their heads and start to talk amongst themselves about the new school year. Haechan can’t immerse himself in such conversation. His attention is pointed solely on you and the kiss ass that was Lee Jeno.
One of his arms sat slung around your shoulders, his face dangerously close to yours, but for some reason, you weren’t pushing him away, you were laughing.
Why weren’t you pushing him away?
Something in Haechan snaps when he watches Jeno lean his forehead against yours, both of you sharing wide smiles. It’s as if his heart was set on fire, the heat threading itself through his body and taking home in his hands. Oh, how he wanted to go punch that smile right off of Jeno’s lips. Smash his fist in his face and leave a nice mark, bloody broken gums bleeding.
Bet he wouldn’t smile at you then.
Haechan knows it’s insane. He does, but he quite honestly doesn’t give a single broom-flying fuck.
With determination, Haechan stood, pushing his chair back, and ignoring the calls from his friends. Everybody he walks past is enjoying their first-day-back meals, but Haechan has something else on his mind.
He walks by your table, hearing the pretty lilt of your voice chatting away with your friends as Jeno hangs off your side. Haechan’s tongue pokes his cheek in jealousy, but he walks right past without a word, no matter how much his brain is screaming at him to just hit Jeno.
Making it to the doors that seal off the great hall from the main corridor, he draws his wand out from his robes and flicks his wrist.
“Aguamenti”
A jet of clear water shoots out from the tip of his wand and smacks the side of Jenos head, effectively drenching him from head to toe.
Haechan stays for a split second, just to watch you and your friends erupt in a fit of giggles while Jeno picks at his wet robes.
He smiles triumphantly before slipping out into the hallway and sprinting to the Slytherin dormitory.
Haechan 1, Jeno 0
The first night back at Hogwarts; The first night back home.
You and your dormmates lounge in the common room and stare into the fire whilst making small talk. It had been a while since seeing them, but you had kept in touch out in the muggle world.
Jihyo hung her head over the arm of the couch, the rest of her body sprawled out and cozily covered with a blanket, attempting to toss popcorn in the air and catch it in her mouth. Her success rate, however, left the floor scattered with smashed pieces and kernels.
Mina sat on the end of the couch with Jihyo's feet in her lap, occasionally contributing to the conversation but mostly engrossed in her textbooks. It wasn't even the first day of actual classes, yet here she was, staying ahead. If you didn't know her kind nature, you'd think she belonged in Ravenclaw.
You were slung in the other chair opposite of them, fiddling with your wand. The end was slightly cracked from where you had accidentally stepped on it one day and it was worrying you. The last thing you needed right now was another trip to Olivanders.
“I’m just saying Y/N, I think Jeno really does like you!” Jihyo insisted, throwing another piece of popcorn in the air only to get hit in the face with it seconds later.
Mina snorts without looking up and Jihyo makes a face at her that she doesn’t see but leaves you giggling. You twist your wand around your fingers, something you learned back in second year, “Well if he does, he hasn’t said anything.”
Mina hums in agreement but Jihyo thinks differently, “He wouldn’t have offered to take you broom flying after hours if he didn’t like you.”
Shrugging your shoulders you turn to the fire, the burning warmth spreading over your chest. “Maybe he just wants some pussy.”
“Well, you better take the chance before I do. He can show me his broomstick anytime.” She winks in your direction sending you into a giggle fit. Mina rolls her eyes but continues reading her textbook. The both of you were used to Jihyos sexual jokes, but they never failed to make you laugh and Mina cringe.
A brief silence passed before you spoke, “Okay, but you have to agree, whoever splashed him at dinner tonight has it coming.”
“What do you mean whoever it was?” Mina piped up, giving you an inquisitive look.
“I didn’t see who it was, did y’all?” you asked, mildly confused. The water had seemingly come out of nowhere, and everyone around Jeno had denied responsibility. With everyone denying it, you suspected it might have been one of the lingering spirits.
“Are you kidding me, Y/N? He couldn’t have been any more obvious,” Jihyo said incredulously, sitting up to look straight at you, abandoning her bag of popcorn.
Were you supposed to have known who the culprit was? You were too busy watching Jeno splutter and gasp to have paid much attention to your surroundings. One thing she said caught your attention, “He?”
“Haechan? Lee Donghyuck?” Mina says slowly.
Jihyo chimed in, “He was walking toward our table all angry, and then when he made it to the doors, he turned around and used the Aguamenti spell.” Your mouth dropped open with every word she said, “Don’t tell me you didn’t notice?!”
“I didn’t!” you argue defensively.
“Oh, and before that, he was staring at you.” Mina added, closing her textbook and standing up, dumping Jihyo's feet on the ground.
“I knew he was staring.” You say, chewing on your bottom lip, “Are you guys for sure he was the one?”
“I’m telling you,” Jihyo starts, “We both saw him.”
Emotions bubble in your chest. You were pissed off for sure. Who did Haechan think he was getting in your business like that, especially given the history, or lack thereof.
Ever since you met the Slytherin boy, he had despised you. There was something about you that completely irritated him, and no matter how hard you tried, he just wouldn’t be your friend. He wouldn’t even talk to you, only stare and mess with your relationships. Every time you were getting close with a boy, he would get in the way, first with Mark and now Jeno? This was becoming an issue, and one that you needed to correct soon.
“I’m heading to bed.” Mina says, waving goodbye and heading off to her room.
You and Jihyo are left to stare at each other. She narrows her eyes down to slits, “Don’t get any ideas.”
“I’m not,” you spun the wand faster around your fingers, twisting and spinning it until it dropped into your palm, “I’m just going to remind him who the hell I am.”
“That’s not very Hufflepuff of you.” she giggles, reaching for more popcorn and shoving it in her mouth.
Your grip your wand tightly, “Hufflepuff or not, Lee Donghyuck needs to learn who he’s fucking with.”
As you pondered your next move, Jihyo leaned back and said, "You know, a well-placed hex might jog his memory."
"No. Not a hex. He get's one warning. His only warning."
Haechan knew you were after him.
The past couple days consisted of him dodging your every attempt at waving him down. After classes dismissed, he was up and out the door in the blink of an eye, he never showed his face at the great hall, and when you caught sight of him during his quidditch practice, he disappeared while everyone else headed to the locker rooms.
Three days after the water incident, you catch him.
The professor asked him to stay back after class, supposedly to discuss his recent test scores. So, when the bell rang, you lingered outside the classroom door. A couple of minutes later, Haechan emerged, his blonde hair paired with a scowl etched onto his face. He made a beeline in the opposite direction, but you had other plans.
“Lee Donghyuck!” you shout, attracting stares from the other students milling about the corridor. You scurry over to him and tug his arm, his eyes shooting down to where you made contact “We need to talk.”
He glanced around, ensuring no one was watching, and cleared his throat. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
The threats you had rehearsed - the biting warnings you promised Jihyo you'd give him...they all catch in the back of your throat when you look up and make eye contact. It was almost condescending the way he looked down at you, without even saying anything, he made you feel small.
"I—um, I want you to leave me and Jeno alone," you managed to say, attempting confidence but knowing there was little force behind the words.
He knew it too.
His eyebrows shoot up, “I’m sorry darling, I’m not quite sure what you mean.”
Oh, how good he was at feigning innocence.
Too bad you knew he was a big fat fucking liar, “The whole Aguamenti spell you did the other night in the great hall? Yeah, I know it was you.”
His jaw clenches and he reaches for his wand to twirl around his finger – something he did when he was nervous. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Bullshit Haechan. Me and my friends saw you do it.”
As more people stared at the confrontation in the middle of the hallway, you considered finding a more private place, but you knew he wouldn't follow.
“What do you want me to say? I’m telling you I didn’t do it.” his voice is a low growl, his demeanor darkening and body slightly leaning towards your own. You wouldn’t be surprised if the next words out of his mouth were, ‘now get lost you little freak’.
Deciding to stand your ground, you stared up at him defiantly. However, instead of backing down, he laughed straight in your face, deflating any hope of setting him straight.
“Good one, Hufflepuff.” With a roll of his eyes, he palms his wand in thought. How could a girl like you go for a guy like Jeno? Didn’t you know he was an asshole?
Speak of the devil, he thinks.
A heavy arm wrapped around your shoulders, accompanied by a sweet and cheery voice. "Y/N! Just the girl I needed to see." Jeno's crescent eyes and beaming smile were inches from yours.
Haechan rolls his eyes and crosses his arms over his chest. He needs to leave; He should leave, but his feet don’t move when he tries. It felt like he was under a spell.
Yeah, if jealousy was a fucking spell, the thought bitterly.
“I hope you don’t mind me talking to your girl.” Jeno acknowledges Haechan and playfully punches him in the shoulder. The older boy just sneers.
“Oh, I’m not his girl” you declared adamantly.
A derisive scoff rumbles in the depths of Haechan's throat, and a fit of coughing seizes him, forcing him to double over.
“Careful there buddy.” Jeno smirks, harshly slapping Haechan’s back as way to help him catch his breath.
When the older boy straightens up, a look of pure hatred crosses his eyes and you giggle, “I’m fine, buddy.”
Jeno looks from left to right confused at Haechan’s hostility, but shakes it off and turns to you instead, “I wanted to invite you to the Quidditch game tomorrow night.” A ‘no’ forms on your lips but Jeno is quick to shut it down, “Look… I’ll play better if you’re there. You can be my good luck charm!”
A fake gag sounds from the back of Haechans throat and you stare daggers into him until he throws two hands up and takes a step back.
You turned to Jeno with the intention of declining, citing the need for studying, but his trademark smile was plastered on his lips. Wasn't the point of this conversation with Haechan to be something with Jeno someday?
“I’ll go.” You smile, and Jeno's face lights up like a kid on Christmas.
One second, you were on the ground, and the next, you were in Jeno's strong arms, spinning around. "Yes! You won't regret this, Y/N! You can even wear my jersey if you want!"
He slows down and sets you back on your feet, your head slightly spinning, “Jeno… you do realize you’ll need your jersey on the field.”
“Oh right.” He scratches the back of his neck sheepishly. “Didn’t think of that.”
Haechan makes an unamused snort, and you notice his hands are balled into fists at his side.
How could Jeno do that right in front of his face?
“I guess it’s the thought that counts.” Haechan spits, and turns on his heel, robes flying behind him as he hurriedly walks away.
“Wait! We still have to talk!” you shout after him, but he doesn’t acknowledge it, just keeps walking until he rounds a corner and disappears.
Why did he have something against Jeno? He hated you anyways. Was his job to make you miserable your entire Hogwarts life? Why was he always in your business?
Jeno startles you out of your thoughts, “Come on, I’ll walk you to class.”
A smile formed on your lips, and you murmured an 'okay' as Jeno looped your arm in his. Unfortunately, Haechan was long gone, along with any hope of setting him straight.
Hopefully he got the message, you think.
It’s the last thought of him before Jeno is tugging on your arm and walking you to class, the smell of cinnamon on his robes and his jovial tone taking home in your head and root in your heart.
He can’t stomach the sight of her face, but that doesn’t stop him from fucking her.
Who was she? He didn’t know, and he didn’t care. She was wet enough and that was all that mattered. Thrusting into her sopping cunt was what she was here for, nothing more, nothing less.
His mind drifts while he pounds into her, the image of Jeno dragging you away, his arm slung over your shoulders driving Haechan to fuck harder. The girl hollers in pain but doesn’t tell him to stop, just grits her face and bears it, and he doesn’t check to see if she’s okay.
She said she wanted him to fuck her, so that’s what he was doing.
“Hy-hyuck.” She whimpers, fingers digging into his dark green sheets.
A harsh smack lands on her ass, “What, can’t take it Y/ -”
He stops himself before finishing your name. How stupid could he be. This wasn’t you; this could never be you.
Whoever the girl was, she doesn’t notice, too rung up on his cock pushing into her over and over again to understand that he didn’t give a single fuck about her.
Poor girl.
Her legs start to shake, an overwhelming orgasm washing over her right before Haechan pulls out and rolls off the bed, hastily putting on his pants. She’s left to catch her breath on his bed, peering at him from between parted fingers, “You didn’t finish.”
“Don’t need to.” He throws his sweater over his head and starts to fix his tie, “Here.” He picks her yellow robes off the floor and tosses them onto the bed next to her.
“Let me suck you off or something.”
His response is instantaneoous, “I’m good.”
Her voice is soft when she speaks up again, “It’s because of that girl isn’t it… the one in my house, Y/N?”
Was it obvious to everyone else but you? This random fucking girl knew, but you couldn’t catch on? Fucking ridiculous.
His eyes narrow down to slits, “I got to get to class. You better be gone when I get back.”
The door slams behind him, the echo being the only indication he was there in the first place.
Robes askew and papers flying out of your hands, you rush into potions class at the last possible second.
Jeno is already seated at your shared table, something that’s become normal these last few weeks. Out of the corner of your eye, you take note of Hyuck slumped over a piece of paper, furiously scribbling—probably homework.
Thankfully, the professor nods you off without issuing you a detention slip.
Slamming your books on the flat black table, you hop onto your stool.
“Thought you weren’t gonna show y/l/n” Jeno’s smile stretches from ear to ear, his fingers twirling a quill between them.
“I may not be a Ravenclaw, but I’d never miss a class.”
“Couldn’t bear to miss me?” His flirtatious comments always make your heart skip a beat. Your pulse becomes increasingly erratic, face flushed. A snort sounds from behind you, and when you swivel around, you see Haechan’s face adorned with a sneer. He doesn’t deserve a response from you, no matter how much you want to flip him off.
You turn back around, “I guess I couldn’t…” The blush on Jeno’s face is unmistakable and it warms your heart.
From the front of the room, the professor claps his hands, “Alright class, today we will be doing something I’m sure you’ve done before.”
“Please don’t say truth potion.” You mutter under your breath.
“Not quite, Ms. y/l/n. Today we’ll be brewing amortentia potions! All your ingredients should be in the back of the classroom, gather them and begin brewing! The instructions are on page 287 of your textbook! The first group to accurately brew their potion gets five points on the chapter quiz this week.”
The professor calling you out would be enough to send you into an embarrassed state of tucking your chin against your chest and keeping your head down for the rest of the class, but the mention of extra points on the quiz has you leaping up off the stool and waltzing to the back of the classroom.
Jeno doesn’t even have time to say anything. You’ve never done this potion before, but you know the ingredients by heart, just waiting for the day you get to brew it.
You make it to the ingredients table first, followed by Haechan, who’s furiously flipping through his textbook, trying to find the ingredient list. When he notices your empty hands, he narrows his eyes, “Don’t you need to know what to put in the potion?”
Grabbing various vials and jars of dried leaves, you snort, “Don’t need to. Jealous I know it by heart?”
His eyes slide to yours while he follows your lead and picks up a jar of blue rose petals, “Me? Jealous? Yeah right. That’ll be you when me and Chenle win the extra points.”
“Don’t count on it Hyuck.”
The nickname has him tensing, knuckles going white when he accidentally grips a vial of milky substance too hard. He puts it under his arm and reaches for another vial. Coincidentally, you were reaching for the same one, both of your hands brushing against each other's. Neither of you is hasty in withdrawing.
His Adam's apple bobs in his throat, nervousness flitting across his brow. Before you can make note, he clamps down, and his expression goes stoic again.
Heat pools in your stomach. A sickeningly sweet feeling that leaves you confused when Haechan plucks the vial away and whips around, his robes fluttering out behind his body.
Other students begin crowding the table, so you grab a different vial, the interaction leaving you all too confused.
When you get back to the table, Jeno has already begun heating the cauldron.
The ingredients spill from your hands.
“Have you ever done this before?” Jeno asks, “You didn’t even need the textbook.”
Your voice comes out mumbled, “No. I just know it by heart.”
His own textbook is splayed out in front of him, one finger rubbing down the page to read the ingredients list. Why don’t his hands make you feel like that? Sure, it makes you feel all cozy inside, but it isn’t… hot like that. There;s no heat when Jeno walks hand-in-hand with you in the hallway. Why?
“… petals.”
His voice peeks through your thoughts that were flitting around your skull at a million miles an hour.
“Huh?”
“Why did you grab blue rose petals? It doesn’t say we need them in the book.” He teeters on the edge of his seat as if he wanted to take them back to the ingredients table at the back of the room.
A smirk plays on the edge of your lips, “Haechan was copying what I was grabbing, so to trip him up, I grabbed those. Hopefully, he doesn’t pay close attention to the textbook like you…”
Jeno laughs, “Never would have struck you as the type Y/N.”
“What, too much of a Slytherin thing?” You bite back.
“No…No, I like it. It makes you… I don’t know… hot?”
Your eyes go wide, a laugh sticking in your throat. You cough it up and turn to the spread of ingredients in front of you, “Let's, uh… let’s start so we can get those extra credit points.”
Jeno turns around and so do you.
What you don’t notice is Haechan, who had become immensely interested in your conversation after hearing the word Slytherin leave your lips. The jealousy flickering through his nerves is hotter than the boiling substance in front of him. Oh, how he wishes this was Defense Against the Dark Arts.
He’d love to put Jeno flat on his ass.
You and Jeno effortlessly master the brewing of amortentia in just twelve minutes, a symphony of perfectly blended scents swirling in your cauldron.
Chenle and Haechan shoot you annoyed glances as their potion turns into a goopy, blue disaster, nowhere close to the enchanting pink hue of yours.
The professor strides over, congratulating the two of you with a smile. He hands each of you golden slips of paper, designating you as the undisputed masters of amortentia potion-making.
Haechan stands with arms crossed, bitterness etched across his face as he joins the students gathered around your table. His jaw clenches when he witnesses Jeno pulling you into a snug side hug.
“Alright! As the first pair to get the potion right, you get the pleasure of telling us what you smell.
Fuck.
His jaw unclenches and instead is replaced by a shit-eating grin.
“W-What?”
Other students nervously chuckle, eager to see if Jeno, the star of Gryffindors quidditch team, would possibly smell their scent.
“I’ll go first y/n. Don’t sweat it.”
Carefully, Jeno leans over the cauldron and lets the steam waft up into his face. He takes a sniff. Another one. Another one. And finally a deep inhale.
“It’s smells like cherries… um, vanilla, I think… and, sweets? Like baked sweets?”
The professor applauds, “Good! Sounds like someone's after a Hufflepuff!”
All eyes turn to you. It's true, the Hufflepuff dormitory is adjacent to the kitchens, but why must everyone assume? Why must it be you?
The professor continues, “You next Y/N!”
Haechans doe eyes follow your figure closely, drinking in the way you lean over the cauldon, the top button on your blouse having come undone, breasts peaking through the top. He feels like a pervert, but he can’t help the stiffness rising in his slacks.
He should’ve had that girl suck him off.
You sniff one, twice, and a third time. Haechan watches as the blood drains from your face.
Why couldn’t it be cinnamon and firewood? Why not something to complement Jeno? It had to be that.
“I smell apples… and, and, um, caramel, and qu-quidditch gear.”
You don’t even have time to assess Jeno or Haechans faces. Jeno knew it was Haechan’s scent. Haechan knew it was his scent. Everyone knew. How could they not? Slytherins best asshole was known for smelling like caramel apples.
Fuck.
Your eyes are downcast, contemplating whether or not to do that chin tuck.
“Alright! Who’s next?”
“It’s not like it’s our house that’s playing.”
Slumped on the common room couch and stuffing your face with leftover popcorn (thanks Jihyo), your argument doesn’t come across as very convincing – to yourself, or Mina, who stands in front of you with her hands on her hips. “And anyways,” you raise a skeptical eyebrow, “Don’t you have to study or something. You’re not one for quidditch games.”
She reaches for you, snatching the snack bowl out of your hand and plopping it down on the coffee table. “I’m two weeks ahead in every single class. I can afford to skip a day of studying.”
For a moment, you shoot her a glare, sensing there's more to it. “Jihyo put you up to this, didn’t she?”
“Why do you say that.”
“Because I know her.”
“Okay, yes.” She sits down next to you, grabbing your hands. “But come on! Jeno invited you to watch the game and then go to the afterparty. You know how hard it is to get invited to those parties!” She drags out the last syllable, pretending to beg, “And Jihyo said she’d kill me if you bailed.”
You sigh. Jeno did invite you, and he had that killer smile on his lips when he did it. The reminder sends butterflies in your stomach fluttering about. The only reason you were planning to skip out was because you were nervous. And what happened in class yesterday. But that didn’t matter! Gryffindors seeker asking you to come watch him play, and then walking you to class? That made you more than friends, right? You didn’t know how to navigate that without being awkward… and you’d hate to disappoint him.
“Fine, I’ll go.”
Mina squeals next to you and pulls you into a hug. “You won’t regret this! But hurry up, I wanna see if I can spot Renjun before the game.” She smiles to herself, a light blush dusting her cheeks that she tries to conceal.
“Renjun… Isn’t that the boy you’re tutoring in potions?”
She hums in response, a dreamy expression so evident on her face you could almost make out hearts in her eyes. It's like a real-life cartoon.
“You have a crush on him!” you tease, giggling when she holds her arms out defensively and tries to deny it. “That’s why you’re going to the game today! Not because you don’t need to study, but because you wanna see Renjunnnnn.” You draw out his name like you used to do when you were first years.
“Don’t tell Jihyo.” She groans. “She’ll give me hell for it, and I want this to progress naturally on its own.”
“I won’t, I’m just shocked our Mina has a crush!”
You feel happy for your friend. Happy that she’s found somebody who could actually drag her away from being holed up on a Saturday afternoon – it's real progress.
“Enough about me! Go get ready!”
She throws a pillow at you when you leap off the couch, and it hits you square in the chest, both of you thrown into another fit of giggles.
The stands were so jam packed with students, you thought there was absolutely no way you were going to grab a seat.
That was until you spotted Jihyos yellow Hufflepuff cap sticking out in a sea of Gryffindor gear. It was against house rules to wear anything outside of your house colors, so while you wanted to wear red to support Jeno, the best you could do was the red handheld flags they were passing out at the gate to the field.
A first year Slytherin tried to hand you a green flag, but you upturn your nose and brush him aside. You didn’t hate all Slytherins, but you’d be damned if Haechan caught sight of you supporting his team, especially since it was him pitted against Jeno. It saddened you that he was a seeker like the boy you were there to support; he didn’t deserve the position.
Mina grabs your hand and drags you into the thick of the crowd where elbows jostled you every few seconds and your cheeks were being whipped with waving flags. You duck your head down and try not to trip, a sigh of relief rushing past your lips when you make it to where Jihyo is sitting front row, batting away a couple who were trying to sit in the seats she was keeping for the two of you.
“See!” She yells, gesturing wildly to the two of you walking up, “My friends are here, and these seats are now occupied!” She grabs your wrists and tugs you to sit down.
The couple rolls their eyes and move on to find another seat.
“Bitches.” Jihyo curses under her breath.
“Thanks for saving the seat.” You breathlessly laugh, adjusting your jacket so that you were bundled up. Hogwart winters weren’t for the faint of heart.
Jihyo smirks, “Had to fight off about half the Gryffindor population for this good of a view, but it was worth it.”
On the other side of Jihyo, Mina laughed and clapped her hands at the commotion on the field, right before every other student erupted in cheers, hoots, and hollers.
From your midfield position, you saw the Slytherin team filtering out on the green, brooms in hand.
“WELCOME ALL FACULTY AND STUDENTS TO THE FIRST HOME GAME OF THE SEASON!! PLEASE WELCOME OUR SLYTHERIN TEAM!” The announcer's voice boomed, rattling through the entire stadium.
As much as you resisted cheering, Mina was there to support Renjun, so you gave a few half-hearted claps on her behalf, earning dirty looks from the surrounding Gryffindors. You were in the wrong section if you wanted to support the snakes.
You weren’t looking for him, but Haechan’s blonde hair immediately grabs your attention. He’s smiling, all sharp and smug, and you can make out green face paint dotting the side of his neck. It irked you that he was soaking in the cheering – you bet he got off to on the attention. What? With him being the infamous Slytherin seeker? It went straight to his head, and you knew it.
The team hopped on their brooms and flew around the students, tossing Slytherin gear into the stands as they weaved in and out of the sections. When Haechan passed, he blew you a kiss and winked, infuriating you to the point your face flushed hot.
“Ignore him.” Jihyo rolls her eyes and gives your hand a squeeze, “He’s trying to get you mad. Jeno will put him in his place.”
The thought of Jeno putting him in his place warms your heart. Oh, how good that’ll feel.
Once the Slytherins stopped showing off, the crowd went relatively quiet, waiting for the real star of the show to come out. A thrumming chant started somewhere opposite your section, and soon enough, the entire student body was collectively roaring for Gryffindor.
“WE WANT BETTER, WE WANT MORE, SHOW US GRYFFINDOR!!”
A rumble goes through the crowd right before cold air whips your face and a sea of red jerseys flies over your head. It makes you laugh giddily, and your eyes desperately search for number seven – Jeno.
It takes a second, but soon enough your eyes are locked on his lean figure which presses forward on the thin broom stick. He looked good.
Jihyo goes fucking wild beside you, “There’s your man!” she screeches, and you let out a belly laugh. You both watch as he makes his rounds around the towers filled with cheering students – each and every one until he gets to yours.
“You look beautiful” he shouts, and a dozen girls around you squeal in adoration. He was talking to you though, and you knew it. His eyes sparkle when he gives you a wink. “Wish me luck.” he mouths.
“Omg how cute are you two!?” Jihyo swoons.
You pressed a kiss to your palm and then blew it to him – a signal of your affection. With a wide eye-smile, he grabbed it out of the air and pressed it to his lips.
It was then and there that you decided you were going to kiss him after the match. All too quickly, he flew away, and you watched as he went.
Not two seconds later, a new Gryffindor player was in front of you, balancing on the tail end of his stick. Johnny, you remembered his name.
His jersey was tucked between his teeth, his abs on full display, which sent the hoards of girls around you into a screaming fit. You caught a quick glimpse before he spat the hem out of his mouth.
“Y/N, you want us to win?” He asks, his voice a deep timbre.
You were shocked that he was talking to you – let alone that he knew your name.
Gingerly, you nod your head.
“I bet. You coming to the party after?”
This interaction was so bizarre, and all Jihyo and Mina did to help was stare at the six-foot, built, fine specimen lingering only three feet in front of you.
“Jeno invited me.” For some reason, a blush settles on your face, and you fight the urge to cover it.
“Bet you’re gonna have a fun time with him after.” A dazzling smirk plastered itself on Johnny’s face. “You should ask him if he’ll let you ride his broomstick. I heard he’s a good teacher. It should be fun.” He flew around so quickly it left you blinking in his wake. Over his shoulder, you heard him call out, “See you after, prize girl.”
The entire twenty-second conversation left you reeling, and you tucked a mental note away to ask Jeno about it later.
From across the field, a certain Slytherin seeker was seething. Both his hands grabbed the broom so tightly his knuckles turned white. If he applied any more pressure, it would have broken.
The fuck was Johnny talking to you about? Did it have to do with Jeno? What did you see in him anyways? What did Jeno have that he didn’t? Did he have to prove himself? Yes, he thinks. That’s what he’ll do. He’ll win this match to prove to you that he’s better than Jeno. Maybe then you’ll truly see him – and give him a chance.
Game on.
Two minutes were left in the last quarter, and it was neck and neck.
Green and red jerseys fly around each other.
The stadium echoed with the thunderous cheers as the Quaffle exchanged hands between the opposing teams. The bludgers were like rogue comets, threatening to disrupt the fluid dance of the players. Jeno and Haechan had their eyes fixed on the glittering snitch.
A collective gasp filled the arena as Haechan executed a daring spiral dive, narrowly avoiding a bludger. Simultaneously, Jeno executed a swift roll, evading a clever attempt by the opposing team to intercept him.
The golden snitch continued to flit teasingly ahead, leading the seekers on a merry chase.
You grip onto Jihyo and Mina as the game comes to a crescendo.
It happens so quick you almost miss it, but in three seconds everything changes.
Three.
Jeno becomes unbalanced, teetering sideways on his broom that keeps flying straight. His eyes are locked on yours when a wave of pure panic engulfs his sweaty features.
Haechan flies past him, one hand outstretched towards the golden snitch that loomed just mere inches from his fingertips.
Two.
He flips over the side of his broom, hands reaching out to try and catch himself. One by one his fingers tap the stick, not able to gain any purchase, and then he’s falling.
The other seeker presses ahead, dodging his teammates who don’t have time to get out of his way with how fast he’s flying.
One.
Jeno’s body slams into the grass field beneath the players, his broomstick landing next to his broken figure. He doesn’t get up, doesn’t scream in pain, doesn’t move.
Haechan's hand closed around the golden snitch, a victorious shout echoing from him and his teammates. He turned, searching for you in the crowd, but your gaze was fixed on Jeno.
Zero.
Shouts and cries erupt from the crowd, half in victory and half in shock. Someone screams Jeno’s name and you’re not sure if it’s your own shout, or if that person was just really close by.
With wide eyes, you watch as a bunch of medical staff rush towards him on the field and surround his body. Your body becomes ice cold and you can feel your heartbeat in your throat.
Please let him be okay; he has to be okay.
The Slytherin team flies around the field, visiting their supporters in the stands while everyone else’s eyes are on Jeno.
Jihyo grabs your shoulders and gasps when a white medical cot is lifted onto the shoulders of a few Gryffindor players.
“He’s okay. He’s okay.” Mina repeats, taking hold of your hand between hers and you almost sob in relief when you see him wiggling around in the cot, moans of pain falling from his lips too low for your ears to pick up.
Haechan watches from a distance, eyes wide in shock when he takes notice of Jeno’s condition and when he looks up, he sees your dormmates consoling you. He wanted to fly over to you and ask if you’re okay, but he knew you wouldn’t want to hear it, not when Jeno was hurt.
Once Jeno and the medical staff made it off the field, the stands began to clear out, but you feel like you can’t move.
“Come on.” Jihyo murmurs, pulling you up and wrapping an arm around you. It was silly that they had to take care of you like this when you weren’t even the one who was hurt.
When you made it to the bottom of the stand, you huddle together in a group.
Jihyo, with her arm still wrapped around you, gave you a side hug. “I’m sure he’s fine.” Mina nodded in agreement, but you started biting your nails – not that there was much to bite, lord knows they were almost stubs as it was.
Another person slides into your tight group, and you don’t notice until you hear his voice, “The scorekeepers say there was no evidence of foul play.”
When you looked up, you were surprised to see who you thought was Renjun. When he noticed your gaze, he gave a soft smile.
“That’s bullshit,” Jihyo declares, “We all know who did it, and he’s on your fucking team.”
Renjun just shrugs and slides an arm around Mina, and despite the timing and circumstance, you raise an eyebrow at her. She waves you off and slides her attention to Renjun, “Everyone knows it was Haechan.”
“Well, the scorekeepers say otherwise.”
You felt like screaming and crying and running away all at once, but you just stood there, biting your nails.
“I know I probably shouldn’t be asking right now,” Renjun's eyes flickered to you before looking away quickly, “But, I wanted to invite you guys to the after-party. I don’t need an answer, just show up if you want to, and I’ll have Chenle watching for you guys at the door. It starts in half an hour.” He started to pull away from the group but turned back at the last second. “By the way, Y/N, I’m sorry about Jeno. Just because I’m on the opposite team doesn’t mean I don’t feel bad.”
A hum falls from your lips and then he’s off.
“Well, if I need anything right now, it’s a fucking drink,” Jihyo joked, but one look at you, and her laughter died.
Mina is more concerned with you, “We won’t go if you need us.”
“No,” you blurted, dropping your hands from your face. “I –” A particularly loud shout jarred your attention away, and when you looked around to find the culprit, you saw the entire Slytherin team gathering to your right. Haechan stood in the center only long enough for you to make out it was him, then he was being hoisted onto his teammates' shoulders. His eyes met yours, and he smirked, lifting a hand to wave at you. It took everything in you to not storm over there and punch the absolute shit out of him. He wished he was your fucking priority, but that wasn’t the case.
“You sure?” Mina asks, snapping you out of your murderous thoughts.
“I gotta go check on Jeno.” You give a small smile, “Save me a drink?”
Jihyo and Mina both nodded, and before you walked off, you threw a middle finger at Haechan, who caught sight and clasped his chest like he was dying.
It pissed you off, but you had bigger priorities right now.
Haechan would have his turn.
As the cheering fades, the screams take over.
Deep, guttural screams of someone in agonizing pain echo through the empty castle halls leading right to the medical wing. They come in bursts; long strings of curses, grunts, and broken yells, and it makes you inwardly cringe because you knew who they belonged too.
“Jeno…” you whisper, after hearing a particularly jarring shriek.
After rounding the corner, the tall double oak doors loom in front of you, inviting you to join Jeno in his agony, or at least be there to comfort him. Pushing them open, you reveal a large, brightly lit room sectioned off by blue plastic curtains and medical cots. On the left side of the room, you see a nurse tending to who must be Jeno, but you can’t see his face.
You can hear him though.
His voice is amplified ten-fold now that you were in the same room, and instinctively you raise your hands to plug your ears but shake it off. Tentatively you walk over.
“Goddamn Slytherin.” You hear him groan, legs twisting in discomfort when the nurse applies pressure to his arm. It’s evident he’s never been in this much pain before.
“Jeno?” You whisper, startling the nurse who accidentally puts too much pressure on his arm, causing him to jerk away from her, a yelp passing his thin lined lips.
Her hands pepper over his body in apology, not turning her head to look at you, “You shouldn’t be in here.”
“I know.” You whisper, and she doesn’t press any further on why you’re there or ask you to leave, so you stay.
Jeno doesn’t even seem to notice you, but that doesn’t matter. You shift around the bed slightly and catch sight of his face. Both his eyes are shut, one ringed in purple and his bottom lip split in two separate places. His nose seemed to get busted in the fall as it was surrounded by dark red, almost black, dried blood. A few droplets splattered on his shirt, accompanying the grass and dirt he had slammed into after falling thirty feet from the sky,
As bad as it may sound, you’re glad Jeno only broke his arm. A fall from that height could have meant paralysis or worse, death. He truly got lucky.
You stand quietly, watching as she shifts Jeno’s arm into a sling, securing it with a couple items you don’t know the name for and then popping a few muggle meds in his mouth. Lifting a glass of water to his lips, he groans, knocking back the pills.
It never sat right with you how the nurses used muggle methods of healing when there were more than a fair share of spells that could work much quicker. It was as if they wanted you to stew in your own misery.
Wasn’t the point of magic to make things easier?
Your thoughts are cut off by the nurse brushing past you, arms full of medical supplies. “Visiting hours are over in twenty minutes. Make it quick.” She warns, before walking away.
“Why are you here.” Jeno groans when she leaves the room, eyes still sticking shut.
“I –”A dull ache lands on your heart and the words catch in the back of your throat, a sudden cough clearing them away.
His lip curls into a sneer, “Spit it out y/l/n,”
The aggression radiating off of him makes you stumble back but you don’t let it scare you. You knew Jeno and he wasn’t scary… or so you thought.
“I just wanted to make sure you were okay.” You speak quietly, like any word above a murmur would startle him and hurt him worse.
“Obviously, I’m not fucking okay.” His voice is nasally, mocking you, “But you don’t care, do you? Bet you’re just here to make sure I don’t snitch on your little boyfriend.”
“He’s not my boyfriend.” Your eyes narrow down to slits. It angered you that Jeno thought you would give any time of day to the little prick who kept messing with you.
“You should tell him that.”
His eyes snap open and home in on you, glaring from his spot on the bed. Uncomfortable in his position, he squirms a bit, trying to right himself, but he grunts and falls back down, the pain too much for him.
‘You should tell him that.’
The words bounce around the inside of your skull. Did Haechan think you were together? Think he had some kind of weird ass claim over you?
"Jeno –”
“You know I can’t even play quidditch now that my arm is broken. My fucking arm Y/N.” Tears form in the corner of his eyes, whether from the pain or the prospect that he was out for the season, you weren’t sure, “He knocked me off my broom. That’s like… that’s like attempted murder!” he splutters, a crazed expression overtaking his face.
As much as you disliked the guy, there was no way he was capable of murder. No, this was due to his unrelenting jealousy, and someone needed to set him straight.
“Oh, come on, it’s not attempted –”
Jeno’s free hand is shoved in your face, one finger pointing at you patronizingly, “Yes, it is. You and I both know he’s a crazy son of a bitch, and he obviously has something for you so stay the fuck away from me.”
“Really, can we just talk?”
He shakes his head, “No. Get the fuck away from me and keep your little boyfriend in check.”
“For the last time, he’s not –”
“I don’t care what he is! The both of you need to leave me the fuck alone.”
Your heart breaks.
It wasn’t because you liked him. No, that wasn’t it. You just thought this could have been the start of something new since your love life had been wrecked for years thanks to the one and only Lee Donghyuck.
You can’t believe he had the audacity to wreck it again.
“I’m sorry.” Your voice comes out in a whisper, way too low for him to hear, but he waves you off anyway, “I’ll go.”
He doesn’t say anything; doesn’t even watch as you turn your back and walk away, past the blue plastic curtains and out the heavy double doors. The more steps you take, the heavier your heart feels in your chest. Tears burn in your eyes and anger clouds your head with each passing second like poison.
Haechan wasn’t getting away with this, you were going to make sure.
You see fucking red.
Storming through the halls of Hogwarts was a rare occurrence for you, but today was different. People gasped as you briskly brushed past them, your head so hot it felt like smoke might billow from your ears. Annoyed shouts of 'hey' or 'watch it' barely registered as you descended the stairs leading to the ominous 'Slytherin Dungeon.' The air grew colder with each step, mirroring the iciness in your gaze. Thoughts of pounding Haechan's face swirled in your mind, and you couldn't shake the fiery anger fueling your every move.
You knew if Jihyo was here she would make fun of your anger, claiming that you didn’t belong in Hufflepuff with your temper.
Too bad she wasn’t.
Maybe she could have calmed you down, slowed your racing heart and spoken some sense into your hard head, but alas, she wasn’t, and you were only growing more furious by the second.
Reaching the bottom of the staircase, you rounded a corner and collided with a Slytherin you recognized as Chenle, thanks to Renjun's heads up. His light green hair parted down the middle, coupled with the trademark Slytherin resting bitch face, transformed into a smirk upon seeing you.
“Y/N! Glad you could make it!” His voice is deeper than you would have thought, and he was much taller when you walked up to him.
"Yeah, yeah, let me in." Impatiently tapping your foot, you watched as he opened the door, revealing the booming bass of the music inside.
"Say hey to him for me." Chenle grinned, extending an arm to welcome you.
You pushed past him, retorting over your shoulder, "You can tell Renjun yourself." Confusion flashed over his face, but the door slammed shut before further words could be exchanged, sealing you inside.
The ambiance in Slytherin territory starkly contrasted with your dorm. Damp darkness replaced the natural sunlight, and the air carried the scent of spicy cologne rather than the comforting aroma of food.
Thank God I wasn’t placed in Slytherin, you think.
Music reverberates off the walls and lands loudly on your eardrums, a soft green glow emitting from the end of the hallway. Conversation and laughter can be heard just slightly above the music, and you follow it till you’re at the end of the corridor and in the den of the snakes.
Green.
There’s green everywhere.
But your dormmates were nowhere to be found. In fact, all you saw in every direction were green robes with the occasional pop of yellow and blue.
No Gryffindors, interesting.
A hand lands on your arm and you jump back at least ten feet.
"Woah, it's just me." Renjun's eyes crinkled with a smile as he extended a drink towards you. You accepted it with a silent 'thank you.'
"Your friends are in the bathroom, I think, but I can wait with you if you like." Renjun's politeness caught you off guard. This has got to be the nicest Slytherin boy you’ve ever met.
As you took a sip of the bitter liquid, you mused, "No need to wait with me... I came to see someone real quick, and then I'll be on my way."
"I know he deserves it, but go easy on him, okay?" Renjun's words hung in the air, causing you to stare at him with disbelief. Sensing your anger, he quickly stepped back, raising a hand. "You know what, forget I said anything."
Cocking your head, you smiled, "Know where I can find him?"
Renjun simply pointed behind you.
Turning around, you spotted the boy in question, lounging on a couch stripped of his robes. Clad in a white button-up shirt and black slacks, Haechan exuded an air of arrogant nonchalance. Two girls clung to either side of him, and a few friends surrounded him, exchanging laughs and banter.
"Thanks, Renjun." You mutter, not bothered to look behind you and see that he wasn’t standing there anymore.
You down the rest of your drink in one gulp and leave the plastic solo cup on a random side table as you stalk over to where the blonde headed boy was lounging. When you push past his friends, his eyes snap to you.
“Glad you could make it.” He beams, eyes washing over your body. You were in that damn skirt, and it drove him fucking wild.
Ignoring him, you placed your hands on your hips. "Get up."
He chuckled, patting his thigh. "Why don't you sit down and enjoy the party?" Laughter erupted from his friends, and the girls hanging off his arms glared at you.
“Get. Up.” You seethe.
“Feisty aren’t you.” He murmurs, shrugging off the girls at his side and standing up.
“Lead the way to your room.”
A few hoots and hollers followed you as he guided you away from the party and into the hallway. "Can't wait to get your hands on me?"
Ignoring him, you followed, your gaze trailing from the back of his neck to his shoulder blades visible through the sheer fabric of his shirt. The muscles rippled as he opened the heavy door of his bedroom, and you had to tear your eyes away before saying something stupid.
The room was as expected, draped in dark green bedding and scattered quidditch gear. The scent of him surrounded you, reminiscent of that damned amortentia brewing session.
While he walks further into the room, you slam the door shut and spin around, “Where the hell do you get off – ”
“Right there.”
“What?” You blink.
“I get off right there.” He jabs a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of his bed, “Almost every night, unless I have a match the next day. You know, gotta keep the tension building so I do my best…”
You groan, “You’re unbelievable.” He chuckles a bit and steps closer to you, igniting the nerves that were already high strung, on fire, but you push the thought away, “Why do you feel the need to fuck around with the guys I like.”
“I was trying to win the game. Trust me, you and your relationship was nowhere on my mind.” What a fucking lie, he thinks. “I’m flattered you were thinking about me though.”
“Are you always this full of yourself?” You bite.
He flashes a beaming smile, pearly white teeth on display and you wished you didn’t stare too long at his canines. He had such a pretty smile and you wished you didn’t have to notice it. “When you look like I do, it’s kind of hard not to be.”
“Slytherin suits you, huh?” you sneer.
“Exactly.” He reaches an arm overtop of you and semi cages you against the door and his body, “So now that’s cleared up, can I go back out there and celebrate my win?”
He was so close to you, his lips only inches from your own, and his cologne was wafting up in your face sending you into a daze. God he was so cute, no not cute – hot. He was hot. You wonder what it would feel like to stretch your neck and kiss him. Did he taste how he smelled?
The fucking drink.
Whatever Renjun had given you was reaching your bloodstream way faster than muggle alcohol. You make a mental note to rip his head off later, but for now you turn your attention back to Haechan’s insanely close face.
“You need to realize –”
He cuts you off again, “Look, I’m all for being in here with you, but if you insist on keeping that pretty mouth running, I suggest you put it to good use instead of chastising me.” His eyes flicker from your own to your lips, almost like he was thinking about kissing you just as much as you were thinking about kissing him.
Do it, just kiss me, you think, but different words are said, “You wish.”
“Yeah, I do.” He quips.
“Can’t you be serious for one fucking second you asshole.” A drawn-out groan escapes you as you press your hand against him, hoping to coax him into backing off. Regrettably, he remains a solid wall of muscle and strength, unmoved by your attempts.
“Sorry, it’s just hot when you insult me. Do it again” He wiggles his eyebrows at you and leans in, one hand reaching out to caress the underside of your jaw.
He doesn't know where the newfound confidence was coming from. You were supposed to hate him, yet he had you in his bedroom. The same bedroom where he thought about fucking you. Where he got off to the memories of that goddamn mirror. Where he fantasized about you slotting your thighs on either side of his head, and sitting down on his waiting lips.
You swat his hand away, “Do you have any idea how stupid you are?”
“Not as stupid as you would look with a cock in your mouth.”
Wishful thinking, he muses.
You roll your eyes at his remark, but nonetheless a heat surges between your legs. You would look stupid – but Haechan’s cock in your mouth sounds all too great. “Are you done?”
“Done with what?”
You roll your eyes. Again. “Being an idiot.”
“Would an idiot make you flush so easily like this?” He strokes a stray hair behind your ear, his fingertips burning against your skin, “See? I make you flustered. You want me. Badly.”
Again, wishful thinking.
“You think I want you badly?” You scoff, a hand coming in contact with his crotch, “You’re the one hard. Do you get off on hurting people?”
“Yes.” He stares into your eyes, a mischievous glint shining in them, “I do.”
“God you’re fucking pathetic.”
He groans and pushes his hips into your hand. “Say it again.”
A loud and drawn-out gasp leaves your lips, “No fucking way you’re getting off on this too.” His dick twitches in his pants at your accusation.
“You talk too much. Just suck my dick already.”
Third times a charm.
Seeing him like that, pliant underneath your hand… it makes your heartbeat erratic and your face flush. You could tell he wanted it, and he wanted it bad, so why didn’t you give in to it? Give in to him? The air around you shifts and whatever it was, it has you lowering yourself down onto the floor so that you were kneeling below him, hands clawing at his belt buckle.
His eyes widen when he realizes what you’re doing. “I was kidd –”
“Is this what you want?” you coo, “Want me on my knees like this?” You slip his belt through the loops slowly and muster up the most innocent smile you could.
“You should stop, I was kidding.” He grunts, forearms tightening when you get his belt off and start on his pants button.
“I think you should shut up.”
He complies and doesn’t say a word while you pull both his pants and boxers down till they pooled around his ankle and he kicked them off.
Lee Donghyuck had a right to be cocky.
His cock sprung up against his abdomen standing tall and hard, clear, sticky precum droplets collecting on his tip. He fidgets under your gaze, but you were in awe at how big he was.
“Are you just gonna look at it?” He whines, one of his hands wrapping around your head and fisting tightly in your hair, “At least kiss it or something.”
You watched him twitch slightly as the cold air met his length, and again when your hand wandered past his thigh to grip him in your palm, squeezing him tightly at the base. He shivers into your touch, “You have a pretty dick.”
“So, I’ve been told.” He all but moans and tries to bring your head forward.
His neediness draws you closer, and you take him in your mouth. He was heavy and sweet, so fucking right for you that you don’t think straight and take him all the way in till he hits the back of your throat.
“Fuck.” He groans, holding your head down till you were choking and batting his thighs.
When he lets up, you gasp for air though you don’t find yourself mad, instead, you feel the fire in your stomach growing hotter and the wetness in your panties pooling.
“Ke-Keep going.” He stutters, the intent was strong, but his words broke in the moment.
You turn you head and lick from the base of his cock to his tip, relishing the way he bucks his hips into your fist. A rosy blush covers his neck and cheeks when you look up at him. When you meet his doe eyes, they were hooded with lust. For a split second he watches you lick all over him, giving a few small kisses on his tip, before he rolls his head back and closes his eyes.
Messily, you spit on his tip, using your hands to spread it down his length and he groans into the stilled air. “You’re so fucking hot.”
“So, I’ve been told.” You mock his earlier words, and his hold on your hair tightens as a warning.
Rolling your eyes, you take him in your mouth again, leaving your hand to pump his base while you harshly suck at his hot skin. He tries to push into the back of your throat again but knowing that you couldn’t take him again without choking, you dig your nails into his thighs, leaving him to shamelessly whimper out.
“Your mouth feels so fucking good baby.” He grunts, losing himself in the way your warm mouth glides down his length, and the right amount of pressure you’re squeezing around his base. If he closed his eyes, he could almost pretend it was your cunt he was pounding into.
You hum around his cock at the praise and repeat your movements, slightly taken aback by his pet name. In the back corner of your mind, you hope it was just a slip of the tongue.
The alcohol had too much of a hold on you to think about anything else other taking his cock down your throat, and loving every second.
His chest begins to heave, and his legs start to shake bit as you draw him deeper down your throat, and when you look up, you notice his curious eyes watching you. He thinks about unbuttoning his shirt but pushes the thought aside when you erratically rub the underside of his length with your tongue.
“Bet you love the taste of my cock.” He whispers and you moan around a mouthful of him, the vibrations sending him into a euphoric head high.
He wasn’t wrong. You loved this, loved the feeling of having him slightly submissive under you with his dominant nature peeking through a bit.
It felt like a fucking dream.
“Can I cum down your throat?”
You’re shocked that he’s close already, but with the palpable tension beforehand acting like foreplay, you shouldn’t be. You try and nod to the best of your ability and you guess he gets the message because he’s fisting your hair again and drawing you close, a string of curses falling from his lips.
Uncontrollable gasps and grunts leave him as he fucks your throat, leaving you to helplessly take it – take all of him, and before you know it, hot white cum is shooting down your throat, his head thrown back as he snaps his hips against your face.
You felt like a rag doll in his grip but that didn’t matter right now, all that mattered was swallowing his arousal, a bit of it landing on your tongue and while you thought it was going to taste salty, you’re mildly surprised to find its sweet.
“My god, I can’t believe you actually did that.” He pants, moving to put his slacks back on while you stand up and wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, “I – Thank you.”
A darker blush flushes on his face and he turns to you now fully dressed. He wasn’t sure what to say now, and that was a first for him.
“Are you happy?” You spit, a bout of spite coming out of nowhere, “Did you get what you wanted? Will you leave me and Jeno alone now?”
He stumbles back like your words had a physical effect on him, “What are you talking about? You dragged me in here?”
Where did the sudden flip of emotion come from? One minute you had his cock in your mouth and the next you’re yelling at him again. The both of you can’t come up with an answer, but somewhere in your brain you knew it was your way of trying to convince yourself the rising feelings you were having towards him weren’t a thing; would never be a thing.
“Just leave me and Jeno alone now. Okay?”
You straighten your blouse and fix your hair before opening the door behind you and storming out. He tries to follow you, half stumbling through the hall till he was out in the party again where his friends clap him on the back, congratulating him on ‘hitting that yellow tail’, but he can’t find it in himself to smile and jeer back. All he does is watch you storm away, his friend Renjun reaching out for you. Your dormmates try and stop you but you blow past them and round the corner where the door to the stairs were.
"well i like this post but i'm worried my followers might not" fuck your followers. The entire point of tumblr is to cause irreparable psychic damage to your followers. We are locked in mortal combat on the astral plane. You must win. You Must Win. You Must Destroy Them.
Note: Hiiiii. Let me know if you want a second part to this! And let me know what you think, or what you'd like to see more of, etc. This is my second post on here so I'm moldable right now haha
Summary: Y/N has an oral fixation. Minho thinks it's cute.
When Minho first met Y/N, she had a lollipop in her mouth.
It was a party; the room a haze of smoke that made his lungs feel thick and murky while his skin felt sticky from the humid air in the house. His cup was halfway full of cheap, lukewarm beer that he was struggling to choke down but needed to if he was going to make it through the rest of the night (post mid-term parties were not something you wanted to experience sober at any capacity). He remembered he was searching for Chan, who had managed to disappear on entry, usually pulled this way and that by just about everyone (because he was personable and friendly and sweet, so why wouldn't he be).
Minho didn't necessarily want to be near him for the attention aspect. He liked to be around Chan at parties because he could sit with him and his group of friends (some of them mutual, some of them Minho only sees at functions like this so he's almost certain they don't exist outside the walls of a frat house) and zone out. He was surrounded by people he trusted, could tune in and out of the conversation, but was free to just listen and observe and enjoy himself without being the weird, silent guy in the corner.
He does find Chan, and with him Felix, who was talking animatedly to a girl with a stick hanging out of her mouth. At first Minho thinks it's a cigarette and prepares to wrinkle his nose at the smell of it, but when she grabs the end of it and pulls it out, his theory is disproven. A small, rounded ball of candy sits at the end, glossy from her tongue and at the point where she could crunch the rest of it with her teeth. It's what he thinks she's about to do, until she just tucks it back into her mouth.
It's funny now, because when he looks back on it, he didn't really care what she was doing or who she was really. Felix introduces them because they never met, and she smiles and greets him, and all Minho knows about this Y/N is that she likes lollipops. He probably would have been content to ignore her the rest of the night but the only free spot was right at her side and she twisted her body in the chair to look at him.
"You're Minho with the cats right?" She inquired and he blinked at her a few times, confused -- who had told her about his cats? He'd nodded his head wordlessly but it didn't seem to disturb her, a big smile pulls at her cheeks, "Can I see pictures? Felix says they're really cute."
By the end of the night, Minho knew a few things about Y/N: that she likes cats, she volunteers at a shelter the exact opposite days that he does, that her midterms had her inexplicably stressed and would continue to do so until she knew her grades. . .and that she liked lollipops. She had a few in her purse, she even offered him one, and when he politely declined he watched as she unwrapped a mango flavored one and plopped it back on the bed of her tongue. When Felix wanted the taste of vodka out of his mouth, he sought her out for a piece of candy as well which she merely handed him her bag and let him sift through it -- so he also learned she was either too trusting or just a close friend Minho hadn't remembered hearing about.
He didn't suspect their friendship would go further than that, but he starts to see her everywhere. On campus, at parties, in cafes, at the adoption center when a few of his hours get switched around to accommodate his dance lessons. Y/N always smiles at him, big and bright, like they were the best of friends even though Minho kind of clams up when he's talking to her by himself at first. Sometimes she had her mouth preoccupied, sometimes she didn't, whether it be with candy, gum, nibbling at the end of a straw from a drink she's long finished.
From their conversations, he'd been able to correlate the times that she's usually swirling her tongue around something, is around times she would be stressed. With assignments coming up, essays, exams -- anything that could be deemed worrisome or stressful, she usually had something to play with in her mouth. That's when he finally connects the dots, digging through his brain for old psych lessons from his freshman year.
Y/N has somewhat of an oral fixation; it must help alleviate stress in someway for her, to have her mouth focused on something. He doesn't bring it up to her, because it's none of his business, but he does wonder if she knew. If she even realized it or if it was as unconscious of a habit as his professor back then had made it seem.
They get closer in the months following. Close enough that Minho felt comfortable inviting her over to his parents house to finally meet Soonie, Doongie, and Dori (when his parents weren't home, of course, he didn't want them to get the wrong idea bout her visit). Close enough that they would watch movies together on Fridays where neither of them were doing anything, sometimes in a group with a few others, sometimes only with each other. Close enough that they share the same blanket during these movie nights, warm beneath the sherpa and their legs often times touching on the couch. Close enough that jokes and laughter come easy, that he could tell her about his bad day and not feel like he was being annoying, that she could fall asleep beside him and feel absolutely safe.
And close enough, that when she is reaching for another lollipop out of her bag, Minho clicks his tongue at her disapprovingly and lays his fingers against her mouth instead.
He doesn't know what possessed him to do it -- he thinks, he's probably been thinking about it for a while now. Wondered if the same relief came to her as long as her mouth was preoccupied with anything. He thought he could test it, just like this, but he'd never thought he would actually do it. It almost had felt like his hand had moved on its own accord rather than consulting him first.
Y/N stared at him, blinking, confused, and Minho swallows thickly and clears his throat, "You'll rot your teeth with all the candy." He phrases it like he's scolding her -- his tone would sure suggest he was. This was her out, if she wanted it, she could furrow her brows and call him an ass and swat his hand away. Then it was just Minho being a jerk and they would laugh about it later.
But she doesn't. Instead of playing it off as a funny joke, Y/N splits her lips open and waits patiently, before Minho sinks his index and middle finger into her mouth. Neither of them are laughing.
It's warm, and wet, and soft. It takes her a moment to adjust to the intrusion in her mouth as he keeps his fingers still, allowing her to lick over them, suck them in deeper before letting them rest on the bed of her tongue. She gives an experimental suckle, sighs through her nose, then turned her head back to the movie playing. Y/N adjusts so that he isn't stretching his arm very far, scooting closer to him and resting her head on his shoulder.
They stay like this, neither of them say anything, and Minho tried to control his breathing, keeping it even and measured. He wondered if this was good for her -- if it made her feel good, to have her mouth filled with something that doesn't wither away the longer it was in there. Y/N had been worried over a meeting tomorrow with her professor, to go over a thesis that she'd spent weeks agonizing over. Had Minho been able to help like this? Was she still thinking about it? Or was she thinking about the weight of his fingers in her mouth instead? The pressure of them on her tongue.
After the movie, Y/N pulls her head back and Minho allows his fingers to slip from her mouth. A little bit of saliva follows him, and in a potentially overly affectionate way, he swipes it away from her chin with his thumb. Then he dries his fingers off on the blanket, Y/N looked over to him, and she smiled that kind of smile that makes his heart feel too fond.
"Thank you," she murmured, "Should we go painting tomorrow? Hyunjin is getting a little dramatic about us not coming to the studio when he invites us."
Minho wondered if they would ever do it again, after the first time, but he doesn't have to wonder for long. If he sees her digging around in her purse for gum or a candy, he offers his fingers and she takes them instead. Not in public, of course, but when they were alone, in the safety of his living room or hers. Then, after a while, she didn't really have to dig around in her purse for him to offer it -- she'd give him a look and he'd raise his brows, before holding his fingers up. She'll nod, part her lips, and they find their spot between them again.
At first it wasn't in any way sexual and Minho has to drag his mind out of the gutter every time his brain tries to twist it into something. Like when she absently sucks or licks at the foreign object in her mouth, as if her tongue might have just remembered he was in there and wanted to explore it further. He would readjust himself, inconspicuously as he could, and count backward from 40 until he got himself together. Especially the times he's accidentally pressed them too deep in her mouth and she gags around them; he would offer an apology and Y/N would merely nod before settling again.
He doesn't know so much if it's the way his fingers feel in her mouth so much as its how she looks. All glassy eyed and dazed, her lips slick with spit and swollen. The urge to nip and bite at her bottom lip had become more pertinent in the last few weeks - it made him wonder if kissing would satisfy her the same way this does. If he offered his mouth to her instead of his fingers, would she take it? He could imagine it, and how soft her lips would feel on his own. He could picture the way her tongue would slide into his mouth, curl around his own, those dreamy sighs leaving her the same way they do now.
If he was going to outline the progression of events, he would think that first they might kiss, and then he might introduce his cock into the equation if she was interested. But they skip a step, between the fingers and her nosing at the bulge in his sweats. He wasn't expecting it when it happened -- mostly because their friends had just left, and Y/N was staying behind to help him clean up the disarray his apartment had been left in. Only before they could actually get up and start moving, Y/N flopped her head in his lap wordlessly, and he gave a dramatic sigh, "Enough with this," he said, despite already carding his fingers through her hair, "I played with your hair the whole time, you should be giving me something in return at this point."
Minho had meant a massage maybe (she was good at digging her thumbs into the knots between his shoulders), but Y/N furrowed her brows at him. Pouted her lips, grumbled something, and then she's turning her face into his crotch. He gasps because why wouldn't he? It was sudden, and all at once he feels the mouth he's been daydreaming about for about a month or two now just centimeters away from his dick, separated only by fabric. The fingers in her hair curl up, tugging carefully at the root when she drags her teeth over the swell.
"What are you doing?" He asked incredulously.
"Giving you something," she looked up to him and had the nerve to look confused, "Isn't this what you wanted?"
"I. . ." he trails off, surprised, confused, wondering if she was joking but the look on her face is far from teasing, "You don't have to."
"Do you want me to?"
Minho opens his mouth, then closes it again before he nods.
"Okay," she agreed, "But I want to just hold you in my mouth first."
🖤Lee Know x (afab) Reader
📜9k
🪐Boxer AU: Witty, Raunchy, Enemies to Friends to Lovers
🚨Masturbation, dom/sub dynamics (feat. use of the pet name "kitten"), possessive behavior (my guy just doesn't like sharing), bondage (restraining), edging, oral sex, use of sex toys, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, cumplay (sorta), unprotected sex, creampie.
💭Reblogs & comments are always appreciated and please keep in mind they are the ultimate motivation fuel.
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SYNOPSIS
As you watch your friend Minho during boxing practice, the way he moves riddles you with a singular thought and you catch yourself actually saying it out loud, completely unaware how this is going to colossally backfire on you.
“I would so dom his pretty face off.”
This motherfucker…
That was literally the only thing you could think of when you thought of Minho. Starting from the moment you talked to him for the first time.
While moving into your building on a Sunday all those months ago, Minho made an entire scene in the process, ordering the movers around like he was coaching a tactical assault team. If his sandbag was not placed in the exact coordinates he provided, the world would stop turning apparently. The commotion was broadcast for the entire hallway to listen in since he refused to close his front door until he was fully settled in. The unnecessarily curious cat inside of you urged you to keep stealing glances of his place right across yours to spot a good timing to walk over there - not that you were weirdly intrigued by this sandbag man who would be your hallmate for the foreseeable future, but you know… to be nice. To ask if he needed anything maybe.
No, it had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that he was insanely hot and you had this incessant itch in your brain to learn about his marital status. It was just the polite thing to do; niceties needed to be observed.
Like, damn, those arms, though. Wait, what?
It was the evening hours when you walked across the hall to knock on his finally closed door to welcome him to the building. You most certainly didn't expect him to appear at this door frame like that.
Wowza!
Your neighbor opened the door for you clad in black and red shorts and bandages wrapped around his hands only. His toned bare chest was covered in sweat and stray locks of his chestnut hair were sticking to his forehead. He leaned against his door frame with his elbow, the other hand still on the door handle. You could perfectly make out the fresh scars of his tattoo of a polygonal tiger figure that started on his right bicep and traveled all the way back to what you assumed was his shoulder blade. Considering it looked like it was still healing, he must have got it done pretty recently.
"Yeah?"
Your mind went full tabula rasa because of the magnificent sight in front of you. What were words and how did you pull them out of your long-term memory?
"I- I uh-"
"I’m in the middle of practice. Can you make it quick?"
Practice for what? How to be a fucking demigod?!
You summoned all your sanity back to its container and managed to produce a greeting.
"I'm Y/N, I live across the hall. I just wanted to say welcome to the building and ask if you needed anything."
"Minho. Not now, thanks," he responded curtly and attempted to close his door.
"Hey!" you furrowed your brows and pushed the door back to keep it from closing, in complete disbelief of his lack of basic manners.
"I'm just trying to be nice! No fucking need to be colossally rude, you know?"
Minho looked at you with an aloof expression and gestured his upper body, "I mean… I know."
"Not like that. It means disrespectful."
"I just said I know. Aren't you listening?"
"NOT LIKE THAT, you’re just not a nice person, oh my fucking god."
As Minho crossed his arms over his chest with a smirk, you marched back to your own place seething in annoyance and slammed the door close, mumbling "What a complete asshole," not bothering to keep your voice down in the slightest.
It sort of went downhill from there.
It felt like Minho made it his life’s mission to tease and annoy you every chance he got for his exclusive entertainment. Your daily interactions turned into a competition of ‘Who’s gonna get the last word?’ over the most mundane of topics, trying to outsmart or one-up each other over who was gonna get the first morning coffee or the last everything bagel at the bakery downstairs, who was gonna park at that spot closest to the garage door, or who was gonna get on the elevator if it happened to be crowded and could only carry one more person. You know, very mature, grown-up struggles. Minho didn’t have a single bone of chivalry in his body, so it would be the most futile of endeavors to expect any kind of gentlemanly gesture from him. You just went at it like two tigers battling over territory.
Weeks later on another Sunday night, you kept tossing and turning on your bed because the constant punching noises and grunts that kept coming from Minho's apartment just would not let you fall asleep. Half an hour into your struggle, you couldn’t take it anymore and started banging on his door like a creditor who was supposed to collect money.
Minho opened the door swiftly, covered in his usual sheen of sweat and seemingly incredibly annoyed, "What the hell is the matter with you? What do you want from my door?"
"For the billionth time, Minho, do you even know what the concept of time is? It's fucking midnight!"
"I own a clock. What's your point?"
Do not try to reason with this man, you told yourself calmly. He’s incapable of processing it. Just get to the point.
"Could you please keep it down?"
"No. I have a match in two days."
It was astounding how this man legitimately thought the universe revolved around him.
"And I have a fucking pitch meeting tomorrow that I need to present at. I need to sleep, Minho!"
Minho proceeded to display the maximum amount of insolence he was capable of containing and closed the door to your face.
"OPEN THE FUCK UP YOU DICKHEAD!!" you kept banging on the door. Minho quickly returned with something in his hand that look like headphones and shoved it into your chest.
"Here, these are hunter ear protectors. Next level noise canceling. Just stop bitching and let me practice in peace. This is a championship match," he declared and closed the door again, leaving you in utter frustration.
This motherfucker…
I CAN'T FUCKING BELIEVE THE AUDACITY OF THIS MOTHERFUCKER!!!
The next morning, you woke up with the bare minimum of shuteye you were able to squeeze in. Minho’s ear protectors actually worked, but you were so incredibly annoyed with him that the mere knowledge of him existing in the apartment across the hall literally kept you awake all night. Your exasperation was still there while you were getting ready, while you were preparing your bag, and even while you were walking towards the elevator.
"Hey, hold the door!"
This motherfucker…
Since you were still very much pissed at Minho, you saw absolutely no harm in pretending not to hear him and walked into the elevator. The hope to be able to ride eighteen floors down in peace was short-lived as Minho slammed his hand between the doors right when they were about to close and forced them to open again.
"I know you heard me. Why didn't you hold the door?"
You shrugged, "Didn't feel like it."
"Someone's got up from the left side today," he jeered, "Ever thought of giving getting laid a try? Should make people massively tolerable."
Minho turned your annoyance levels from a hundred to ‘pull over if you don’t wanna die’ status real quick as if he activated some NOS switch inside you.
"That effectively concludes it's been two blue moons since you last busted a nut, my guy. Practice what you preach, maybe."
"Bold of you to assume I didn't bust it just last night," Minho sneered.
"That’s RICH!" you raised your voice, "For your information, the walls in this building are not exactly iron-clad. I would have heard it if that was true."
"So you're spying on me," Minho broke into a smug grin, "Why the sudden interest in my orgasm tally?"
I just cannot believe his motherfucker…
"You know what, you can kiss my ass, Minho."
He suddenly slammed his hand on the stop button and trapped you against the elevator mirror.
"What did you just say to me?"
He was so dangerously close, almost flush against you. Come to think of it, you had never seen his face this up close before. What sharp features he had… Cheekbones to die for. A jawline that could cut you. One eyebrow cocked daring you in the most seductive way. You could smell his shampoo and cologne on the heat waves emitted from his body towards yours. If this move was supposed to be scaring you, Minho was remarkably failing at it because all that was dripping from his eyes was sheer hunger.
How the fuck was this the same guy from ten seconds ago? It was like he shapeshifted.
And you absolutely hated how much it turned you on.
"Don't. Fucking. Ask for. What you absolutely cannot handle, kitten."
Kitten?
The electricity in the air was so palpable you were sure you were about to get shocked if Minho so much as blew air towards you. He leaned into your ear and spoke in the softest of whispers.
"Don’t test me. I’m warning you."
This wasn’t a threat. This wasn’t even an actual warning.
It was a fucking dare.
"Warning me for what?"
Minho was literally just two milimeters away from your lips. He was so close that you could actually feel the outline of his mouth brushing on yours in the gentlest way possible, enough for you to question whether you were actually feeling him, or if it was just his breath condensing on your lips.
"For you having to brace yourself because I will not stop."
When Minho pressed the button to make the elevator run again, you felt your stomach drop along with the elevator cabin.
But for all the wrong reasons.
Your entire dynamics with Minho changed from that day on.
Make no mistake, he was still relentlessly on your nerves, but the targeted outcome of his teasing seemed to have shifted massively. Whenever he opened his mouth, he kept throwing in these innuendos, double entendres somewhere in his sentences, and although he was not a particularly touchy-feely person, you could swear he was making up excuses to establish physical contact with you. You could never comment on any of that because that would mean risking making a complete fool out of yourself since there was no evident proof: everything he did or said was completely defendable, but still very subtly laced with ulterior motives. You just knew he had an agenda. And much to your dismay, you realized you actually fucking welcomed it.
Your Sunday morning routine was interrupted by urgent knocks on your door. It was Minho clad in his practice attire with his duffel bag thrown on his shoulder.
"Morning, Minh-"
"Hey, my roommate's supposed to move in today. I told him to wait for me at your place. I'll owe you one. Thanks."
Minho took off as soon as he finished his sentence leaving you completely bewildered by your door. You yelled behind his back, fully aware it would be futile.
"HELLO? I HAVE A LIFE???"
"Stop bitching, it's Sunday," Minho spoke as he walked to the elevator, "I know you have nowhere else to be."
At least give me a fucking name, why don't you? This motherfucker…
The expected doorbell rang in the afternoon. You opened to door to see a man holding a large carrier by your doorstep and he cheerfully greeted you.
"Hi, is this Y/N?"
"Um… hi! Minho's roommate, right?"
"Uh- yeah, sure," he giggled.
"Come in. Welcome. I think," you trailed off into a mumble.
The man handed you the carrier per your invitation and the motion could only be described as Minho-class rude. Did he actually think you were Minho's fucking butler or some shit?
"Thank you so much for this. He was on the brink of trashing my entire apartment because he misses his Minho a normal amount."
"Excuse me?"
He covered his mouth in panic, "Oh shit, I shouldn't have said it like that. I swear he's actually really gentle!"
You looked closer at the carriage, more carefully at what it contained and the round silverish name tag that flickered inside.
Pudding
"Minho… owns a cat?"
"No, Pudding owns Minh-"
"MINHO OWNS A FUCKING CAT????"
You grabbed the carrier from the man to carefully open it and get acquainted with the orange tabby cat with the softest white paws you’d ever seen inside.
"Hiii, Pudding! Oh my god, you’re so fucking precious, you absolute fluffbutt!!!"
You were suffering from such acute cuteness aggression that you completely forgot there was someone else by your door until he spoke to you again.
"Uh- It's Jisung, by the way. Very pleased to meet you."
"Pleasure's all mine!" you yelled in excitement while still looking at the cat, and turned to him once again, "Shit, I'm so sorry. It's just… cats are my FUCKING KRYPTONITE!"
"I figured as much," he smiled.
"Please come in! Would you like some coffee?"
All in all, Jisung was a good friend of Minho’s as well as working for him in an executive capacity, or so he claimed.
"So, you’re his assistant."
"More like his right hand," Jisung corrected you, "He can’t do shit without me."
"Are you sure?"
He sighed, "You would be surprised how fucking clueless he is about some of the most regular stuff. Where do you get your dry cleaning done?"
"Uh- Downstairs? We have a place on site."
"Yet, he doesn’t know that," to which you responded with a loud cackle.
You spent the afternoon chatting with Jisung while Pudding was investigating every single corner of your apartment as if he was going to rent the place from you. Needless to say, it was incredibly hard for you to stay focused on your conversation with Jisung while your eyes kept following the kitty everywhere. After finishing his coffee, he got up to leave not to overstay his welcome and you exchanged thank yous over coffee versus a pleasant conversation. It was around dinnertime when Minho came back home.
"Yes?" you opened the door the tiniest measure with squinted eyes.
"Hey, where is he?"
"Who is?"
"My roommate."
You broke into a mischievous grin, "Why aren't you saying his name?"
"I don’t see the need?"
"Suit yourself," you retorted and closed the door to his face to give him a dose of his own medicine. Minho immediately banged on your door again as you leaned against the door.
"Come on, Y/N, it’s not funny! I need to see him!"
"See who?"
"Him."
Why though? It really didn’t make any sense for Minho to purposefully avoid saying the name of his own cat.
"Please? I need to see Pudding."
You didn’t know what it was. It could be how fucking cute the name was or Minho’s pleading tone conveying how much he indeed missed his cat. You caught yourself smiling and finally caved to open the door.
"Come in. You have a visitor."
Minho’s eyes widened. He was… smiling. Genuinely. Then it evolved into a burst of blinding laughter when Pudding unleashed himself on Minho upon sight, rubbing himself everywhere.
"Hey, buddy! I missed you, too. I missed you so fucking much," Minho kept scratching the purring kitty's tummy, "Look what I have for you. It’s your favorite!"
Minho took out a tube of what looked like some paste from his pocket and kneeled in front of Pudding to feed him. You closed the door and just watched them fondly for some time with arms crossed over your chest. You were so engrossed in the cuteness that Minho’s voice caught you super off guard.
"Thank you. For taking care of him for me when I'm gone."
"It was an absolute pleasure," you kneeled to scratch under Pudding’s chin, still beaming at him, "I think I might be crushing hard on someone. Isn’t that right, baby boy?"
Minho turned his gaze to you as you kept petting the kitty and broke into a smile himself.
"You uh- You wanna… have dinner together or whatever? I was about to order some Chinese."
Can't be direct at any cost. This motherfucker…
"Chinese sounds great," you smiled back at him.
"Let’s go home, buddy," Minho cuddled Pudding and made his way back to his place. You grabbed your keys and followed suit behind him.
This could be the first time that you and Minho had an actually humane interaction, talking about stuff to get to know each other. Where one another is from, how he adopted Pudding, why he named him Pudding, where he was before moving here, where you graduated from, all that jazz… Naturally, at some point the topic shifted to work stuff.
"Why did you even choose boxing?"
"For the thrill, I guess," Minho unboxed his food on the coffee table.
"Because there is absolutely no other sport left in the universe. Why don't you go paragliding or some shit?"
"Yeah, other sports don’t have hot girls holding up cards, so…"
You furrowed your brows to mean ‘The fuck is wrong with you?’ but would Minho tolerate the snark?
"Learn to take a joke, will you?"
Absolutely not. Back to his own self at lightspeed.
While you were unboxing your own food, you eyed Minho’s spring rolls and with the support of some unexplainable courage washing over you, you reached out to take one of them.
Just to be met with Minho reflexively slapping your hand.
"What in the fresh fuck, Minho?"
"Behave. I don’t share food."
"Eye dun sheer fyood~" you imitated him in an annoying voice, "For a guy who fucks shit up for a living you’re way too intense, just saying. It’s a fucking spring roll."
Besides the almost-showdown over spring rolls, the dinner ended up being quite pleasant with Pudding patiently staring at you for food during the entire thing. Minho did not cave one bit, but you were on the brink of melting.
"Can I ju-"
"Absolutely not. He knows he’s not supposed to do that. God, you’re such a sucker for cats, aren’t you?"
"Correction: The biggest sucker," you turned to Pudding with sorry eyes, pretending to sniffle, "I tried, baby, I really tried."
Minho flashed a grin and offered a glass for you, "Cardinal Melon?"
"Only hell yeah."
The refreshing drink did wonders to you after the intense spiciness. While you were scratching Pudding’s head with your other hand, Minho placed his glass on the coffee table and placed his elbows on his knees.
"Can I ask you something?"
"That's new. You usually blurt shit out," you commented sarcastically, "Shoot."
"Remember that morning in the elevator?"
You didn’t know what prompted him to ask that, but you couldn’t help the super involuntary gulp, "Yeah?"
"I was really aggressive with the way I came onto you, but you didn't do anything to outright push me away. Why?"
Came onto you? That was his way of coming on to you?
WHAT?
"I don't know," you replied trying to sound as casual as you could, "I guess you caught me off guard."
"If I had really caught you off guard, we would have already fucked in there and you know it."
Yes, Minho was the living embodiment of the anti-censor movement, but this much forwardness was new even for you.
"Is it because you think I'm hot?"
"MINHO!"
"What? It's a legitimate question."
How would you even respond to such a question? On one hand was being honest. You indeed found Minho criminally attractive, and you didn’t actually lie when you said he’d caught you off guard. Come to think of it, if it was someone else you haven’t had the slightest interest in, the move would prompt a scream for help, but all you could think of that particular morning was how his lips tasted.
"Or is it because you're into that stuff?"
"What stuff?"
"You know. BDSM."
"On occasion, yeah."
"So you're a switch."
How did he manage to steer the conversation to this lane exactly?
"I'm not denying nor confirming this information."
Minho laughed at your response and grabbed his drink again. You examined him for some time. Subjecting him to your absolutely carnal female gaze would be a more appropriate way of putting it, of course.
"No way in hell you're a switch, though."
"Damn straight," he raised his glass towards you like he was giving a toast, "I do nothing but dom. Should be pretty obvious."
"It is."
It was obvious, but entirely as a deduction from his personality traits, not because you were able to understand the root reason.
"What is it about domination that gets you going so much?"
Minho took another sip from his drink, "Simple. You can't tell me what to do."
You chortled, "Way too confident coming from a fucking cat butler."
"Cats are very independent creatures. They show affection when they want to, and won’t take shit from you," he stared into your eyes before continuing, "I really like that about them."
His tone suggested something else entirely. Like the topic of conversation was not actually feline behavior.
Minho leaned back and made himself comfortable to a degree that he was manspreading on the couch. There it was again. That daring look.
"To answer your question, if a line is crossed, there should be consequences. It allows me to indulge in that."
You had absolutely no idea why his words were forcing you to gulp that thickly although you literally had a drink in your hand.
"And you best believe my consequences are nothing but delicious."
"If I didn't know any better, I'd say it sounds like you want those lines to be crossed."
You could tell the aggressive tension between you for weeks considerably lessened, but it lent itself to be replaced with some other form of tension and it was building up at a dangerously fast pace. Minho didn't respond to you and just examined you for some time.
Subjecting you to his absolutely carnal male gaze would be a more appropriate way of putting it, of course.
"So, finals, huh?" you asked in an attempt to break the tension that started suffocating you.
"Yup."
"Nervous?"
"Not really."
"How can you be so confident about everything all the time?"
Minho lazily smirked, "It’s easy when you know you’re the best at something."
This motherfucker…
"Sounds like you talk a lot of smack to me."
"I can put my money where my mouth is. You’re more than welcome to come watch."
"When is it?"
"Friday night."
"Fuck, really?" you exclaimed in utter disappointment because you actually really wanted to watch him in his full glory, "I have a work function thing that day."
But Minho had an alternative solution for you.
"Then come watch me practice tomorrow."
There it was. The daring look again. You smiled back and took him up on the offer.
"I’ll be there."
Since it was a weekday, you thanked Minho for the food, squeezed Pudding on your way out, and hit the bed although you really wanted to stay at his place. You had trouble falling asleep that night but for an entirely different reason this time.
That was when you started eyeing your nightstand.
Again.
You had been doing this a lot lately. Pleasuring yourself to sleep with Minho's naked upper body engraved behind your eyelids, imagining the vibrations between your legs were actually him humming into you, aggressively lapping at you until you crumbled within him within mere minutes. And it always ended with you moaning the same thing every single night.
Fuck, Minho…
The next day after work you headed to the address Minho gave you. It was a large hall in dark colors, boxing equipment around the gigantic ring right in the middle. Jisung was the one to welcome you.
"I've been informed that today there was gonna be a guest of honor. Come this way."
He led you to a ringside area to settle down and you started watching Minho. Completely in his element.
"He's great at what he does, isn't he?" Jisung spoke to your direction, "Tell me if this fucker doesn't have massive big dick energy."
"Is it the energy or the dick that’s massive?"
Jisung burst into laughter at your remark, "Okay I started it, but don’t be crass, come on."
This was supposed to be a competitive combat sport but Minho moved like he was dancing. Movements on-point and precise, executed with intention to knock out, full of force, but still somewhat graceful. He was drenched in sweat, veins popping everywhere, gloss on the skin making his tattoo shine under the spotlights, which you were convinced was the representation of the preying tiger that lived inside him.
"I would so dom his pretty face off."
"Uh- think you’re thinking out loud, Y/N," Jisung woke you up with raised brows and a surprised smile.
Oh, shit.
After the initial embarrassment faded, you turned to Minho once again and continued with your elbows on your knees, watching him with now squinted eyes.
"Nah, I don’t know," you tilted your head, "He thinks he’s all that, but I’d so top him. He just reeks of someone who likes being rattled."
"Maybe tell him that some time," Jisung winked and went over to the ring to give some towels to Minho. After drying his sweat, he jumped off the ring and made his way to you.
"Convinced now?"
"Not bad, not bad at all boxer dude," you slowly clapped, "I hereby wish you good luck with the match on Friday."
"I make my own luck, gorgeous. I’m gonna win with a TKO, no doubt about it."
Gorgeous.
"I'm just wishing it. A little good luck literally never hurts anyone."
Minho smiled at your words, "I know you can’t come to the match because of your work thing."
"Yeah," you averted your eyes to the floor.
"So, you’re in charge of the afterparty instead."
"I’m in what of the afterwhat now?"
He smirked, "You heard me loud and clear."
And kissed you out of nowhere. It got you by such a big surprise that you couldn't even open your eyes for a moment.
"For a little good luck. Now I’m two hundred percent sure I’m gonna win," Minho bit into his smile and hit the showers.
This motherfucker, you smiled to yourself.
"What the f- Goddess much?"
You opened the door for the rowdy crowd in front of Minho’s place in the hopes of hearing the expected outcome, but instead of breaking it to you, that was what Minho blurted out upon seeing you in a little black dress. You shooed away the flustered smile and looked at him with expectant eyes.
"Tell me the good news."
"BOW DOWN TO KING MIN!!!"
Upon Jisung’s firestarter, the guys on either side of Minho lifted his belt while violently shaking his shoulders and the crowd made their way inside with even rowdier cheering, making themselves immediately comfortable.
"Told you I’d win," Minho smirked.
"TKO?"
"You already know."
You smiled in return, "You got ‘em, tiger."
A really loud sound erupted from the champagne bottle Jisung popped, which caused Pudding to haul ass towards Minho’s room.
"THE FUCK JISUNG, YOU’RE SCARING PUDDING! It’s alright baby boy, come here."
You held the kitty in your embrace and made your way to the couch to soothe him. After calming down, Pudding kept rubbing himself on you and never left your lap. And quite honestly, you couldn’t give a rat’s ass about all the shedding. Minho plopped down to the couch right next to you and you glanced at him with a look still laced with adoration towards Pudding.
"I still can’t believe you have a cat."
"Why is that so hard to believe?" Minho extended his arm behind you.
"I don’t know," you shrugged, "You being able to show affection is like witnessing Atlantis."
He smiled and scratched Pudding’s head on your lap.
"He likes you a little too much."
"Jealous?" you grinned.
"I’m literally his servant. He’d better like me more."
Pudding kept tossing and turning on your lap and rubbed himself on your legs.
"You know, cats do that to leave their scent."
You busted out a loud cackle, "Are you serious? Is he trying to mark me or something?"
"Possible,” Minho flashed a knowing smile, "Takes after his dad after all."
What to do with this information…
"So, Y/N, we haven’t had much chance to talk before,” the guy named Changbin spoke to you, "What do you do?"
"I work in advertising."
"Any clients we might know?"
Jisung intervened before your answer, "Might be of interest to know this dude is a major car enthusiast. Do your thing."
"In that case,” you shifted Pudding on your lap to reach out for your drink, "you may have heard of a brand called Ferrari."
"HOT DAMN! Are you seeing anyone?"
The crowd in the living room burst into roaring laughter.
Well, except Minho.
"With all due respect which is none, cool it, Casanova."
"I’m just saying, man,” Changbin continued shamelessly, "That sounds fascinating. I’m always down to get drinks, I’d love to get to know you more."
"Sure, why not?" you replied to him with an appreciative smile.
"Mind if I get your number?"
You made a move to reach for Changbin’s phone to type in your digits but Minho beat you to it and put the phone back on the coffee table.
"Y/N. A word," he got up from the couch.
"Huh?"
"We’re gonna have a little talk. Grab your keys."
"Is everything okay?"
"With me. Now."
Minho walked out of his apartment and waited for you to unlock your front door to let himself in. And once he did he started frantically pacing inside and eventually stopped in your room. You followed after him.
"What’s going on?”
"What are you trying to do?"
He was supposed to be celebrating tonight. You didn’t know where this sudden outburst came from.
"Making friends?"
"Does it really seem like Changbin’s after being drinking buddies with you?"
You were super confused. So what if he wasn’t?
"What are you saying?"
"Weren’t you fucking listening when I told you I don’t share food?"
"Excuse you?"
Minho ruffled his head in utter frustration. It was like he was trying to find words but majestically failing at it.
"When are you gonna get it into your hea- When are you- Fuck!"
"Minho, you’re not making any sense."
"Sense,” he scoffed and made his way towards you.
"l told you not to test me, didn’t I?"
He gently placed his hands on your shoulders and mumbled to himself in such a low decibel that it was almost inaudible.
"Mine. All mine."
You felt like you were struck by a lightning. All those times you were almost sure, you almost wanted to say something, ask something, heck even initiate something, but you just didn’t wanna make a fool out of yourself… There was absolutely no room left for doubt now.
This was your chance.
You tilted your head and asked in such a soft voice, "Who the fuck do you think you are?"
Minho was instantly rattled, "Me? Who the fuck do you think you are? I heard you at practice the other day."
"Wow, you have ears," you purposefully derided.
"Cut the sass. I’m talking about how you would dom my pretty face off."
Oh, shit.
"Yeah, the acoustics are unnecessarily good at the ring. You could have talked by the front door and I still would have heard you."
Collect yourself. Don’t let the ropes go.
"And? What are you gonna do about it?"
Something flickered in Minho’s eyes upon your words. The tone of his voice was suddenly colored with a much softer and deeper shade.
"Don’t ask for it, kitten."
"What can you even do about it?"
Minho came as close as he was to you in the elevator that morning.
"Try me. I fucking dare you."
You gulped. Thickly. Minho caressed your cheeks ever so gently.
"What did I say, hm?"
You couldn’t help but close your eyes at the contact that you were absolutely longing for. He leaned into your left ear.
"Don't. Fucking. Ask for. What you absolutely cannot handle."
You answered with eyes still closed, trying to produce a stable voice.
"Bold of you to assume I cannot handle the likes of you."
"Oh, so you're asking for it."
Minho turned on the aggressiveness just the tiniest pitch and grabbed you by the waist.
"What did I tell you, huh? If I start, I will not stop."
You stared dead into his eyes and finally jumped the gun.
"Try me. I fucking dare you."
"You little- Fucking come over here."
That kiss. So hungry. So fucking hungry. Like the gates of a dam just broke and there was absolutely no way to stop that torrent from turning into instant electricity. Minho’s fingers tangled in your hair, consuming your lips like there was no tomorrow. Like he was going to die that night.
"Strip for me. Let me see you."
"No,” you retaliated emphatically and tugged at the hem of his shirt, "You get rid of this first. I wanna see that tattoo again."
"Because?"
"I wanna trace my tongue on it."
"Do you, now?"
Minho kept stroking your hair, not breaking eye contact for a single milisecond. Just his gaze alone was overwhelming you.
"Do you like it? Does it get you all hot and bothered, kitten?"
"Yes,” you whispered with an exhale. He smirked again.
"No."
You slithered your hands under his shirt to touch his pecs. His fucking gorgeous pecs. And grazed your nails on them. Minho’s eyes fluttered at the contact for the briefest moment but he immediately stopped you by grabbing your wrists.
This man possessed fucking iron instead of self-control and willpower.
"Look at me, kitten, I'm only gonna say this once. If you don't do as I say, you're in for a rough night."
"Night?” you cocked a brow, "There are literally people over at your place who came for you."
"They know where the fucking front door is. The real question here is are you gonna come for me?"
Your breath hitched in your throat. Content with the reaction he elicited out of you, Minho continued.
"More importantly, am I gonna let you if you keep running that mouth?"
"All bark, no bite," you sneered, "I give you a good five minutes to last before you blow."
"Oh, is that so?"
Minho pushed you against the wall and trapped you within his frame, fingers ghosting over your lips and neck.
"Shivering already."
He lifted your chin up to make you face him again and tilted his head.
"What exactly are you playing at, kitten?"
Focus. Think. Think fast.
"Do you want me to strip you? Get you all bare for me?"
You wished you could control it but you whimpered. Embarrassingly loud.
"Oh, she likes that. She fucking likes that."
Minho was nothing short of savage at that moment, but you could still tell he was trying to be considerate in the most messed up way possible. His every move was calculated in full awareness that this was a scene for both of you to enjoy.
Why is respect so fucking hot?
Unbeknownst to you, your hands found their way to Minho’s crotch to palm him over his shorts. He was rock hard for you already.
"Fuck, kitten, you're killing me."
"Touch-starved, are we?" you asked to push his buttons some more. Minho immediately lifted you up upon your words and carried you to your bed.
"For a dom, you sure are pretty gentle, boxer."
"Oh she likes it rough, is that it?"
He unzipped your dress in one swift motion but took forever to get you out of it. The torture attempt was working remarkably well.
"Kitten wants to be tamed,” he licked his lips, "You should know, I'm nothing but generous if you listen well."
Minho rid you of your drenched underwear and grabbed your legs. You were expecting him to make a move to start fucking you but that wasn’t even the furthest thing from his mind. He pushed your legs all the way back to the headboard to expose you fully.
"Oh fuck, look at you. All spread out for me," he kept caressing your thighs and kissing your legs, "Just the way I like. So vulnerable. Pretty little thing."
And boy did you clench hard. He softly chuckled.
"Horny much? How long have you been yearning for this?"
Since the day you opened the door for me half goddamn naked.
"Ever since our morning in the elevator, isn't it kitten? You fucking wanted me to fuck you. You wanted to spread those legs for me."
He honestly didn’t even need to touch you. The way Minho spoke was so seductive that you didn’t even wanna think about what would happen if he kept it up.
"No.”
"Don’t lie to me. You keep thinking about it as much as I do, if not more, don't you kitten?"
Oh yes. Fuck yes. Every night. Every single night.
But for some reason, you couldn’t say it out loud because somehow it embarrassed the crap out of you. You opted for nodding instead.
"As you should. Knows her place. So pretty."
You clenched again.
"Does that mean I can turn this tight little cunt of yours into a gaping hole just by talking?"
Fucking STOP reading my mind!
Minho lowered himself between your pushed-back legs and spoke very matter-of-factly.
"The first rule of eating pussy: if you can see the face, you’re not doing it right," he placed a kiss on your outer labia and caused you to writhe under his touch.
"But I can totally see your face when you’re in this position. Fucking watch you crumble."
Then he dragged the most delicious stripe over your pussy you had ever felt in your goddamn life.
"FUCK!"
"Mhm, just like that kitten. Feels so fucking good, doesn't it?"
"Fucking- Minho!"
He knew what he was doing to you, no doubt about it. That fucking dom. He smiled again.
"You're at my mercy now. If I don't make you cum, you can't cum by yourself, can you kitten?"
He peppered kisses on your inner thighs and the sustained lack of contact was absolutely killing you.
"And that would be a fucking shame because I bet my ass you'll look so fucking pretty when I make your toes curl for me," he placed another wet kiss, "For me. Fuck, so pretty."
Your extreme arousal caused you to automatically reach your core to get some friction. Minho immediately grabbed your wrist to prevent contact.
"Nuh uh. We’re not doing this,” and he grabbed your discarded underwear to restrain your hands over your head.
"Touch me."
"Someone keeps forgetting who's in charge here. You can't tell me what to do, kitten."
Minho lowered himself over your face so that you understood the rules perfectly.
"I decide what to do with you. I decide when and how you get to perish."
He got rid of his shirt to put that magnificent body of his on display again. It was literally impossible for someone to be this fucking stunning. Your shame gland literally exploded at the sight and you let out a groan. Minho was way too satisfied with that reaction.
"Are you gonna do as I say, or will you keep rattling me?"
Rattle. Of course. That was the whole point. You couldn’t believe how Minho actually got you to lose your mind a little.
"Way too arrogant for your own good," you smirked.
"Oh, kitten just loves riling me up. Sure you're gonna be able to handle it later?"
You didn’t respond and just kept shooting him a look. That look. Like you were daring him.
"I won't stop. And it's gonna be the sweetest torture you're ever gonna go through."
"So what? The worst you can do is edge me," you scoffed.
"Edging you is something," Minho brushed his fingers on your thighs, "Getting you to fucking beg for me is something else entirely. I won't hesitate to frustrate you into tears. Tease you relentlessly."
He reduced the distance between your faces to mere millimeters and posed you that gentle threat.
"Look into my eyes and tell me if I'm bluffing. I fucking dare you."
You squeezed your eyes with the slightest hint of frustration and threw your head back while Minho slithered down between your legs again. He placed a kiss on your pussy as he took in a deep breath through his nose.
"Pretty. So pretty. All mine to devour. Fuck-"
He finally provided that delectable wet contact, but you were trying your utmost best to not give him the satisfaction. You attempted to wiggle away from his face.
"Oh, come on, kitten, you know you can’t say no to this."
Minho pinned your legs in their place and started making out with your clit. You definitely contracted a piece of absolute insanity at the motion.
"Jesus, FUCK-"
"You like that?"
"Shit, you're just- MINHO!"
Way to resist…
"Submit to me, kitten."
"Fuck no," you protested.
"Do you want me to stop?"
There was no way he wasn’t as turned on as you. What could he do anyway? Leave you like that on your bed and suffer from a massive case of blue balls himself?
"Whatever."
"Shame,” Minho clicked his tongue, "If you say so…"
"NO!"
Your overly enthusiastic and desperate grip on his wrist caused him to let out a hearty laugh, "When are you gonna realize I'm fucking good at this? You can't lie to me, kitten. I'm unnecessarily well-versed in the dark arts of bluffcalling."
He lowered you back down on your bed again and latched himself on your left breast, immediately causing goosebumps to break all over your body.
"Not to mention you can't even control how much you're shaking under me."
He was careful to pay an equal amount of attention to your other breast. The way Minho worked his tongue was so intimate and sensual that you couldn’t help running your fingers through his silky hair.
"Submit to me now and I'll reward you with pure ecstasy in return."
A part of you was absolutely refusing the idea ever since you discovered how fucking satisfying it was to rile Minho up, driving him up a wall all because of you, but the other side of you… Oh, that side of you was unquestionably yearning for Minho’s attention.
"One-time offer. I won't reconsider it if you change your mind later."
He kept softly caressing you, cajoling you into what was most likely a trap, but you were far too gone to process what was a façade and what was not.
"Give in to me, kitten. Let me have you."
Fuck it.
You nodded.
"Say it."
"You- You c-”
"Say it for me. Loud and clear.”
How the fuck are you doing this to me?!
"Play with me."
Minho flashed an absolutely diabolical smile upon your words. Needless to say, you were fucked.
Literally.
"You have all these holes for me to fill up… Can't decide where I should start devouring you first."
"I wan- I want to-"
"What is it, kitten?"
Say it. What’s done is done, anyway.
"I want to please you."
Minho contorted his face in utter contentment.
"Eager. So eager. Fucking pretty. Come here."
He untied the knot on your wrists and took your hand to guide you to the edge of the bed. He stood in front of you, instructing you as he was getting rid of his shorts.
Fucking finally.
"On fours now. Open up for me, kitten."
What a fucking sight. That must have been legitimately the prettiest cock you had ever witnessed in your life, and you got to blow that? Unfuckingbelievable. Minho felt smooth as fuck under your touch. You grabbed him gently and took him in your mouth while still holding his gaze.
"Just like that. You're so pretty with your mouth full of me. Just the way it's supposed to be."
His goddamn words… You didn’t know what it was about them that turned you on this much, pushing you to an utter state of enthusiasm.
"Harder, kitten. Suck me harder."
Minho was fucking relishing the feeling your wet ministrations were providing him. He joined his hands behind his nape and threw his head back
"Fuck- You're so fucking good at this. Too good."
Damn straight, you thought to yourself. Time for you to perish for me for a change.
"That's it. Swirl that tongue around me. Get me wetter."
You hollowed your cheeks to provide him with harder suction while working your tongue, which caused Minho to let out husky grunts for you.
"Fuck, fuck, so good. So fucking good, ah-" Minho was unable to control how loud his moans were getting, "I'll cum in that pretty little mouth and you'll swallow for me, right kitten?"
Bingo.
You grabbed his hips and pressed him towards yourself, guiding his length further down your throat.
"Yes. Yes. YES! HARDER! SUCK HARDER! FUCK!"
The way he came for you… You loved watching him coming absolutely undone because of you, shooting strings after strings of warm bitter liquid down your throat as if he was marking you. Minho’s legs went limp once he reached the edge of his orgasm and collapsed next to you on the bed. You watched him for some time as he came down from his high, but you had to admit the brevity of his recovery period was indeed remarkable.
"Tsk, don't pout, kitten. I don't kick ass on the ring every week not to take fucking pride in my stamina. We have all night."
He attacked your lips again, tasting himself on your mouth like he wanted to clean you spotless.
"And it's so gonna be worth your while."
Minho slithered his hands between your legs and dragged his fingers over your core, gently teasing your entrance in the meantime.
"Ready for me to hit that yet?"
"Yes."
"Can't hear you."
"Yes!"
"No," he smirked, "Taste first."
He got you in a comfortable position and wrapped his arms over your legs, spreading your lips for him tenderly.
"Time to eat.”
You wanted to fucking scream your lungs out when Minho latched himself on your clit. He was legitimately making out with your pussy, getting it absolutely soaked, teasing every spot, very very gently grazing his teeth on your lips. You were uncontrollably clenching under him.
"Tell me where your vibrator is."
"What makes you th-"
"The walls, kitten. I know you have one."
What the-
"Are you- listening to me?"
"Only all the time,” Minho licked his lips covered in your arousal, "I always hear buzzing from your place when I come home late at night. You sound so pretty when you moan my name."
You didn’t possess the correct vocabulary to describe what this piece of information evoked in you but mortified was a close second.
"Now you know exactly how many times I came in the past week alone," Minho grinned and asked again, "The vibrator.”
You eyed your nightstand to signal him the coordinates and Minho didn’t waste any time grabbing the assault weapon.
"A magic wand, huh? You got taste, kitten."
He got back to his position again and furrowed his brows with an expression akin to pseudo-confusion.
"You seem to be doing it every fucking night, though. Why don't you just come knock on my door instead, kitten?"
"Please-”
Minho placed another wet kiss on your thighs, "So, you're a clit person."
"What d-?"
"This," he flashed the vibrator, "I can list your deepest fantasies just by looking at the type of lingerie you own."
He gently teased your clit with the head of the vibrator without turning it on and asked you very softly.
"Ever heard of multiple orgasms, kitten?"
"Yeah. In mythology books.”
Minho laughed at your response, "Very hard feat, but you can rest assured imma make it look so easy."
This man’s gonna fucking kill me tonight.
"In that case, we should tease you around here,” he ghosted his fingers around your clit, "A lot."
He trapped your clit within his lips one last time and gently sucked on it before moving on with his master plan.
"Watch me now, kitten."
And he pressed on.
"FUCK, MINHO!”
You were already so turned on because of Minho’s mere existence in the room and the intense stimulation between your legs was absolutely not the way to control yourself. You were used to this. You didn’t even count how many nights you got yourself off with the help of those same vibrations to the mere imagery of Minho in your mind, without him mercilessly teasing you beforehand. It wouldn’t even take you five minutes to climax. But considering the current circumstances…
It took you literal seconds.
"That’s it. There you go, kitten. Curl those toes for me. Ready for another one?"
You hadn’t even managed to come down from the aftereffects of that orgasm and he was telling you he was gonna induce… another one?
"Minh- I-"
"I think you are."
He gently pressed the head at your entrance this time, running the vibrator at the lowest intensity. The change of target was soothing the oversensitivity a little, but still a little hard to endure.
"One more, kitten. One more for me."
He moved the vibrator back to your clit, pushed his tongue inside your entrance instead and worked it until you came. You grabbed fistfuls of your bedsheets when you arched your back again.
"So good for me. Can't get enough of this taste. Cream on me again, come on."
"Minho, please!!!”
"Such a good girl. Such. A good. Girl. You're the dream,” he placed soothing kisses right over your crotch.
"Your scent is heavenly, kitten. Rub yourself on me. Ride it.”
You wanted to. You really really wanted to but you were trying so hard to find the required strength to do just that.
"Don't be shy,” he flashed that dangerous smile for your for the umpteenth time, knowing damn well how to push your buttons, "Come on, dom my pretty face off."
Snap.
You trapped Minho’s head between your leglock and kept rolling your hips forward as he contently slurped on you, literally drinking you like he found a fucking oasis in the middle of a scorching hot desert.
"I wanna fuck you so bad but I just can't leave this alone. I might be fucking drunk on you."
Minho was relentless; he didn’t know how to hit the brakes. Not only that, you were pretty sure he wouldn’t even care what if you blacked out on him because of excessive pleasure. You were wondering just how many times would be enough for him to get him to stop.
Not that you wanted to.
"One more now."
"Minho–”
"One more, kitten."
"Minho please-”
"One more for me."
"I’m gonna pass out."
"One more."
"PLEASE. Too much, fucking too much!!!”
You were nothing but mere dust by then. There was absolutely no way for you to keep on enduring this torture anymore.
"So fucking high on ecstasy. Just the way I like. Turn around for me now, kitten."
You were struggling to even do the simple motion of lying facedown. Minho broke you that hard. He helped you get into position while perversely chuckling to himself.
"I've been eyeing that ass for the longest time."
You felt how fucking hard he was at your entrance. Just knowing that you were able to arouse Minho this much was an immeasurable source of satisfaction for you.
"Fuck, so wet. So fucking wet. Mess all over."
He pushed himself into you slowly and you were so fucking sensitive that you were literally able to feel the pulsating veins on his cock inside you.
"Look at this shit, I just slide right in, fuck!"
"Please. Move.”
And move he did. It wasn’t even his cock doing that thing to your insides. It was how he fucking moaned your name over and over, louder each time, going absolutely feral over you.
"Fucking love how your walls claim me like that. Clench for me, kitten."
So you did.
"FUCK! Let me see that pretty face.”
Minho pulled out and swiftly turned you around for him. So easily. Like you were made of fucking paper or something.
"If you think I'm not gonna cum watching that pretty face you're fucking mistaken."
He grabbed your legs with a harsh motion, threw them over his shoulders like it was nothing, and started running to the finish line at full speed. Fucked out was not the right way to depict you anymore. You were fucking gone.
Insane.
"Say my name, kitten."
"Minho."
"One more time. Nice and loud."
"Minho."
"Fucking yes. All mine. Louder, kitten."
"Minho!"
"Louder!"
"Baby, please. PLEASE!!!"
"Fuck, fuck, FUCK!"
At the moment of climax, both of you were moaning so loudly that it was literally impossible for the entire building not to be aware of what was going on in your bed. Minho buried himself to the hilt within you with a hard push, filling you to the brim with his load, and rode out both your highs until they receded into the darkness again. He didn’t even try to catch his breath and started covering you in small kisses in his embrace, caressing every spot on your body he could reach. You giggled.
"I've heard cats do that to leave their scent. Are you trying to mark me or something?"
"Maybe," Minho smiled back at you and kissed your temple while inhaling your scent. You looked towards your front door.
"You think they already left?"
"They should be able to read the fucking room. I was told these walls aren't exactly iron-clad."
You laughed at each other. Minho was so incredibly beautiful when he laughed. He pecked your lips again like he was unable to control a reflex.
"Which is exactly why there's no reason for us to stop now. I'm not done with you yet."
"If you’re trying to kill me, just tell me now,” you retorted, "I gotta call my lawyer to finalize the will I never got around to writing.”
Minho ran his fingers in your hair, admiring your face and in complete disbelief how it was possible for someone to be this beautiful.
"I told you we have all night, didn’t I, kitten?"
AUTHOR'S NOTE
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Boxer Minho supremacy. Everybody shush.
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-R. (CB97%)
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welcome to another episode of joo being self indulgent.
okay so get this:
not size difference, but strength difference.
warnings: body image & similar themes, smut so mdni
being about the same height but your body builds are drastically different. THAT makes my brain go brrr
being 5'7 will not stop minho from shoving you around consensually ofc in the bedroom. so what if you're tall? have you seen him? he doesn't work out for nothing. mans can and will carry you around whenever he pleases.
i also would like to think it feeds his stupid ego,
how with a gentle push of his hands against your waist, he's pulling you away from the kitchen counter to check on the cooking pot.
how you stubbornly struggle to open a tight jar as he watches you like it's the most entertaining show he's ever seen, a slight smirk tugging on his lips as he patiently waits for you to eventually give up and give it to him, he may or may not have tightened that jar on purpose earlier that day.
how he pulls you back to him when you attempt to run away after throwing a sassy comment his way. the way his hand firmly grabs your arm is almost painful, keeping you close as you try to break free, nervous giggles leaving your lips as he quietly smiles back at you, clearly not with the same energy though.
how he nonchalantly picks you up when you grumble about how your feet hurt when you come back home from work, or alternatively when he needs you somewhere and you're not cooperating. just. swoop. and you're in his arms. easy.
how he pins your hips down when they buck up in pleasure to meet his tongue, securing your thighs in place by wrapping two strong arms around them as he enjoys himself pleasuring you.
how your hands desperately grab on his wide shoulders to stabilize yourself, nails digging crescents on his already reddish skin, his own hands having more impact on your hips though, bruising them as he dictates the pace you ride his cock to.
how you helplessly try to push his head away from between your legs as he overstimulates your cunt, tugging on his hair a bit too hard as he laughs at you. he doesn't even need to tie you up, knowing you'll eventually give up, fisting the sheets as you try your best not to scream (which he doesn't mind, please scream his name <3)
how you being around his height only means more surface of your body to worship to minho, kissing, licking, sucking, nibbling; your lean upper body and long legs are just a canvas for him to mark with beautiful purple flowers, blooming on your skin as he takes his time loving you. he especially loves your legs, whether they are over his shoulders, around his waist or clamping his head.
how to the boys, you two look almost like equals but the purple marks under your dress, the firm hand on your side that doesn't look like it's grabbing you as tight as it actually is, say otherwise. but they'll never know, right? well, they actually do. though minho has always been extremely private about your intimate life, subtle knowing side eyes and tiny chuckles are exchanged between them whenever the real dynamic surfaces a little, seungmin particularly rolling his eyes remembering the sounds coming from the room next to his last night. maybe he needs to install a better wall isolation, or straight up tell minho to do so in his own room.
it fuels his desire for dominance, looking like equals but knowing he can have you under him with so much of a tug, or simply have you submitting to him with one word, one look.
"kitten." a dangerously low voice, a sweet pet name laced with a menacing tone, dark lazy eyes just daring you to retaliate, is all it takes to have you whimpering in his presence.
and what makes it even better is how no matter how rough he goes, sweet sweet minho will always go back to kiss and rub slow circles around your waist that he might've grabbed too tight, your ass that he might've slapped too hard, whispering how well you did for him.
that, my friends, is peak BDE.
also the part in this skz code ep (16:05) where he's washing jisung's hair lives in my head rent free. when he's being a tease and jisung's like "let go of me, i'll kill you!" #savejisung2022 and minho just smirks, toweling his hair dry aggressively as he says "do you think you can? you think you can kill me?" knowing jisung has a similar build/height but wouldn't dare challenging him, i can't i just- i can't sir destroy me pls n thank u <3
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