#Prince Linos | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

tasteleeknow · 1 year

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EVERYTHING AND NO ONE

PAIRING: prince!minho x maidservant!reader GENRE: smut. fluff. angst. royal!au. forbidden love. CONTENT: 18+ minors dni. unprotected intercourse. major injury. pet names. WORD COUNT: 14.3k (and i could've kept going)

SUMMARY: you're a royal servant, someone who was supposed to sink into the shadows and speak only when spoken to. power: you had none... except when it came to the crown prince.

NOTE: thank you to @lino-nyangi, @tasteracha, and @therhythmafterthesummer for beta reading and helping me edit this beast.

do not repost to other sites, including translations.

You’d never forget the first time you saw him. Pushed forward by the momentum of the crowd, you found yourself in a prime position to see the royal procession through the city. Leading an annual hunt in celebration of his birth, Minho sat astride his horse, offering small waves to the cheering crowd as he passed. It was only then, seeing him in the flesh that the reality of your new role as a royal maidservant finally sunk in. You were due to start the next day, to train while they were away and be prepared to serve when they returned.

Two years later you prepare his bath in preparation for his first night returned from this year's hunt. It’s a process of lugging buckets of hot water from the pump at the end of the hallway, enough to fill the large tub that sat in the corner of his large room. Then, when the tub is full and you’ve tested the water temperature, you place a small offering on the stool beside it. A bar of soap. In the little free time you had, that is what you did: make soap. It was calming, and using the soap you’d infused with sumptuous scents was one of the few luxuries you had. You shared any extras with the prince. He was kind.

He wasn’t like the other members of the court, he’d acknowledge your presence, he’d speak to you like you were a person as complex as he was. It wasn’t the way things were supposed to be. When he’d started, it had thrown you off kilter. You weren’t prepared to have conversations with the crowned prince. You’d been told in your training to not be heard, and if you could help it, not seen either. Still, he’d persevered, chatting to you like you weren’t supposed to complete your tasks and get out of the way with as little disturbance as possible.

You stand as the door opens, brushing down your apron and making yourself presentable for his entrance, just as you were supposed to. He sweeps into the room as he always does, ignoring any sense of decorum and addressing you directly.

“Are you making me a bath, little dove?” he says, unbuckling his sword belt.

It wasn’t a new nickname. He’d taken to calling you that a year prior. You had no idea what to make of it, apart from that he couldn’t mean anything bad by it. He didn’t have an unkind bone in his body. Even towards someone like you.

“Stop calling me that,” you sigh, returning to your task of filling the large tub with warm water. You tip the final bucket in.

“What should I call you instead?”

“Nothing. You know you cannot talk to me at all.”

“Cannot?” he questions, a hint of amusement in his tone.

“Should not,” you correct. “Of course, you can do anything you like.”

“You know that’s not true.”

“Is it not?” you question, placing the bucket down beside you.

“There are… many things you can do that I cannot.”

You huff out a laugh, swirling your fingers through the bath water to check its temperature. He may be kind, but he was still a prince, he couldn’t help his ignorance. “Unless you mean make a bed or scrub a floor, I’ll have to disagree.”

He ignores your snarky comment, like always. It’s a dangerous line you toe, you remind yourself.

“You can marry who you like,” he says.

You stand, lifting your now empty bucket onto your hip. “Can I?”

“Of course. You’ll marry someone you love. I’ll wed someone chosen for me.”

“I’m not sure I’ll marry at all.”

He takes a step towards you and holds his cuff out, silently asking for help to unfasten the buttons. You lower your bucket to the floor and close the distance between you.

“Why is that?” he asks as you work on unbuttoning each cuff.

“I have my work here.”

He’s quiet for a moment, and you think he’s dropped the subject. Then he speaks again.

“You wouldn’t leave for love?”

You shrug. “I love my life; my work. I don’t need anything else.” You don’t add that he was a major part of the reason why, that you enjoyed talking to him too. “Whoever is chosen for you, you might come to love her.”

He’s quiet.

“I don’t think I will,” he pauses, and when he speaks again, the sorrow leaking from his tone takes you off guard. “I don’t think I can love again.”

You lift your eyes to his. “Again?” you question. You had never known him to court anyone. Perhaps before you arrived? Although surely that’s gossip you would have overheard downstairs.

“No, little dove. Not again.”

“Are you courting? A secret courtship?”

He smiles. “No, I don’t think I’d call it a courtship.”

“But you’re in love?”

He nods.

“Don’t let them hurt you.”

“I don’t think I can promise that,” he says, one corner of his mouth tilting up into a sad smile.

“You think they’ll hurt you?”

“Not on purpose.”

He laughs when you frown, concerned. “Don’t fret, dove. I’m prepared for it. I’ve always known she wasn’t for me. I can’t have everything I want, remember.”

—

It’s only a few weeks later that an announcement is made: the crowned prince is to marry. You’re prepared for it, you knew it was coming any day and still… you cry. You let yourself have one night of tears. Then, the next morning, you put it from your mind. It’s not your place to mourn the loss of him, he was never yours in the first place. The only consolation you can take from the news is that it helped explain his low mood over the past week, he wasn’t losing interest in your company, he was processing his soon to be announced nuptials.

He’s quiet as you move around the room, preparing his room for the day. He sits solemnly on the edge of his bed. You can feel his eyes on you. His silence is unnerving, out of character. It’s so unnerving you eventually spin to face him.

“Are you going to continue staring until I leave the room?”

It’s enough to be thrown from the palace: addressing him directly, speaking to him like this. You were too comfortable. Sometimes you wondered if you’d ever slip up when you weren’t alone, speak to him in such a way when others could overhear.

He smiles. It’s a sad smile, all of his smiles were recently. You didn’t like it. It was only over the past week you’d realised how much his smiles got you through your days. He was depriving you.

“If you don’t mind,” he answers.

You replace your poker in the small stand beside the fireplace and pull yourself to your feet. He looks sunken, bare shoulders hunched over. Fix him, your heart instructs.

“She’s very beautiful, apparently,” you say, taking small steps towards him. “That’s all anyone downstairs could talk about this morning. She’s known for it.”

He frowns. “Do you think that matters to me? That it will make it better?”

“I just think you should be open to the idea that you might come to love her, that you might be happy.”

He stands suddenly, linen pants falling low on his hips. You saw him shirtless everyday, waking him in the morning, helping him change, it was a part of your job. Still, the way he’s looking at you now, chest bare and hair tousled from sleep….you unconsciously press your palm over your racing heart. He’s not for you, you beg it to understand.

“Will you be happy?” he asks.

You frown, confused. “What does this have to do with me?”

“We’re friends, aren’t we?” he says, taking one step towards you. “You’ll be happy for me?”

“I’m your servant.”

He covers his face with his hands suddenly before turning away from you. You watch his shoulders rise and fall as he paces across the room and then turns. You stand across the room from each other, facing off.

“If you weren’t working here. If… you were—”

“Your equal?” you finish.

“Would you consider us friends? In a world where we were allowed to be.”

I’d tell you I love you. “I guess so.”

“So in this hypothetical world, where we are friends… you’ll be happy if I marry her?”

“When,” you correct. “When you marry her, I’ll be wishing you all the happiness in the world.”

He moves towards you suddenly, closing the distance between you. When he’s a few steps from you he stops. His lips part and press together a few times, like he’s struggling to find the words he wants to say next. You wait.

“I thought I’d prepared myself for this. I thought I’d talked myself through it, that I was ready to let—” he cuts himself off, running his fingers through his already messy hair. “I wasn’t meant to be this person, to be self-sacrificing and putting the good of the people above my own desires. I desire, I crave, and I’m selfish. I want to give in.”

It’s such a ridiculous thing to say, you have to keep yourself from laughing. You couldn’t imagine there was a person on earth more suited to have all the power he would inherit.

“You are not selfish. You are kind, and giving, and no one would be more suited to the role you’ve been given,” you say. He drops his arms to his side as you continue. “I’m happy. I’m happy now and I’ll be happy when you marry and I’ll be happy when you become King. I’ll be proud to have known you and happy that my life and everyone around me will be made better because of you.”

He narrows the space between you a little more. “I am selfish, little dove,” he says, his hushed tone is too intimate. You take a step back. He follows. “I don’t want to do it without you.”

“Will I be… let go?” you question, confused. “When you marry?”

He shakes his head.

“Then I’ll be here. I don’t plan on leaving.”

“I want you beside me.”

“Beside… you?”

He hums, fingers reaching out to play with the frills on your apron. You don’t understand where this conversation has led. You’d assumed he was gloomy because of the girl he loved, the secret courtship he’d mentioned a few weeks ago and the interference his arranged betrothal had caused. What did you have to do with any of this?

“Beside me, little dove. Doing it with me.”

“I don’t understand.”

His fingers trace the neckline of your apron, up to the straps over your shoulder. His eyes track his fingers, like there is something fascinating about the simple fabric that makes up your uniform.

“Have I ever touched you?” he mumbles as his finger brushes the skin at your neck, where your dress ends. A shiver runs up your spine. You’re sure he must notice. “I haven’t,” he says. “I would remember.”

You take a large step backwards, suddenly completely overwhelmed. “I have other duties. I should—I should go,” you say, curtseying quickly and escaping without looking back.

—

You replay it in your head that night, everything he’d said, the feeling of his fingers on your skin. You can’t make sense of it; why he was suddenly touching you, speaking to you about desire, like he—

You sit up suddenly, your bedsheets pooling around your hips. He loved someone. You were sure that was why he was upset, and then he’d started making it about you, asking you strange questions and touching your skin. It couldn’t be you. It didn’t make sense. Your heart races as you throw your legs over the side of your bed. Sliding your feet into your slippers, you stand and reach for your small oil lamp. Your fingers shake as you light it and you freeze as you knock your hairbrush onto the hard floor, silently praying no one was still walking the halls. Silence.

The path to his room is ingrained into your mind, you could make it there with your eyes closed tight. The guards outside his room don’t question you. They merely give you an odd look at your state of attire. You’d visited his room late previously, to stoke a fire in the dead of winter or deliver materials he might need when he was writing late.

You freeze when the door closes gently behind you, suddenly completely unsure what you were doing. The revelation you’d thought you had seems ridiculous now, standing here in his room, the crown prince sleeping soundly in his bed. Why would he love you? You were nothing. You press your hand over your heart. He’s not for you.

You turn just as his soft, sleep laden voice breaks the heavy silence. “Little dove?” he questions. “What’s wrong?”

You turn slowly, grateful the darkness might shield some of your shame. “Nothing is wrong, your highness.”

He huffs out a laugh, pulling himself up from the bed and swinging his legs over the side to stand. “Your highness?” he questions, amusement clear in his tone. He takes a few steps towards you before stopping suddenly, eyes dropping down your figure and then flicking back to your face. “What are you wearing?”

“I—”

“Has something happened?” he interrupts urgently.

You shake your head quickly. “I wanted to ask you about this morning.”

He sighs, shoulders sagging as he switches from panic to dejection. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have touched you, I was…. overwhelmed. This week has—”

“I didn’t come here for an apology.”

Interrupting the crown prince. You imagine your mother knowing. She’d likely drop dead from shock.

“I owe you one anyway,” he says.

“If you are going to start apologising for crossing boundaries, you have two years of talking to me like I’m not your servant to make up for.”

“Oh, I’m not sorry for that,” he says quickly, straightening a little.

“No, I didn’t think you were,” you murmur, smiling softly. Your kind prince.

“What are you here for, then? If not an apology,” he says, taking a step towards you.

You suck in a deep breath, preparing yourself. You were in his room in your nightgown. If you turned around and left now you’d toss and turn and get no sleep. Then tomorrow would be tortuous. You were exhausted enough on a normal day. That’s what you tell yourself. That’s how you force the question from your lips.

“What did you mean by ‘beside you’? You’ll be moving to another wing of the castle when you marry. I assume you mean you want me to come with you and if that’s the case it’s already decided that your staff will—” you cut yourself off, distracted by the amused smirk on his face. “What?”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Well for heaven’s sake would you just say what you mean?!” you blurt out.

He grins at your outburst. You’d officially shouted at the crown prince, at the man who would one day have absolute rule over you and everyone you knew. This was the danger of it all, of his treatment of you. You were too comfortable.

“I think you know what I mean, little dove. You came to me in the middle of the night, in your nightdress, to ask me. I think if you truly had no idea, this could have waited until morning.”

You want to hit him, to stomp across the room and beat against his chest. Could he not see he was hurting you? Dangling you on a string when you were so much less powerful than him, when he had all the power. It was for him to say. He had less to lose.

“You said you were prepared to be hurt, for this person you love to hurt you,” you say after calming yourself a little.

He frowns. “Yes.”

“What about her? Have you considered how you may hurt her? If she’s prepared?”

“Yes. It’s why I’ve tried my best to… resist her.”

Speak plainly! you want to scream. Break me out of this foolish delusion.

“What did you mean? Tell me what you meant. It’s cruel to play games with me, you know it is. I’m no one, I can’t afford to play games,” you plead.

“No one?” he laughs, taking another small step towards you. Then he smiles, a lopsided smile that doesn’t prepare you at all for what he says next. “I want you to be my Queen.”

He catches you by the wrist when you stagger back, taking the oil lamp from you before you can drop it. You were sure he’d have a reasonable explanation, anything but this. It doesn’t make sense. It doesn’t—

“Look at me,” he says, voice soothing and calm. Your eyes are fixed on where his fingers wrap around your wrist. “My love, look at me.”

Your eyes snap to his. His face is lit by the soft glow of the lamp he holds, brown eyes wide with worry and… something else. My love, my love, my love, your heart chants. “Love?” you whisper.

He nods. “Don’t hurt me,” he whispers.

You suck in a deep breath, suddenly feeling starved of oxygen. “You can’t,” you blurt out, pulling your wrist from his grip and taking a step backwards. “It’s not right.”

“I’ll make it right,” he says, taking your hand in his again. “I’ll refuse the marriage. They can’t force me down the aisle. We’ll wait until I’m King, until I can make any choice I like.”

You pull your hand from his again, backing up until your back hits the door. He takes one step towards you and then stops, letting his arm drop to his side. “You don’t want me?” he asks.

“It doesn’t matter what I—”

“It—” he interrupts.

“Listen to me,” you demand. “Just listen.”

He presses his lips together and nods reluctantly.

“I’m no one. You can argue with me about it for the rest of the night but it doesn’t change the fact that if anyone found out the way I spoke to you, the things you’ve just said to me, I’d be thrown out. I’d have nowhere to go and no way to make money and I’d be quickly, desperately hopeless. Everyone would know I’d been thrown out of the palace with no reference and I’d have to leave… somewhere far away. Do you understand?”

“I wouldn’t—

“Do you understand what I just said?” you interrupt. “This is less for you… this means less. You have nothing to lose.”

He closes the distance between you quickly and presses his hands to the wood either side of your head, caging you in. He’s quiet for a moment as he studies your face in the dim light, the oil lamp he’d placed on the small table beside the door the only illumination besides the fireplace. “Nothing to lose?” he whispers. “I could lose you.”

“I could lose everything.”

“Same thing,” he says easily.

“It’s not!” you shout as your eyes well with tears, shoving his chest until he’s forced to take a step away. “It’s not the same,” you repeat, lowering your voice.

“You think I don’t know that? I know that. I know what this means for you, how dangerous it is. Why do you think I’ve kept away.”

“Kept away?” you laugh. “I’m a servant, I’m your servant and you speak to me like I’m—”

“Yeah, well… I’m not a saint,” he interrupts. “I told you, I’m selfish. I did the best I could.”

When you say nothing in return he presses his hand to the wood again, the other lifting your chin to direct your eyes to his. “Tell me you love me, little dove,” he pleads, desperation leaking from his hushed tone.

You sigh, suddenly feeling incredibly drained. “What good would it do?”

“For me? A world of it.”

“Are you sure?” you whisper. “Are you sure it won’t…make it all worse.”

“Please,” he whispers.

You sigh again. He’s quiet as you cup his cheek with your palm, as you brush your thumb across his soft skin. You wonder if he’d smell like your soap, if you were to lean forward and press your nose to the crook of his neck. “Of course I love you,” you confess.

You can’t help matching the grin that spreads across his face, overwhelmed by the beauty of it. Then he’s pressing his lips to your forehead, a slow, drawn out kiss that he only pulls away from just when you think he might have attached himself to you permanently.

The spell breaks as he pulls away, reality crashing down onto your shoulders. “Not that it matters,” you mutter, dropping your eyes to the floor.

Then he’s laughing and you find yourself spinning around, feet dangling against his legs. He spins you around, his laughter vibrating through your chest. When he sets you on your feet he’s practically breathless and you find yourself unwilling to say anything at all, not when his eyes are so full of joy and his cheeks pink from laughter.

“Doesn’t matter?” he says, through the remnants of his laughter. “It changes everything, little dove. I didn’t realise… I didn’t realise how much until you said it. I’m going to keep you safe, I’m going to have you. I can.”

You frown, wondering if maybe he’d bumped his head at some point. Perhaps when he was catching you as you’d stumbled?

“It changes nothing,” you correct, stepping back out of his arms. “You will be getting married soon and I will stay your maidservant and that’s the way it was always going to be.”

“Have a little faith in me, dove? Hm?”

“I have faith in you. It’s everyone else, your parents, the court… you think they’ll let you back out of the arrangement they’ve agreed to?” you question. “You really think they’ll let you marry… me?”

“I won’t give them a choice.”

“It’s not up to you!” you cry, suddenly overwhelmed again. It’s all.. So much. So much. A tortuous sliver of hope in a world that had only ever been cruel to you. “Please—Please, just stop. It’s not—”

He steps towards you, taking each of your hands in his. “Give me a chance… give me a chance to try?”

When you say nothing he drops to his knees at your feet. You swear your heart skips a beat. You look to the door, imagining anyone walking in and seeing the crown prince kneeling at the feet of a servant; of someone who he shouldn’t even acknowledge.

“I have a chance… you’ve given me a chance at having everything I’ve ever wanted… I can taste it, I—” he pauses, pulling one of your palms to his lips and pressing a kiss to your skin. “I won’t let anything happen to you, I swear it. Let me try?”

It’s silly, childish, it’s everything you thought you werent, but seeing him there—gazing up at you like he might actually… love you—it feels like your knees are knocked out from under you as you collapse to the floor with him.

“I’m scared,” you whisper.

He tugs you forward into his arms, wrapping you up tightly. Your nightdress is thin enough that the warmth from his bare chest easily radiates through to your skin. You sigh, dropping your face to the crook of his neck. He smells like your soap.

“You’ve taken care of me for so long… every day… let me take care of you now, hm?”

You want to say yes, to give in to him. Your heart thumps hard in your chest, like it’s begging you to give in, banging his fists against your ribs and screaming ‘Let me out! Let me have him!’. It would be foolish to trust someone with so much power, especially when you had none. You should walk away now, ideally find employment somewhere far away from him, before you can be hurt. It’s too late, a small voice reminds you. You’ll be hurt either way now.

“Do you promise?”

He lifts your face from his neck, warm hands cradling your face. You feel exposed, even in the dim light of the room. When he says nothing and merely trails his eyes over your features, you’re not sure what he’s looking for. There’s nothing interesting or unique about your face. You’d always thought you were well suited to a job where you were supposed to blend in.

“I’ve got you, little dove. I promise,” he whispers. He kisses your forehead again. “You should get some sleep,” he says before helping you to your feet. You expect him to drop your hand once you’re up, but he doesn’t. He stares down at where your hands join for a moment. It’s a comfortable silence. You were always comfortable with him, you realise.

When he finally releases you, it’s with a whispered goodnight and one last press of his lips to your forehead. You find yourself making your way back through the palace to the servants' wing on autopilot. You’re completely spaced out, trying to process what has just happened, how your life has changed. When you crawl into bed, you find yourself shaking. You roll onto your back and close your eyes, concentrating on the rise and fall of your chest as you inhale and exhale. He… loves you. You’d never even let yourself consider the idea before tonight and now you had his whispered promises bouncing around your head.

—

You’re pressed up to a wall the next morning, gathering yourself before you have to round the corner and enter his room to begin your morning routine. You had done the same thing almost every day for the past two years but never hours after he’d confessed… to loving you.

He’s still sleeping when you creep into the room. Usually you’d pull the curtains aside without hesitation, waking him with the bright morning sunlight, but not today. You creep around the room, completing all of your tasks as quickly and quietly as possible. He mumbles at one point and you freeze, fearing for a moment he’s awake. But his mumbling is incoherent and when he falls silent again, he doesn’t move. It isn’t long until you’re forced to face the task you’d been avoiding: the curtains. He’ll wake when you open them, he always did. You consider the distance to the doors, how long it will take you to reach them if you run. You suck in a deep breath. Be brave. You pull them open.

He stirs as you’re tying the first curtain aside. He mumbles something you don’t make out as you’re tying the second.

“Good morning,” he says as you turn to face him. He’s grinning, hair messed and flopping over his forehead. The sunlight streaming into the room lights his face. It’s blinding.

You head for the door.

“You’re leaving?” he asks. You pause.

“I’ve finished in here.”

He stands and makes his way towards you slowly. “Are you alright?” he questions.

“I have lots of work today. Do you need anything else?”

He frowns. “Have you changed your mind?”

“Have you?” you ask in return.

He smiles, closing the distance between you. His fingers play with the frills on your uniform, a new habit. You know the second the words leave your lips it's a stupid question. He didn’t make decisions lightly, not important ones. He’d spent the last two years chatting to you like you were a close friend and not someone employed to lay his clothes out and make his baths. You knew how long he spent thinking things through, how sure he had to be about someone before he trusted them. You remember when he started talking to you about things you’re sure he wasn’t supposed to. It felt like a shift. You sensed he trusted you, even if you weren’t sure what you’d done to warrant it.

“Do you trust me, little dove?” he asks.

You nod without hesitation. Whether it was foolish or not, you did trust him in return. A year into your time here you’d received news your brother had passed. You’d thought you could handle it, that working a normal day would take your mind off it. It had only taken him minutes to pick up on your mood. The second he’d questioned you, you’d broken into heavy sobs. He’d insisted you go to your family, that he’d cover for your absence. You’d thanked him meekly when you returned and he’d brushed it off, asking instead if there was anything else he could do. You trusted him. He was reliable and sure.

“I won’t change. I don’t make decisions until I know and I know this more than anything: I love you,” he says.

“Is my soap that nice?” you offer in return, unused to simple compliments let alone declarations of love.

He huffs out a laugh. “Mm,” he hums. “I simply can’t live without it.”

“You don’t have to wed me to get more soap.”

“Yes, but you could leave at any time.”

“Ah, so you have to entrap me into a marriage…”

He nods, failing to keep his lopsided grin at bay.

“For my soap,” you finish.

“For your soap,” he agrees.

—

You do your best to continue on as normal, to trust him to work on getting out of his betrothal. You were powerless and with everyday that passed (and with his increasing frustration) you were only evermore aware of that fact.

Then he falls. You’re just sitting down to a late lunch in the servants hall when everyone is suddenly rushing around, panicked commands and chaos throwing the entire servants wing into disarray. A pile of fresh linen is shoved in your hands with a quick, “Take these to the prince’s rooms.”

Your heart drops.

“What’s happened?!” you shout at her turned back.

“He’s injured,” she says impatiently. “Now will you go. Strip his bed. There may be blood.”

You stagger back a step, suddenly dizzy. Then someone shoves you from behind and you’re running. You expect the worst, for him to be dying. It’s not right, it’s not right. You crash into a body as you round a corner, struggling to keep the linens from falling onto the floor. You imagine never waking him again, never seeing the way the rays of morning sun would light his skin and deep brown eyes.

The room is full when you arrive, other servants scurrying around to light the fire and strip the bed of the expensive embroidered covers. You find yourself standing there, holding the pile of white linen in your arms, motionless.

Then he arrives.

You find yourself backed up into the wall as a swarm of bodies move into the room. All you can make out of your prince is a limp hand, dangling off the side of the makeshift stretcher he’s lying upon. Someone snatches the linens from your arms. Your eyes don’t shift from that hand, watching until it’s out of your sight, swallowed by the swarm of bodies.

“Go get more water!” someone shouts, and it’s only when a hand wraps around your arm that you realise they’re addressing you. “Water. Go.”

You obey, stumbling from the room.

—

You stare at the ceiling late that night. You hadn’t been allowed back in again. All you knew, all anyone knew, was that he was alive. You’ve talked yourself out of trying to see him over, and over, and over. Your uniform lays at the end of the bed from where you’d started dressing yourself and then undressing again. He’d be watched overnight; supervised. You couldn’t see him, not until morning.

Only, you find after a sleepless night that you can’t see him at all. No one is allowed to enter his room apart from a select few staff. Your superiors, longer serving and more trusted. You go about your days attempting to gather as much information about his progressing condition as possible. It isn’t suspicious to be curious about the wellbeing of the heir. No one questions your persistent enquiries. He’d fallen from his horse, thrown off. You couldn’t picture it, him being hurt. Vulnerable was the last word you’d ever associate with him. He was always strong, self-assured, calm. Him being anything but strong and healthy was wrong, unnatural.

You give in on the fourth night. The news had spread through the palace at lunch time that he was conscious; that he’d live. It’s too much to bear, to spend another night tossing and turning and having the last image of him in your mind be his limp muddy hand. So you dress as you prepare a speech for if he is still being supervised and you’re questioned. It’s risky to disobey clear orders. But you’d given into risk and danger the night he’d confessed.

To your surprise, the guards let you through. They recognise you and clearly assume you have permission to be here. You smile politely as you pass, pushing his doors open. You’re prepared to face an interrogation by his supervisor. He’s alone. It’s a good sign. He’s improved enough that there’s no fear of him worsening through the night. You approach slowly, reminding yourself you don’t know the extent of his injuries, to be prepared. He looks like himself, his expression peaceful and face free from any scars or bruises. You sigh, pressing your hand over your chest. A sense of calm falls over you for the first time in days. You can replace the image of his limp hand in your mind with his peaceful face, unmarred by injury.

You lean down to gently press your lips to his forehead. He doesn’t stir and you watch his chest rise and fall steadily for a minute or so before turning to leave. He was alive. You’d seen it. Now you can rest.

Three days after that you’re instructed to continue on as normal, to wake him and prepare him for the day as you had for the past two years. It seems too soon. But you have no power, so you say nothing. You hesitate at the door, sucking in one final deep breath.

You go for the curtains first this time, selfishly perhaps. You want to speak to him, to hear his voice, to have as much time with him as you can before you’re forced to continue on with your day. The first hum of his voice as he stirs is too much to resist. You rush to his bedside before you’ve finished tying the curtains aside.

He blinks up at you, eyes adjusting to the sunlight. Then he smiles. It takes your breath away.

“Good morning, little dove.”

You throw yourself over him, pressing your face into his neck and breathing him in. His short breath of laughter tickles your skin.

“I missed you,” he mumbles.

“You were unconscious for half of it,” you point out, lifting yourself off him. “Are you feeling okay? I don’t know why they’re letting me back in so soon. You should rest.”

He grins, tilting his head a little. Ah.

“You talked them into this?” you question, already knowing the answer.

His eyes sparkle with mischief. “Like I said, I missed you.”

“You’re not getting up.”

“I’m not?” he asks, smiling up at you.

“No.”

“Are you ordering me around, little dove?”

“Yes.”

“I like it.”

—

He agrees to rest three more days and then he’s done. You know it the moment you enter. The curtains are drawn and he’s pacing by the fireplace.

“There you are,” he says, marching towards you. You were no later than every other day. He takes your hands and pulls you towards the window seat, a long bench that fills the window alcove. “I’m leaving,” he announces once you’re both seated. “Today.”

Be calm, you self instruct. He’s alive.

“Leaving?”

He lifts your wrist to his mouth and brushes his lips lightly back and forth against your skin.

“Father is sending me to Draemore. He says if I want to back out of the arrangement, I have to negotiate a deal myself.”

The arrangement for his marriage. He was to marry Draemore’s princess, to unite the two powerful kingdoms. It was a long journey.

“You can’t go anywhere, you’re hurt,” you insist, sensing a panic rising in your chest.

“I’m fine.”

“You—”

“Trust me,” he says. “Let me do this. Please?”

“You can do what you like,” you say, attempting not to clench your jaw. Powerless.

“Tell me it’s okay. That I can go.”

A shameful part of you wants to tell him it isn’t okay. That you’re afraid he might be hurt again and leave you forever. An even more shameful part is even afraid he might meet Draemore’s princess and be tempted by her beauty. That he might realise she’s the better option, that you aren’t worth it. You aren’t ready to be parted from him. Each night you resist the temptation to visit him, to tell him you struggle to spend any time away from him at all.

“Is it… what you want?” you ask.

“I want to get out of this betrothal. I want to be free of it.”

You fiddle with his fingers. You’d always thought he had beautiful hands. “How long will you be gone?” you murmur.

“I don’t know. As long as I need to be.”

“Oh.”

“I’ll be gone as long as I need to be so that when I come back I’m yours,” he says, voice soft and soothing.

Mine, mine, mine, mine, your heart thrums. “I’ll miss you,” you whisper.

One corner of his mouth lifts. “Mm? How much?”

“Only a little.”

“Ah, only a little…”

“Don’t fall off another horse,” you mumble, adjusting his collar. “Please.”

“Is that an order?”

“Yes.”

“Alright, no falling,” he says, smile containing a hint of sorrow. “Can I ask something of you in return?”

“Is it more soap? Because you’ve got all I’ve made recently.”

“No.”

“Go on, then.”

“Kiss me goodbye,” he whispers.

You look to the door, reminding yourself that no one ever came in at this time of day besides you. It was always a risk, nonetheless. Everything you were doing with him was.

He has a soft smile on his face as he waits for you to decide. His thumb brushes the inside of your wrist where your hand rests in his lap. If he does decide while away that you aren’t worth the hassle, that he can see something in her that he can come to love, you want to have this one moment to keep. To know that at one point he wanted to be yours. You know now that he could slip away at any moment, either because of a princess or an accident.

You watch the corner of his mouth lift slightly as you lean forward. Then you’re brushing his lips with yours, barely touching, sharing his breath. His hand lifts to the back of your head and then you’re joined. Your heart leaps. Finally, it rejoices as you get your fill of him. Don’t forget, you beg. Remember this, remember having him. His lips move over yours like he’s doing the same, savouring you.

You think about how his plush lips had felt on yours all day, up until you’re lined up with the rest of the staff to see him off. That’s the only moment that is more important, watching him climb into the carriage and disappear from your sight for the foreseeable future. You press your hand to your chest.

—

The first time you find yourself standing in front of his bedroom doors, he’s only been gone a week. There’s no guards. They have no one to guard. Minho isn’t here. Still, here you are.

You push the doors open and close them quietly behind you, not that there’s anyone around to hear. The room is dark, cold, and empty. Your small oil lamp is the only light and heat provided now that he’s gone.

You look at the door one last time before placing the lamp on the small table beside his bed and crawling onto the mattress. It’s a world away from the thin mattress on your own bed. You sink into it, resisting the urge to pull the covers back and fully envelop yourself.

It reminds of sneaking into your aunt and uncle's room with your brother while they were at the market. Of climbing into the bed with your dirty clothes and giggling as your brother bounced on the mattress at your feet. You’d spent some time with your cousins as a child, when your parents were struggling to feed you and your siblings. As the two oldest, you and your brother were sent away. You were just grateful to not be alone.

—

You spend some time at his bookshelves on some nights, perusing his personal library. You pick a new one out each time and crawl back into his bed. The words weren’t his, but he’d chosen them, decided to keep them in his room. You scour the pages as if he’d written them himself.

You save one book until last, he’d made you read it to him on one of the days he’d spent in bed. “Don’t stop,” he’d ordered. “Even if I fall asleep.”

He’d nearly died. He’d nearly left you and just as you’d been settled in the fact he was okay, he left you for real.

—

Any news you hear of him or his return is passed through a chain of whispers so long the information is entirely unreliable by the time it reaches you. Still, you grasp onto the whispers, they are all you have. No one knows the purpose of his visit. The assumption you hear passed around is that he’s simply gone to visit his soon to be bride, to get to know her, to fall in love with her.

“Perhaps he’ll be bringing her back,” someone comments from across the table as you shovel porridge into your mouth.

“I doubt it. It’s a long journey to have to do twice. She’ll come for the wedding in a few months,” someone else chimes in.

“What if he isn’t back until then? It’s been four months, what’s a few more?”

You stand abruptly, stool scraping along the floorboards. You feel a few eyes on you as you leave the room. Your appetite still hasn’t returned by supper.

—

You stab your finger with your sewing needle as the door slams open. You stick your bleeding finger in your mouth as the only person here (aside from Minho) you consider a friend rushes into the room and slams her hands on your small desk.

“He’s back,” she gasps, clearly out of breath.

You pull your finger from your mouth with a pop.

“What?”

“They’re having a dinner for his return and no one is prepared. It’s chaos out there.”

“He’s back?” you whisper.

She nods.

Chaos is an understatement. No one is prepared for his arrival. You’re one of many forced to help the cooks as they scramble to put together the celebratory meal. You narrowly miss cutting your fingers as you chop vegetables, distracted by the gossip surrounding you. No one knew if he’d arrived alone, if she was with him.

You’re reminded again how powerless you are, how little you are, when you realise there is no way you’ll be allowed anywhere near him the rest of the day. He’ll be surrounded by the members of the court, by his family, and you’re no one. You aren’t even allowed to be in the dining hall when dinner is served, too low on the staff pecking order for it to be considered appropriate. At least you discover he’d returned alone. He hadn’t brought her.

Late that night, when you’re finally released from cleaning, it’s the knowledge that he hadn’t returned with her that pushes you out of bed and towards his room. Whether he had failed in his mission to free himself from the arrangement hardly concerned you after months away from him. You needed to see him, hear his voice.

You don’t hesitate as you pass the guards, doing nothing to disguise your eagerness as you burst through the doors. Minho stands at the end of his bed with a book in hand, clearly taken off guard by your dramatic entrance.

It’s a protracted moment of silence that follows. You aren’t sure how long it lasts, too preoccupied with taking him in. After running your eyes over him for any obvious sign of injury, you do a more thorough inspection. His hair is longer, soft dark locks falling into his eyes as stares right back at you. You desperately want to brush it from his eyes, to run your fingers through it, to grasp a handful and hold him against you so he can’t leave you again.

“You’re back,” you finally breathe, disturbing the heavy silence.

“Ran out of soap.”

You burst into tears.

His warmth envelops you almost immediately as he wraps himself around you and tucks your face into the junction of his neck and shoulder. He’s quiet as you collect yourself, basking in the feeling of his body against yours. You snake your hands up around his neck to thread your fingers into his hair, the long strands giving you plenty to grasp onto. He hums when you begin pressing open mouthed kisses to his neck, trailing up to a small mole near his jaw.

“You missed me then?” he asks.

He attempts to pull back from you slightly when you don’t reply but your desperate grip around his neck prevents him. It’s enough to pull a breathy laugh from his lips.

“Don’t you want to know how I did?” he asks.

“Don’t care,” you mumble against his skin.

“You don’t wanna know if I’m yours?”

“You are. You’re mine. I don’t care what any of them say… you’re mine.”

He lifts you off your feet and falls back onto his bed, pulling you down onto him. Your leg slots between his and your dress bunches up at your thighs. He huffs out a small laugh at the squeak that escapes you at the sudden fall.

“Is that right?” he grins.

You lift yourself onto your elbows to take him in properly. He blinks and shakes his head a little, attempting to dislodge some hair from his eye. You brush it away for him, tucking it behind his ear gently.

“You’re mine, Minho.”

The smile drops from his face, a few slow blinks following. “Say it again,” he whispers.

“You’re mine.”

“Say my name.”

Ah. You suppose that’s the first time you’d ever addressed him by his name, the first time you’d ever spoken it aloud at all. You can’t help laughing a little at the idea of it, at anyone you worked with knowing you’d addressed him by his given name, while lying across his half naked form. Then you find yourself on your back, the heir to the throne hovering above you.

“Say it,” he commands again.

“Promise you won’t leave me again.”

“Hm?” he hums.

“Just…. promise you won’t leave me alone again. Promise me.”

“Did you miss me that much, little dove?” he asks, tone soft and gentle.

“Desperately.”

His lips curve into a sad smile. “I won’t leave you again.”

“Promise.”

“God himself will have to drag me from you, I promise.”

“No, not even that.”

“Alright, not even that. I’ll die a natural death many, many years from now.”

You nod, satisfied. “Can I stay with you?” you ask, feeling brave. His absence had unlocked something in you. Your fear of rejection seemed inconsequential compared to being parted from him.

“Stay… here?”

“I’ve… gotten used to your bed.”

A slow grin spreads across his face. “Have you been slipping between my sheets while I’ve been away, little dove?”

“I read most of your books, too.”

“I like it, the idea of you making yourself at home in my space. Our little nest, hm?”

“So I can stay?”

“If you ask nicely.”

You roll your eyes and reach up to tug at his earlobe. “Please, can I stay with you?”

His nose scrunches. “Nicer.”

Nicer than—Oh.

“Please, Minho? Please can I sleep here with you?”

He hums. “Anytime, my love,” he whispers, brushing his lips over yours. You lift your head slightly, attempting to kiss him properly. He lets you have one taste, one taste of his upper lip and then he’s pulling you to your feet and detaching himself from you. It’s incredibly upsetting. Before you can announce your displeasure his fingers slip into the neckline of your uniform, barely ghosting over your skin.

“Are you going to sleep in your uniform?” he whispers.

“It’s clean. I—”

“Doesn’t look comfortable.”

“I’m okay,” you assure him.

“Get in,” he says, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead and nudging you gently towards the bed. You don’t hesitate, crawling up the huge mattress to settle under the covers.

It’s not until you’ve pulled the heavy blankets up to your chin that you notice what he’s doing: stoking the fire. You sit up to watch, unable to resist watching him do something so simple and yet entirely new. He smiles a little when he turns to see you staring.

“Warm enough?” he asks.

You nod eagerly. “I’m used to no fire at all.”

He frowns, halting where he’s climbing into the bed. “You don’t have a fire?”

“Downstairs? We have fires. I just—I didn’t want to risk lighting yours… while you were away.”

He crawls in beside you and you lower your head to the luxurious pillow to face him.

“It’s been freezing for weeks,” he mutters, shuffling closer. “You really slept in here with no fire at all?”

“You have lots of blankets.”

He grumbles something under his breath and then he’s tugging you towards him. He’s quiet once you’re settled against him, breathing even.

“These frills are scratchy,” he whines just when you think he’s fallen asleep.

You huff out a small laugh as you pull away from him. “Fine, since you want me unclothed that badly.”

“My intentions are pure. I want you to be comfortable.”

“Yes, your highness.”

“Your highness?” he huffs, offended.

You grin at him as you untie your apron and carefully fold it. His eyes don’t leave you as you work at removing your dress as well. You’re forced to look away first. When your flowy chemise is the only thing remaining, you crawl back in, avoiding his gaze. He tugs you towards him again, warmth seeping quickly through the single layer of fabric separating you.

“Better,” he hums.

He’s quiet again for a while, but you are never fooled twice and you’re prepared when he speaks up again. “I negotiated a new arrangement. I had to correspond back and forth with my father to figure out the details. That’s why I… was away longer than I would have liked.”

A new arrangement… one where he didn’t have to marry her?

“You’re… free?”

“Mm, little dove. I’m yours.”

You cling to him, wrapping your leg around his hip. “I want to be yours, too.”

“Hm? Who says you aren’t?”

“I’m no one,” you mumble.

“Says who?”

“Everyone except you. I’m invisible.”

“Well I say you’re everything,” he says softly. “I say you’re mine. Whose opinion matters more to you?”

“Yours,” you whisper.

“Mm, good girl,” he says, kissing your forehead. “Get some sleep.”

“Minho?” you whisper after a moment of silence.

“Mm?”

“Can I ask something of you?”

“If you’re going to say my name like that, anything.”

“Goodnight kiss?”

“That’s a big ask,” he says, clearly teasing. “Do I get something in return?”

“What do you want?”

“One tomorrow night.”

“Then I get one the night after that.”

“Then I—”

You cut him off with your lips.

—

You wake before him, used to a much earlier start. You can’t resist watching him for a while, taking in his longer hair and parted lips.

Then you get dressed, pulling your uniform on and tying yourself into it like you do any other morning. The guards should have changed shifts only a half hour ago, hopefully enough time to assume you’d simply started on your duties early—rather than… spent the night with your limbs wrapped around the crown prince. It was ridiculous to be paranoid at all, you tell yourself. You’re invisible.

When you return an hour later, Minho is still asleep. He’s rolled over, spread out across your side of the bed, like he’d been reaching out for you in his sleep. Your heart jumps a little at the idea of it.

He’s ready for you when you return that night, perched in bed with a book he wants to read with you. It’s a new one. You hadn’t found it on his shelves.

The night after that he kisses your neck, rolling over you and slipping your chemise off your shoulder a little to give him more skin to work with. It leaves you breathless.

A week later you wake to him pressed up against you, hardness grinding into you as he mumbles in his sleep. You kiss him awake, playing with his ear and asking him if he’d been dreaming. He pulls you into his chest, hiding his face from you.

Two nighters after that, he watches you prepare his bath. He’s been quiet all day, mind somewhere far away. You’d hoped he’d open up, trust you enough to share whatever was bothering him. He’d offered nothing.

“It’s ready,” you announce, placing a new bar of soap from your newest batch on the small stool beside the tub.

He says nothing, unmoving from his perch at the side of his mattress.

“Do you need help with your cuffs?”

He looks up at you, brows furrowed. “You should have it,” he says.

“The bath? Are you saying I smell?”

He laughs, the first laugh you’d seen from him today. “I just want you to have it. You’re always putting so much care into it, I—I don’t imagine you take as much care when you’re preparing your own.”

“Not usually, no.”

“I'll make sure no one disturbs you,” he says as he stands.

“I—”

“I’m not using it. Don’t let it go to waste,” he says, marching for the door and leaving you there, dumbstruck.

It’s the nicest bath you’ve had in your life. You can’t remember the last time you’d bothered to heat the water, let alone soak for an entire hour.

When he wraps himself around you later that night, you whisper a thank you into his neck. “Don’t thank me, little dove. I’ve done nothing.”

—

“Remember when I said I was selfish?” he murmurs in between open mouthed kisses to your neck.

“Mm,” you hum, only partially listening.

“I’m greedy too, and impatient, and—”

“What are you talking about?”

“I want you, little dove. I want you so badly.”

“I’m yours.”

“I want to taste you, I want to feel you, I want to bury myself inside you and hear my name on your lips.”

“I-I want that too.”

He groans. “Don’t… don’t say that. It’s not—”

“Right?” you finish. “According to everyone else, we’re not right at all..”

“I shouldn’t be letting you sleep here, I should wait. You deserve—”

He was royalty, tradition and formality was baked into his blood. He believed in virtue and consummation on the night of a wedding and everything proper.

“You think I care about any of that nonsense?”

“But I do. The fact we’ve been sharing a bed together before—”

“We’re married?” you grin.

When he doesn’t return your smile, you know he’s serious.

“We can wait,” you soothe, playing with the hair that hangs down between you. “If it’s what you want.”

“I want to strip you bare and bury myself inside you.”

“Alright,” you grin. “If that’s what you want.”

He rolls off you with a groan before grumbling a goodnight, keeping his distance until he falls asleep. He reaches towards you a little while later, mumbling something incomprehensible into your hair as he drapes himself over you.

—

“I was wondering… if maybe I could bathe in here again?” you ask from the end of his bed.

You suppose it’s cruel to tease him. But it’s fun. You haven’t had much time for fun in your life, nor opportunity for it. It makes you feel powerful, seeing the way he clenches his jaw and drops his eyes down your legs each time you step out of your dress. You weren’t used to power either.

“It’s… late. You want to… now?”

“Please?”

“I—Yeah, if that’s what you’d like.”

“I’d like it.”

He throws the covers back. “I’ll be in the library if—”

“You can stay,” you interrupt.

He stumbles over nothing and whips his head over to you. It’s so comical you can’t hold back the tiny huff of laughter that escapes your lips.

His eyes darken at the sound. “Are you teasing me, little dove?”

“I’d like you to stay.”

A switch back to timidity. “You want me to… stay as you…”

“Bathe, yes.”

He sits at the edge of the mattress as you prepare the bath, standing only to take full buckets of water from you when you enter the room. He’d taken to doing things like that, take up some of the tasks that fell under your job description. You’d even found the bed made up one morning. You’d had to redo it, it was a sincere effort, but not quite up to standard. He’d noticed of course and the next morning he’d asked if you could teach him to do it properly.

He blinks at you from the side of his bed as you walk towards him. Then he holds his hand up, palm facing you. The universal symbol for stop. You do.

“I can’t—I—”

“You don’t have to touch me,” you whisper. “Is it wrong if you don’t touch me?”

“Yes.”

“It’s also wrong to want to marry me though, isn’t it? You’re ignoring that rule.”

He’s quiet as you undress… apron… dress… stockings… His eyes fix on the piece of ribbon tied together at your chemise’s neckline. It’s the only thing keeping the fabric from slipping off your shoulders and falling to your ankles, leaving you entirely bare.

“No touching?” he whispers.

“No touching.”

His hand drops to his lap. You tug the ribbon free, keeping your eyes on him as the fabric slips off one of your shoulders. This was as much as he’d seen up until now, as much as he’d dared to explore when he presses kisses down your neck at night.

You shrug the other shoulder off, then let the flimsy fabric drop down to your ankles. It should be scary, being this vulnerable, completely bare. His eyes rake over you. It’s the way he looks at you, like he was starved and you were something he desperately craved. How could you possibly be afraid when he looked at you like that?

When you move closer, he leans slightly back, like you’re a threat. “Are you okay?” you whisper as you reach him.

He doesn’t look up from your breasts and when he speaks, his warm breath ghosts over your nipples. “No touching,” he breathes.

“Good boy,” you whisper.

You’re tempted to close the distance, to feel the brush of his plush lips against you. You resist. He stands as you take a few steps away from him, following you as if there’s an invisible line of string attaching him to you. Power.

When you nudge the small stool by the side of the tub with your calf, the sound of the wood bumping against the tub snaps him from his haze. He pauses, hands limp at his sides as you climb over the side and into the warm water. It’s heaven, the tub curving perfectly around your spine and neck, offering a relaxing headrest. You drop your head back and close your eyes, aware of the silent prince watching from the sidelines.

“The stool might be more comfortable,” you mutter after a moment of silence. “Unless you prefer to stand.”

You blink your eyes open when he doesn’t answer to find him still standing, looking completely lost.

“Minho?”

He blinks slowly, then tugs his eyes up to yours.

“You can sit on the stool,” you repeat.

He nods slightly then clumsily positions himself on the small wooden stool at the side of the tub. Clumsy wasn’t a word you’d found yourself associating with him. He was poised, talented with a sword. He’d dance around his opponent like it was no effort at all. He was in control, always, even of his own body.

“Could you pass me the soap?” you ask after a moment.

“I shouldn’t be here,” he mumbles, reaching for the soap without pulling his eyes from you. He passes it to you absentmindedly, like his fulfilment of your request was entirely subconscious.

“Says who?”

He smiles, catching on quickly. He was quick, your prince. Witty and smart and kind.

“Everyone except you.”

“And whose opinion matters more?”

“Yours, my love.”

“Good boy.”

He grins.

He looks forlorn as you slip back into your chemise when you’re done. You can’t help laughing a little at his sad eyes and pouty bottom lip. He suggests you take another bath the following night.

—

Your encounters with the rest of the royal family were few and far between. You were assigned to the prince’s wing, that was where you spent most of your days. So when you’re summoned to the Queen’s rooms, your heart drops into your stomach. You’ve been found out, it screams. They’ll take him from you. Or more accurately, take you from him. It’s all that races through your mind as you climb the stairs with shaky legs. You wonder if you’ll even get a chance to say goodbye, to tell him you don’t regret it. That the only thing you regret is not having him completely, just once.

She doesn’t look up as you enter, preoccupied with something on her dresser. You stand patiently, attempting to calm your breathing.

When she eventually stands and turns to face you, a tiny sliver of hope creeps its way into your chest at her lack of apparent anger. She doesn’t look like she’s about to scream at you to leave the palace and never return for threat of imprisonment. Her eyes trail up and down your form, inspecting you. She knows.

“I want my son to be happy,” she says finally. “I want it more than anything else. You will understand that feeling one day, I’m sure.”

You’re quiet, waiting for permission to speak. She doesn’t give it.

“He has been distracted for a long while,” she continues, taking a few slow steps towards you. “It became evident to me why, when he expressed how displeased he was at his betrothal. He was in love.”

She closes the distance between you and lifts her hand to adjust the apron strap over your shoulder. It feels entirely different to the way Minho does it.

“I want my son to be happy but I also want him to be a good King, a glorious King. A king who puts his people above his own wants and desires. I’m sure you understand.”

You understood, you understood completely. You were his ‘wants and desires’ and clearly he was putting you above what was best for everyone else. Remove yourself, she was saying.

“Do you think he will make a good King, child?”

“Yes, your grace. I—I know he will.”

“I do not blame you for loving him, he is easy to love. But you cannot encourage him any longer. You have intelligent eyes, I’ve learned over these many years to understand people very soon after I make their acquaintance. You are not foolish. My son would not love a fool. You must know it’s unreasonable to expect him to make you Queen.”

“I—”

“I imagine he’ll be just as happy to have you by his side as his concubine.”

“His… concubine?”

“It is not unheard of for concubines to come from common families, my dear. I hope you… can understand my position. I do not consider myself a cruel or unreasonable woman. I want my son to be happy and the kingdom to thrive. This is for the good of all, you understand.”

“I—I understand.��

“Good. As long as you remain discreet, and you make him understand the importance of him marrying for the good of the kingdom, then we shall put this behind us.”

“Me?”

“You must make him understand. I’m afraid, my dear, you have found yourself in a position of great influence over him.”

“I… can’t make him do anything.”

“Are you sure of that?”

—

You hardly sleep that night, shaken from your encounter with Minho’s mother—the Queen—and unused to sleeping alone. It makes the next morning even harder as you trudge up the many stairs and hallways to his room. You’re not prepared, but you have no choice. This is your role.

You’re not surprised when you find him pacing, curtains drawn and bed made. If you weren’t so consumed with anxiety you’d find it amusing, how you had the crown prince trained.

He marches towards you, placing each hand on your shoulder and running his eyes over you. “Has something happened?” he questions, panic evident in his voice. “You didn’t come. Are you ill?”

“I’m well,” you answer simply.

He drops his arms and takes a small step back. “You didn’t come.”

“Must I sleep here every night?”

He frowns. “I—I suppose not. I just thought—”

“The Queen summoned me to her rooms.”

“What?”

“She knows.”

Panic flickers across his face before he can mask it. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

“Minho.”

“They won’t take you from me,” he continues. “It’s not—”

“She wants me to convince you to make me your concubine, when you become King. To convince you to choose a Queen who is… right for the kingdom.”

“I have. You are right.”

“Be serious.”

“I’ve never been more serious. I’m not making you—” he pauses, sucking in a deep breath and drawing his hands down his face. “I will not demean you by giving you a position in my life less than anyone else. You’ll be my Queen, you’ll be beside me and below no one. That’s it.”

“She knows, Minho. If you…refuse. I think she’ll take it into her own hands.”

“She won’t take you from me. I’ll make it clear I’ll never forgive her if she tries.”

You sigh, tempted to drop to the floor where you stand. You’ve been in denial, blissful denial, and so—clearly—was he. He steps into you, lifting your chin with his fingers.

“I will have you, little dove. I’ve decided. I decided long ago,” he says, brown eyes swirling with emotion. “Have faith in me. That’s all you have to do.”

You offer him a sad smile and a small nod. He pulls you into his chest, wrapping his arms so tightly around you, you almost can’t breathe. You bask in it.

“Come to me tonight. Please,” he pleads. “Tell me you’ll come.”

“Okay.”

—

He’s quieter than usual in the following days, offering little conversation and simply wrapping himself around you when you come to him at night. It hurts, seeing him anything but full of joy. You have no power, you’re reminded yet again. You want to have power over everyone and everything that dares to make him feel anything but joy.

Then he’s angry, you feel it the minute you enter his room. He’s hunched over his desk and doesn’t look up at you when you enter. He doesn’t yell, he doesn’t even grumble, he just radiates anger. It’s not directed at you, you know that. He drapes his leg over you and presses his lips to your neck when he finally crawls into bed with you.

When his mood still hasn’t lifted the following night, you’ve had enough. You roll over him, pressing his hands into the bed beside his head. “Tell me,” you command. “Tell me what’s bothering you. I want to help you.”

“You help me every night.”

“I want to be more than a warm body. You’ve… stopped telling me things.”

“Let me handle it. You don’t need to be upset by them.”

“Beside you, you told me you wanted me beside you, not behind you.”

His lips curve into a small smile. “Will you release me first? Please?”

You lift your weight from his hands, letting him stroke the hair from your face.

“She’s threatening to tell my father. He… won’t be as agreeable as my mother was. I don’t know what he’ll do if—”

“She wants you to agree to another marriage?”

“She wants me to promise I’ll consider someone else, that I’ll consider making you—”

“Agree to it, then,” you interrupt.

“What?” he frowns, hand dropping from where he’d been idly playing with your hair.

“Tell her you won’t marry until you’re King, that you’ll consider making me a concubine but you won’t marry anyone else until then.”

He frowns. “It would be a lie.”

“She wants you to be happy, Minho. She loves you and if she can see hope for having what she believes to be best for you, she’ll take it.”

“I’ll think about it,” he mumbles, pulling you into his chest again.

You trace over his chest with your finger, something you often did when lying in his arms this way. You want him stress free. He doesn’t react at first when you snake you arm up over his hip to fiddle with the waistband of his linen pants. It’s not until your fingers slip beneath the fabric that he jolts, practically jumping away from you.

“What are you doing?” he whispers.

“I want to feel you.”

“We can’t.”

“You don’t want to?”

“You know that’s not why.”

“Let me feel you, Minho. Please? It’s just touching, it’s not—”

He lips are on yours before you finish. He tugs you over him, slipping his hand up from your waist to hold the back of your head as he takes his fill of you. You imagine pulling your chemise over your head, feeling his skin against yours properly for the first time. Just the thought of it pulls a small noise from your throat. He hums into your mouth, fingers tightening their desperate grip in your hair.

It’s all the encouragement you need to slip your hand down between you and into his pants. He gasps into your mouth as you wrap your fingers around him, smooth, and warm, and only for you.

“Is that nice?” you whisper against his lips.

He squeezes his eyes shut, plush lips brushing yours as he takes deep uneven breaths.

There’s no going back, you realise. Now you’ve seen the way his pretty features transform with pleasure. The way you touch him is not based on knowledge or experience, you’re guided by his reactions. The way his hips jump off the mattress or the small noises he releases into your mouth.

Then he’s over you, consuming you, hips rolling into your thigh. “Just touching,” he gasps as he tears and claws at your chemise, practically ripping it off your shoulders. He pauses his frantic exploration when your nipples are freed, that same trance falling over him from the first time you’d bathed in his presence.

His hand hovers over your breasts as you watch the way his lips press together and part again, wet from kisses. “Just touching,” he breathes again, still hovering. You reach up to take his hand, pressing lightly until his warm palm cups you. His thumb moves back and forth instantly, brushing over your nipple as he squeezes a little. Then he sits back, readjusting himself over you so he can do the same with the other.

You lie there under him, chemise pulled down under your breasts as he palms them, eyes glazed and lips parted. The way he looks at you has always made up for the way others don’t. When you aren’t with him you are nothing, unseen and unimportant. But your prince? He sees you when you speak and he sees you when you don’t, he sees you and he looks at you like no one more important has ever lived.

“More,” you whisper. “Touch me more.”

His eyes flick up to yours and at first you think he might be about to cry. They’re almost watery and so full of emotion, it takes your breath away.

He leans forward, lips brushing over yours and then pressing firm. It’s almost punishing before he melts, leaving messy, lazy kisses across your mouth.

When he begins kissing a trail from your lips down to your neck you wrap your arms around his neck, holding him to you. His ear is perfectly positioned at your mouth. You can’t resist tugging his earlobe between your teeth. “Touch me, Minho,” you whisper into his ear.

“Shouldn’t,” he mumbles into your neck.

You entangle your fingers in his hair and tug his face from your shoulder, forcing him to look at you.

“You’re going to marry me?”

“Yes,” he answers simply.

“I trust you,” you whisper. “I want you to touch me. I’m yours now. I’m yours—”

He kisses the words from your lips, desperate and consuming. It’s been months, months of tangling your limbs around each other and being pinned beneath him when you roll your hips one too many times against him. He’d bite into your shoulder, a gentle reprimand for teasing, for seeking more when he thought he couldn’t. It’s been months of desperately wishing he’d venture below your neckline, or up your thighs.

He leaves open mouthed kisses down your neck, laving his tongue across your skin until he reaches your breasts. You throw your head back as he tears at the fabric still covering your lower half, like after months and months of restraint he can’t bear to wait another second. He tugs it down your legs and tosses it aside before covering you again, pressing his bare torso down over you. Skin to skin, finally.

He’s warm… and heavy… and safe… and yours. You inhale deeply as he drops his face to your neck again, the smell of your handmade soap seeping out of him. It felt a little like a mark, like leaving a trace of you on him he could carry around with him throughout the day. Mine, it said. Mine.

“Just touching,” he mumbles into your neck again, like he’s attempting to remind himself of his own rule.

You tug at his hair, forcing him up onto his elbows. It gives you the space you need to reach down between your bodies and tug a little at his waistband. He squeezes his eyes shut again.

“Just touching,” you breathe.

His eyes flutter open. He blinks down at you for a moment, then you see it, the decision being formed. His jaw clenches and he leans down, tugging his linen pants down his legs. You tug him back down before he finishes, desperate to feel all of him against you. He fits against you perfectly, one of his thick thighs slotting between your legs.

You can also feel him pressing against your lower stomach, hard and warm and leaking a little wetness onto your skin. You wonder for a moment if anyone else has had him like this, pressed up against them, skin to skin. He hasn’t mentioned anyone else, never showed interest.

“So soft,” he mutters against your temple, wet lips brushing your skin. “My love, my heart, my little do—”

“Yours,” you gasp, clawing at his shoulders like he can’t possibly ever be close enough. Inside, inside, you want him inside you, as close as it’s conceivable to be. There’s an emptiness inside you, one that throbs between your legs, one that begs to be filled.

You’re completely pinned beneath him, unable to lift your hips even a little despite your desperation. You find yourself whimpering instead.

“What is it, hm? Need me to touch you?”

He lifts off you a little so he can move down your body and press kisses between your breasts, slow and soft, so soft they almost tickle.

“Say my name.”

“Mi-Min—”

He latches onto your breast, sucking the soft skin into his mouth. You tangle your fingers into his hair as he works, a slow methodical marking across your chest that only relents when he spends a few minutes at each nipple. His tongue flicks out across each one, leaving them wet.

“You can’t take these from me now, little dove. I’ve tasted you.”

“Won’t,” you gasp. “Yours.”

Then he’s wrapping his lips around one and sucking hard, tongue lapping over it once he frees you, like he’s trying to apologise, to soothe you. But then he does the same to the other, roughly sucking your nipple into his mouth and trapping you in a state of bliss.

You can feel him against your thigh, heavy and thick. He finally detaches from you with a groan when you roll a little against him.

He lifts off you. Your heart leaps at the loss.

But then he’s between your legs. You rise onto your elbows to watch him. He keeps his eyes closed as he kisses the inside of your thighs, trailing his way towards your centre. Hurry, you want to whine. Kick your legs and beg him to go faster like an insolent child.

He doesn’t.

He takes his time, practically worshipping the soft skin between your legs so leisurely you start to doubt he ever intends to stop.

“Minho,” you gasp eventually.

He looks up from between your legs, hair flopping down into his eyes. You snake your hand down your stomach, fingers slipping down to your folds. “Here,” you breathe.

He blinks slowly, then you watch as his eyes fall to where you want him most. He mutters something under his breath, something you can’t make out. Then he lifts his finger and lightly traces it down to your opening, collecting your wetness as he goes. You watch him part his lips as he presses slightly, not enough to enter, just a slight pressure, like he’s testing you. Then he pulls away and presses his finger between his lips up to his knuckle, sucking you from his skin.

He crawls up your body and hovers over you, mouth hovering over yours so closely they brush you when he speaks. “Sweetheart,” he whispers. “I’ve been starved of you all my life.”

You can’t help laughing as he kisses you, struggling to return the way his lips caress yours.

“Are you laughing at me, little dove?” he says, amusement clear in his tone. He lifts himself off you a little, giving you a clear view of his smile.

“I want you inside me.”

His smile drops.

You watch as he gets shy, as he avoids your eyes. This was one of your favourite things about him, his gentle core, the way he could be in line to be the most powerful person in the kingdom and still get shy. The first time you’d seen his ears tinge red you’d only been working here a little over two months. He’d been quietly reading when you’d snagged your stocking on a loose nail in the floorboards. The tearing had been audible. His eyes had dropped down your legs, to the skin that was now newly bare.

“Are you… alright?” he’d asked.

“Just some ruined stockings,” you’d shyly smiled back, still unused to a member of the royal family paying any attention to you at all.

You flicked your eyes over to him once he’d settled back down with his book, noticing the way the tips of his ears had clearly darkened to a pretty red. It was a reaction you’d become familiar with over the next two years.

“Are you getting shy on me, my love?” you whisper now, cupping his cheek with your hand and drawing his attention back to you.

“We can’t—”

“I have five younger siblings. I know the risks.”

“I can’t be… inside you until we’re—I won’t risk you—”

“Just a little… please. I need you,” you plead, lifting your head a little to taste his swollen lips. “I’m so empty.”

His brow furrows as he hums into your mouth, almost a pained sound. Then he’s moving back down your body to trace his fingers through your folds again. “Empty,” he mutters. His finger presses into you, a gradual, almost hesitant, exploration into your tight heat. It’s enough to have you squeezing your eyes shut, having him inside you even in this way. “So hot…” he mutters, breath brushing over you. “You’re so warm here…”

“You’re warm,” you mutter.

He pulls out of you, lifting his head to look up at you.

“What was that?”

“You’re warm,” you repeat a little clearer, stronger. “You’re so warm.”

“Am I?” he asks, a little amusement leaking into his tone.

“Mm, warm and kind and—”

“Have you gone and fallen in love with me, little dove? You sound hopelessly in love.”

“Love? That sounds horribly embarrassing.”

“Horribly,” he agrees, crawling up to cover you with his body again. “It makes me want to do foolish things.”

“Wha—”

You’re interrupted by the feeling of his heavy cock slipping through your thighs and through your folds.

“Like this, little dove. I want to be foolish, I want to feel your heat around me. Tell me not to, tell me—”

“Please,” you whine, rolling your hips against him.

He lifts off you before you can grab at him, hands reaching out at his retreating form. Then he’s grasping at your thighs, tugging you down the bed a little and settling himself between your legs. He drapes your thighs over his, using them to spread you open for him. “Not inside,” he says, more to himself than anything.

Then he lays his heavy cock over your cunt. It’s too much, too close. You plant your feet on the bed so you can lift your hips to milk any friction you can.

One of his hands grips your thigh, the other wraps around his cock, guiding it through your folds as you roll your hips. You’re whimpering at this point, desperate little sounds that do more than any words to convey your craving. You keep your eyes open as much as you can, entranced by the way he gazes down at your core.

“Can’t be inside,” he mutters, reminding himself.

The way you roll your hips makes it dangerous, twisting and writhing against the head of his cock. It nudges at your entrance occasionally, but then he takes control, readjusting himself before you can fuck down onto him.

“Minho,” you whimper. “Minho, please. So empty…” you practically sob.

His eyes flick up to yours. You plead with your eyes, one small tear leaking out and rolling down your cheek. He squeezes his eyes shut.

“Just a little,” you beg. “I’m warm, I promise, I’m so warm for you.”

With his eyes fixed between your legs again, you rub your hungry cunt against him, languorous rolls of your hips. This time, when he nudges your entrance, he doesn’t pull back. There’s a slight nudge of resistance, and then his tip is inside you, warm walls gripping him. You freeze, watching your gentle prince pant as his brows draw together.

“Gonna have you,” he mutters breathlessly. “Gonna keep you… beside me… have you like this every night. I will.”

You nod, even knowing he can’t see you, eyes still squeezed shut. He pulls back a little as they flutter open. Then he moves forward, drooling cockhead pressing back into you before you can beg him not to stop. He fucks you like this, just pressing the fat tip into you again and again. It's a risk, you both know it. He knows it well. He was always so responsible, thinking everything he did through and weighing the pros and cons. You’ve corrupted him. If he didn’t feel so delicious pressing into you right now, you might work up a little guilt about it.

Your cunt throbs at the feeling of him pressing into you and retreating, pushing and retreating. You clench down over him when he pushes inside, a small part of you hoping he’ll be tempted to venture further. You’d be so full, so close to him. He’d stretch you so perfectly, you know it. He’d make pretty noises and you’d bask in this one small way you could give. Power to give him joy.

Then he gasps your name and falls over you, lips attaching to your neck. He grinds against you, cock throbbing against your sensitive cunt. You’re leaking wetness onto the sheets now. You can feel it on your thighs. “I’ll have you properly,” he mumbles into your skin. “I’ll—”

He cuts himself off with a low groan, reaching down to tug his cock from between your legs and up your body. He rolls against your stomach, one, two, three, four times, then he’s releasing—warm cum spilling over you. He continues grinding into you, only falling limp after one final whimper.

It clicks in your head as you bask in the weight of him pressing you into the mattress, of his heavy breath against your neck. If someone tried to take him from you, you’d fight them with your bare hands. You were no one, but he was everything, and he was yours.

please don’t forget to leave feedback, it took me lots of time and effort and hearing your thoughts is what makes me want to write more. thank you.

#lee know smut #lee know x reader #lee know fanfic #kpop smut #stray kids smut #kpop imagines #skz smut #stray kids imagines #stray kids imagine #kpop scenarios #stray kids scenarios #stray kids x reader #skz x reader #minho smut #minho x reader #skz imagines #stray kids fanfic #skz scenarios #x reader

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sparklingchan · 6 months

Text

The way I love you || Lee Minho (Stray Kids)

Pairing: Reader(fem.) X Lee Know

Word count : 4k+

Warnings : Sexual implications, making out, prostitution, mentions of alcohol, mentions of death, cuss words.

Genre : Romance, angst, royal AU, suggestive.

Description: He was a prince, bound by his duty. She was a harlot, longing for someone to love her truly. In stolen moments beneath the moonlit city, they dared to dream of a love meant to be.

A/N : HELLO MY TUMBLR FAM! I'm back again with the Royal fics haha. And this time it's my boi Lino<3 I hope y’all like this! It's one of my favorites!

And as I promised, I'll make a masterlist for all the Royal fics. Here is the link. Do check out the other fics in this series(the stories are not interrelated)!

Minho hates coming to the main market; he hates the sticky workers bumping into him, he hates the smell of burnt meat, he hates the sound of noisy instruments people play in the name of music.

The only things he does like about the market is the wine, and you.

"Here for y/n again, my Prince?" One of the courtesans-Taylor- asks him just as he enters the tavern. She wears the brightest of lipsticks and smells like jasmine.

"I'm here for the wine." He says, which is only half a lie.

"As you say, my prince," Taylor giggles, "Your y/n is on the third floor as always. She hasn't had any customers today."

He walks the flight of stairs without breaking sweat and knocks on your door, excitement bubbling inside him.

The door opens and he catches a whiff of your rose scented perfume.

"Well, hello there," you smile at him, "Long time, huh?"

He chuckles, "It's only been three days, y/n."

You pull him inside by his collar, shut the door behind him and immediately draw your mouth to his.

You'd missed him, clearly.

In your dark lit bedroom, many men entered everyday for the purpose of their pleasure. But Minho was the only who entered this room everyday only to please you.

"Excited, aren't we?" He asks you when you push him onto the bed and climb over him, "I missed you, y/n."

You kiss him again; this time with more force, more passion and a lot more tongue. He reciprocates your action with equal enthusiasm.

As the night grows colder and darker, you find yourself cuddling with the man under your quilt. The love bites on both of your bodies barely visible under the light of a single candle.

"I wonder what magic keeps me coming back for more everyday. " Minho says softly, his fingers playing with your hair.

"Oh, does the 'Perfect Prince' not want to be seen in a whore's bed? Does it embarrass him?" You ask, playfully.

His mouth twists into a smirk, "Never. Not even in a thousand years."

He kisses you again and again and again until the last candle dies out and the quilt finds its place in some corner of the floor.

"Taylor, it's too early to be bothering me with customers!" You yell first thing in the morning, still sleepy and still cold from the absence of Minho's body against you.

"Y/n, it's not a customer. I need to talk to you." She yells back, "Open the door."

Groaning, you push yourself towards the door.

"What is it?"

Her face lacks the usual cheerfulness. She looks grim. Sad, almost.

"Minho didn't wanna wake you up," she pulls an envelope from her pocket, "He asked me to give you this."

"Okay. I'll read it later." You mutter. It's not unusual for Minho to deliver love letters for you sometimes. What's so special about this one?

"Y/n, read it." Taylor says, "Now."

There's an underlying urgency in her words that she tries to mask but doesn't escape your notice.

You walk back to your bed and open the letter.

Hi, y/n.

This is probably the last time that I'm writing to you. I feel sick even just at the thought of being without you but I have to do my princely duties now.

I'm getting married to Princess Sophie soon. My father commands it.

Y/n, I hope you can find it in yourself to forgive me someday. I really meant it when I said I loved you.

Minho.

Inside the half empty envelope are a few coins of gold.

He paid you. For sleeping with him. For the first time ever.

It's as if the air is forced out of your lungs. You find it hard to breathe, hard to keep your eyes open, hard to even comprehend Taylor's questions.

You're not even in that room anymore.

You are by the river at midnight, with Minho. He'd set up a fire and covered the both of you with a quilt while he sung a soft melody.

You are in the rain, shouting profanities at each other. That was the day when he first told you he loved you.

You are at the tavern's terrace, kissing him for the first time.

You are at the Royal Palace. That's the day he first sees you, bold and loud, not afraid to say 'no' to sleeping with his monstrous father.

You are at the main market, buying a new pair of earrings when an injured Prince shows up at the shop. That's when you first see him.

You only had one regret at present.

You never got to tell him how much you loved him.

"Y/n, I know you're grieving but you cannot refuse customers anymore. You know this is what brings food to your table!" Taylor wraps a shawl around your half naked frame, "You always knew Minho could not just leave the palace and come live with you in this brothel, didn't you?"

You'd had another episode today; screaming and punching a customer while he tried to take your clothes off.

That's three days in a row.

If Taylor hadn't been there, the boss would have killed you with his own bare hands.

"I know," you say, "But I just...can't. I cannot bring myself to accept the fact that he burnt down the past year to the worth of a few coins. I have no lust for gold. I have no desire for a family, especially when my own father sold me here. I only loved him and now, he's fucking gone."

Taylor rubs your shoulders gently.

"Y/n, I know. But you have to get yourself together or you will only hurt yourself." She replies, "For all I know, he could be already married now. Sticking his fucking tongue in Sophie's mouth."

You look up at her.

"What do you mean? His wedding is today?" You ask.

She nods, "The city has been decorated like never before."

You force yourself out of her embrace and rush towards your cupboard.

"What are you doing, y/n?" Taylor asks.

"Going to crash a royal wedding."

Minho has developed a habit of looking for your eyes everywhere he goes. It's not a good one, but he can't seem to get rid of this habit.

And on his wedding day, as he stands at the alter, holding his fiancé's hand while the priest talks about loving, cherishing and honoring Princess Sophie for life, he cannot stop himself from looking for you in the sea of people.

Rich and powerful people from all over the world are present in the hall but somewhere in between these people, he sees a glimpse of someone he knows. Too well, in fact.

"Y/n?" He whispers to himself, heart pounding against his chest.

"Minho, are you alright? Your hands are getting sweaty." Sophie whispers but he just shrugs, his eyes glued to you.

As were yours, to his.

You didn't think he'd notice you amongst the velvet clad aristocrats but he did. And you wish he hadn't.

The bride and groom exchange wine glasses and have a sip from it.

"If anyone has any objections to this holy matrimony, speak now. Or hold your peace forever." The priest announces and the room goes quiet.

Of course no one would object to this wedding.

No one except you.

Minho sees a single hand raised among the crowd.

"Yes, miss?" The priest says.

"How could the prince marry another woman when his child grows inside me? What about the seed that he left behind? If I choose to give birth to this child, will it be your successor, my prince?"

Minho feels the blood drain from his face.

"You! How dare you?" Minho screams at you, his heart breaking into a million pieces. He would never speak to you in this way, but he has to. To protect you from this mess you'd created, he must be harsh.

He is the prince and he will be safe but you, they wouldn't spare you.

"How dare you?" You yell back, eyes bloodshot, "Do you think a few coins could make up for what you did to me?"

"Quiet! You whore! Dare you to disrupt a royal wedding with false accusations?" The king-Minho's father finally speaks. "Guards! Take her to the guillotine and bedhead her!"

"Father, no! I will deal with this in my own way." Minho says, almost losing his calm. "Guards, take the woman to the dungeons."

Your tears roll down your cheeks and you quickly rub them off with your hand as the guards take you down to the dungeons. You're sure he's gonna get you killed.

You take one last glance at the man you love and smile at him.

So long, Minho.

The wedding is called off and Princess Sophie storms out of the wedding hall along with her father. Of course, Minho's father was furious.

"I will kill her. I will kill her with my bare hands!" The king slams his fist against the table, "She ruined everything! Everything!"

"Father, please calm down." Hyunjin-Minho's younger brother says. "We have to think of a way to make up with Princess Sophie and her family."

"He's right. Being angry won't solve our problem." Minho says, twirling the wine in his glass, a playful smile on his face.

The king glares at his eldest son, walks toward him and smashes the glass from his hands.

"How dare you sit in my room, relaxed as ever, while you've fucked up so bad?" He yells, " You slept with a common whore, impregnated her and I have to suffer for it?"

Minho wants to defend himself but he knows it's of no use when the king raises his fist in the air and punches right at Minho's nose.

Minho smells the blood before he sees it.

Hyunjin tries to stop the king and mouths at Minho, leave now.

Minho does as he is told.

That night, as he cleans the blood from his face, he finally let's himself relax a little.

Today was a blunder, a total disaster but at least he didn't have to marry some other woman. He couldn't imagine life with a woman he didn't love. He considered himself a coward for not fighting for you enough, which is why you were in prison. Nevertheless, he swears to himself that he will save you from this mess. It didn't matter what he had to do, he would make sure you're out of prison by tomorrow.

"You're a reckless idiot, y/n." He mutters to himself, "But you're my reckless idiot."

You've never seen Taylor look this sad before. Her eyes are bloodshot and the tip of her nose shines red.

"I told you," she says to you, handing you some food, "I told you not to do this. Now look what they've done! Minho has you locked up and you can be sentenced to death any minute!"

"Well, it was worth a shot, really." You say to her.

Taylor snickers at your words, "Also, are you really pregnant or did you make it up to get his attention?"

You chuckle, "Of course I'm not pregnant. I just thought it would add a bit spice to the drama."

"Fine. Whatever. Just do not die on me, y/n. I swear. You're my.." Taylor sucks in a deep breath, "You're my only family. Please."

You blink your tears away before Taylor even notices. You take a spoonful of the porridge she made and stuff it in your mouth so you'd forget about her words. You're too weak for this right now.

"Y/n, just promise me-" Taylor is interrupted by the prison guard.

"Prince Minho is here to see you."

Even the porridge in your mouth does not stop your heart from aching and your eyes from tearing up.

Why is he here?

"Your majesty." Taylor greets him with the basic courtesy. You, on the other hand are looking at everything but him.

"Taylor, may I have a word with y/n alone? My guards here will take you up to my room. I have something important to discuss with you as well."

Taylor nods with a word and follows his guard.

Now it's just you and him. In a jail cell. While your heart breaks knowing he will serve you with capital punishment.

Is it the heavens punishing a common whore like yourself for loving the prince?

Perhaps.

"Y/n, are you okay?" Minho says in a soft whisper. His voice is filled with concern but you cannot look at him. Absolutely not.

If you even as much glance at those eyes you'd fallen in love with, you know you might lose all your will power.

"Fine." You reply sternly, "What do you want?"

Minho sucks in a deep breath, "I wish I had more time to explain but it'll all make sense some day, okay? For now, just trust me."

He offers you a vile of clear liquid.

"It's not anything bad, I swear. Just trust me, please. " He puts it on your palm.

His touch sends shivers down your spine.

And just like that, he turns around and walks away.

You stare at the vile in your hands and for a split second, you wonder if he'd handed you some type of poison. You wish he did.

And when you open the vile and gulp down that bitter liquid, you pray to the gods that you never wake up again because that's when your body hits the ground.

Hyunjin is anxious from the moment he wakes up in the morning.

He's anxious while he has breakfast, he's anxious while he avoids the eyes of palace officials to sneak into the old quarters of his mother.

He's especially anxious when he sees you lying on the bed, lips pale and stiff.

"I hope this works for God's sake." He pulls out a vile of purple liquid from his pocket and carefully, pours it into your mouth.

He curses Minho for handing him with the scariest possible task ever.

And as he paces the room, waiting for the antidote to work, he prays to every God, every spirit, every deity he's ever heard of.

Within a few minutes, much to his relief, your eyes open.

You look at Hyunjin alarmingly.

"You..You're his brother." You say, almost as if accusing him of a crime, "Aren't you?"

"Yes, I'm Hyunjin." He seats at the foot of the bed, "How are you feeling?"

"Fine. But my head hurts real bad." You reply, "Where's Minho? That bastard gave me a bitter drink and disappeared!"

Hyunjin notices your hopeful gaze go from the ceiling of the room to his face and then to his outfit. The mourning outfit.

"Why are you in mourning? And why are you wearing that badge with a dove on it?" Your voice is alarmed and you immediately sit up.

You remember Minho had once told you that the dove badge worn by the Royal family implies a death of a member of the Royal bloodline.

"Is Minho okay?" Your words are almost a whisper.

"Well, y/n, it's a little complicated, I will be honest but if you come with me now and trust me on this-"

"Why the fuck does every keep on asking me to trust them? What is going on? Either let me die in peace or let me leave this palace! I cannot take this anymore. And, for the love of God, would you tell me if Minho is okay or not?"

"He's alive." Hyunjin sighs, " Everyone thinks he committed suicide last night. The city is mourning the death of their crown prince. "

You're confused, "But he's alive, right?"

Hyunjin manages a smile, "Yes, he's alive. He staged his death and is waiting for you by the river bank. "

You jump out of the bed at once, heart pounding against your chest.

"Take me to him, please."

The river bank is the most beautiful place in the city, filled with shops and tourists and traders and singers and life. It's beautiful. Unlike your room in the brothel, which was as lifeless as anything could get.

The only one who made that room lively was Minho.

Minho who taught you to play cards, Minho who once beat up a customer because he was harassing you, Minho who promised he'd give anything to get you out of that hell hole.

Minho who loved you.

Now, Minho stands by a boat, wearing a straw hat and gripping his sword tightly. Taylor stands beside him, a brown package in her hands.

And when Minho's eyes meet yours, you run to him as if he'd run away if you didn't, disappear into thin air, leaving you alone in that cold dark room once again.

And oh! Minho is so warm as he wraps you in his embrace. He's warm like the sun on the coldest winter morning, warm like a cup of tea, warm like a freshly baked cookie. He's warm and he's yours.

"What..what is going on?" You sob into his embrace, "Please, will you stay with me? Minho, please?"

Minho is crying too, which is surprising because you've never seen him cry. Upset maybe , but crying never.

Yet here he is crying like a newborn baby, crying because a part of him knows he's managed to save you somehow.

"I'm not leaving okay?" He says, still crying, caressing your cheeks, "We're gonna go far from this city. We're never coming back okay?"

You can only nod as Taylor gently pats your head.

"This is a farewell gift. From me." She smiles at you, handing you the package, "It's a wedding dress that I made. I hope you can wear it when the day comes."

And you're crying again. But this time, you're crying into Taylor's embrace. It's hard leaving behind someone who loved you like a sister.

"We'll write to you. We promise. As soon as we find a proper place to stay, we will write to you both. " Minho says, to Taylor and to his brother.

"Sorry for burdening you with this country. " Minho whispers when Hyunjin hugs him, "I hope you forgive me someday."

"Bullshit. Really, I've always wanted to kill you and get this crown for myself. You only made my job easier." Hyunjin jokes, patting Minho's back.

Minho chuckles. The boatman catches his eye and points to the sun.

"We should get going now, y/n. They'll be holding a prayer in the afternoon and we cannot risk anyone seeing us before we leave."

You nod, kissing Taylor's head softly, holding her gift close to your chest.

"Do visit us sometime." You say to both of them and they nod in unison.

Minho helps you on the boat and hands a few coins to the boatman.

The soft current of the river pushes your boat farther away from the shore, Taylor and Hyunjin wave goodbye to you. You feel horrible leaving behind the city of your birth. You feel empty and cold.

But Minho wraps his arms around you and the coldness vanishes. Minho is warm, and from now on, he's only yours.

4 years later.

"Your baby is fucking killing me, Minho." You groan as you get up from the sofa in your bakery.

You'd been sitting and munching on cookies for way too long perhaps.

"Hey, don't curse in front of the baby." He hushes you, caressing your bump. You feel the baby kick again.

You both laugh.

"Come on." He takes you by the hand and drags you to the sofa once again, ignoring all your protests.

Ever since you'd entered the seventh month of your pregnancy, Minho refused to let you do any work. And by any, you meant any work that involved physical activity.

In the mornings, he forced you to watch him sweep the floors whilst you made him breakfast. In the afternoons, he forced you to sit at the cash counter of your bakery and watch him bake stuff tirelessly while you interacted with the customers.

In the evening, he gives you snacks while he cleans up the bakery for tomorrow.

In the night, he holds you close while he whispers sweet nothings into your ears.

It was a routine but you'd come to love this routine.

You wouldn't trade it for the world.

"What are you thinking?" He pulls you closer and plants a kiss on your lips.

"Just something. " You reply, embarrassed.

"Tell me, love. What is it?"

And how could you ever say 'no' to him if he used that tone on you?

"Well, I was thinking," you mindlessly fiddle with his fingers, "Do you ever regret giving up the throne for me? I mean, you're royalty. And here you are washing dishes and baking cookies every day. You could have lived a lavish life, you know."

You sound sad, guilty even.

Minho chuckles at you. But doesn't say anything.

Instead, he pulls your face closer and kisses you. Passionately. Softly. Lovingly.

When he pulls away, you feel breathless.

"Does that answer your question?" His sincere eyes look into yours, his hands on your belly, "I wouldn't trade this for the world."

You pull him back in for a kiss because that's all you'd ever wanted to hear.

And because Minho is warm and he smells like cookies and he's yours.

141 notes · View notes

sugar-petals · 2 years

Text

[✖︎ sub!Lee Know] › 𝚜𝚖𝚞𝚝 𝚊-𝚣

⇢ PAIRING. lino x femdom!reader

words. 10k 😈 — every letter has a little scenario

WARNINGS. ⚠️ rated m/mdni, hard kinks, frottage, protected sex, vibrators, so much ass stuff, rimming, oral with toys (lee know receiving), consensual somnophilia, angst, pegging, fisting, fucking machines, finger sucking, restraints, some bits are vanilla

⇢ ♥︎ NOTE | yesss this characterization was so fascinating to explore. pick what you like, this is sort of a drabble collection if you will. have fun reading! a chan version is on its way, out valentine’s ‘23.

read it on ao3 | sub!idol masterlist

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

Complete pendulum swing every time, especially on days when he wants to be handled a little more roughly. Lee Know either needs to be left dozing under a blanket, breathing hard for a few minutes without any further body contact — or he is more than eager to have you all over him. Rolling through the sheets together in a big embrace, he secretly loves it. When your boyfriend needs silence and thinking time instead, you will know.

It’s important that you don’t interpret it as him sulking `oh, sex wasn’t that great today´. Of course it was. Minho is an all-or-nothing guy in relationships, almost like Hyunjin. He’d never put his lips between your legs if he wasn’t already dead sure you’d have a good time together. He’d never trust you with his body if he didn’t have a clue. And he knows exactly how to distinguish between a good dom and a bad one, trust me.

During aftercare, Minho’s attitude is always something along those lines— `Never worry about me´. Just to be sure: He can talk about mistakes. He doesn’t gloss things over. Hell, he’s Minho. Honesty on two sexy legs. But for the most part, you really can’t go wrong, and his exhaustion speaks of your boyfriend giving his all because it was so good and he wanted to contribute his part. Being a good sweet boy, being vocal, showing with his body how much he enjoys the moment until the sweat starts to run.

If he hated you, he’d not be out of breath. Someone who knows how to conserve energy like Minho, knocked out on the bed, barely knowing where he is and how and who? He’s literally putting all the effort he can come up with into subbing. Even if he’s laying there like a plank after sex and says he doesn’t need you attending to him, and he takes care of himself, the case is clear. Minho is super whipped. He’s an acts of service guy, you’ll know by the way he makes you popcorn after sex.

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

Doesn’t he have it all. Honey is one perfect allrounder. Cute, sexy, beautiful. A born triple threat. Yes, he knows his big thighs are very great, very juicy right there, and he knows you like them. A glorious sight in black latex pants, I don’t need to tell you. But. But! Recently, Lee Know has developed an appreciation for his side profile and eyes. The gentle lashes, his cute bunny teeth, and the innocent doe-eyed blinks have you feeling some type of way. He thinks that’s romantic of you. He will screenshot these texts of you peppering him with compliments. Minho is all gooey on the inside hearing praise and getting face kisses. He almost goes insane from his own shyness. Those glowing cheeks, oh my word.

Also. Let’s talk about his body height. This guy. A literal dynastic prince. The finest man on the block. This hot boy summer exemplary. A thank you to his parents is due. You truly got yourself one of the smoothest and most interesting short kings out there. Look at him, his unreal proportions. The way he moves. His way of angling his head. The sexy squint that says look how hot I am. He has such a good outline. Even if he refuses a compliment out of part politeness, part disbelief, you continue telling him he’s body goals. The NSFW route does get to his brain, though. You making innuendos turns the whole thing a little more heated and makes him understand why you thirst over him. And no need to censor yourself. Minho likes dirty humor, you can say anything you want.

What he doesn’t like as much about himself, the dark circles under his eyes. You are a little on the fence here. To some extent, it’s something natural — you would not like his face any other way. Lee Know is Lee Know. Bags under his eyes are part of him, who doesn’t like his eye smile. But he should also sleep and not practice choreographies he can already dance perfectly, for goodness sake. Lee Know will only fall asleep when he’s in contact with your body, which prompts you to often tell him to just lay his head down onto your boobs. Or better, right in between. Nothing better than Lee Know’s face plus your breasts in any position. You love that contact. He says oh, wait, isn’t this rude, isn’t that too heavy? You say no, and you have the lightest lil’ head in history, put your face here whenever, it’s good. There we go, he falls asleep.

And the reverse? Lee Know is consumed by your appearance and said sorry for being superficial a thousand times. He’s infatuated with every feature. Are you a goddess? In an already hyper-affectionate group, you literally picked the guy who is most easily smitten. Listen, his favorite song is „10 Points out of 10“ by 2 PM. The lyrics are literally about a young man being dumbfounded because he thinks this girl he likes is so attractive. Let me cite the chorus to remind everyone. „Her lips are tasty, her legs are gorgeous, her waving hair, everything from head to toe.“ That sums it up pretty neatly. He could worship it all. He will stare into space for an hour after seeing you undress for the first time.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

Knows the effect of a good diet. Will pursue said diet. Any further questions?

As far as playing with your cum goes — Come on. He’s gonna slurp you up like a bowl of ramen. You’re gonna bury your fist in his soft blonde hair and just. Live the moment and sweat it out. Minho is a hundred percent swallower.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self-explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

Likes getting his hair pulled. Not too much, not too violently, in all directions, out of nowhere — he’s uncomfortable with that. His name is not Hwang Hyunjin. It needs to be the right amount of controlled tugging rather than ripping. He wants to be a baddie, not a baldie. One letter difference, big ramifications.

In other words: Minho likes it firm, but not entirely abrasive. The type of pulling that tilts his head back so you can lick across his neck. Lee Know gets such a visceral reaction from that and almost squeals out loud. Which is so unlike him, but it tells you he’s been keeping a sweet spot secret from you. No wonder, he’s so overwhelmingly sensitive there.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

If he’s honest. Minho feels like he’s been sort of like an aimless playball. Tossed around by random people who thought he was worth one lay out of a brief curiosity. They thought he looked good, sure, but had a character that was too hard to decipher and access. To them, despite his tough personality, he still wasn’t `manly´ enough to really crush on him, or be their sovereign rock in a relationship. You’re telling him that how manly someone is virtually has nothing to do with reliability, but it’s not difficult to tell that Minho is on the fence about superficial approaches.

For many secret meet-ups, he wasn’t that interesting besides some `surface talents´ he had, as one person put it. He’d been tricked thinking it could become serious every time and got back up again, only to be left in the mornings the next weekend. Which dismantled an already unsure self-esteem and, in turn, fueled a bitter, biting drive to do better and better with his dates or hook-ups to get any real value and love out of them.

Overdoing it lead to more rejections, and alcohol did the rest. In the end, it wasn’t even like ‚okay let me shoot it into the condom and go‘ anymore, he actually couldn’t get it up anymore. Personal affection, personal attention, he didn’t even know how that even felt back then. Things have been terrible for Minho, and he didn’t `know what he’s doing´, at all. Searching through half of Seoul has been detrimental to his health and energy. He doesn’t consider it a redeemable experience but a chain of constant mistakes he’s responsible for and feels utterly dumb. Sleeping around a lot was not really as pleasure-chasing or an easy release as others made it sound like. It was difficult and confusing and strange. Because he cringes at so many memories, Minho doesn’t really feel like he got to know things or anything.

After the worst blitz breakup and a double instance of being cheated on, Minho even considered seeing prostitutes to alleviate whatever yearning it was that was coming up. Or, he didn’t even know, to have at least /someone/ in his arms who he knew would not do things he didn’t want. He thought, the feelings would be in control, the time they spend was in control, money determined the deal, and he could always come back to see her — hopefully.

He imagined the lust and dripping pleasure of having several hot, horny girls swap him around for a ride to leave him a sweaty drugged-up mess on his back, somewhere on a big pink sofa in a big private room. But when he actually went up to a greyed nighttime shop in a hidden district and saw the shifting faces behind the windows, their unstable gazes exchanged without emotion, he felt a knot churning in his belly because the sight burst his bubble.

Reality was far from his inner image. Nobody was waiting for only him. The door personnel said, he can’t choose the girl, wait in line, have your cash ready, then get in the ratty showers there. Compared to what he expected, it was like the scenes of a novel that could never be as distinct and beautiful in real life. It was just bland, awkward and fleeting. Because these girls were so similar to him at that moment when he stood there in his parka. Anxious and freezing in their bones, miserable and defensive in their poses mirrored through the glass. The last people who could give him a sincere deep hug or blush about Minho coming back after they saw fifty other clients to survive off the little cut they received. He’d only contribute a speck of dust from his trainee salary to these girls. They wouldn’t even know his name and stay locked in there to stand still for the next customer the exact same way. Lee Know’s conscience said that this could not possibly fix his feelings or be the perfect bounce-back.

Sleeping with them out of pity seemed like an oddly heroic act to go for, but still, weird. They looked perfect, sexy, amazing, but without an ounce of life radiating from their lips — even the pregnant girls that the shop offered. They would dance their dance how Lee Know wanted it for a dime, only for the pimp to indifferently kick him out into the cold after a strictly set time. That prospect made him turn on his heel in fear. If he had extra wishes, it would get more than expensive and even stricter, with ways to hook him for years in this cycle.

It would be worse than what he had already gotten himself into with meeting people in shady bars. And even those people, drunk as they were, didn’t seem so particularly excited about Lee Know standing there clueless and choppy in his speech to begin with. Any excitement was fake, it was just liquor. Which was Minho’s deepest concern. Being quite mindlessly replaceable and having no one to really love. He was not as confident as his attitude suggested.

Among several hookups, he tried a fair share of impromptu domination. Which was expected of a guy, after all, unquestioned. It satisfied him during the act and he was a convincing top, but it left Minho a strange type of hollow afterward. He got addicted to rough one-night-stands even if he didn’t like the feeling of the person trodding out the door so awkwardly. Although he wanted permanence, the heat of the moment persuaded him to give in again. And again. Lee Know didn’t research much about dominating nor did he have a philosophy, it was mainly just moves and positions and that was it, but he was never quite sure how he came across and if that was really the right thing.

The price of ‚experience´ was neither increased skill nor extra esteem. The opposite happened, which is why Minho was very disgruntled about people and sitting inside his shell when you kind of scooped him up as a friend. He didn’t consider starting as friends with someone back then, to his disadvantage, which he realized. Minho got to enjoy the slower development of a belonging with you. His hormones are slow as hell but they do last. It’s important to Minho that there’s someone who’s magnetically drawn to his ways and body, even a bit obsessed.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

If vanilla is concerned: Any position that looks good but feels bad is taboo. You both agreed on that. He’s always on the lookout, Minho sticks to the classics. Reverse cowgirl, doggy, logically — same view. Doesn’t just like being the active partner there, though. He’s gonna mewl and cry when you smack it back onto his hips. Since you are horny for seeing his face though, we got a lil’ conflict of interests. That’s why you often have sex in front of a mirror so you can see him pant into your ear, cheek to cheek.

He looks really cute hugging you from behind, and his dick… it’s just amazing how good it feels. Minho’s sheer presence has you dripping anyways, and the nape kisses he gives you are the ultimate turn-ons. He won’t have any problems gliding in. Also. Have anyone observed Lee Know’s habit of just laying down on somebody whenever he gets the chance, waiting for an embrace? Of course he’s the cherry on his top. So missionary is definitely right around the corner for him. Perfect to kiss, he can get his booty moving, his hips, and you again have the vantage point of being one inch away from his godly face. Amazing sensuality.

Now, the world of kink and fetish. Things look a bit different here. Minho being a certified anal slut makes him the perfect candidate for spreading his legs. Supine preferably, because he’s stable on his back and can bend his knees up to his shoulders. It makes him feel so vulnerable and exposed, but the promise of stimulation and getting his ass wrecked is too promising. You as the resident doctor roleplay lady can easily run your medications and experiments on him if he’s tied and fixated into such an open position, one that allows for an ideal viewing of his reactions. What an attractive patient to examine, would be a shame if he got riled up from a lot of overstimulation and got sore from his doctor’s appointment.

And: He sees all you do to him up close. Minho is so obsessed with everything that even remotely goes past his sphincter, giving him a prostate orgasm is the easiest thing in the world. Extra huge vibrators, anything goes (in). Just how much can patient Lee stretch out, god dammit. The juicier it gets, the better. „I feel so dirty… but it’s so good.“ He has a horny meltdown over getting a full dose of fake cum enemas and can’t stop gasping out loud. Look how his jaw will drop and his legs shiver when he sees it oozing right out of him onto a towel on the floor. You tape the whole thing just to be sure. He likes watching himself from your POV as well.

One time, Lee Know left the camera out on his bed table in the dorm and Jeongin picked it up thinking it was Seungmin’s or something. Turns out the youngest simply wanted to make a vlog outdoors, but guess which risky scene he accidentally clicked on since the thumbnail was Lee Know making a funny-looking face. Well well, it wasn’t the meme video he anticipated. Jeongin gave the camera back to you with a big smug grin. Out of all people, you thought he was the one to be the most embarrassed about what he accidentally saw. Lewd maknae alert. Going by his reaction, he’s probably seen and done it all, the tape didn’t even fluster him in the slightest.

In Stray Kids, the hyungs have the decency and bashfulness while the hard-nosed younger members have a real poker face about sex stuff. Hyunjin, the man, the legend, once watched sub boy hentai so disgusting at a decently loud volume on a big screen (his dang headphones were broken, RIP), not even batting one lash. Changbin barged into the room and stumbled right out again screaming. Hyunjin was not even jerking off, just throwing popcorn in his mouth and doodling on the couch. My poor man Binnie got traumatized for life by peach-pink 3D tentacles and never talked about it again. Meanwhile Hyunjin, „Oopsie, sorry! Doesn’t Chan have some spare headphones somewhere?“

But back to cameragate. Lee Know, shocked to the bone, heavily scolded Jeongin for taking any technical equipment from his bed’s vicinity without asking. He couldn’t stop nagging from being worried about corrupting Jeongin with such explicit, intimate material that nobody should ever, ever see. This is a scandal to him. Lee Know feels like his and your dignity went down the drain, he swears to lock the camera into an iron box ten miles below the earth, but Jeongin keeps the juicy secret with a smile. He doesn’t even seem to care that much about having seen Lee Know's ass getting stuffed with all kinds of things. Your boyfriend realizes that Jeongin would not even mildly chuckle if his own dick got broadcasted to the whole world and leaves the seasoned pervert maknae be.

He still gets recurring thoughts about the mishap later on and talks it out with you after a sighing confession. „I don’t know how much he’s seen of it… Jeongin didn’t say a word!“ You tell Lee Know that he might keep his sex life painstakingly hidden from the group members out of politeness and privacy, but they were well aware that the two of you were pretty active. Much like some of the other members, who could of course tell the signs, so, duh. Of course they weren’t losing their mind that Lee Know had a ‚King of Anal Debauchery‘-themed sex tape. If anything, that is the most in-character thing ever.

„I mean look at Hyunjin, he has zero pretenses and shame about his schticks. And Jeongin has an opinion like, Lee Know is a grandpa who thinks he invented the wheel.“ That viewpoint gives Lee Know at least some peace of mind, he really couldn’t sleep for two days. But he will continue to gripe to Jeongin that he better not gossip, or jack off over the thought of you even if you’re not seen as much as Lee Know in that video. And he wants Jeongin to just forget what he saw anyway. Lee Know has his priorities figured out: He likes to be humiliated — but only by you.

Jeongin vows to erase his memory. He insists he’s only seen like five seconds before clicking off, knowing it’s not his business, and he says Lee Know’s facial expressions were underwhelming so it wasn’t even interesting. „Well I hope so,“ Lino grumbles, and continues to put any risqué videos on a hard drive that only the two of you can access with a password. He’s starting to realize that it’s really not that much of a big deal to Jeongin who is merely amused, but he learned his lesson in taking care of the camera if he doesn’t want his videos to be seen.

The facial expression thing sticks with him though and he tries to up his game there even if you say you don’t see a fault in them, I mean he looks fucked out, he looks cute, what more do you need? Lee Know is frustrated about his own confidence dwindling every so often, the cameragate was only another nail in the coffin, so you resort to what a dominant would typically do. Give him a difficult task. Lee Know is your service sub for a week and has to execute the protocol perfectly. It caters to his strength so there’s a solid base, it incorporates enough worship for you to enjoy yourself every waking minute, and he can gain esteem by achieving the big prize, your content and approval, reaffirmed he is not lazy, a mistake, or unworthy.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

Unintentional screamer moments all the time. And: One random word of his and you’re already laughing your ass off. His reaction faces are out of fucking control. Come on, he won’t have sex with his poker face on. That’s not it. The eye contact yes, but you’ll see a lot going on in that gorgeous face of his, with all that gummy smiling. And he’s sweet. Lee Know has the kind of energy of where you tell him „Stop being so cute… Or come be cute in my bed.“

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

My, is he clean. Clean as fucking fuck. Minho is a routine shaver. And open-minded to your take. In fact, he’ll shave himself (or leave his hair alone) however you want it since he has no clear tendency in any style. Then why not groom in a way that you fancy on him. „Oh, you like this? Okay — got it.“ He adapts. It’s no inconvenience for him, nor does he have a problem meeting your ideal. Whatever makes you comfortable, he’ll pick up the hygiene routine that suits what your eyes and nose find most pleasant. Even if he might shrug about these things, he knows that people can have strong stances or preferences with body hair.

If you want it, not a single hair will disturb your touch except his brows and classic standard Minho bangs. With some peach fuzz here and there, the lightest of the light, but that’s it. I mean, all clean, just how detail-oriented is he. And really. So smooth everywhere, his skin is a dream. Lino’s so easy to kiss and cuddle, it’s ridiculous. When he grows out a mullet that so cutely sticks out from below a base cap for example, you could pet him for hours.

To step it up a notch: Your inner naughty devil will get excited whenever he’s especially sleek-shaven and soaped-down under his pits. You like to lick them with the mere tip of your tongue. When he just used really cold water in particular, not when they’re damp and sweaty. Minho is shocked and turned on in equal measures. You justify yourself saying you like every part of him because it’s true. Minho accepts the fact that your lust for him stops at nothing, and he comes to enjoy the ticklish feeling more than he thought.

Not impressed by the sudden boom in ball shaving ads. Lee Know has always taken care of himself according to his own personal aesthetic philosophy. Doesn’t have all the time in the world to do so, but pays attention regardless. He spends some extra minutes before seeing you in particular, always ready. You won’t catch him skipping showers. Doesn’t have as much body hair to begin with except on the lower legs, and his chest and pubes are quickly shaven. His motto is: Off with that and finished.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

Rose-colored glasses alert. Lee Know admires you. He wants to be your exact type, the perfect match. He really works hard on the relationship and any shortcomings. In fact, your boyfriend is a little desperate every now and then. Yes, he knows it’s unhealthy if he gets most of his affection and connecting fill out of romance and not somewhat evenly from his social surroundings. But for better or worse, he can’t help wanting to safeguard what you have together and enjoy it in the private peace of your home. His desperation comes from more than just touring a lot, this goes deeper.

You think it has to do with his fame and idol status, which in and of itself could never be healthy in various ways. Interactions in the idol world often remain superficial and in the fast lane. Being in a company is a rough job. That unfortunately seeps into the relationship dynamics as a restriction. That is not to say he doesn’t feel loved by his fans, his family, and Stray Kids. But it’s different when the relationship is romantic and sexual with someone, he feels it has more to offer than even his adrenaline-filled career because it has a certain stability. That’s also the reason he’s paranoid about breakups, cheating, and bad days as a couple.

Lee Know often puts up a closed and uncaring front on camera so people wouldn’t want to get into his business or have him worry over said pet peeves: He depends on people’s loyalty. The resting face, it’s his way of not letting others hit on him, cause him discomfort, or draw his time and energy. Especially the latter, because he reserves giving the prime fanservice to you exclusively. Since he already exhausts himself daily to be a great artist, he doesn’t have much to put out for a random acquaintance. He strives for your attention and can’t help it. Lee Know already doesn’t allow the members to coo over him, he only reacts when you tickle his chin or slap his butt in passing.

The members are surprised how many extra miles he will go to buy you bouquets and snacks even if he’s already staying up late for dancing. Lee Know always brings you food since it’s his way of intimacy and connection. Eating is intimate, what someone puts inside their body is intimate, Lee Know thinks, how does no one else seem to realize that. A meal for your girlfriend can say a thousand words if you prepare it with a caring eye.

Having desserts for sex? Nothing more fitting for him. Sweet food and sexuality always go together. He’s turned on by you biting into an ice cream cake, he feeds on your enjoyment of good taste. Watching Lee Know treat himself to chocolate cookies or just plain noodle soup? The cute crunchy or slurping noises are more satisfying and noticeable when it’s someone you love. You never knew chewing could be so elegant, but no surprise, with a pretty face like that.

Baby bun’s occasional awkwardness makes sex ten times better. How boring would it be to just fuck like… Machine Man Minho with the robot thrusts. He’s far from that, more like a stoic prince with a soft core. And hell, you can just do your thing, he likes whatever way you sleep with him. Being open to ideas is Minho’s key forte, in fact, you just have to bring it up at the right moments. If it’s romantic, if it’s freaky, no difference, he’s excited about your input.

The majority of being intimate comes from long whispered conversations, though. Usually in the evening. Breakfast is too chill. Minho talks to you about sexual topics as much as he would mention daily life. He has this sweet smile when he’s face to face with you, and he’s a shy talker.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

Your guy, as restrained as he seems, definitely knows what’s up. Minho, ever the enthusiast of all things full and soft, likes to sensually grind his hips against a big round pillow rather than jackhammer his life away with a death grip. He personally takes care of washing the pillow, too, no worries. No stains to be found. Clean and ironed. This guy is truly a perfect match for any germaphobe.

The whole thing, he… he masturbates in such an unobtrusive way. Minho is very gentle with himself, which you admire and try to replicate — although sometimes, oh well. You just wanna put his dick in your fist and make him scream and cry out loud. But that’s for a different kind of day and mood. Most of the time, things are very subdued here, and fluffy.

He’s not afraid of his cum — obviously not, it’s too nice — and wipes it carefully instead of going yikes, away with you. He really takes his time. He pampers himself. He doesn’t need to watch disturbing material (ahem, Hyunjin) to get himself going. Lee Know just lays there and lets his fingers slowly graze up and down individually, as if he played a guitar. He drinks a lot of water, doesn’t push himself, and he won’t self-flagellate if things don’t go as planned. You commend him, and Bangchan would be proud of Minho for respecting himself so much alright.

Has a love-hate relationship with his hands, but you encourage him to think from your perspective. They are soft and small and warm and broad so them holding you feels great… and he is ambidextrous. What a nice advantage. Minho applying his gentle skills on you is not just softly warming, but the best way to do something very consistent with his fingers. He’s great at getting you off in a way that neither feels boring nor hurried.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

He can call you mommy, sure. In a joking way, sometimes. But with Minho — it seriously needs something more intense. According to the grapevine, Scorpios are some of the most dedicated and hopeless kinksters you’ll find out there. They want to be fucked brainless. And as the great Lizzo told us: All the rumors are true, yeah! Any power dynamic tingles their finest horniest senses. Getting pinned down and tortured might not seem like it’s right up Lee Know’s alley, like, he’d be too sensitive, too phlegmatic, too cute, too stern, too this, too that. But the submissive hiding inside of him will get worked up once you put your fingers in his eager open mouth. To put it mildly, he loves them so much. He might as well go with the pinning, which excites him. Once it comes to anal play, he’s toast anyway. Hook him up to one of those relentless drilling machines and Lee Know will cry his heart and stress out. With your thumb on the speed button, you can determine if he’s gonna dance especially legs-apart tomorrow or not.

Most people wouldn’t immediately associate „oh, of course, fucking machines!“ with submissive Lino, but that’s what it turns out to be. Although he could afford more machines of that kind (and these are expensive as hell), he doesn’t like the spitroast DP version. He’s afraid he might get his teeth bashed in by accident and he is right, he’s still a beginner. One side stuffed will suffice completely. Minho likely won’t do a DAP — even if it looks tempting. He wants it bad but his body is getting in the way by being smol. Obviously, height isn’t a general guideline. Han can stretch himself out like it’s nothing. I mean. Point the biggest strap in existence right in his direction. And Hyunjin, he’s dying from tightness. He could not accommodate one little fist with ten tons of lube. Height literally says nothing at all. Lee Know is definitely having an easier time there.

On the other hand: Yes. He’s getting the hang of it and tolerates a punishing speed, mentally on top of just physically, because Lee Know has a sub endurance that’s sturdy as steel when it comes to getting split in half. No whining. He will clench his jaw and take it with a few tears. Because oh man, he loves that feeling of his guts being put in a blender, „so deep…“ is his favorite exclamation. This guy has a great ole time, I’m telling you.

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

As for your house: Not in the car. Too easy to mess up, too exposed. Not the kitchen either (only kisses there). Not the bathroom. Living room, only when it’s nice and cozy and the window is shielded somehow. Your bed, always. Day and night. A random chair, meh. A table, worse. A shower, too unsafe. A bath, neither, he’s kind of undecided there. Minho is so damn selective — as you quickly figured, going by two criteria. How comfortable the surface is, and: How sanitary things are. But mostly, a larger steady underground with decently elastic cushioning is the number one green flag. Lee Know is a bon vivant within healthy environments, not an adventurer or fucking for clout.

He’s not conservative with those things, he just wants something robust but nicely shaped that won’t hurt either of you. Since swimming and Minho is a delicate topic, the two of you will stay away from making out in a pool or sea unlike other couples. Water? Only in condensed form. Minho would totally kiss you lots in a sauna, but it needs to be very gently warmed instead of piping hot. And the whole area needs to be 100% devoid of people. The same goes for a cinema which is technically a nice idea to him, but in practice, underwhelming. Sticky floors, nacho cheese in the air, aircon blowing in your necks, stuffy seats. No thanks. Your home sofa is preferred.

At his parents’ house: Not a chance. Especially not with the cats climbing around everywhere and begging for food every 10 minutes. Making out briefly is okay, but nothing further than that.

As for the dorm: Never. Never ever. Not once. But you already know, anyway. He’s so protective, he’d never let the other members hear either of your moans or the bed creaking. No suspicious activity at any time of the day, even when nobody else is there. Only cuddles in bed. Cuddles, cuddles, more cuddles. He also wakes up earlier than you. Why? Any morning boners he will quickly rub out into a then disposed towel. Without getting much profound pleasure, he just takes care of it and returns to you in his bed. Where, as a habit, you wrap your arms around him in your sleep, which he likes and needs. His dick poking into your back or stomach, he insists he’s not gonna „annoy you like that, it’s offensive!“

Where you would fuck the shit out of his morning wood? At your own place, until he’s breaking a sweat, the dorm is the literal church. You might play video games there, read, dance around, cook together. But nothing physically erotic. He will take some whispered sexy words from you, but gnawingly. The hyungs will coo how sweet and innocent you are as a clingy couple. That’s all they ever get to see.

Lee Know doesn’t want to share one bit of his intimacy with you with anyone else. It makes him super cranky when people get into his and especially your business. Minho will glare should they be asking about what you do with him sexually, or how you’re like in the sheets, and if he did this or that already, or if he’s having fun. „Never ask again!“ Warning taken. Minho’s sense of privacy is a diamond vault.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

Eye contact. Boom. This is so important to him. It spurs Minho into extra-long rounds more often than not. Who doesn’t want to stare right back when he’s doing his soft little kitty gaze. Also — A very distinct type of lingering eye contact is the primary way you tell him you want sex. He can read your expressions well and comes running. Minho considers sex a way of looking into each other’s soul. As for you: Looking at this lil’ dainty face of utmost beauty surely isn’t a bad way to spend your time. Minho’s fucking pretty and he smells so good, hell, even the mint gum he loves to chew and his laundry and hair and everything. You admit your addiction to his scent and he definitely takes note of that.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn-offs)

He’d probably hate and isolate himself for ages if you started to cry from something he did. Naturally, Minho touches you with invisible satin gloves, in a positive way. Lack of respect and gentleness towards a beloved is a big pet peeve, as is making you afraid.

He’s allergic to porn and society telling him he should be hands-on because it’s supposedly sexy. Slapping you would be a big turn-off. He couldn’t hurt and bruise you, or yell at you, or make you flinch somehow, intimidating you in general. Lee Know has enough sore areas on either leg from dancing to know how much even the little painful spots hurt. A dancer will always be aware how delicate and mortal a body really is.

Also doesn’t like anything that has to do with breath play. Minho doesn’t want to be choked out, nor would he choke you either. He’s really uneasy about it and knows how dangerous it is. He’d rather place his hands on your waist and likes your hands flat on his chest, shoulders, or stomach. When it comes to you pegging him prone, his shoulder blades.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

He can only eat someone out or get a blowjob when he’s really in love. Nothing casual will do. Under your eyes, his glaring uncertainty is immediately telling. He’s done it three, four times at best. Minho’s actually avoided it so much in the past because of some very mediocre trial-and-error encounters that had either party disappointed. It’s a shame, of course he wants to be unbiased, but he does carry it with him, so you have to be patient with Lee Know.

Minho thinks it’s too intimate to ever do on a first date. To him, a person’s lips, including his, are, to a degree, extremely sacred. Not anyone can suck his dick out of nowhere, even if they are jaw-droppingly good-looking. He’s stingy. Even if his dick would be hard, he’d just feel strange how that person is so close to him and just… slobbers all over his dick so unceremoniously. The established feeling between him and his partner is more important. He wants to know the person inside out and wants to have looked at them and listened to them talking for many hours. Trusting them is so crucial.

When he prepares for pleasing you with his tongue, he’s eyeing what he’s about to do with a lot of respect. He wants his dick treated with equal care, too, even if an eager mouth is always appreciated and melts his brain. Minho likes a good balance. Brain melt and kindness. Being impersonal wouldn’t meet his benchmark and frustrate Minho.

It needs the right setting, too. Minho thinks he’s a complete pain in the ass obsessing over the minutiae and making a giant deal out of oral sex. You don’t think his diligence is a problem to himself. His anguish is. But there’s an easy fix, which he appreciates. Minho needs to be told things like how to sit on his knees, where to put his hands, how to improve his breathing pattern, what to do with his bottom lip, where to put his tongue. His domme might need a 200-page-long instruction handbook and it may seem ridiculous to an outsider how much he needs to know from her, but the thing is… Lee Know has excellent kinetic memory. Do with that information what you need. In no time, you can name the most romantic and dedicated pussy eater your very boyfriend.

He thinks you really have to love his body scent, and he has to like yours. Minho needs to be with a partner whose sweaters he can lean into all day with his nose, and he can take them in that way. If he’s in love with your scent, better believe he’ll go crazy. Once your pants are down, he’s getting the party started. He’ll lick himself stupid. Minho’s tongue is going all over the place. Oh my god is he to the point. He doesn’t really need to take a breathing break, either. This guy is eating like it’s the best meal ever right in front of him. Hence the reason why he’s a human block of wood during aftercare. Never forget that this guy is a chef. He just looked after his favorite dessert.

Seriously. Why do Stray Kids all have the most fuckable faces and a tongue fixation.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

Look. He’s not Changbin. And he’s not Lee `Oh my god, I’m your ragdoll´ Felix. Minho wants to take it a little easier and doesn’t like exhausting you. He can move those fucking hips, and he can adhere to a decent rhythm when he’s thrusting himself onto a strap— but yes. An overall relaxed mood prevails right here, nobody’s burning the house down. Lee Know conserves his energy well to draw it out. But: The atmosphere is still deeply heated and wide awake in the moment. Make no mistake. He’s not boring. Minho is very keen and gifted in the way he moves. If anything: He’s excellent.

When you’re asking for a dick appointment, Minho does something very properly. He makes sure to go in all the way. And pulls out 95%, not too slowly, and not too fast. And then goes in all the way again. Which means you’re naturally gonna suck him back in when he moves away, and grow to want more and more of him. Which he gladly obliges to, you got this guy in your pocket. This only works in certain positions, but you figure those out with time. By the way: He doesn’t refer to it as fucking or penetrating, though, but hugging his dick.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

Blowing off a bit of steam, making it passionate, being a little stealthy? Why not. Minho knows all the introvert spots in any building he’s familiar with. The nooks and crannies, any silent corner. You know, like any cat would — it’s only logical. He’s the type to secure that no one will ever catch you, not even Nosy Line aka Chan, Felix, Seungmin, and Jeongin. He seems to carry condoms and wipes in every pocket and is perfectly prepared in general. Lee Know knows exactly when to shower so he meets you fresh and lovely, and of course: A bit nervous.

If he’s not careful, Minho cums in a heartbeat with your ass bouncing off his thighs. It feels so soft and sounds so amazing, this absolutely blows his mind no matter how often you do quickies. This is not just you being lucky you’re with him, Minho is also glad he got you and that your desire for each other is extremely strong. He’s just gonna let go and release. He can’t help it. Those quickies have Minho wearing rose-colored glasses while at the same time having him admire your body. He thinks this must be heaven, he has such an innocent excitement. All his brain says in that moment is a stream of yes, oh god, wow, oh shit, oh fuck, she’s doing it!

You’re having tons of fun and… that Minho feels great inside of you is an understatement. You need this as often as he can, you enjoy it to the maximum. One round is never enough, you want him again and again. As much as you’re riding his dick, Lee Know is extremely preoccupied that you won’t be getting off at the same time, though — keeping it one-sided is unfair to him. Doing an improv-69 with maximum stimulation, in a random place on top of that? Feels too uneasy to him. That’s why his thighs and kitten tongue licks are your clit’s best friend. He offers them or his hands in one go without further ado.

He has no intents of breaking your back and bending you around to force his own climax in one minute either. This man is concussion-safe. Minho just listens to whatever your nasty idea is, and that’s usually a finger fest, only to simply go with the flow. He doesn’t say anything, he just nods and pulls out two hand wipes and off you go a second later. Hygiene first. Handjob second. Well, not really. After pulling off his shirt, he likes it when you just palm him, he lets his dick peek out the top of his sweats, and he spurts all over his stomach.

Just you putting your hands down his boxers is too damn dry for a quickie, he doesn’t like it. Gentle touch from the outside of the fabric is enough to make him peak as long as you’re leaning in for a lengthy, gentle kiss on the lips. For five minutes, it’s okay with him. Still thinks it’s a little loveless though, to just go back to whatever you were doing afterwards. The chaos and buckwild coordination he can handle, but not the lack of focus, focus of feeling. He wants the purity of ‚you and me‘ and especially some afterglow, and recharge time, sleep. So, quickies only go down whenever the two of you have some extra energy on that day.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

Bit of risk? Hell yeah. Just to be cheeky together. But real risk? Nope. He always chickens out. Say, doing something like wax play would turn him off. His expression always tells you what Lino will shy away from, and you take good care of him. Should that situation ever arise, and so far it hasn’t, something that would put you in harm’s way is an exceeding reason for Minho to firmly say no, let’s not do this, let’s do something else instead. On the other hand, his submissive side can handle any forfeit until exhaustion. It’s ironic. Minho is prone to say okay, so to speak, I’m gonna give up my body for this, I give you that power over me and the responsibility. That’s pretty trusting towards you, and you respect him for his found confidence.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

Good endurance. Lee Know says he can be your lil’ plaything however you want it, and he knows why. Dance practice pays off. This is the guy who wrote `DRIVE´. Which is about going all night. Well maybe not eight hours straight but you get the gist. What’s ever straight with Lee Know anyways. Long story short: He can give you what you need.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

Okay, so, aside from the myriad of cute wearable animal ear varieties he owns? Cats, bunnies, puppy ears, everything? The image of Minho handling a bunch of strangely-shaped colorful items might be weird, but he does enjoy a little help from a silicone friend. First, he likes his tender back furiously blown out by a very specific strap that’s really pointy, smoothly textured, and jet black, curved upwards for that matter. It’s on the weekly to-do list. Minho likes to be pegged from behind with your arms wrapped underneath his chest, all until his legs give out. Shake. Him. Up.

Next, Minho has an almost compulsive habit of collecting vibrators almost as thick as your arm to shove down his throat on the regular. Minho puts up a camera to monitor his inch count progress. The bigger the shaft, the more wide-eyed the grimace. You always get new videos on your phone of him just gagging the shit out of himself with the latest grass green fucking dildo. He’s choking out rivers of spit while gargling a straight-up… 11-inch cob of corn. No pain, no gain. Until his own spit comes dripping out of his nose.

If there are no concerts or recordings coming up, he likes to deliberately train himself that way. If you come home to your hoarse boyfriend with swollen eyes, right out of the shower, you know what went down. New twenty-minute video available only for you. Today’s menu, vanilla cream popsicles with chocolate or strawberry filling that melts across his bottom lip, little by little. He’s creative, huh. Just enjoying himself doing his favorite thing and sharing it with you. It comes naturally. Minho doesn’t think much about it. He just likes to show you sexy oral stuff with toys, that’s all.

Lee Know gets even wilder when his object of desire is strongly vibrating. He does all kinds of things like twisting his head in a circle or letting it poke in his cheek. This guy has the craziest deepthroat skills ever. Only Felix surpasses him in terms of enthusiasm with endless depth, and nothing is as drooling as whatever Hyunjin is probably doing right now — but Minho is a high-speed master. He can ram it down until his Adam’s apple and continue thrusting it in. Everything caught on camera in decent lighting. He’s insane for this.

The „hm, mh, agh, gh, chh—“ noises itself are worth the watch already, like wow Minho is choking the alphabet for you how nice of him, and you do have to look for a safe place to check out his voice mails and very r-rated `attached files´. He’s always in tears or coughing a couple times when he’s finished, but damn this guy can keep his teeth apart and throw his head into it. Minho is so impressive and talented. What to even say. Legendary behavior.

Also, he buys anything that might make your ass feel good. Nothing huge, just nice little stimulation aids. Meanwhile, a classic hitachi… not his taste. Not handy enough, too large, that cable, the colors. Totally not his thing. The smaller versions also don’t look aesthetic to him, he thinks they’re so tacky. Instead, Minho buys you all kinds of vibrating eggs that he can hold against your clit. Elongated ones that fit his palm, in pastel or dark colors that look elegant and classy. For Valentine’s Day, Christmas, and Birthdays. He always thinks he’s doing the most risqué thing ever and almost panics on the inside when giving you the present, but his intuition is always right. You don’t like these presents: You love `em.

Nothing better than Minho kissing you lovingly, and a nice continuous buzz between your other lips. He loves to massage these kinds of eggs into your clit using small circles or very controlled back-and-forth rubs. This guy watches with an eagle eye how you’re feeling and what you need. Higher or lower vibration speed, a bit of spreading around of your wetness or some mid-buzz wiping down, a closer embrace or a minute without touch, the list goes on. Pleaser Minho… is a very sexy sight. What boyfriend material he is. Telling him you’re using his gifts to masturbate all the time and thinking of his body, no shit, it makes him shy.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

A balance of mutual teasing is just right. He likes to be put in his place, that’s the real deal: Teaching Minho a lesson about greed. Initially, he’s excited when your words and tone become suddenly explicit, graphic, and expose exactly what he was wishing for. „Minho… haven’t you picked pants a little too tight? You wanna be groped, do you. Not happening until we get home from date night. It’s another four hours in those slutty jeans. I’ll love looking at you from across the restaurant table“. Plus, you have some other punishments up your sleeve that hit bull’s eye without a fault. Who can guess what? Hint: It has to do with a strong fixation of his. Another hint: It all revolves around depriving him of it. No, it’s not orgasm denial. He can handle that. It’s a lot more specific. What if… butt hunter Minho gets deprived of ass! Oh yes. If you provoke, I revoke. Time to suffer, this one hits where it really hurts.

Handcuffing him to the bed frame so he can’t touch your ass all the way? Boss move, hundred percent effective. He’ll cry for your leniency. It will make him so drained and frustrated. Blindfolds, to make it worse? Not a single peak? Minho’s caving in. He’ll do anything you want. Or: No body contact at all, just a riding crop? Just say you want to wreck him and go. He’ll acknowledge: You know him well. In fact? You’ve out-teased Lino with the simplest tools and tricks. He could never. His obsession makes him so easy to control and destroy, it’s ridiculous. It’s such kryptonite to him, his schtick makes him look stupid. Your boyfriend is bound to his desire, so it’s no effort to bind him in return. Literally: This guy can get ready for some extra-accurate bondage work around his arms. Those won’t move around a single inch anytime soon. Whole-arm bondage is so underrated, by the way. It’s perfect for him.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

„Let me hear you“ might as well be your favorite thing to say. Heavenly moans combined with his stumbling voice that tells you just how much it gets to him. The more sadistic his dominant, the more of a box of surprises he becomes. If Minho’s dick hurts from all that it has to endure, and oh he’s loving it, the mix of little whimpers and „ah—!“ noises become a dulcet melody: As fitting for someone who sings so sweetly. He winds his torso left and right, the ache is so terrible, so good, so shocking. He can’t go without a little pain and spanking, he wants to be hit, he wants to hump your thighs while clothed so it’s extra frustrating: It’s what makes sex memorable to him. Lee Know is never at the top of his range, but his sounds are as passionate and genuine as they come. „Please… just slap my ass again, please!“

Minho, however, is not the type who wants to be pushed beyond a breaking point where he’s mindlessly screaming. That’s what Hyunjin and Han are for. The messy, destruction-craving subs incarnate. These two want to get absolutely demolished. Lino is set in place about his physical limit and wouldn’t want to transgress any of it like that. His mental threshold, however, he’s willing to explore and stretch in a way that’s healthy, positively nervous, and exciting. Exactly because Lee Know is a tough, cheeky nut to crack, you like him. His brattiness is sexy, especially since it dissolves into emotional surrender once your fingers hit the right spot in his prostate. Because he has that initial wall up, it’s all the more rewarding to see him submit totally and be weak.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

Frequently wears long sleeves because you are so wild about biting his soft and juicy upper arms. He doesn’t know why you’re so fixated on doing that, but he’s starting to enjoy how pervy and vampire-like you are. Bangchan is kind of wondering, why is our dance legend covered in so much sweat, why does he cover up like that. Dear Chan, you innocent soul… There are some green and lilac marks on Lee Know’s body that the world should never see.

He’d rather sweat than show his twenty-four thigh hickeys or get his sleeves wet while scrubbing the dishes or washing his hair in front of the maknaes. Not his fault that you can’t stop marking him up, okay. He’s just a little guy from Gimpo trying to make a living with dancing in a group. Lee Know did no wrong. Except maybe simp over your ass a little too much, which is adequately punished. His obsession might as well be the reason why you bite back and see this brat whining over teeth marks on his legs and arms and waist. Taste of his own medicine — serves him well. And you get wet from hearing him moan when you bite him, so.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

He got something for you. We all know Stray Kids have some of the finest guys with the finest bodies ever. Minho being a shower rather than a grower tends to be somewhat satisfied with his equipment. It curves out well from the side through his pants which has you teasing him a lot. That subtle arch you love.

Granted, he’s not walking around sized like Hyunjin who struggles with the lack of practicality resulting from that big ole thing he has to drag around 24/7. Lee Know is at home in the ubiquitous midrange. That helps, he’s really handy. Not too much girth to handle, and not too much prep needed.

He sure knows how to have it feel profound, still. While at the same time not making it weird with the angles, having his balls doing awkward stuff. He has that under control and you’ll feel amazing. The genius trick is, he’s gonna wear those type of pants where you can just leave your balls tucked inside except the rest. That keeps everything neat.

Although you don’t care, Minho is not a fan of his two contemporaries and likes to ignore them. Balls are too icky and unpredictable to him, Minho’s like why do they have to be designed like this, so he’d rather fuck with half of his clothes on. Which makes him the prime candidate for having sex at night when your bedroom cools down and especially in winter. Like a true Scorpio, duh, it’s his season.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

Always looks towards you because he’s too shy and reserved to figure it all out. He’s really observant, almost to a fault. Over time, he’s getting better and better at reading you in word and body language. Vice versa, you train yourself to judge if Minho will come home too exhausted after practice just by keeping your watch in mind, past 1-2 AM he will collapse into the pillows as soon as he walks into the bedroom. He’s too physically drained. It’s better to have a go at it in the morning, it’s much more smooth-sailing than your boyfriend trying to force himself.

As a rule of thumb, Minho will say ‚please‘ only once, but retreats in a visibly anxious manner if he ever happens to wildly misjudge your mood, which makes him guilty for asking to begin with. Taking this seriously is one of his most defining character traits. He likes asking you for a bit of making out on your bed sometimes, but apologizes with a bow in case you don’t want to or planned to do something else and he was unaware. „Sorry for bothering you. Sorry. It’s my bad.“

At the beginning of your relationship, he doesn’t know where to go and what to say or do afterward in case you said `no I’m busy,´ but you’re quick to engage him in a leg massage for you instead. You encourage him to place kisses everywhere on you, and you can continue to read what you’re reading, scroll through a feed, or type or fix something. Lee Know is quite like the cat that lays down on the owner’s lap when they’re working on something, it’s that kind of scene. Half an hour later, finishing with a cuddle, and sleep. No problem.

During other occasions, Minho wakes up to you clenching around him all soaking wet, moving about, panting, pushing back. At your house, he’s okay with you undressing him in his sleep and putting on a condom. He’s on board with you getting on top of him like that as well, although the sight of you like this has him so overwhelmed when he wakes up, he just can’t believe it. Minho feels like even casual wake-up sex is special and hot. He doesn’t think of it as performing a chore — „It’s just fun“. When you start the day like that, Minho feels an instant urge to coil into your nape with his face and start kissing your spine like crazy.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterward)

Enters the dreamland after a vidid ten-minute talk. It all turns into a discussion of half an hour recently since there’s a lot on his mind and talking to himself half-dizzy is the way to go. You’re dozing off next to him, exhausted yourself, but undisturbed. Actually, soothed. Minho has a lot of positive things to say about his girlfriend and a nice voice to fall asleep to. He’s blabbering hilarious random things, too, like „I aspire to grow my butt as much as I can“ or „the makeup staff will think I’m a little weirdo when they see this bite mark tomorrow, uh-oh“.

Lee Know sleeps on his belly but seemingly shifts closer and closer to you as the minutes pass. A tiny attempt to have you big-spooning him, though he doesn’t fully roll himself up sideways like a baby shrimp. Still, you understand him intuitively, your body does, and Lee Know winds up with his purple hair all up in your face in the morning. He’s so nice and warm, he’s your pretty boy. If he needs an extra pillow, Minho winds up putting his plushies in a bundle and laying down on it which you find so cute.

read lee know a-z on ao3

final note. thank you for reading!

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lovestay-channie · 3 months

Text

Written in the Stars ☆ Chapter 11

Pairing: Bang Chan x Fem reader

Genre: SMAU, Stray Kids x Modern Hogwarts, Hufflepuff x Slytherin, (minor/one sided) Enemies to Lovers, Reverse Grumpy Sunshine

Warnings: mentions death, several battles, a few swear words here and there

Synopsis: It is modern time at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. One Hufflepuff who suppresses her emotions while one Slytherin who breaks the stereotype of the Slytherin Prince. Will they connect? Or will they continue to clash?

Word Count: 1.2k

Screenshots: 13

Taglist: OPEN

Dancing, music, and laughter.

The Yule Ball was a smashing hit at Hogwarts. The Kiddiewinks were downing butterbeers while having a mini dance circle amongst themselves. Heels were long forgotten as soon as most of the formal dancing was over. Everyone is having a good time, letting themselves get lost in the night and remembering to be young.

You haven’t been this happy in a long time. Your cheeks hurt from how much you were smiling throughout the night. You never considered yourself to be a dancer, but you found yourself dancing almost the whole time. Lino even asked to slow dance with you, something the two of you haven’t done since you were kids. It was wonderful to see Marina and Changbin flirting with each other, especially when they have been secretly pinning on one another for some time now. Annaliese ditched Viktor right after the Champion’s dance. You and Chris, well, you two have been glued to the hip the whole night. He made sure you were not drinking too much butterbeer and hydrated with water. He was showing you how wrong you were about him.

After some time, the group started to drift to their respected dorms. Surprisingly, you stayed with Chris. The two of you were sitting watching people dance. “Alright everyone. We wanted to thank you again for coming tonight! We are going to close the night with one more slow song. So, grab your date and let’s have one more dance.”

Chris finishes his cup of water before standing in front of you, holding out his hand, “Will you have the last dance with me?”

You look up into his dark brown eyes, the stars shining in them. “I would love to,” you smile, taking his hand for him to move you to the dance floor. Chris places his hands on your waist as you wrap your arms around his neck. A soft slow song plays in the background, but you don’t pay attention to the music.

“Thank you,” you say.

Chris cocks his head slightly, “Why are you thanking me?”

You shrug your shoulders, “I haven’t felt this free in a long time, and I wasn’t going to come to the Ball without a date. So.. thank you for asking me. I’ve had lots of fun with you Chris.”

Chris’ cheeks turn pink, “Of course. I’ve had fun with you, too, Y/n.”

He takes one hand off of your waist to take one of your hands and spin you, your dress flaring as you turn. A giggle escaped your lips as you collided back to Chris’ arms. Everything felt so magical.

Chris’ eyes were diverted to the window, the moon shining brightly into the Grand Hall. “Let’s go outside,” he suggests.

You agree and put your heels back on. Walking next to him, you noticed that you were only just a tad bit shorter than him. It was funny to see the little high difference there was between the two of you. Chris holds the door for you to exit outside. The wind was cold, but it felt nice from being hot from the Ball. Snow was falling for the first time this winter. It didn’t take long for goosebumps to spread across your skin. Chris noticed and didn’t hesitate to put his coat around your shoulders.

Chris leads you to an archway to stand under to keep you away from the snow falling onto you. The moon was big and bright, the stars illuminating around it. You lift your hand to the sky to catch a snowflake. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” you wonder aloud.

“It really is,” Chris replies.

You glance at him to only catch him looking at you. You chuckle at his cheekiness, “Real classic, Bang.”

“That was cheesy wasn’t it?”

“Just a little bit.”

A burst of giggles fills the air. In this moment, it is just you and Chris watching the snowfall. Faint music from the Ball plays in the background. You never imagined this scene happening. You and Chris watching the first snow fall together as he attempts to awkwardly flirt. If this was you last term, you would be fighting your way back inside. Now, here you are having this moment with him.

“What's your favorite season?” Chris asks suddenly.

You think for a moment. “I think it would have to be autumn.”

“Why’s that?” he questions further.

“Growing up, it meant coming back here. Somewhere I consider my second home. The colors are amazing. The weather is perfect. I love the seasonal food. It makes me feel warm inside as it is getting cooler,” you explain. “What about you?”

Chris nods in agreement. “I do love fall, but winter has a special place in my heart. It’s the best time to look at the stars. I also love the snow.”

You tug Chris’ jacket closer to keep you warm. “I used to watch the snow fall with my parent’s. Lino would automatically lie on the ground to make snow angles. My mom would get onto him because she didn’t want him to catch a cold. Then my dad would throw a snowball at her which started a war.”

Chris listens fondly as you recall the happy memory of your family. He noticed how happy you are. Your cheeks were already light pink from the wind, but they turned darker as you told the story.

“That sounds wonderful, Y/n. I can tell you love your family very much,” he smiles.

You nod and look down at your hands. “I do. A lot.”

Suddenly, Chris steps in front of you, taking his coat into his hands and clasping the button on his jacket to keep the cold from slipping between you and the coat. “I don’t know if I told you already, but you look beautiful tonight, Y/n.”

You look up at Chris. He avoided your gaze, keeping his focus on the coat. He moves his hands from the button to onto your arms, rubbing them up and down to cause some friction. He finally meets your eyes.

“Thank you,” you whisper.

He smiles to the point his dimples show. You so badly wanted to poke at it, but your arms were glued to your sides.

All of a sudden, there was a rustling sound above you. It sounded as if leaves were falling around you. You both look up at the same time. A mistletoe was growing right above your heads. If your heart wasn’t already beating hard enough, it was now beating out of your chest. You slowly look down to see Chris still staring at the growing flower. He swallowed hard before starting back at you once again. Your eyes flicker between his eyes and his lips. His eyes do the same. You didn’t realize that you were leaning in, feeling his hot breath on your lips. There is hesitancy between the two of you.

“Fuck it.”

Chris softly, but firmly, grabs your waist and kisses you. His lips were soft like clouds, yet fireworks were bursting through. The kiss was slow, at first only a long peck, but soon enough your lips were moving together. Your hands finally move to his shoulders. His hands caress to the smallness of your back. The kiss took your breath away.

Slowly, you both pull away to catch your breath, foreheads pressed together. Slowly, you open your eyes to stare at his puffy lips.

You gaze up to his brown orbs before speaking.

“Please do that again.”

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karahalloway · 7 months

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Sleepless in New York: Chapter 12 - Hungover on You

Series: TRR

Pairing: Drake Walker x F!OC (Harper Gale)

Synopsis: What if Drake met Harper on the first night of Prince Christian’s New York bachelor party? A stand-alone AU written from Drake's POV.

Masterlist: Sleepless in New York

Chapter Summary: The time has come to fly back home... but who won the bet?

Word Count: 6,800

Rating/Warnings: E (swearing, aggravation, references to graphic images, references to sex, references to bodily functions, toilet humour, motive for murder, way too much caffeine)

Chapter theme song:

A/N1: Thank you so much for bearing with me! This chapter was supposed to be done quickly but then it suddenly exploded into the almost 7,000-word monster that you see before you (I blame Leo 😆). Hopefully, the contents make up for the longer-than-planned wait! There will be one more chapter.

A/N2: As an FYI, everything that is mentioned is true/correct/accurate. Yes, everything! You'll know what I mean when you get to it! 🙃

Chapter 12 - Hungover on You

"Mmm... You're right... These pancakes are heavenly...!" enthuses Max 'round an overstuffed gob.

"I have to admit, I may have been skeptical at first, given the somewhat... dated nature of the décor," admits Chris, skewering the last bite of his own stack, "but I am very glad that I did not allow first impressions to sway me, and to instead let the delights of the fare speak for itself."

I throw him a sidelong glance. "I told you to trust me, didn't I?"

"That you did, mate," Chris chuckles good-naturedly. "That you did."

"Drake always finds the best food," sighs Max as he closes his eyes in blissful appreciation.

I shrug nonchalantly. If you know where to look...

Having hit up Times Square and snapping the obligatory pic or two — it's the end of the trip... fuck it — I'd heeded Chris' final request for this trip by tracking down somewhere we could fuel up before our fast-approaching flight home.

And given the questionable-looking nature of our chosen venue, Chris' initial trepidation had been more than understandable.

Because from the outside — but for the tell-tale smell of bacon wafting out onto the street — this joint looks more like an illicit drug den than a bona fide restaurant. The single-paned window that faces the street has a massive crack in it, the doorway stinks of stale urine, and I wouldn't be surprised if a dead body or two had ended up in the dumpster 'round the back.

The inside's not much better, either. It's a cheap, no-frills galley-kitchen kind of set-up manned by a single, overweight chef who pumps out eggs, bacon, pancakes and hash browns in massive portions while you sit on the other side of the greasy, Lino-covered counter on creaky, '60's bar stools, sipping fully-leaded coffee from chipped mugs.

In short, the complete antithesis of the polished and slightly over-glammed feel of the retro, 1950s diner we ate at yesterday.

And that's why I picked it. Because after having been up the whole night, we need something to sub-in for our lack of sleep, and nothing tastes better than comfort food when you're craving a calorie hit. Plus, Chris had wanted a 'classic' Stateside breakfast experience, and it doesn't get much more Americana than this...

"What is all that sticky goop that it's swimming in?"

...except for the fact that I have Tariq sitting on the other side of me, complaining loudly about every-damn-thing that offends his toffee-nosed sensibilities.

Because as per usual, I can't seem to take two steps in this fuckin’ city without the Almighty crapping on me.

Our butts had just hit the stools when Chris' phone began lighting up with a million-and-one messages from Max asking where we were, what the plan was, and was there any food anywhere.

So, Chris (being Chris) had extended the breakfast invite to not only Max, but to the rest of our band of noble misfits, meaning that our laid-back outing has now morphed into a real-life rendition of The Breakfast Club.

I suppress a groan as I take another swig of my scalding coffee, careful not to move my mouth too much, given that — on top of everything — my jaw has set into exactly the kind of contused stiffness that I'd hoped to avoid.

My own damn fault for not icing the damn thing down when I had the chance...

The only person missing is Leo.

Not that I really care. I've had enough of that guy and his BS for one trip. And the main reason I haven't decked him yet for the shit he pulled last night is because I haven't actually seen him since Gale and I got booted from the club.

And I don't want to ruin Chris' last hour in the Big Apple by knocking his brother's teeth out.

The same can't be said for Tariq, though...

"It's maple syrup, Besnard..." I grunt at him, trying to maintain my focus on the viscous caffeine in my hand, and not the half-a-dozen ways in which I could smash the asshole's face into the countertop.

Because after the steady stream of crap that's hit the fan in the past 36 hours, the only thing keeping me on this side of sane right now is the free-refill mugs of coffee that I've been pouring into myself since we sat down.

Which means that my mood's dancing on a hair trigger, and I'm one stupid comment away from committing violence.

The chef'd probably thank me, though...

Tariq flashes me a disgusted look. "Maple syrup...? You mean tree sap? That is the most disgusting thing I have ever heard of!"

"A lot of things come from trees, dipshit..." I mutter, forcing myself to keep staring at the wall ahead.

Tariq scoffs. "Why would—?"

"Cinnamon is obtained from the inner bark of various South and South East Asian tree species," Chris reminds him.

"And cloves are the dried aromatic flower buds of the clove tree," adds Max, chewing loudly on a ketchup-coveted tater-tot.

Tariq glares down the counter disdainfully. "What are you lot? Walking encyclopaedias...?"

"We just know where our food comes from, Besnard," I grind out around the rim of my mug. "As would you if you ever bothered to step outside."

"Where it comes from is irrelevant," comes the derisive clap-back. "The only thing that matters is the price tag."

"Even when it's been through the digestive tract of a wild animal?" interjects Max with a perfectly straight face.

Tariq nearly spews his over-steeped tea across the room. "What!"

"Certain brands of coffee demand a premium price because of their somewhat... exotic processing process," affirms Chris. "For instance, Kopi Luwak is the most exclusive coffee in the world primarily because it comes from beans that have been consumed and then excreted by the Indonesian palm civet."

Tariq's eyes bulge. "Excreted... As in—?"

"Pooped out," confirms Max gleefully. "Through tiny little butt holes."

Tariq looks like he's about to puke.

"That is correct," continues Chris. "The bile in the civet's digestive system causes the fermentation of—"

Tariq bolts from his chair.

"Lemme guess..." I drawl, turning to face the other two. "The fuck stick's just realised that he's willingly subjected himself to this fancy ass coffee."

"Ass being the operative word..." sniggers Max as he mops up the escaped yolk from his sunny-side-up eggs with a piece of over-buttered toast.

"Yes," laughs Chris, reaching for his own mug of coffee. "He accompanied his father on a business trip to Indonesia last year where he was given the 'Holy Grail' of coffees as a gift..."

"...not realising what it actually was," I snort. "Typical."

The door of the dive creaks open.

"Speaking of typical..." I muttered under my breath as I glance over my shoulder and catch sight of the familiar figure who's just stepped through the entranceway.

"Hey, hey, hey, party people!" greets Leo as he saunters up to us like he doesn't have a care in the world...

...Oh, wait. He never does.

"Glad you could make it!" smiles Chris as he gets up from his stool to clasp his brother's hand in his own. "I was starting to think maybe you lost your phone again."

"I did, as a matter of fact," confirms Leo with a lop-sided grin, fist-pumping Max as he flops down into Tariq's now-vacant seat.

Chris frowns. "But then how—?"

"DiCaprio took pity on me and gave me a new one he had lying around his flat... Which, I have to say, is pretty sweet."

Max is gaping in starry-eyed admiration. "You got to go to famous Leo's apartment? Jealous!"

"No party like the after-party! And that man knows how to party. Oh! Bacon!" the elder Rys exclaims, suddenly laying eyes on Tariq's abandoned plate.

Chris still looks confused. "But if you lost your phone—"

"The magic of the eSIM, baby!" declares Leo with a full mouth as he brandishes a brand-new iPhone into the air. "Been using it for years! Why d'you think my number never changes?"

Chris opens, then closes his mouth. "Fair point."

"Glad to see you haven't lost your touch, Walker," continues Leo with a shit-eating grin as he elbows me in the ribs. "This place is the perfect spot to get daytime murdered in!"

"Careful what you wish for, Rys..." I mutter under my breath.

"Good bacon, though!" he quips, filching another rasher.

"We can order you a helping if you're hungry..." offers Chris.

"Nah, I'm good," replies Leo, dunking the bacon into some syrup. "Grabbed a bagel on the way from this awesome little Jewish place. Do you know that they even—?"

"Oh, dear God...!" gasps Tariq, bursting back into the dining area with a horrified look on his face. "That restroom is disgusting!"

I clench my eyes shut. Sweet Jesus give me strength...

"I admit it smelled a bit funky," concedes Max, "but nothing worse than when Bertrand—"

"There is excrement floating in the toilet bowl!" Tariq all but shrieks.

"Lemme guess..." I murmur to Chris under my breath. "He didn't know how that shit got made either."

Chris' eyes bulge as his coffee goes down the wrong way.

"That is generally what happens when you take a dump," Max tells him prosaically.

"It wasn't mine!!"

"Hate to break it to you, old sport," intones Leo, laying a hand on Besnard's shoulder, "but not every pisser flushes itself. So, you're going to have t—"

"No!" interjects Tariq, shoving Leo's arm away. "I refuse to go back in there! In fact, I've had it with this entire establishment, this entire city, and this entire bloody trip! Everybody is rude, nobody respects me, and I have suffered enough denigration to last me a lifetime! I am leaving!"

Throwing his nose into the air, he turns on the heel of his treadless Ferragamo loafers to stomp out of the diner.

"Christ!" huffs Leo as he jerks a derisive thumb in Tariq's direction. "Who pissed in his Earl Grey?"

"Oh, he's just miffed because he knows he lost the bet last night," supplies Max 'round a mouthful of toast.

Leo perks up. "What bet?"

"Oh, for fuck's sake..." I groan.

I'd completely forgotten 'bout the stupid bet...

"He does know that the hotel is in the other... direction..." coughs Chris, having finally managed to clear the wayward coffee from his lungs. "Doesn't he?"

"I wouldn't bet on it," I mutter, watching Tariq nearly get run over by an early morning cab as he tries to cross the street. "If we're lucky, he'll end up in Brooklyn again."

Chris starts hacking all over again as he tries and fails to stifle a laugh. "You're a...horrible person..."

"But I'm not wrong," I tell him, pointedly lifting my mug to my mouth again.

"Screw the sour-arsed sod!" cries Leo. "I want to know about this bet! And why I wasn't included on it!"

"You weren't there," I tell him tersely. "Plus, you'd've been ineligible anyway."

"Why would I—?" The proverbial lightbulb clicks to life in Leo's head. "Ooh! It was a race to fourth base, wasn't it?"

"Congrats, Sherlock," I grunt. "You've graduated to deductive reasoning..."

"Not just a pretty face, Walker," winks Leo in reply.

I roll my eyes as I return my attention to my coffee.

"But who's the winner...?" Leo continues contemplatively, eyeing the rest of us.

Max opens his mouth...

"No! Don't tell me!" decrees Leo, shoving a hand into the Beaumont's face. "I wasn't included in the bet, so I demand some vicarious recompense! I'm going to guess!"

"How—?" starts Chris.

"By using my incomparable situational awareness, sprinkled with just a smidge of mind-reading!"

"Sounds mystical..." admits Chris.

"Oh, it is! Prepare to be amazed!"

"I'm ready!" shouts Max like an overeager five-year old.

My head hits the Lino between my arms with a pained groan. Somebody just shoot me...

"Alrighty, then," declares Leo, rubbing his hands together with an ungodly dose of perverse satisfaction. "So, we know for a fact that Toss-Pot Besnard never made it out the gate, and—"

"How are you so certain?" asks Chris with a frown.

"For a start, it's Tariq," I mutter at him from the greasy countertop. "Plus, if by some miracle he had managed to pull, he'd've been bragging about it as soon as he walked in."

"True..." Chris concedes with a laugh.

"But, more importantly," adds Max, "Lucy and Jamie — the two girls he'd been after — ended up taking me home last night."

My head snaps up so fast, I nearly give myself whiplash. "They fucking what?"

"You heard me!" grins Max like the Grinch who stole Christmas.

"Hayley and Harper's friends..." reiterates Chris carefully. "You slept with both of them?"

"Yup!" comes the cocky affirmation.

"Well, fuck me running..." I scoff with a shake of my head.

Though I can't seem to stop an involuntary smirk from pulling at my mouth. Because that shit? That's impressive.

"Yes, gold star to Baby Beaumont," agrees Leo with a grin, slapping Max on the back. "But did he seal the deal before my little brother? That's the million-dollar question..."

"What about Drake?" interjects Chris. "He and Harper—"

"Oh, Walker didn't score!" laughs Leo.

Chris' eyes widen as he turns back to me. "You didn't? But you were the first to leave."

"Not by choice..." I admit sourly.

"Captain America here got his arse handed to him by a couple of beefcakes..." Leo explains.

"Fuck you, Rys!" I snap. "It was five against one and I still held my ground!"

"It was you who got caught up in that fight?" gasps Max. "That looked brutal..."

"It would certainly explain the bruises on your face," muses Chris, eyeing me critically. "And the ripped shirt."

I make a vague noise by way of reply. But I don't bother to correct him. The details aren't important. They lead to the same result.

Not that that's anybody's business...

"...and promptly got tossed out the club with Swifty in tow," continues Leo cheerfully. "Which I'm guessing is the reason why she wasn't willing to put out, because—"

I shoot off the stool, shattering the mug in my hand in the process. "Mention her one more time, Rys, and I swear to God—"

"Wait, wait, wait, wait!" interjects Max with a frantic wave of his hands. "If he left with Harper, how do you know that he didn't—?"

Leo jabs an uncompromising finger into my face. "Does this look like the expression of a man who spent the night warmly cocooned by the soft embrace of a woman's supple and welcoming thighs?"

I slap his hand away with a growl.

"Hmm..." muses Max, narrowing his eyes at me. "Now that you mention it... He does seem surprisingly grouchy this morning. Even more so than he was last night..."

"Beaumont..." I warn.

"Whereas my little brother is positively glowing!" continues Leo, fanning his hands around Chris by way of illustration. "Tell me you don't see the difference!"

"Fuck you, both," I grunt, slinging myself down into the barstool again.

A fresh mug of coffee appears before me, as if by magic.

I grab for it tersely. Where's the whiskey when you need it...?

"I rest my case," declares Leo smugly. "Which means, it's down to Lord Three-Way Beaumont and Prince Pull-Hard Charming. But who took their ladies to Heaven first...?"

"It doesn't matter," I grunt abrasively. "Max isn't in the running."

"I am afraid he is correct," Chris agrees after a second's reflection, glancing at Max. "No one backed you, so—"

"Rubbish!" objects Leo loudly. "The sheer act of the ménage à trois should guarantee him a spot in the champions' league, if not the entirety of the pot outright!"

"Except he's not the one who gets the money," I point out. "It's the person who ponied him."

"Christ, if it's that much of an issue, I'll punt him!" declares Leo. "What were the stakes?"

"Eight hundred ducats," Max tells him.

"Done," Leo declares, pulling his wallet out to drop a handful of Ben Franklins on the counter.

Chris meets my eye. "Your call, Drake. It's your money on the line."

I flick my eyes between Max and Chris, before letting out a low breath. "Fuck it. Let's make it interesting."

Pulling my own wallet out, I slap the requisite cash down as well.

Because worst case? I'm out of pocket $500. But best case? I net four times that. And I'm my book, that's a play worth making. Especially when my money's on Chris.

"That's my man!" whoops Leo, punching me enthusiastically in the arm.

"Careful, Rys," I warn him as Chris and Max add their contributions to the purse as well. "It's your dough I'm about to walk away with..."

"Eh..." shrugs Leo unconcernedly. "Money's relative."

"Spoken like a born-and-bred fat cat," I reply dryly.

"And now for the big reveal!" shouts Leo, clapping his hands together. "The stakes are set. The buttocks are clenched. Who takes the crown of Don Juan?"

Chris and Max exchange wry looks.

"What time did you get back to the hotel?" Max asks.

"Just after midnight, I believe..."

"Twelve thirty-five," I tell him.

Max's feet start dancing beneath him. "Oh, this is going to be close! We got back to the girls' flat around half-past as well."

"Sod all that!" cries Leo. "Get to the climax, gents! We want to know who got slob on their knob first!"

"Well, after we got back to the suite, we shared a drink before we..." Chris clears his throat. "...retired to the bedroom. So, perhaps 1am?"

"Yeah-yah!" enthuses Leo with a snap of his fingers. "Bring it home like a pro, bro!"

"Not sure why you're rooting for him," I scoff.

"I am permitted to share in my little brother's sex-tastic accomplishments!" he counters. "Especially when I'm the one who taught him everything he knows!"

"Except now, it's about to leave you out of pocket," I smirk, reaching for the pile of cash.

"Hold on!" interjects Max, scrolling furiously through his phone. "I think I have Christian beat!"

I frown. "How in the—?"

"Watch it and weep!" the Beaumont exclaims triumphantly, thrusting his phone out.

Leaning in towards the device — from the speakers of which spew the unmistakably pornographic sounds of sex — Leo, Chris, and I are greeted with a bird's eye view of Max balling Lucy from behind while she went down on Jamie's spread-eagled form on the bed.

Leo's jaw drops. "You filmed it?"

"Would've been rude not to," smirks Max.

"You dirty bugger!" laughs Leo, grabbing the Beaumont to noogie him.

I pull my eyes away from the X-rated spectacle. "Okay, but how does this—?"

"Look at the...time stamp," prompts Max from beneath Leo's arm.

Glancing back at the screen, I focus in on the tiny numbers at the top.

12:52am.

My shoulders slump. "Goddamn it."

"Looks like we have our winner," Chris concedes with a wry chuckle.

"You're not even going to contest it?" I demand, throwing an accusatory hand out at Max.

"I am not sure there is anything to contest," replies Chris. "The numbers speak for themselves. And since Maxwell is the only one out of the two of us who had the foresight to record the exact timing of the event, I think it is only fair that he takes the pot."

"Yeah, baby!" whoops Leo, jumping off his stool with outstretched arms to thrust out an in-your-face victory dance à la Ace Ventura. "Can you feel it? Can... you... feel it?! Damn, it feels good!"

"Yeah, yeah, whatever..." I grunt with a roll of my eyes.

But, Leo's asinine antics aside, I have to hand it to Max. Not only did the guy manage to go above and beyond, but he somehow managed to beat the clock as well.

So, I can't begrudge second place too much.

"I believe this is rightfully yours, big brother," declares Chris, graciously handing the pile of bills over.

"Why, thank you, little brother!" grins Leo as he accepts the winnings with a mock bow...

...before studiously dumping the cash into Max's lap.

The Beaumont's eyes widen in disbelief. "I— But you— I didn't—"

"Hey, I wasn't the one with my pants down on the front lines last night," he says. "So, if anyone deserves the spoils of war, it's you."

Max is still gawping like a stupefied goldfish. "But—"

"Spend it well, kemosabe," the elder Rys incants somberly, laying a hand on Max's shoulder.

"Th-thank you," stammers Max, suddenly overcome with unexpected emotion.

"Ehh... Don't mention it!" shrugs Leo with a grin. "I'm just here for the memories. Though... speaking of, if you want your lasting memories of this trip to be anything other than dear Father sending a squadron of Guards after you to haul you back across the Pond, I suggest you get your tushes to the airport."

"Oh, shit..." I cuss, glancing down at my watch. "We gotta move." Necking the last of my coffee, I signal for the cheque.

"Are you flying back with us?" asks Chris as he pushes himself off his stool.

"Nah," demurs Leo, reaching across his brother to grab the final piece of bacon off Tariq's plate. "As much as I'd love to steal your thunder by gate-crashing yet another fancy ball that I don't have an invitation to, you know Regina still hasn't revoked that shoot-on-sight order she put out on my head last year."

Chris laughs. "I'm sure it's not all that bad..."

"You'd be surprised!" insists Leo with only a touch of sardonicism. "Plus, I promised Katie that I'll bring her back a box of cronuts. So, I got a few errands to run before I jet out."

"Well, in that case," replies Chris, reaching out to envelop his brother in a hug, "thank you for coming, and we'll hopefully see each other soon!"

"You can bet on it, matey," confirms Leo, giving Chris a heartfelt thump on the back before pulling away. "At the Coronation, if nothing else."

Chris' eyes widen. "Father signed off on your attendance?"

"Not yet," the elder Rys admits. "But I'm slowing wearing the old man down."

"Well, I — for one — certainly hope you succeed!" laughs Chris.

"I have faith in myself," winks Leo. Leaning past Chris, he reaches out to bump knuckles with Max. "Beaumont. Say hi to Bert for me."

"Will do," nods Max. "And thank you. Again. You really didn't—"

"Like I said," Leo deflects with an arrant smirk. "Don't even mention it."

Max nods gratefully.

Finally, Leo turns to me. "Walker."

I meet his eye impassively as I draw myself up to my full height to face him. "Rys."

"You got his six, right?" he asks, inclining his head almost imperceptibly back towards his brother, who — true to his earlier promise — is in the process of intercepting the bill before it can make it to me.

"Come hell or high water," I affirm.

"Good," he nods, his expression uncharacteristically tight. "'Cause there's going to be both. And he'll need someone to help pull him through."

"This ain't my first rodeo, Leo," I remind him, watching Chris trying to figure out which greenback was which with Max's help as he sought to pay for our breakfast.

"I know," acknowledges Leo, his face tightening as the memories of the fallout from the assassination attempt flash through his memory. "But I still appreciate it. He is my only brother, after all."

I meet his eye. "Then you know why I'm doing it."

Leo holds my gaze for a long moment before extending his hand. "You're a good friend, Drake."

"Someone's gotta be," I tell him with a wry smile, reciprocating the gesture.

Leo might grate me up the wrong way with his bad jokes and juvenile attitude, but we are — and always have been — on the same page when it comes to Chris.

"They're rarer than you think," Leo murmurs softly. Dropping my hand, he turns back to Chris and Max, who have finally managed to settle the bill, plus tip. "Ciao, amigos! It's been a blast!"

"Have a good flight!" Chris tells him with a wave.

"I always do!" Leo assures him. "Stay safe, little brother. Give the ladies a fair chance, don't do anything I wouldn't—"

I scoff. "Is there even such a thing?"

"—and remember," Leo continues unabashedly, "if you're ever in doubt, there's always the balcony!"

Chris stifles a laugh. "I'm sure it won't come to that..."

"Never underestimate the beauty of a Plan B!" Leo hollers over his shoulder as he pulls the rickety door open, and steps out onto the street.

Max stares after him with a perplexed look. "When he said 'balcony'... Did he mean you jumping off it, or you throwing the lady off?"

"I wouldn't read into it too much," I advise as I grab my leather jacket to pull it on. Turning to Chris I ask, "You good?"

"Yes, I think I managed to sort the bill..." he replies, pulling his own jacket on as well. "Fifty percent gratuity is acceptable here, right?"

I nearly dislocate my shoulder putting my arm into a non-existent sleeve. "Erm... Yeah. Sure. More than acceptable."

Christmas definitely came early for this waitress!

But at least the hefty tip would help smooth over any wayward resentment left in the wake of Tariq's ass-like behaviour.

Chris' face visibly relaxes. "Oh, good! I wasn't sure of the correct etiquette."

"Trust me," I drawl, opening the creaky door. "You ain't never gonna fall flat in that department."

"If you say so," concedes Chris with a smile as he and Max follow me out onto the street.

"I know so," I assure him, leading the way back to Broadway.

At just gone 7am on a weekday, the city is already a hive of activity with cyclists, taxis, and pedestrians vying for position on the thoroughfares against the buses, garbage trucks, and private vehicles, as everyone tries to get where they're going just that much faster.

My gaze tracks west almost on auto-pilot. Wonder what Gale's doing... Is she still asleep, or—?

I yank myself forcefully back from the precipice of that dead-end drift.

The only thing that matters right now is getting Chris and Max (...Tariq can go fuck himself) back to the hotel and then getting 'cross town to Teterboro in time for scheduled departure.

Leo hadn't been joking when he'd said that Constantine would not hesitate to unleash a squadron of King's Guard on our tails if we didn't arrive back in Cordonia by the agreed time.

That had been the agreement.

Because the first event of the season kicks off tomorrow with the Masquerade Ball, and Chris has a full week's worth of engagements penciled into the twelve hours beforehand.

Which means that there can be zero deviations, zero slippages. We have to be on that plane...

...even though that's the last thing any of us want to do right now.

Because glancing back at Chris and Max as we make our way up back to the hotel, it's clear that New York has been a much-needed escape for both of them. Not just from the daily grind of court, but also from the strictures of expectation. As here, you weren't your name, or your title, or your birthright.

You were just another guy on the street, trying to make your American dream come true.

And despite — or rather, because of — their stations, that's a privilege that neither Chris nor Max have ever had the luxury of experiencing before. Because even though they may have all the money in the world, one thing they could not buy with it is freedom — true freedom. As money garnered expectations and expectations choked you out like chains around your neck.

And that was life's unfair trade-off...

...unless you were Leo, who somehow managed to screw the pooch into laying him a golden egg by finding a woman who was apparently not only worth abdicating for, but who also turned out to be loaded in her own right, thanks to a very generous inheritance provision in her grandmother's will.

And because that money came with zero strings attached, the lucky bastard got to have it all: living it up large, while also getting to flip the rules and regulations that he's always hated the bird.

But, unfortunately for the rest of us mere mortals who weren't born with the luck of the devil, the best we can hope for are those rare moments in between when the constraints of your usual life fall away, and you're rewarded with a much-needed breath of levity.

And maybe that's why I'd fallen so hard and fast for Gale. Because irrespective of the magnetic pull she had on me, she wasn't just some hot girl I'd happened to hit it off with. As while undeniable, the deep seated attraction went beyond the mere physical... or even the personal.

Because beyond the fact that she was gorgeous, funny, and knocked me for six at every turn, she was more than just simple perfection. She was the sweet promise of possibility. Tantalising me with a taste of what could've been in a world free of obligation. Where I was just me — not an undercover Guard, not a duty-bound friend to a prince, not a jaded outsider confined to the sidelines, always looking in.

But as entrancing as the experience had been, I know it couldn't last.

Because such moments are — by their nature — transient. And like a pre-dawn mist on the water, they dissolve with the first light of the sun.

Just like our time in the States.

Which means that it's time to return to reality. Whether we want to or not.

Because duty always calls.

Arriving back at the hotel, I see that the pre-arranged limo is already idling next to the curb.

Detouring by the driver's side window, I have a quick word with the chauffeur to let him know that we'll be back down in a sec with our bags.

Turning to lope into the hotel, I catch up with Chris and Max just as the lift arrives in the lobby. The doors ping open and we pile in to make our way up to our floor, each of us lost in our respective thoughts.

The elevator arrives on our booked-out floor and we disperse into our rooms to throw our shit together. While packing, I send a text to Schweitzer to let him know that we're bugging out, so his team can start the clean-up and check out.

Zipping my duffle up, I do one last sweep of the space before grabbing the keycard and exiting the room for the final time.

Stepping back out into the corridor as the door clicks shut behind me, I find Chris already waiting for a lift.

"You were quick," I say, coming to a stop next to him.

"Wasn't much to pack," he admits.

"Hayley still there?"

"Yes, she's sleeping," he confirms with a ghost of a smile. "I couldn't bring myself to wake her."

I nod wordlessly. Good-byes suck. They're either gut-wrenching, or awkward, or both. Best to just—

"Will...you be back?" "I wouldn't hold my breath." "Maybe I want to."

The ding of the elevator knocks me back into the present.

Shaking my head, I step into the car after Chris. But for some reason, I can't seem to duck the sudden sense of emptiness that's dropped into my guts. Like I'd forgotten something... Even though I know I haven't.

I rub my eyes. I'm just beat...

I'm about to hit the button for the lobby when Max careens in out of nowhere to throw himself through the wedge between the doors, Gucci backpack dangling haphazardly from his arm.

"Oh, thank God!" he pants, falling gracelessly into the small space. "Thought you'd left already!"

"We wouldn't dream of leaving without you, dear friend," Chris assures him with a laugh.

"Speak for yourself," I grunt abrasively as the doors finally close. "You fall behind, you get left behind."

Max's eyes widen. "You wouldn't!"

I meet his gaze impassively. "Try me."

"But Tariq—"

"—can find his own damn way home," I cut in flatly. "If he ain't buckled up by last and final call, that plane's not waiting for him."

Max flicks his horrified gaze from me to Chris.

Chris shrugs. "Drake is correct. It is unfortunately too short notice to modify the flight plan and—"

Throwing his head down, Max begins typing away furiously on his phone.

"You're wasting you're time, Beaumont," I tell him with a low exhale. "Regardless of where the fuck-wit is, he'll still need to come back to the hotel to get his passport, if nothing else. He ain't gonna make it."

"But we can't just abandon him!"

"He's a grown-ass man," I grunt dispassionately in response as we hit the ground floor again. "If he can't be bothered to look at his overpriced Rolex, then that's his problem. Not mine."

"Chances are he is waiting for us at the terminal already," advises Chris optimistically.

"But—"

"Drop it, Beaumont," I grunt, grabbing my duffel to march out of the elevator car without a backwards glance.

I have no clue why Max is being so hard up about waiting for the dipshit who wasn't even supposed to be on this trip in the first place. Especially since that same dipshit also happens to be in possession of a gold credit card.

So, I really can’t give a flying fuck if Besnard misses the flight. He can pay for his own charter home.

I'm not about to jeopardise Chris' commitments for the benefit of a self-absorbed prick.

Exiting the lobby, I beat a straight line to the back of the waiting limo. The chauffeur spots my approach and scrambles to open the door, but I've already beaten him to it.

Popping the trunk, I toss my duffle in before making my way to the front to grab the shotgun seat while Chris and Max offload their own bags.

A slam of doors, a click of seatbelts and we're pulling out onto 57th St., only ten minutes behind schedule.

I try to settle down for the half-hour drive, but I find my knee jackhammering impatiently. I know we have plenty of time to spare before takeoff, but I hate running late. Even if it's only by a minute.

Because you never what kind of shit's gonna hit the fan — roadworks, lane closure, freeway pileup — and you can't mitigate if you ain't got any time in the bank.

I can only hope and pray that we don't run into any last-minute surprises on the 15 or so miles to the airport.

Chris strikes up some kind of conversation with the chauffeur, but I'm in no mood for small talk. Folding my arms, I try to tune out whatever it is they're saying by watching the skyscrapers flick past as we head west, then north to pick up the George Washington Bridge to Jersey.

And apart from a brief wait at the toll plaza on the other side of the Hudson, the journey passes quickly and uneventfully.

Arriving at the airport concourse, we exit the limo and make our way into the main terminal building. Luckily, at this time in the morning, there are not too many flights, so we pass through customs without any hang-ups...

...except for the fact that Max remains glued to his phone, obsessively-compulsively checking for texts from Tariq every two seconds, even as we board the jet.

"Have you tried calling him?" Chris asks as he stows his bag in preparation for the flight.

"At least ten times," confirms Max, glancing anxiously out the window in the over-keen hope that Tariq will magically appear.

"Maybe his phone ran out of battery..." offers Chris hopefully.

"More likely he got mugged," I grunt, falling into one of the leather seats.

Max throws me a disbelieving look. "That's a horrible—! Oh. You're actually serious..."

"Guy like him... Prime target," I reply dispassionately.

Max's face drains of colour. "We have to call the police!"

"And say what?" I snap abrasively. "That the bell-end got himself lost somewhere in Manhattan? They'll laugh us off the call."

"But—"

"If Tariq really is in trouble, he can hit up the Cordonian consulate," I declare uncompromisingly. "But it was his bright idea to throw a hissy fit and stomp off in the wrong direction when—"

"You ungrateful ingrates!"

My eyes snap past Max. "For fuck's sake..."

Tariq is stood in the doorway of the jet, looking like he'd literally battled his way through the nine levels of hell to get here. His over-gelled hair looks like it's been zapped with a Taser, his clothes are somehow drenched and filthy, and he's wearing only one shoe.

"Would it have killed you to wait?!" he shrieks, throwing his Louis Vuitton man-bag onto the closest seat.

"Yes..." I reply.

Tariq shoots me a murderous expression. But before he can open his mouth again, Max has crushed him into an over-eager bear hug.

"You made it!" he enthuses. He pulls back suddenly. "But why were you not picking up your phone? And also, why do you smell like a wet dog?"

"Because I was robbed!"

"Told ya," I smirk across the aisle at Chris.

"It's not funny!" shouts Tariq, jabbing an irate finger at me. "If you only knew of the horrors that I have been subjected to, you would think more than twice about making light of my plight!"

"Pretty sure I wouldn't..." I mutter with a roll of my eyes.

"What was that?" demands Tariq imperiously.

"Nothing," I grunt as a steward appears next to my seat.

"Can I interest you in a pre-flight refreshment?" she asks.

"Yeah, sure," I shrug.

She hands me something pink and bubbly in a champagne glass. "Enjoy!"

"I doubt it," I mutter, grabbing the flute to throw it back in one swig.

I grimace as the sour mix of grapefruit and Prosecco hits the back of my throat. But alcohol's alcohol, and at this point, I would've downed windscreen wash if it'd've helped drown out Tariq's high-pitched info dump of his trials and tribulations.

Kinda wish we had left the bastard behind...

But I couldn't seem to win on this trip, so I'm just going to have to suck up the next twelve-or-so hours locked up in an airtight fuselage with the bouchebag and pray that there's enough whiskey on board to keep me from choking him out.

Pulling my phone from my pocket to help distract myself, I shoot off one final text to Schweitzer to let him know that we've made it to the airport and we're about to take off.

I'm about to do the same for Bast when the over-taxed device finally gives up the ghost and the battery dies halfway through the text.

"Great..."

Reaching into my duffel with a sigh, I extract the phone's charging cable and plug it into the seat's USB port so it can get some life back while we're airborne.

As Tariq continues to piss and moan about nearly getting run over, having his phone stolen right out of his hand as he tried to call a cab — followed shortly thereafter by his watch — and then tripping and falling into an open excavation hole as he tried to chase after the pickpockets, the cabin crew shut the aircraft door and complete their final cross-checks in preparation for departure.

A quick intro from the captain, and the jet starts rolling. After a short taxi, we're out on the runway, where we idle for a couple of minutes waiting for the go from the tower.

As soon as we get it, the pilot revs the turbines and the jet lurches forward. We hurtle down the runway, wheels bouncing and jet engines whining before jumping into the air to start our climb to 41,000 feet.

Glancing out the window, I watch the ground fall away as we ascend over Jersey, my ears popping from the rapid altitude change.

The plane banks sharply to the right and I catch sight of the Manhattan skyscape...

...but there must've been something in the mimosa because I’ve crashed out before the plane fully levels off.

The story concludes in Epilogue: Into The Night.

A/N: As another little bonus, here is a pic of Chris in Times Square:

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Sleepless in New York only

@bebepac

Picture Credits: Breakfast - New York - Diner - Chris - Tariq

Max, Leo, and Drake were generated using the AI art app Wonder

#drake walker #sleepless in new york #prince leo #prince liam #maxwell beaumont #tariq #the royal romance #new york #trr fanfic

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