Chapter Text
“Marriages are matters of allies, claims, lands, treasure and prestige. They are affairs between families, not individuals. Instruments of policy, not passion.”
“The centre of power is the king. And no one is physically closer to the king than the queen.”
Your marriage had been carefully negotiated from the moment you were born.
Your parents were ambitious, carefully attempting to navigate the world of the aristocracy, who eyed your family’s politicking with great contempt.
But all the contempt in the world couldn’t negate the fact that for all their blue-blooded heritage, the noblest families had been bleeding money for nearly a century. And your family – just a few generations removed from upstart merchants trading rags in the countryside – had become one of the richest in the nation.
And the public also happened to adore your family, thanks to their exorbitant generosity and their charity work. Your father had commented upon this once in your hearing.
“Who are they going to support? A gaggle of blue-bloods hiding away in their crumbling manors, or a family that was once just like them, a family that found their fortune through hard work and now gives back to their people?”
By sheer luck – or careful strategic manipulation, depending on who you ask – the Queen had taken a liking to your mother, and you had been raised with a certain amount of royal favour. And Felix, her golden child, her long-awaited son, had been a constant childhood companion of yours.
He was the second son, the spare. The child of an unpopular foreign queen, who married the king less than a year after the death of his beloved first wife. She was powerful enough to attract many new friends, but true allies were scarce – your mother was one of these very few.
A marriage between you and Felix had been on the cards since you were both infants. You had stolen his first kiss at the tender age of eleven while hiding in the stables, and when Felix turned thirteen, the engagement was made official.
And honestly? You looked forward to such a match. Felix was beautiful, inside and out. Kind-hearted, cheerful, a steadfast friend. He had no interest in politics. He rebuffed every treacherous noble that whispered in his ear of taking the throne from his older half-brother.
You looked at him, and you could picture a life free from petty disputes, from prying eyes and rigid courtly etiquette. You dutifully listened to your tutors as they walked you through proper royal protocols and elements of statecraft, but most agreed you almost certainly wouldn’t need to use these teachings in the future.
After all, it was Felix’s brother, crown prince Minho, who would inherit the throne. He was older by a few years, in perfect health and had a fiancée of his own. They would marry and have children of their own. It was certain.
And then, on the eve of your eighteenth birthday, the unthinkable happened.
The elegant, poised, perfect fiancée of Minho was struck down with a sudden grave illness. Rumours circulated the court of poisoning, of curses, of godly wrath, and all the prayers in the world couldn’t prevent her death.
You certainly felt compassion for the crown prince. Minho had been somewhat of a distant figure in your childhood – always locked away with advisors, learning how to be a king. You knew his tongue was sharp, his words quick and cutting, and he was always so…intimidating.
He wasn’t one to show his emotions. And yet, in the days and weeks that followed, you found yourself growing sympathetic.
“It’s shameless,” you murmur to Felix one day, watching as various ladies of the court simper over Minho. “Let the man grieve.”
Felix glances over at the scene, thoughtful. “It’s strange. I suppose they weren’t particularly close to each other. Not like we are.”
“Still,” you sigh. “They were engaged since, what? Birth? Infancy? Your brother probably spent his whole life expecting to marry this girl and…now he can’t. What does that do to a person’s worldview?”
Felix looks over to you, and smiles. “You have a good heart.”
“A soft one, certainly,” you scoff, trying to hide your smile when Felix gently takes your hand and pecks a kiss to your knuckles. “I wouldn’t last five minutes in that pit of vipers.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure. You’re clever. Cleverer than they like to admit.”
You fix him with an amused look, squeezing his hand. “Ever the charmer.”
“Naturally,” Felix grins, warm with affection.
And for just a moment, life feels so simple.
Once Minho became an eligible bachelor, the court was set ablaze by a parade of young ladies vying for his favour. His father entertained dignitaries from all four corners of the world. His stepmother kept a watchful eye over the ladies’ chambers. You and Felix found yourselves accosted by a variety of women eager to know the crown prince’s itinerary, his interests, his type.
They were disappointed to learn that you knew about as much as they did. Future brother-in-law or not, Minho was an enigma to you. You don’t think you’ve ever had a conversation with the man, in all your years of knowing him.
Most of your interactions consisted of you politely treating him with the courtesy his title demanded, and him retorting with some sharp quip that had you biting your tongue to stay silent and respectful.
And then, one fateful morning you were summoned by your father for an audience with the king.
You arrived to find your father already weaving his deftly spun arguments, pointing out how much the people loved your family, how your tutors have praised you for your academic diligence, how familiar you are with the demands of royalty.
And you realised what he was doing.
“Any other candidate will have to be trained. Can you afford to wait for those years and years of education to be drilled into that young lady’s mind? When you have a viable alternative living under your own roof? One that the public will support? One that will appease the war cabinet crying out for a domestic match?”
The king eyed your father carefully, and his gaze soon shifted to you. His stare turned appraising, scrutinising you from head to toe in search of a weakness.
He apparently found none.
“I’ll take it under consideration,” he finally said, and your mouth went dry. “But Felix won’t be happy. From what I understand, he’s quite fond of you.”
You could picture his face, crumbling at the news, and you feel tears prickling at the corners of your eye.
The king was a shrewd man. He caught your expression in an instant. “And you? What are your own thoughts on this proposition?”
You should have raised your voice then. You should have objected to the match.
You swallowed.
“My duty has always been to my country, first and foremost. The decision is in your hands, Your Majesty.”
You’re a dutiful daughter. And you will serve your country.
And you will sacrifice.
Two days later, as you sat in your chambers, poring over the writings that had seemed so trivial just a few weeks ago but had now become so vital to your future, your doors burst open.
You expected it to be Felix, alarmed at the news that your engagement had been broken off.
It was not Felix.
“You,” Minho said, and his tone is icy.
You rose from your seat, aware enough of etiquette to offer the briefest curtsey at his appearance. But there’s no mistaking the shock on your face at his sudden entrance. “Your Royal Highness.”
“Enough of that,” he spat. “I thought better of you than this.”
You blinked.
“I didn’t realise you thought of me at all,” you responded, because it was honestly the first thought that came to your mind. “May I ask why you’ve forced your way so rudely into my chambers?”
“Well, we’re to be married, apparently,” he retorted, and your eyes widened at the venom in his voice, the spite in his eyes. “At your family’s suggestion.”
This, of course, was not news to you – and Minho gathered as much from your reaction, as his gaze hardened.
You tried to keep cool, unemotional. “Reasonable points were made. I am technically the most suitable candidate.”
Minho laughed at this, and it was an ugly sound – mocking, dripping with disdain. “In what world is the jumped-up little pipsqueak constantly trailing after my brother suddenly my ‘most suitable candidate’?”
You bristled at his words, at the jab he poked at your family. Your hands gripped the edge of your desk, knuckles whitening as you tried to contain your anger. It rose so quickly in the face of Minho’s malice – like fire meeting ice. “I would have thought that someone must have explained it to you. But, should you need to hear it again, I’ll oblige.”
“Excuse–”
“No other woman in this court has the education that I have, nor the training needed to be a royal consort. Foreign relations are delicate, so a domestic match would be ideal in these circumstances. Your father isn’t getting any younger. No one knows which illness will be his last, so he wants to see your succession to the throne will be secure, which means time is of the essence–”
“And you would abandon my brother so easily?”
His words were like a punch to the gut, knocking the wind out of you. How very characteristic of Minho, to cut straight to the heart of the matter, to the topic most devastating.
But you would not be defeated. “Nothing about this has been easy for me.”
Minho cut you off with a laugh. “Yes, I’m sure it’s been so difficult to nod your head quietly like a good little girl, how sad for you–”
You found yourself pushing away from your desk with all your strength, storming towards that prince with half a mind to strike him where he stood.
“You think I want this? I’ve known you since I was a child, and this – this,” you spat, almost choking with fury as you gestured between the two of you, “is the most we’ve spoken! And every word out of your mouth has been to insult me. And you really think I want to marry you? You?!”
Minho’s eyes were fixed on you at this point, face as dark as thunder. If looks could kill, you’d be dead a thousand times over at his hands.
There was a bitter taste in your mouth, as you glared back, refusing to be the first to look away. “Quite frankly, you disgust me. Marrying you would be a duty, a sacrifice I’d make for this country. Nothing more.”
Minho’s lip had curled, exposing his teeth in almost a snarl as he took in your words. “The feeling is mutual.”
“Good. Now, I humbly request that his royal highness leave my chambers immediately, before I have to shout for my guards.”
Minho’s eyes gleamed, and he leant in, taking pleasure in how easily he could tower over you.
You stood your ground as much as you could, despite the height difference between the two of you. You were forced to tilt your chin up to meet his gaze, jaw tightening as he drew closer. You would not be intimidated, even if he came nose to nose with you.
It was a stalemate, and Minho was eventually forced to pull away. You found yourself almost disappointed, as there was no trace of defeat in his expression when he finally left.
You had to fight the urge to throw something at his back.
You were going to have sex with this man.
As your wedding day – and wedding night – drew closer and closer, that surreal thought began to prick at your subconscious.
It didn’t feel certain until one afternoon, when your schedule was cleared entirely without your knowledge, leaving only one item on the agenda.
A visit from the infamous women’s physician.
She sat you down, graciously accepted the tea poured by one of your attendants, and proceeded to enlighten you on the details of your marital duties.
You had some prior knowledge of what sex would be like. You’d been taught what to avoid, what warning signs to look out for, which areas of your body were never to be seen by anyone other than yourself and your servants. You imagined that any talk about marital sex would cover the same talking points, but in reverse. Not about how to keep men out, but how to let one particular man in.
That was the talk you had expected.
That was not the talk you received.
Men, you were told, were virile, insatiable creatures. Minho – the crown prince, blessed by the gods, an idol among men – would be even more so.
You were informed which positions were common, which positions were useful in aiding conception, and which positions were…below your dignity, as a future queen.
It was rather daunting, to be given such a dry explanation of sexual relations – to be told what limb goes where and why a man would prefer such a method – and have to picture Minho of all people as your partner.
You were more than a little embarrassed by the end of the talk, but you were a diligent student, and you summoned the courage to ask just a few questions.
How could you best prevent any pain? Pain was inevitable, proof that you were sufficiently untouched. A hot bath might soothe your limbs afterwards. If your husband was kind, he would do his best to be gentle.
Your face had paled at that, because if there was one thing you knew to be true about Prince Minho, it was that he was not kind.
How soon after conception can a pregnancy be confirmed? Some women can intuit the growth of new life inside of them the very next day. For those who weren’t so lucky, a doctor can conduct certain tests to determine a pregnancy. As wife to a future king, you would be subjected to such tests every month – as a courtesy.
What happens if your husband does not want to have sex?
The women’s physician had laughed at this question, and reassured you that Lee Minho – as healthy and red-blooded as he was – would never voluntarily abstain from sexual relations.
All you could think about was Minho’s disdainful looks, the coldness of his actions – and you had to disagree. You imagine that Minho would very much wish to avoid sex with you, if only his position as crown prince and heir to the throne would permit him.
You left that talk a changed woman, unable to do much more than stare blankly ahead as you were escorted to your chambers.
Was that really what your future held? The crux of your existence, whittled down to a base physical act dictated by your husband – by Minho?
It made you angry, angry in a way you couldn’t describe with just words. Angry in a way that had you balling your hands into fists, knuckles whitening, every time you were forced to sit next to the man at dinner.
The worst of it was the dreams.
Some were patterned after the worst of your suspicions – Minho standing over you, lip curled into a sneer, looking down at you. You were always naked, always vulnerable, and he was always in control.
A few – very rarely – were about the pain everyone talked about. Being ripped in two, bleeding out in front of passionless eyes, Minho watching as you died in agony. Those were a little easier to handle upon waking, once the shock wore off. You had never encountered even a hint of a possibility of dying from sex, from either your talk with your women’s physician or the academic journals you pored over every day. Death from childbirth? Of course. But sex itself? No.
But the rarest – and the very worst – were the ones that fed into your most private thoughts. The ones where you dictated the pace, where Minho took control not because he was a prince and your husband, but because you allowed him to. The ones where Minho would follow your every movement with a fire in his eyes and a smirk on his lips. The ones that woke you with a cry in your throat and an ache between your legs.
Those were the dreams you tried your hardest to ignore.
The wedding day itself was strangely anticlimactic.
You were decked out in a ridiculous amount of finery – a walking reminder of just how wealthy your family was. Your dress was almost impossible to walk in, every layer weighted down with threads of gold and silk. Rings gleamed on every one of your fingers, a cluster of jewels hung from your neck, a circlet rested upon your head so heavy with gems and metalwork that just turning your head caused a shooting pain to run down the back of your neck.
And yet, with just a few words exchanged and a blessing from Minho’s father, you were married.
Married to Minho.
You expected to feel some kind of change. Some shift in your being.
You felt nothing. Minho was stone-faced as he signed. He didn’t look over once during the ceremony, and you wish you could say the same. But your eyes traitorously drifted to the outfit he was wearing, the high-necked collar embroidered with gold, the blood-red cape draped over one shoulder.
You found yourself irritated, yet again, that someone so cold and petulant could still be so beautiful.
The wedding ceremony was, of course, followed with a feast. You were sat at Minho’s side, face aching under the strain of keeping a smile on your face while under the scrutiny of the court.
Before the first course even arrived, an attendant had already wandered over to your table with a smile. “Wine?”
You declined. You wanted a clear head tonight – even if it would be easier to soothe your nerves with some liquid courage.
Minho didn’t even attempt any pleasantries, any attempt at conversation.
Usually, his silence suited you just fine. You were far less likely to end up driving your fork into the hand of your divinely appointed future king when he kept his mouth shut.
But on a day when every member of the court had their eyes on the two of you, noting your every move, silence would have been a deadly mistake.
The only problem with this thinking was obvious. What on earth could you talk to Minho about?
You settled for some small talk.
“I don’t know how they managed to keep all of this so fresh,” you commented, helping yourself to the platters upon platters of seafood that made up one of the earliest courses. “Considering we’re so inland here.”
“Mmhm.”
“Must have been…difficult.”
Minho ignored you entirely, taking another bite of his food.
Another attendant came over, with yet another pitcher in his hands. “Wine?”
You declined again, attempting to smile politely as you did so.
You missed the way Minho’s gaze flickered to the attendant, the way his jaw set as his eyes narrowed slightly.
Once the attendant left your table, you tried another subject of conversation. “This music’s quite lovely.”
“Mm.”
“Felix told me you’re quite interested in music,” you said. “There was a composer you used to talk about, someone from overseas…”
You paused, waiting for Minho to name the composer you were talking about.
He didn’t.
You took in a deep breath, grip tightening on your cutlery as you struggled to keep your temper in check. “My apologies. I didn’t realise you wanted to sulk your way through this dinner–”
“I’m not sulking–”
“–like a petulant child. But at least I’m trying to make an effort here.”
“I didn’t ask you to,” Minho pointed out, glancing over to you. “It seems unfair that you’re now hounding me to reciprocate such an effort.”
“I’m just trying to make conversation!”
“You don’t need to.”
You were about to open your mouth to argue that no, you do need to try, because otherwise how else would your marriage escape this pit of awkward silence and mutual contempt, when yet another servant approached. “Wine?”
You sighed, glancing up. "No-"
Suddenly, Minho pushes himself out of his chair with such a force that it almost toppled backwards completely. You whipped your head around instinctively at such a sudden movement, only to find him stood over you.
Offering his hand.
"Dance with me."
You blinked up at him, thrown, but it only took a second to regain your composure.
This was a start.
He could do with just a touch less disdain in his expression, but it was better than nothing.
You took his hand, smile never wavering as you allowed him to lead you to the dance floor. It was only when you were far enough away from prying ears that you allowed yourself to mutter. “What is this?”
“If we keep sitting there, they’ll just keep hounding us,” Minho drawled in your ear, turning you towards him and pressing his hand into the small of your back. “My father seems to think our problems can only be solved if we drown them.”
“And you’re…unhappy with this?” You asked, but the answer was already clear enough from his expression - Minho was not pleased.
“Am I unhappy with a crowd of attendants determined to get my wife drunk before the wedding night?” Minho retorted. There was a sharp edge to his voice, and it was strange to realise that for once, it wasn’t pointed at you. “Just a touch.”
You were unsure what to say – especially at his sudden mention of the night ahead of you – so you kept quiet.
His hand was warm, you noted, feeling his touch even through the layers of your dress.
Your dance was simple, slow. Minho was admittedly rather good at leading, and you found yourself easing into the steps without much thought.
You decided to at least attempt to commend him on this.
“You’re a good dancer,” you commented, as he effortlessly guided you through a spin.
“I know.”
Of course. Of course he knew. His confidence – bordering on arrogance – in his own talents wasn’t surprising.
What was surprising was his reluctant admission. “And you’re…adequate.”
You smiled politely, and immediately made sure to step on his foot.
Minho managed to swallow back a wince at the pain. “Maybe I spoke too soon.”
You tried again, only to find him smoothly evading your stomps as he led you through the next turn, and resigned yourself to defeat.
Instead, you found your eyes wandering to the crowd around you, slowly dwindling as pairs began to follow the two of you onto the floor.
“He’s not here.”
Your head snapped back to look at Minho, and for just a brief second, you almost feel guilty. Caught out. “What?”
“Felix. He left for the coast a few days ago,” Minho continued, sounding bored as he spun you. “Something about finishing his education by the ocean. You know how good the sea air can be for the mind.”
Felix was…gone?
“They sent him away?” You asked, voice strained. Even you weren’t sure who you were referring to by ‘them’. The king? His advisors? Minho?
Minho’s eyes met yours. “It was his idea.”
His words were like a physical hit to the gut, and you stumbled – your first misstep since the dance began. Minho, to your surprise, caught you immediately, grip tightening to keep you from falling flat on your face.
The movement was sudden enough to send you brushing against his chest, and your hand clutched at his shoulder until you were able to right yourself.
“…His idea?” You finally managed to say, unable to believe his words.
“Is it really that surprising? Did you expect him to stay here and suffer watching you from afar?” Minho asked, cutting as always, one eyebrow arches. “Pining?”
“No,” you snapped. “I just…”
You trailed off, uncertain how to continue. There was an unmistakeable hurt in your voice, but the last thing you wanted was to show any kind of vulnerability in front of Minho.
You swallowed, trying to keep your voice level. “He didn’t say goodbye.”
Minho didn’t respond immediately. The two of you followed the beat of the music in silence, solemn.
But when Minho finally did open his mouth, you were surprised by his words. “Goodbyes can be…painful. Maybe it was for the best.”
There was something to his tone, an undercurrent of emotion that caught your attention, and had you speaking before you could stop yourself. “Did you…get to say goodbye?”
He didn’t bother to ask who you were referring to. Of course he knew.
“…No,” he admitted. “They didn’t know if the illness could spread, so I was kept away.”
You blinked. “Oh.”
What else was there to say to something like that?
“We weren’t particularly close,” he said, detached, as if he were merely commenting on the weather. With all his years of princely education, it made sense that Minho would have a better poker face than you. “But she seemed to have been a good person. Patient, soft-spoken, gentle.”
You smiled wryly. “So, everything I’m not?”
Minho met your eyes again, while he didn’t quite return your smile, there was an amusement in his look. “…Your words, not mine.”
A chuckle forced its way out of your mouth, quite unexpectedly.
For just a moment, the dread that had loomed so ominously in your mind ever since your father proposed this match faded.
For just a moment, you didn’t see Minho as an opponent, as an antagonist to your future happiness. He was someone that understood your situation – maybe the only person who understood your situation.
And then Minho sighed, glancing away, and his words shattered the moment. “That’s enough dancing for now. Father seems to have caught the hint. I’m going back to my seat.”
You stared at him, baffled into silence for a moment. “…But the song hasn’t even finished–”
“Then, feel free to dance alone until it does,” Minho interrupted you, coming to a halt right in the centre of the floor. He released your hands, and didn’t even attempt to offer a courtesy bow.
Instead, he just left you standing there, staring after him with ill-disguised fury.
To your relief, your consummation would not have an audience. You knew this was a recent change to the centuries-long tradition of royal marriages - and you thanked each and every one of Minho’s ancestors who overturned such a rule.
Preparations were embarrassing enough. Your attendants stripped you of your ostentatious wedding dress, instead dressing you in thin silks and anointing you with perfumes. Your hair would be left natural, untouched.
You were left completely bare under your shift.
You wondered idly how Minho was preparing. What he was thinking. What he was expecting.
His chambers were empty when you arrived.
You dismissed your attendants as soon as you could, eager to be alone to collect your thoughts.
This was it.
This was where it would happen.
You ignore the bed entirely - freshly made, with soft, clean sheets, perfectly inviting were it not the site of every nightmare you’d had in the last month. Instead, you take a seat in one of the plush chairs by the fireplace, leaning forward to enjoy its warmth. Your silks were not made to withstand the drafty chill of a late winter night.
You supposed they were made to be stripped from you as quickly as possible.
Plump, purple grapes sat in a bowl nearby. You considered trying some, but decided against it. You had barely been able to stomach more than a few bites of your wedding feast. Trying to eat now seemed impossible.
You would be fine, you told yourself. How many women had gone through this very experience? Too many to count. Every woman you had read about in your history books, every strategic marriage noted in the annals of diplomacy, each had a night like this.
Unfortunately, as much as you tried to reason with yourself, you couldn’t soothe the nerves gripping your stomach.
Deep breaths.
In. Out.
You could do this.
It was at that moment that the door swung open, and you bolted right out of your chair at the fright. With widened eyes, you stared as Minho made his entrance - without his usual entourage of servants, dressed in a simple white shirt and dove-grey breeches.
He took one look at you, and let out a sigh. “Of course you’re already here.”
In a strange way, Minho’s hostility actually set your mind at ease - far more than any niceties would have.
Then again, Minho had never been exactly nice to you. If he actually tried to be, you were fairly sure you’d just be unnerved.
“You say that like I had a choice,” you sniffed.
“Aren’t you a princess now?” Minho reminded you. He shifted his weight, hand coming up to fidget with the lace of his sleeve cuff. Of course his sleepclothes had lace on them. “You could have waited.”
“Why delay the inevitable?”
Minho eyed you for a second, before sighing again. “The inevitable. That’s one way to put it.”
You were about to respond when he starts walking towards you, and you can’t help but tense.
He pauses for the briefest of moments. And then turns slightly to reach for the grapes by the side of you.
…Oh.
“Nervous?” Minho asks, casually, as if completely unaware of what the two of you needed to do.
You bit your tongue, and held your head high.
“No,” you lied.
Minho raised an eyebrow.
You resisted the urge to scowl. Just a few moments around him, and Minho already had the upper hand.
Eager to prove just how not nervous you were feeling, you turned away from him and sat back down in your chair, leaning back in what you hoped was a carefree movement.
Minho noticed. “What happened to not delaying the inevitable?”
“I’m sure His Highness will allow me a few minutes to enjoy his fire.”
“And if he doesn’t?”
“As you said, I’m a princess now. I exercise my divine right to sit in front of this fire for as long as it suits me.”
To your surprise, Minho’s expression…warmed. It wasn’t quite a smile, but it was a little less than a scowl - and that was more than enough to catch your attention.
After a moment, he slowly approached you, and took a seat - not on the chair beside you, but on the floor, right in front of the fireplace.
You watched as he stretched his legs out, lowering himself onto one elbow. He plucked another grape from the small bunch he’d taken for himself, and popped it into his mouth.
You found it hard to drag your eyes away from him. You felt almost like prey, following every movement of the predator in front of you, anticipating the moment he turned around to strike.
“What did they tell you?” Minho asked, not bothering to turn his head to look back at you. “About what to expect tonight.”
What didn’t they tell you?
Your face flushed at the memory. The idea of reciting back the descriptions of positions to Minho, however dry they were, sounded like your own personal idea of hell.
So, you instead tried to keep it simple. “You’ll tell me what you want-“
“What I want. Of course.”
You continued, unsure how to respond to this interruption. “It will probably hurt, but I’ll be able to take it.”
You saw the way Minho tensed at your words, and this time he does turn to look you straight in the eye. “…They told you it will probably hurt?”
You paused. “Well, I…they said if you’re kind, you’ll try to be gentle.”
Minho blinked, and his expression turned thunderous. You couldn’t help but tense at his reaction, the way his eyes darkened with anger. “And you don’t trust me to do so?”
“I mean, have you ever been kind to me before?” You asked, tone bitter. “And now you’re so scandalised I don’t trust you?”
Minho blinked, momentarily thrown.
“I just…” you said, haltingly. “I just don’t know you.”
Minho’s expression didn’t change. “Know that I don’t force myself on women.”
His words are biting, scathing. But honest.
You eyed him carefully. “So, if I said I didn’t want to do anything tonight…”
“We wouldn’t do anything.”
You blinked. “…But when the officials question us tomorrow-“
“We lie,” Minho said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
You didn’t know what to say.
Of all the things to happen tonight, you weren’t expecting…this.
“Is that what you’re saying?” Minho asked.
An out.
Minho was offering you an out.
“I…” you trailed off, hesitating. “I don’t know.”
Minho rolled his eyes at you, and it’s a refreshingly familiar sight in this sea of confusion. “You don’t seem to know much.”
“I don’t know what to expect,” you corrected him, bristling. If there was one weakness you had, one sure-fire way to set you off, it was insulting your intelligence.
“Then, ask.” Minho said, simply. “Ask me.”
You froze. Ask? Ask him what?
About…
You spluttered, turning away. “I’m not…I’m not going to-“
“If you can’t talk to me about sex, we are definitely not doing anything tonight,” Minho warned, resolute.
“You can’t blame me for being embarrassed!” You argued, temper flashing. “I just…what do you want me to ask?”
“It’s not about what I want,” Minho replied, and his words are…edged. There was something deeper there. “What do you want to ask?”
You bit your lip, torn. “I…OK, fine. Will it hurt?”
Minho considered this carefully, turning thoughtful. “…There might be some discomfort, yes. There often is for women when starting out. But not any kind of serious pain, not if the man is doing it right.”
“If the man is…” you repeated, confused. “There’s a ‘right’ way?”
“Yes. If the man knows how to pleasure a woman,” Minho said, completely shameless - in contrast to your flush of embarrassment. “That’s the right way.”
You swallowed. “…Do you? Know how?”
Minho’s lips curled into a smirk. “I like to think so.”
His words sent…something through your body, some indescribable feeling. The first sparks of…curiosity, maybe?
It set you on edge.
You realised, suddenly, that you had willingly surrendered the upper hand to Minho. He had manoeuvred you quite expertly, leaving you to rely on his every word.
It was with this thought in mind that you squared your shoulders, meeting his gaze with a new sense of confidence. “…Prove it.”
Minho turned silent, faltering for just a moment. “What?”
You rose to your feet, buoyed by this sudden reversal of power. You had a feeling you had completely contradicted Minho’s expectations, and you liked it.
Ignoring him entirely, you spun on your heel and crossed the room, coming to a stop at the bed. Swallowing down the last of your doubts, you turned back to face Minho, and sat on the bed. His bed. “You heard me.”
A beat of silence.
And then…
Minho slowly rose to standing, watching you with a brand-new expression. “…This isn’t a game.”
“Yes, it is. This is politics. Politics is always a game,” you replied, growing more and more relaxed as you stared him down. “And I’m winning.”
Minho tilted his head, eyeing you so intensely that you were almost worried he’d burn a hole right through you. “…This is how you want to do this?”
Yes.
This was how you felt in control.
You nodded.
He still seemed to have reservations. “…If you want to stop, you tell me. None of this competitive shit. That’s my condition, before I agree to play.”
Play.
Yes, that was the perfect way to describe how you wanted this to work.
A game you could play. And win. And quit at any time if you wanted to.
“I’ll tell you,” you promised.
Minho paused, and once again, you get the feeling you’d defied his expectations. “…Good.”
He closed the distance between you in just a few steps, and his mouth descended upon yours.
Kissing Minho was easy enough. You knew how to kiss, you had some experience with it.
Both of his hands were cradling your face - although, perhaps ‘cradling’ wasn’t the right word to describe it. That suggested a gentleness, when in reality, he was firm, palms pressing slightly into the curve of your jaw, fingers tangling in your hair.
He was stood over you, which meant you had to follow his guidance as he firmly tilted your head back. When your lips parted, his tongue just barely brushed yours, and it sent a shiver through your body.
Unsure what to do with your hands, you settled for resting them against his hips, allowing your fingertips to slide just under his shirt.
He slowly pushed you back against the bed, still intent on kissing you, lips parting and reconnecting at the languid pace he set. You followed along willingly, back flush against the mattress, curious to see what happened next. This was the edge of your experience, the farthest you’d ever gone before.
Minho was now kneeling on the bed, one knee planted either side of you. He kept his weight off you, barely touching you anywhere that wasn’t your mouth.
And then, almost nonchalantly, he rested his hand on your leg.
It was strange - such an insignificant action, and yet every single one of your senses were focused on it, on the feel of him.
And the way he began to slowly slide it upwards.
There was no urgency, no desperation. You realised he was still gauging your reaction, waiting to see if you would reject this next move.
Your cheeks burned, but you made no attempt to push him away.
You just continued to kiss him, hands still on his hips.
Minho broke away from your kiss when his hand was just inches away from your core, choosing instead to press his lips to the soft flesh just under the corner of your jaw.
And then, you felt his fingers trail up the sensitive skin of your innermost thigh, and you couldn’t hold back your whimper.
Minho paused, lifting his head to check on you.
“K-keep going,” you told him, and you wince internally at your stuttering - if only because Minho’s grin widened the second he heard it.
“I’m sure you can ask nicer than that.”
“I wasn’t asking.”
“Don’t ask, don’t get.”
You huffed, face flushing again. Asking definitely didn’t feel like winning, but it was clear Minho wouldn’t go any further until you did.
So, begrudgingly, you relented.
“…Please. Keep going.”
Minho pressed a soft kiss to the corner of your jaw again, the action itself sweet enough, but his attitude very much the opposite. “As you wish.”
And he did, hand cupping your warmth.
It was…odd. Unfamiliar. There was a brief moment where his fingers brushed something sensitive, and it was enough to tease a moan out of you.
But then his hand travelled downwards, and there was an almost clinical probing of…there. It was invasive, and you hissed in pain as one finger finally breached you.
“…I-it hurts,” you confessed, hands dropping from his hips to curl into the sheets. “Is it supposed to?”
Minho paused, tensing. He glanced up at you with an unreadable expression. “You’ve never done this before?”
“No.”
“Not even…to yourself?”
Your face burned hotter. “Tradition specifically demands that a bride has to be untouched when she marries royalty. And I didn’t know if…well. Untouched.”
There was a long, drawn-out beat of dead silence. You were very determined to not look at Minho, for fear of his reaction, for fear of what you’d see when you look at what he’s…doing.
You felt him withdraw his finger - eliciting another hiss of pain from you - and instead placed his hand on your thigh.
Taking a deep breath, he ducked his head, and you watched him descend lower, and lower, until…
“What are you doing?” You asked, voice sharpening with panic, when his head stops at the apex of your thighs.
Minho paused, squeezing his eyes shut. “Please tell me you know what this is.”
You had some idea. Ladies whispered about it, when they thought you couldn’t hear. It was hinted at in novels you were forbidden to read. A kiss, but…lower.
You swallowed, and your whole body tensed. “I-I don’t think I want that.”
Minho looked up at you, expression unreadable. “It’s…a courtesy. Without it, you…it’s more likely to hurt.”
It was still too much. Too embarrassing. Too exposing.
You took a deep breath, averting your eyes.
Maybe you could compromise.
“Th-the thing you did before, before the finger went…in…”
Your face felt like it was on fire. Maybe this really was hell.
But you persisted. “The thing you touched. That felt…good.”
Minho’s expression shifted, as if remembering, and you felt his hand slowly return to the spot, carefully swiping the pad of his thumb over it.
You inhaled sharply, as the sensation overtook you, and managed a sharp nod of your head. You didn’t trust your words.
Assured by your response, he tried again, varying his technique, experimenting with pressure and movements to discover what unravelled you.
You were soon panting, trembling under him, and moans were slipping so easily from your mouth.
You still felt some small traces of shame, acting like this, being like this in front of Minho. There was an element of fear, as if he would suddenly turn around and laugh at you, and reveal this had all been one big joke at your expense.
But he seemed sincere, as he watched for your reaction, eyes alighting when one particular swipe had your back arching up into him. And there was a bit of a thrill, seeing this distant, powerful man - a future king - working so hard to please you.
And then, as if he could read your thoughts, Minho raised an eyebrow.
“Are you still winning?”
Bastard.
You tried your best to summon a response, something calm and unruffled and pointed. But when he repeated that motion, the one that had you jolting your hips up into him, you were barely able to breathe out. “Y-yes.”
Minho actually laughed, but for once, it wasn’t cold or cruel. He was amused. Fond.
Carefully, his hand dipped down to try again, and this time, his finger slid in easily.
And it…it felt…
It still felt odd, but there was a strange new sensation to it. Almost like a slickness, easing him in.
Minho hummed, grin widening again, and he pumped his finger in and out, once, twice.
You found yourself clenching around him, like your body was aching for more and trying to make do with what it had.
“Good girl.”
A whine slipped out between your lips at his words, drawing another laugh out of him.
“Of course you like praise.”
You opened your eyes - although you weren’t sure when exactly you had closed them in the first place - and you just about managed to focus your gaze on him. “Praise?”
“Being complimented. Being told you’re doing a good job,” Minho explained, and accompanied his words with another slow, almost lazy push back into you that had your legs shaking. “Like you are right now.”
“I…” you trailed off, voice shaky. “Doesn’t everyone like praise?”
Minho shrugged. “Some prefer the opposite.”
You frowned, confused at his words - so much so that, just for the briefest of seconds, you forget what his hand is doing. “The opposite? Like…being insulted?”
“Of a sort. Being degraded.”
“Why?”
He shrugged, and then suddenly, with no warning, curled his finger inside you. You moan again, the sound broken, shaky. Loud.
You gripped the sheets tighter, twisting them, as you murmured. “M-more.”
“Hmm?”
“More,” you repeated, and because you had the sense to know exactly what Minho was thinking, you tacked on a reluctant, “please.”
You weren’t sure exactly what you were asking - faster? Deeper? - but Minho seemed to take your request in a slightly different way than you were expecting.
Slowly, and very carefully, Minho eased in a second finger.
The stretch of it had you gasping, and your hands flew up to grab at his hips again. He went slow, careful, working you open until the pain subsided and the noises were back.
Back with a vengeance.
Minho noticed, and when he next curled his fingers, he accompanied the motion with another swipe at the sensitive part about that had you yelping, hips jerking clean off the bed and into him.
“There we are,” Minho breathed, his free hand curling around your hip. “I might be wrong, but I’m fairly sure that means I’m winning.”
You couldn’t form a response - you could barely form a coherent thought.
He did it again, and again, and the building sensations were enough to send tears prickling in the corners of your eyes.
It was just so…good. So new. So absolutely not what you were expecting.
“And you’re sure…” Minho trailed off, glancing up at you. “You don’t want my mouth on you?”
You hesitated, blinking at him through your daze.
Now that you knew what it could feel like, now that you had something to compare it to, the idea was…
A little more tempting.
You swallowed, and in the sternest voice you could muster, you answered. “If I don’t like it, you’ll stop.”
Minho’s expression turned sincere, sombre, for just a moment. “Of course. That will always be how this game works.”
Always?
You opened your mouth to press him on this, on this particular choice of words, when his head suddenly dipped and…
Oh.
Oh.
You sucked in a breath, practically tensing in shock as a ripple of pleasure crashed through you, setting you alight.
The whole act just felt so shameless, entirely devised to chase your pleasure and nothing else. You grasped at the sheets again when his tongue did…did something to your most sensitive spot, and when that wasn’t enough, your hand slipped down to latch onto his head, curling your fingers in his hair.
Minho hummed against you at the feel of your hands in his hair, and the vibrations were enough to send your eyes rolling back into your head.
Something was building up inside of you, stronger and stronger, like a wave about to crest.
Minho seemed to notice, as he increased his pace - increased his intensity. You were incoherent at this point, vision blurring, whimpering with each breath as it built and built and built and-
You felt Minho’s free hand, the one that had been resting on your hip this whole time, shift. Slowly, he began to trace circles into your bare skin - to soothe, to reassure, as you burned under him.
This quiet gesture, against the backdrop of his mouth and his fingers and your noise, was enough to push you over the edge.
You cried out, overwhelmed, sensations crashing over you, leaving you shaking.
Minho slowly eased off, drawing away from you, but the hand gently stroking your hip stayed.
You lay there, eyes closed, panting, sweating, twitching. “…W-what…I…”
“Finally. She’s speechless.”
You couldn’t argue that.
After a few moments, you managed to come round, eyes blearily opening again to look down at Minho.
He was still kneeling over you, hair mussed from where you had grabbed at it, cheeks flushed with exertion. Your face burned at the mess of his mouth, but his eyes were gleaming with delight.
“I trust that was sufficient enough proof,” Minho remarked, and it took you a second to remember how this all began, the proposition you had thrown at him.
The obvious answer was ‘yes’, but as you were slowly regaining your senses, you felt a certain reluctance to give Minho what he wanted.
“Maybe.”
He laughed, and you found yourself…growing fond of that increasingly familiar sound.
But when he stopped, his face turned sharp again, eyes still alight. “In that case, I’ll just have to do it again.”
“Again?” You repeated, voice hitching.
“That’s the beauty of women,” Minho commented. “You don’t have to stop at once.”
The thought of experiencing that again - as glorious and life-altering as it felt - exhausted you.
You opened your mouth to say as much, when your eyes fall onto the front of Minho’s breeches.
He was…
There was no better term for it.
Straining against them.
Right. That. In all your excitement, you had almost forgotten what was still to come.
Minho followed your gaze down, and as always, remained unflappable. “Ah, yes. That’s-“
“I know what that is,” you cut him off. That was the one area of this…experience that you had actually been educated on.
Minho raised an eyebrow at your retort, but said nothing.
You swallowed, eyes still fixed on him. There was a kind of curiosity in the back of your mind, almost scientific. “Can I…?”
You trailed off, but the way you raised your hand towards him was more than enough for Minho to understand what you were asking.
He nodded, slowly shifting his weight back, sitting on his heels. Allowing you better access.
Tentatively, you pressed your hand against him, feeling the way he tensed at first contact.
He was…warm. Solid. Your fingers stretched outwards and around him, digging into the fabric.
It was enough to make you panic, eyes darting up to look him in the face. You remembered the pain of just two of his fingers. The idea of this…
“It’s up to you,” he reminded you. “If you trust me enough now.”
You swallowed.
Did you trust him?
You stared at him a little longer, silent, indecisive. His face was calm, almost neutral, as he awaited your response.
And there was a part of you - newly-awakened, insatiable - that ached to see that composure falter.
Gently, still testing out the motion, you squeezed your hand around him. His reaction was immediate, one quick shaky inhale as his eyes widened slightly, and it was enough to bring a smirk to your lips.
“Alright,” you finally said, tilting your chin up to look him dead in the eye. “I trust you.”