Archive of Our Own ^beta

“Hush, quiet,” Seungmin says gently, offering his fingers to Changbin to muffle his desperate whines, his borderline sobs. It’s not uncommon for nosy servants to check supply closets for a piece of gossip or blackmail, and the king’s betrothed urging a mere servant to release in secret would certainly constitute some very juicy blackmail.

“Seungmin,” Changbin whines softly around his fingers. It sounds like a plea; his hips are moving insistently against the motions of Seungmin’s hand around his cock. “Seungmin, we shouldn’t—”

“Hush,” Seungmin repeats. “We won’t get caught if you’d go ahead and finish, Bin.”

He groans, Seungmin’s fingers doing very little to stifle the noise, and his forehead falls forward, thunking against the wooden door. He’s trying, Seungmin can tell, but the thrill of getting caught seems to be making it harder for him to release than easier, when he’s the one who’d tugged Seungmin in here.

But Seungmin keeps stroking him insistently, and he gets there in the end, shuddering in his arms before slumping against the door, feeling Seungmin at his back. “Good boy,” he murmurs against the skin at his nape, now slicked over with a sheen of sweat. He releases his cock and wraps his arms around his waist from behind, pressing soft little kisses to his skin. “Not too much longer before we can’t do that without sneaking around.”

It’s morose, it’s depressing, and Seungmin really doesn’t want to think about his impending marriage to the king. But—it’s just a handful of days, now, and it’s pretty much at the forefront of his mind.

“Min,” Changbin groans, though he cranes his neck to make room for Seungmin’s lips. “We sneak around now. We’re in a closet.”

“I’m not a married man, though,” Seungmin argues, and he reaches a hand up for Changbin’s cheek, turns his head so he can connect their lips gently.

“And if anyone found us right now do you not think that it would matter? I’d probably be killed, Min, I’m just a servant.”

It is true, Seungmin thinks. He could get away with being banished from the castle and disgraced, but he’d keep his life. His father is a pretty high-ranking duke, a member of the king’s court, so they wouldn’t kill him for cheating on his betrothed. Changbin, however, is a mere palace servant, and he’s right—he probably would be killed for sleeping with the king’s betrothed.

“So we should stop,” Seungmin mumbles, nuzzling against Changbin’s hair.

“Ideally,” he agrees, and his voice turns emotional, choked. “But—but Min, I—”

“I know,” Seungmin mumbles, squeezing Changbin tighter. “I love you, too, Bin. I won’t let anyone hurt you, I promise.”

“When you’re wed,” Changbin murmurs, nuzzling back against Seungmin. “We’ll stop. Let me have you until then.”

“You have me forever,” Seungmin returns—because he’s Changbin’s forever, and nothing so superficial as a royal wedding is going to change that.

Hyunjin seems dazed, sprawled in Minho’s lap in the warm, scented waters, still speared on his softening cock. “Hey,” he murmurs, and Minho’s lips draw through his hair, fond. “Forgot to tell you, Min, but the florist has taken ill. I’ll have to find someone else to do your floral arrangements.”

Minho tenses immediately, because of course Hyunjin would choose a perfect, idyllic moment like this to ruin. “Hyunjin,” he says low, almost threatening. “Now is not the time to discuss my wedding plans with me. Actually—I don’t care anything about the wedding, as I’ve told you. Don’t consult me.”

“Fine, but it takes up most of my job these days,” Hyunjin says. “I’ll be relieved when the thing is over.”

“Glad one of us will be,” Minho mutters, loosening his arms from around Hyunjin. Honestly, he’s on the verge of pulling him off his cock, of telling him to dry off and go back to his own chambers.

“Oh, don’t be dramatic,” Hyunjin scolds, swatting at his chest. “You’ve only known you were going to marry someone who wasn’t me for how long? Your whole life?”

“It should have been you,” Minho says petulantly. He nudges his chin on Hyunjin’s shoulder and holds him tighter; it’s only a precious few more days they can be so brazen about it; once he’s married he’ll be expected to at least be subtle about his lover.

Hyunjin rolls his eyes. “It was never going to be me and you know it. I’m not highborn enough. But Seungmin—that’s a perfect match. His grandfather was in open rebellion against the kingdom, and marrying him to you pretty much ensures his family won’t try that again.”

Minho knows, he knows that it’s a match that makes sense logically, politically. That doesn’t mean he has to want Seungmin. As far as he’s concerned, he can’t want Seungmin, not while he still wants Hyunjin—loves Hyunjin.

It doesn’t help, though, that Hyunjin seems to want to make light of the king’s impending marriage. He twists around in Minho’s arms, a shit-eating grin spread across his face. “Want to practice consummating your marriage?”

“Hyunjin,” Minho says flatly, unamused.

“You’re no fun,” Hyunjin sighs, turning back around and melding against his chest, enjoying the warmth of the water. “I’m only teasing, Min.”

“I’m glad one of us finds amusement in it,” he says sourly.

“What else is there to do?” Hyunjin asks, nuzzling back into his neck, affectionate. “Feeling bad won’t change things. And anyway, you’re king, so I daresay you’ll get away with fucking me, anyway. I don’t mind if you need to fuck your husband, too.”

“Just the once,” he says dryly.

Hyunjin snorts and rolls his eyes. “You flatter me. I don’t think you’ll get away with consummating your marriage and then never fucking your husband again.”

“I’m king,” Minho says, tightening his arms around Hyunjin. His teeth bite into the meat of his shoulder, possessive. “So I can do what I like, can’t I?”

Hyunjin’s eyes flick back to him, suggestive. “Anything you like with me, at least.”

And that can be good enough for now, Minho supposes.

Seungmin can’t even see Changbin the morning of the wedding. He’s whisked away by a servant (who infuriatingly isn’t Changbin) in the early morning to be dolled up. He’s waterboarded (bathed in sweet-smelling water until his skin glows). He has half of his hair yanked out (a servant twines pretty metallic strands into his hair). He’s made to be some sick amalgamation of a child’s dress up doll (he is put into the proper wedding robes and fussed over a bit).

It’s disgusting, because he’s shown into a mirror at the end of it all, and even he has to admit that he looks handsome. He just wishes it weren’t for the king.

He’s led to his doom (his wedding) after a morning of state-sanctioned torture (light torture, in the name of beauty), and this is really it. It’s not that he’s never going to see Changbin again, but that he’s going to have to continually see him and not have him because it’ll probably be risking his life. Honestly, it might well be risking Seungmin’s, too, now that he’ll actually be married to the king.

He’s led to the main chapel of the palace, and he’s sat through enough stuffy weddings to know exactly what to expect. He’ll march down the aisle to where King Minho is standing, they’ll hold hands, recite some meaningless words, and spend the rest of their lives together. And he’ll have to fuck someone who isn’t Changbin tonight. Probably he can get drunk, at least, at the reception afterwards—maybe it’ll make it more tolerable.

There’s a large crowd gathered in the chapel—mostly the important courtesans, ministers, and the like. It’s decorated more than Seungmin’s ever seen it, though, filled to the brim with a disgusting amount of flowers. He feels sick.

He sees Minho standing at the end of the aisle and feels sicker. He’s never thought much about the king, from a personal standpoint. He didn’t know he was going to have to marry him until just a few months ago. They’d met then, though it had mostly been Seungmin’s father hammering out the details of the union with the king, his advisor, and a handful of other important people, while Seungmin had sat in stony, sullen silence.

The king looks equally grim—there’s a papery gray tone to his skin indicating that he feels as ill as Seungmin. He doesn’t know if it’s a comfort or not that the king wants to marry Seungmin as little as he’d like to marry the king.

Changbin’s not here, and he doesn’t know if that’s worse or better, either. He’s not sure he could manage to recite his vows correctly if Changbin were here, and he’s not sure he could avoid staring at him, either. On the other hand, he knows Changbin would make him feel better; he always does.

He marches down the aisle, resolutely ignoring the courtesans flanking him. His hands are balled into fists at his side, and he’s positive he’s not the image of pleasure and grace, as he should be to be the king’s groom.

There’s a truly grotesque arch of flowers looming over the king’s head, and then Seungmin’s as he reaches his destination and robotically pivots on his heel to face his husband-to-be.

His face is stormy, horribly juxtaposed with the general radiance of his clothes. He has his crown, of course, and he’s probably been put through a similar torture as Seungmin this morning. Seungmin obediently takes the king’s hands when he extends them, though he’s pretty sure he grimaces as he does. The king’s hands are soft and obviously recently manicured—Seungmin had also had calluses buffed out from his palms, his knuckles.

“All rise,” King Minho says dully. It’s barely above his normal speaking tone, but everybody listens—when the king speaks, you listen. He’s looking directly at Seungmin, but with obvious disinterest. He looks a bit like he’s dissociating, like he’s pretending he’s far away. At least, Seungmin thinks grimly, they’re on the same page about their marriage.

The king takes a deep breath and recites the required words emotionlessly, like he’s reading them off a page and refusing to absorb their meaning. “I hereby announce my intentions before the court and the heavens to wed my betrothed, the lord Seungmin, son of the Duke of Netherhollow. May the union be prosperous, fruitful, and blessed.”

And then he glares at Seungmin, prompting him to say his piece. He clears his throat, scrambling to look anywhere but the king’s eyes. He fixes his gaze on a crumbling piece of stone on the wall behind the king’s head.

“I am flattered and grateful to be the object of the king’s attention and look forward to serving him not only in the capacity of a royal subject but now, also, as his spouse.” He’s run over the words a million times in his head, but he still has to fight the urge to viscerally retch upon verbalizing them, speaking them into existence. “I declare before the royal court and the heavens above of my glad intention to bind myself to King Minho, for as long as we both may live.” Disgusting. Vile. He’s going to have to bathe the words off of him with scalding water tonight, even though that doesn’t take back their power, the irreversible damage they’ve done.

And the king announces before the gathered throng, “We are wed.” It sounds like a death sentence, and the chapel bell tolls for the end of Seungmin’s happiness.

The reception is dreadful. Seungmin hasn’t spoken a word to his new husband, nor the king to him, and he stabs moodily at the food on his plate.

“Um,” comes a voice, dreadfully familiar, a bit meek. “Wine, Your Majesty?”

“Please,” the king says, desperate, and plucks a glass off the platter Changbin holds out to him, downing it in a gulp.

“And—um—Your Highness?”

It’s Seungmin’s new title, and it sounds undeniably wrong coming from Changbin’s mouth. His eyes rip up from his uneaten food to Changbin, who looks unsteady above him. His eyes are sad, his hand is trembling, and Seungmin wishes he could offer him any amount of comfort.

“Yes, please,” he mumbles, and Changbin lowers the platter to him. His hand is trembling, the platter shakes, and he has at least five other glasses balanced delicately atop it. “We’ll take the rest, actually,” Seungmin decides, before Changbin has a chance to drop or spill the remaining glasses. He pulls each from the platter and sets it carefully between himself and his new husband, a wall to separate them. “Thank you.”

“I, um—of course, Your Highness.”

“Thank you, Changbin,” he murmurs, and Changbin lowers the platter to his side, whisks himself away with a proper bow.

The king’s eyes drag over to Seungmin, disdainful, then down to the wall of wine glasses between them—Seungmin has already downed the first he’d taken from Changbin.

And he addresses Seungmin for the first time. “You know that servant,” he says.

Seungmin shrugs, mashing food into his plate with his fork. “I know a lot of people,” he says dismissively. “I’ve spent most of my life in and around the palace, too.”

“You seem close with that one.”

There it is, the danger. Not so much for Seungmin, but for Changbin. He should just deny it, maybe stammer his way through an apology. But the wine has emboldened him—the situation, the circumstances have emboldened him. He’s livid, he’s fucking livid over the entire thing.

And he thinks of the king’s advisor again, the way he’d congratulated the king warmly and then gripped Seungmin’s shoulder and kissed his cheek and congratulated him. He thinks of the king’s lingering stare, the vague horror on his face. The way he hadn’t seemed to want to let go of his advisor; the whimpered, “Hyunjin,” exiting his lips like he couldn’t hold it back.

He takes another solid gulp of wine and retorts, “You seem close with your advisor.”

The king gets the luxury of not having to pretend, and Seungmin hates him for it. He doesn’t even jump or falter or stammer. He calmly and levelly takes one of the wine glasses Seungmin had barricaded between them and sips. He places it down gently and turns to his new husband.

“I am,” he admits, his gaze boring into Seungmin’s.

Seungmin wants to scream from how unfair it is. The king can openly admit to such a thing, almost boasting. And if Seungmin did the same he’d be dragged out and thrown to the dogs. But at least he can assume that the king won’t try to touch him beyond tonight.

He reacts childishly because it’s not permissible to explode in anger. He lets his silverware clatter to his dish noisily and drains his glass, blinking back furious tears and resisting the urge to look for Changbin.

He can feel the king staring at him, his gaze boring into Seungmin’s skin. It makes him itchy, irritable, twitchy. His hands are balled into fists atop his lap, and he doesn’t even care if his husband sees. The king knows that Seungmin doesn’t want him.

The king remains calm, sipping delicately at his wine—he’s scarcely eating, either. “You know to be discreet, of course,” he says off-handedly.

Seungmin whips his neck over to the king, incredulous, hardly daring to believe his ears. “I—I beg your pardon?” he grits out.

The king stares at him, his gaze burning into Seungmin’s. “Your punishment at the hands of my court would be severe,” he says pointedly. “But you can only be punished if you’re foolish and get caught.”

It’s the alcohol. It has to be the alcohol blurring the edges of it—or Seungmin has just fully lost it. Still, he forces himself to remain level. No one’s paying their murmured conversation any notice. “Caught by… the court, you mean? Your Majesty?”

“Of course,” he says. “I don’t think I’d have it in me to punish my—husband.” He chokes the word out as if it’s covered in thorns. “And it would be hypocritical of me. So… practice discretion.”

Seungmin understands but he doesn’t. This is surely unprecedented—or maybe it’s not. Royal weddings are seldom happy. He’s not the first person unhappy to forced to marry a king nor will he be the last. But regular people aren’t privy to the private goings on of the royal couple.

He gulps, heavy and thick. “It is more dangerous for a servant to be caught in that situation,” he murmurs, barely audible. “I cannot risk someone else’s life.”

“If my husband were ever to seduce a servant,” the king says absently, “I think the servant is in a dangerous position. Damned if he does, damned if he doesn’t. I would hardly allow my court to kill a man asked to answer an unanswerable question.”

The implications are clear: fool around with Changbin, don’t get caught, and if you do, I’ll make sure he’s at least not killed for it. And in return, the king can keep on screwing his advisor.

“I’m good at being discreet,” Seungmin says finally—because he’s been with Changbin since his teenage years and no one’s grown any wiser.

His husband nods in approval. “An admirable quality in a husband.” His gaze flickers over to Seungmin, rife with disdain again. “This marriage isn’t a happy one, Seungmin. I didn’t want to marry you and you didn’t want to marry me. I’m okay with investing the bare minimum into this marriage. I think we should each prioritize what makes us both happy.”

It’s… surprisingly decent of the king. Not that he doesn’t have an ulterior motive, of course, but he’s throwing Seungmin a bone that he doesn’t have to, technically speaking. It will still be dangerous, and he’s not certain the king will protect him if he does get caught with Changbin. But the fact that he’s willing to turn a blind eye is an unexpected kindness, even more so with the promise of no serious harm coming to Changbin.

Seungmin chews the inside of his lip, staring the king and his husband down. “That’s what marriage is about, isn’t it?” he asks, squaring his shoulders. “Pleasing your spouse?”

The king’s mouth twists into a smirk. “Exactly, Seungmin,” he says. “I’m glad we’re on the same page.”

After the reception, Hyunjin escorts them to the king’s—to their—chambers. They’re Seungmin’s now, too, and he’ll be expected to pass every night there, in his husband’s bed. Ugh.

He’s barely eaten but he’s had enough wine that he’s stumbling a little; Hyunjin kindly steadies him. Now, all he can think about is his husband having sex with Hyunjin. It’s the only thing on his mind, because the other option is to think about Changbin or how he’s going have to fuck his husband in a few minutes and both seem intolerable.

Hyunjin seems genuinely kind and nowhere near as disturbed as the king about all of this. He treats Seungmin kindly, a hand placed lightly on his shoulder to keep him from staggering into a wall. Maybe he’s sympathetic, maybe he doesn’t love the king the way the king loves him, or maybe he knows that Seungmin doesn’t hold a candle to him at the end of the day. Whatever the reason for his kindness, Seungmin will be grateful for it.

The king is sullen again, surly, a bit pouty, actually. “None of that, Minho,” Hyunjin scolds, grabbing Seungmin by the shoulders and stopping him outside of the king’s—of their—chambers. It’s strange to hear his advisor address him so casually, Seungmin thinks—he hasn’t even dared to think of him as Minho. “You have one more duty for the night, so go,” he says, and pushes Seungmin gently towards the door.

“It should be you, Jin,” the king says softly, longingly.

“No, it shouldn’t,” Hyunjin says resolutely. “And you should be quiet, you’ll hurt your husband’s feelings.” He looks again at Seungmin and winks, and his chest compresses. “Now go, and don’t be all moody about it. Have fun,” he suggests, as if such a thing were possible. He bobs forward to dust another kiss to Seungmin’s forehead, though he doesn’t offer one to the king.

“Come on,” the king mutters, surly again. He retreats into his chambers and clearly expects Seungmin to follow. He does, and the door thuds ominously behind him, Hyunjin out in the corridor.

There’s tension but of all the wrong sort. The king places his crown on a vanity, shrugs his robes off with little pomp or circumstance. He takes his outer robes off, then his inner, then his innermost, and he stands before Seungmin naked and uncaring, because Seungmin isn’t worth getting shy or embarrassed over.

He sighs. “The sooner you undress the sooner it’ll be over with,” the king reminds him, and he walks over to sit on the bed to wait.

He’s not hard at all—nor is the king—but he obediently disrobes, draping them over a nearby chair. There’s the slick sound of the king’s hand working over his cock, trying to force himself hard, because Seungmin just doesn’t do it for him.

Seungmin, now nude, crawls to the middle of the bed and robs a pillow for his head. He doesn’t have to be aroused for this. He can just be a vessel, a receptacle, and it’s a bit of a comfort.

“I’m to assume you’ve done this before, then?” the king asks, his hand still moving over his cock.

Technically, he shouldn’t have. But he has, many times over, and there’s little point denying it now. “Been fucked?” Seungmin asks. “Yes.” But only by Changbin, and he hates that he has to soil his record.

“Good,” his husband answers, and tosses him a vial of oil. “Do me a favor and prepare yourself, then. It’ll make it go faster.”

Is this more or less awkward than having his husband do it for him? He’s not sure, but the king sits at the edge of the bed, facing away from Seungmin, so at least he’s spared his judgmental glare.

He flips to his stomach and pretends that he’s not in the king’s—in their—chambers, prepping himself so the king can fuck him the bare minimum amount to constitute a marriage consummation. He thinks instead of Changbin. He does this sometimes, when it’s been a while since he could find time alone with him and all he can think about is his fat cock splitting him open, nudging that delicious ridge inside of him over and over until he sees stars.

He barely hardens, because he can hear the increasing slick noises of the king’s hand on his cock, and it’s impossible to forget that he’s here. But he’s at least stretched himself—he has three fingers now lazily fucking his hole, enough that it won’t kill him to take a cock.

“Are you stretched?” the king asks, his voice a bit urgent. He’s thinking of Hyunjin, certainly, and he’s close.

“Yes,” Seungmin says dully, and he presses his hips to the air, an easy height for his husband to plunge straight into him.

There’s a scrambling on the mattress behind him, a bruising grip on his hips, and then the dull burn of a hard cock pressing in him to the root. The king is immediately releasing inside of him—he’d brought himself quite literally to the edge to ensure that he could finish in Seungmin. There’s no thrusting, only the very minute pumping of his hips as he empties inside his husband’s hole.

And then he’s drawing out, and Seungmin feels his release trickle down the backs of his thighs. That’s all he is, a warm hole for his husband to dump his seed, someplace to keep it safe and warm, and the thought has him burning, dizzy. He thinks he’s harder than he was, but that’s surely from the sensation of a cock in his hole, and nothing else.

He’s half hard and astonishingly dizzy braced on the mattress. He hasn’t eaten and he’s drunk too much wine and he has his-husband-the-king’s cum dripping from his hole onto the sheets below. He hadn’t thrusted but the once; he’d stroked himself furiously thinking of another man to be able to finish. Seungmin is so dizzy, with his forehead slick with sweat and pressed to the mattress.

“You can bathe first,” his husband says charitably, his weight already receding. Seungmin’s hips are still pressed embarrassingly skyward, exposed for his husband to take even though he doesn’t want it. Doesn’t want Seungmin. “You have more to clean up.”

“Right,” he breathes—he’s so dizzy. He clenches as he at last sits up. It’s to avoid making a mess, spilling his husband’s release all over the sheets they’ll have to sleep on tonight—it’s out of no actual, secret pleasure of having the warmth within him, of holding this piece of his husband like a comfort, like a guilty pleasure.

Seungmin exits the bath to the king lounging in one of the chairs by the fire, reading a book. He’s already in his sleeping robes—he hadn’t had as much to clean as Seungmin.

In the bath, staring in the mirror, he hadn’t been able to avoid the shaking feeling that he should feel different, for better or for worse. But his reflection was the same as always, except for the metallic little strands still woven into his hair, which he’d been unable to undo.

His husband doesn’t spare him a glance as he emerges from the bath stark naked. “Where might my robes be?” he asks, and the king looks up at last.

He regards Seungmin’s body with indifference, no different than if he were fully clothed. “You’re to share my night dressings,” the king recalls, and waves absently towards the dresser. “Top drawer, wear whatever.”

They’re husbands, so they share things now. At least sleeping robes, where all things are egalitarian. Their day robes should be a different story; Seungmin is no king, only married to one, so his robes shouldn’t be nearly as nice.

The king doesn’t comment on his mussed hair, his obvious failed attempts to tug the metallic strands from his hair. He could probably hack his hair all off and the king would regard him with the same apathy.

He picks a gown at random and tugs it over his head; there’s an itch under his skin, a heat crawling up the back of his neck. If he could go find Changbin, he would. But it’s his wedding night, and he has no business stalking through the palace to seek Changbin’s comfort.

His husband hadn’t taken care of him, and his husband doesn’t seem to much notice him at all, so surely he wouldn’t mind if Seungmin took care of himself. Yes, he’s just bathed, but he was too busy dissociating in the hot water to have the presence of mind to notice the sudden raging hardness between his legs.

He flops onto a side of the bed at random—for he doesn’t know which side the king sleeps on—and rucks his nightgown up. The oil is still on the bedside, so he slicks his hand and grasps his cock and pretends that it’s Changbin.

It’s quiet, but not quiet enough in the dead silence of the room. The only noise is the crackle of the fire, the occasional rustle of paper from the king’s book, and the slick noise of Seungmin’s hand on his cock. He groans—softly—and he wonders whether his husband has glanced over his shoulder at him. He doesn’t care—he’s imagining Changbin’s pretty doe eyes, his batting eyelids, the plush feeling of his mouth.

He curses softly and pushes his robe all the way up his chest as he releases, to avoid staining it. If Changbin were here, he’d nip affectionately at Seungmin’s hip and suck all his release off his stomach. But Changbin isn’t here, he’s somewhere in the servants’ quarters probably balled on his side and feeling abandoned, probably trying not to imagine Seungmin getting railed by his new husband.

He reaches for a rag on the bedside to clean himself—and realizes it’s the same one his husband has used to wipe his cock off after barely fucking Seungmin. He gets himself clean enough, settles his skirt back down, and crawls under the covers, never having confirmed if his husband had spared him a glance.

He awakens to a hand petting through his hair. Changbin. Changbin does this, on the rare occasions we’re able to fall asleep together.

He opens his eyes and it’s not Changbin. It’s certainly not his husband. It’s his husband’s lover-slash-advisor, sitting on the edge of the bed and gently working to untangle the metallic strands still caught in Seungmin’s hair.

“Good morning,” he greets, chipper, seeing Seungmin’s eyes crack open. “You can go back to sleep, dear, I just thought I should get this out for you since your negligent husband didn’t.”

“Hyunjin,” says his negligent husband’s voice from across the room, a warning.

“Too tired to last night, huh?” Hyunjin asks sympathetically, and his hand comes down to cup Seungmin’s cheek fondly. “Allow me.”

This is… strange. Weird. Odd. Hyunjin is strange and weird and odd. He wonders if that’s why his husband loves him so much.

“Don’t you have—advisor-y stuff to do?” Seungmin asks, though he stays obediently still for Hyunjin, lets him sweep his fingers through his hair and diligently separate hair from metal.

“Two birds, one stone,” he says. “Minho tells me there’s a servant.”

Ah. They hadn’t talked about it—or anything—last night after the reception, but it seems he’d spilled the beans to his advisor, maybe between desperate little kisses.

“This is the one place we’re to talk about it openly, by the way,” Hyunjin informs him, still working. “Obviously you have enough common sense to keep up a pretense in public.”

“Yes,” Seungmin confirms. “Then there’s a servant.”

“And where does this servant typically work?” Hyunjin asks.

“The kitchens,” Seungmin says, and Hyunjin frees a large portion of the metal from his hair in one go. “He serves, too, at banquets and such.”

Hyunjin clucks his tongue sympathetically. “It’s hard for you to see a servant, right? You can’t spend the night in the servants’ quarters, especially now. What do you do, meet up with him in cupboards?”

“More or less,” he mumbles, despondent.

“Don’t fret,” Hyunjin says gently, cupping his face again. “We can work something out, right, Min?” he asks, glancing over his shoulder to the king, who Seungmin now sees is sitting at his desk, working through a stack of documents. The nickname is exactly what Changbin calls him, and it’s a punch to the gut. “It’s only fair, love.”

“Leave me out of it,” his husband requests sourly. “But you know I’m gone most of the day. Seungmin has no responsibilities, I presume, except to look pretty. If his servant wants to come up here, fine. But my husband can’t be seen spending the night anywhere but my chambers.”

Hyunjin hums in thought, still absently working at Seungmin’s hair. “Would you think it too far if I were to make your servant your personal attendant?” he checks. “It would give him a more regular reason to be in here than he seems to currently have.”

Seungmin balks—Hyunjin’s warm weight pressing into his side is distracting, the gentle touch of his fingers in his hair. “I mean—he’s not exactly qualified,” he admits. “It might look suspicious.”

Hyunjin glances over his shoulder towards the king. “Not if the king himself appoints him,” he says pointedly.

“You know well enough where I keep my seal, Jinnie,” his husband says distractedly. “Sure, I don’t care.”

“Your husband is so loving and caring,” Hyunjin says, not without a touch of irony as he pinches Seungmin’s cheeks affectionately. “Appointing a personal attendant just for you.”

“Hyunjin,” Seungmin says softly; Hyunjin has freed a good portion of the thin metal wire from his hair, but he has a bit more to go. “This… is okay, right? Nothing bad will happen to Changbin?”

“Cute name,” Hyunjin comments. “And no, no one’s permitted in these chambers but you, the king, myself, and now, cute little Changbin. I’ll get the paperwork drawn up as soon as I get you taken care of, and I’ll even make Minho stamp it, lazy bastard.”

“Whatever,” the king grunts from behind his desk.

“Should I ask how last night was, or did Minho make it painfully awkward?” Hyunjin asks.

“It’s consummated,” Seungmin says with a grimace, which is about all that can be said about last night.

Hyunjin sighs. “Yeah, I guess that’s about all you can ask for, huh?” He pries the metal at last loose from Seungmin’s hair, discards the mass of wire on the bedside table. He turns back to Seungmin and strokes through his hair again, tender. “I’m sorry this happened, by the way. But I’m doing everything I can to make it okay for you. Anything you need, just let me know, okay, Seungmin?”

He doesn’t quite know what to say back, so he settles for silence. Hyunjin doesn’t seem to mind; he lets his thumb drag gently over Seungmin’s cheek, then traipses over to the king’s desk. He rifles through a drawer for spare parchment, scrawls something on it, and then holds his hand out and requests, “Your seal, Min.”

The king passes it over wordlessly. Hyunjin takes the candle burning on the desk and lets the wax drip on the bottom of the parchment. He places the seal atop the wax as it dries, and when he pulls it away, the king’s seal is imprinted into the wax.

“Thank you,” he tells the king, before draping himself over his lap and kissing him deeply, longingly. Seungmin can see their lips moving, can see the way his husband’s fingers twist into Hyunjin’s robes.

Oddly, his stomach flutters at the sight.

“I love you,” his husband murmurs to his advisor, looking at him like he’s the cause of all the joy in his life—and he probably is.

“I love you, too, dear,” Hyunjin mumbles back. “Be patient for me, okay? Let me go get this stuff with the servant squared away.” His husband ducks back in to nibble at Hyunjin’s lips, like he can’t help himself, and Seungmin’s stomach flutters again.

The king leaves with Hyunjin, to hold court or have meetings or whatever kings do. Seungmin can’t quite muster the energy to get out of bed. He rolls on his side and stares at the fine chambers he’s in blankly. He could go find Changbin, but supposedly Hyunjin had gone to do that.

Hyunjin pops his head back inside once the candle Seungmin is half-watching has burned down maybe halfway. He looks up as Hyunjin slips inside, and his heart leaps as he sees Changbin slide in after, uncertain.

He fully sits up upon seeing Changbin, and Hyunjin smiles. “Alright, Your Highness,” he tells Seungmin. “Your new attendant.”

“Changbin,” Seungmin breathes, already outstretching his hands for him.

“I—Your Highness,” he says, side-eyeing Hyunjin.

“Couldn’t explain in the corridor, my apologies,” Hyunjin says, grabbing Changbin by the shoulders and guiding him to sit on the edge of the bed, next to Seungmin. “So, the king is totally and fully aware of the thing you two have going on, and he wants his husband to be happy, of course. So, you know. Have at it, or whatever.”

Changbin looks to Seungmin, supremely confused. Seungmin nods his head towards Hyunjin. “My dear husband is fucking his advisor,” he explains.

Changbin’s jaw drops, a bit comically. “So—”

Hyunjin, though, is laughing boisterously. “We’re in love, you menace,” he tells Seungmin, shoving him playfully. “And because we’re in love, and you two are presumably in love, we’re just making sure everything is mutually beneficial to both parties. So, Minho’s gone almost all day, almost every day, so you two can do whatever you like in here. If you go out, it’s strictly in a prince consort and his attendant capacity.”

Changbin looks to Seungmin again; Seungmin’s hand finds his and squeezes reassuringly. “It’s gonna be okay, Bin,” he summarizes, feeling the same flutters he’d felt that morning seeing Hyunjin kiss his husband.

Changbin glances again between Seungmin and Hyunjin, incredulous, and looking a bit like he considers Hyunjin his guardian angel. When Seungmin tugs him to his chest and holds him tightly, he goes easily, crashing against Seungmin and nuzzling into his skin like he doesn’t want him to ever let go.

“Alright, cuties,” Hyunjin says, ruffling both of their hair. “Have fun, or whatever. Minho and I’ll be back around dinner. I’m not saying you have to be decent by then, I think it’d be kind of fun if you weren’t.”

He leaves with a flirty wink and Seungmin has no clue if he’s being serious or not. But he doesn’t really care, not when he has Changbin in his arms.

“Bin,” he says gently, once the door shuts behind Hyunjin. He reaches up to cup Changbin’s face fondly.

“I get to have you?” he asks, incredulous. “I really do?”

“You do,” he confirms with a soft smile. “I’m yours, I’m yours more than I’ll ever be my husband’s.”

Something in Changbin’s face falters at the reminder. “Then, last night… It’s done?”

Seungmin’s gut twists, remembering. “We did enough to be married,” he confirms, his throat closing up. “But I—” Tears are springing to his eyes, burning hot, and Changbin blurs through them. “Bin, can you touch me?” he asks, voice turning pitiful. “Can you make me forget?”

“Of course,” Changbin murmurs, quieting Seungmin’s sniffles with a kiss, hiking his robe up to reclaim what’s his.

Seungmin gets to live, mostly, as if it were Changbin who were his husband, not the king. They pass the days together, and they scarcely bother leaving the chambers. They have to put too much distance between themselves outside, and now that they can finally have each other in the capacity they’ve always wanted, it seems intolerable any other way.

It’s clockwork after only a few days. Hyunjin comes at the same time each morning; sometimes Seungmin is still asleep. He and the king leave right as Changbin is arriving. And then he and Changbin are free to pass the daylight hours. They nap, they read, they play cards—they fuck. It’s marital bliss in a way that Seungmin had never expected.

Seungmin’s husband doesn’t always stay gone all day. Sometimes, there’s a document he’s left behind that he or Hyunjin runs in to grab. Hyunjin will chit chat for a moment, if he can spare it; the king stalks in wordlessly, grabs what he needs, and stalks out.

They haven’t been caught in any terribly compromising positions. A time or two they were bathing together, and so not in sight, anyway. A few times they were napping, or puzzling over a card game. Once they were napping with Changbin’s cock pressed inside Seungmin, under the covers. Seungmin was almost delirious with need, pressing his palm down on his own stomach to feel the swell of Changbin’s cock in him, distorting him, molding him. All while Changbin slept peacefully behind him, bringing Seungmin nearly to tears without even trying.

His husband had stormed in, quick as always, rifling through the documents on his desk. But this time, his eyes had slid over to Seungmin. He’s sure his own had shown his desire (for Changbin), heavily lidded and dark. He’d rocked back against Changbin’s hips, desperate, whimpering as he felt the bulge of his cock shift under his palm.

His husband turned red, snatched a document from his desk, and scurried back out. Changbin had awoken to Seungmin fucking himself back on his cock, wild-eyed and erratic.

Changbin puts Seungmin to bed each night, dusting kisses across his lips until he accepts that he has to go back to the servants’ quarters. Hyunjin is permitted to stay later, and Seungmin hears all kinds of suspicious noises from around the vicinity of the king’s desk, or the armchairs by the fire.

Once, when he’s dead enough on his feet that Changbin resolutely puts him to bed early, holding him until he’s asleep, he wakes to a shifting beside him, a dark room, and an awful lot of breathy moans.

He doesn’t have to roll over to know what’s going on right beside him, but he finds himself doing so anyway in his half-asleep state. Hyunjin is on his back, his head thrown back against the pillows. Seungmin’s husband is nothing more than a bulge under the covers, but it’s evident enough what he’s doing.

“Min,” Hyunjin gasps. He has a hand stuffed under the covers, probably tangled in his husband’s hair. He’s in sleeping robes, though he doesn’t sleep here, and Seungmin recognizes it from the drawer of nightgowns he and his husband share. It seems he’s sleeping here tonight—or not, at least not currently.

Hyunjin’s head falls to the side, catching Seungmin watching them. His pupils are blown and half-crazed from what Seungmin’s husband is doing. Maybe his tongue is buried in his hole, or he has his cock down his throat.

“He’s really good at this,” Hyunjin informs him breathlessly, a stupid grin falling across his face. He stretches his close arm across the mattress, extending it towards Seungmin, clenching and unclenching his fist. He wants Seungmin to hold his hand. He settles for linking their pinkies; that’s as far as he’s willing to go.

He likes Hyunjin. This is weird, but it’s making his stomach flutter again, making him shift his legs together like he can’t get comfortable.

“One day,” Hyunjin promises, “I’ll get him to do it to you, too, Seungminnie.” His stomach does somersaults, and he’s kind of enraptured by how pretty Hyunjin looks like this. “He’s a good fuck,” he continues, still breathless. “You should fuck your husband.”

“Hyunjin,” comes his husband’s voice, stern. His head pokes up from under the covers. His hair is mussed and Seungmin can see in the scant light how full and wet his lips look. He spares his husband a longer glance than usual.

Hyunjin seems unapologetic, wrapping his legs around the king and tugging him to his hole. “Fuck me, Min,” he requests in a murmur. “I think your husband would like to watch.”

Seungmin’s face burns brilliant scarlet, and he’s on the edge of flopping over in indignation.

But Hyunjin continues, “I’d like to watch you fuck your husband someday, Min. I bet he’s pretty when he’s getting fucked, huh?” And Hyunjin’s head falls in his direction, a smile that’s plainly breathtaking even in the dark of the room.

Seungmin’s husband presses into Hyunjin, and his head falls to Hyunjin’s chest. He wraps a hand around the back of the king’s head as his hips work back and forth.

“Do you let Changbin fuck you, sweetie?” he asks. His tone is conversational but his eyes are so hungry, like they want to devour Seungmin. “Or do you fuck him?” Seungmin is trying to figure out if the question is rhetorical or not, as well as trying to figure out what to do about the sudden hardness between his legs. “No,” Hyunjin decides in a gasp, arching his back as his husband hits the right place inside of him. “No, you two take turns, don’t you? It’s best that way.”

His husband tugs down the neck of Hyunjin’s gown to suck a mark into his collarbone. Seungmin has seen marks littered all over his husband’s body when he gets undressed—casually, like Seungmin isn’t there. Maybe the king has seen the bruises sucked into his own hips, his thighs, or maybe he’s seen him digging his thumb into the bruises he’s left behind on Changbin’s stomach.

Seungmin squeezes his legs together, suppressing a whine. “You want me to suck you off, honey?” Hyunjin offers. “Your husband would let me.”

Sure enough, the king doesn’t even flinch at the words—probably he’s just used to Hyunjin being like this.

“I—Changbin,” Seungmin gasps, desperate.

“That’s right, baby, ask Changbin for permission first,” Hyunjin praises. “If he says no, maybe I can watch him fuck you. Does he have a big cock? He looks like he would.”

The king snaps his hips forward harder—Seungmin feels dizzy again, and so, so confused. “It—It bulges my stomach. When he’s inside of me. You can see him move inside.” Seungmin whines, pressing his palm down between his legs, squirming.

“Fuck,” Hyunjin swears, and his husband’s movements grow even more urgent. Seungmin has the faintest idea that he has no idea what’s happening. “You hear that, Min, baby?” he asks Minho, carding his fingers through his hair. “He probably didn’t even feel your cock, sweetheart, not when Changbin fucks him so well.”

But Seungmin had, he had so much, unforgettably. He’d felt his release pulse inside him, scalding hot, and he wants it again, like he wants Changbin’s. Like he wants Hyunjin’s. He wants to rut down against the mattress, he wants to feel Minho’s tongue at his entrance, he wants to be the one fucking into Hyunjin. He wants Changbin here, rocking deep inside him and holding his palm against the outline of his cock in Seungmin’s flat stomach.

Minho must finish then, his hips pumping slower and slower he releases inside Hyunjin. Under the covers somewhere, he has a hand around Hyunjin’s cock, urging him to finish, as well, and he does a few moments later, with a strangled cry and a shudder.

“Wait, baby,” Minho murmurs, stretching for the bedside. “Let me clean you.”

“Wait,” Hyunjin says, seeing the crazed look still in Seungmin’s eye. He reaches his index finger to scoop some of the release off his stomach, holding it out to Seungmin’s lips. Seungmin stretches to wrap his lips around his finger and suck it clean. It’s bitter and salty and unpleasant but the look that both Hyunjin and Minho gives him is worth it, a million times over. “Good boy,” Hyunjin coos. “I’d let you lick the rest up, I’d crawl over there and suck you off, but you have to ask Changbin first, okay?”

Seungmin nods, achingly hard. “Yeah, okay,” he says, breathless.

Minho glances at him again as he scrubs Hyunjin’s torso clean. Their eyes meet, and Minho’s are still heavy and dark, but he bends down to kiss Hyunjin, deep and needy, like it wasn’t enough.

Seungmin doesn’t ask Changbin, because it kind of feels like a one-off thing. But he does, with Changbin curled against him as he tries to focus on a book, tell him what had happened.

Changbin merely snorts, maybe in amusement. “Of course Hyunjin wants you,” he comments. “He’s pretty open.”

And Seungmin wants Hyunjin, Hyunjin wants Seungmin. Hyunjin is the—what, lover?—of his husband, so by some kind of weird, fucked up extension, does it not make at least a little sense for them to be together?

He doesn’t know where he stands with his own husband. He acts indifferent but he’s not. His eyes linger a bit too long to pass for indifference, and when he thinks Seungmin is too gone to notice his eyes rake up and down his body, drink him in. He doesn’t do anything about it, just keeps to Hyunjin, and Seungmin doesn’t know what it means.

Honestly, he doesn’t leave the chambers much. If he does, it’s with Changbin, and he has to act distant from him outside of the chambers. Occasionally they visit the gardens, or the library, or they might simply stretch their legs, but that’s all. Seungmin much prefers being in his chambers, if he can be with Changbin however he likes there.

Hyunjin spends the night every night now. Sometimes he and Minho fuck and sometimes they don’t. Sometimes Seungmin is peripherally involved and sometimes he isn’t. It’s torture.

Changbin isn’t invited to spend the nights, and Seungmin doesn’t even ask. He gets to spend all day, every day with Changbin, and it seems selfish to potentially ask for more.

There’s a lack of privacy in their chambers, walls broken down. It’s only a matter of time before someone walks in on something that would traditionally be private—with whatever weird, fucked up relationship they have going on, it hardly makes them bat an eye.

So one afternoon, Seungmin and Changbin are whiling the hours away. Changbin thrusts inside of Seungmin, slow and lazy, letting him feel the shape of his cock beneath his hand and dissociate, lets Seungmin’s thoughts melt and go hazy and fuzzy with the sensation.

Hyunjin and the king burst in in quite a hurry. Hyunjin presses him against the shut door, urgent, and insists, “You’ll finish what you started.”

Changbin automatically moves to at least cover Seungmin, but Hyunjin’s head whips around, a devious smile on his face. “Don’t,” he instructs. “I think your husband would like to see.”

Seungmin had been in a deliciously fluffy, hazy cloud that muffled everything around him but Changbin. Like the outside world didn’t exist at all. The sudden appearance of his husband and his husband’s lover disturbs it; they exist in too-sharp clarity when they should be happy little blurs.

And he watches as they crash through his little dreamscape, crash onto the bed and as Hyunjin enters Minho suddenly, forcefully, like it’s a need. They’re not even undressed, robes just rucked up enough. They’re kneeling on the bed, facing Changbin and Seungmin but distant enough that they could be in their own world, one of sharp noises and crystal clear images while Seungmin is muffled by the cloud of Changbin.

They’re not in their own world, though, Seungmin thinks, and his stomach curls; he whimpers and whines and presses firmer on the distortion bending his stomach, and he hears Changbin almost purr behind him.

Hyunjin has his husband around the waist, rocking into him. His other hand grips the king’s jaw, guiding his gaze to his husband, to the bulge of Changbin’s cock wrecking him, to his marvelous incoherency.

“Move your hand, sweetheart,” Hyunjin rasps, his voice charged. “Let Minho see. Let him see how good Changbinnie is making you feel.”

Seungmin is so fucking affected, almost crying from the words alone and pressing back against Changbin, as if it might be possible for him to be more inside of him. Minho’s eyes are wild and desperate and locked entirely on Seungmin, entranced. Seungmin thinks the world might be muffled for him, too.

It’s Changbin who has to gently ease Seungmin’s hand away, and he pins both of them between their bodies easily. He’s prettily exposed for the eyes of his husband and his lover, and a broken whimper exits Minho’s mouth at the sight.

“Fuck,” Hyunjin swears, snapping his hips harder into Minho. “See how pretty your husband looks, Min? Aren’t you lucky? So tempting.”

Minho is trembling and shaking, struggling to stay up on his knees in the position, the force with which Hyunjin fucks him.

“He takes Changbin’s cock so well,” Hyunjin murmurs, and Changbin grinds up into Seungmin’s hole at the words. “Why don’t you touch, baby?”

Minho reaches forward, desperate, but they’re more than an arm’s width apart. He eases off of Hyunjin’s cock, makes Hyunjin follow him, all to get closer to Seungmin. He has that dizzy feeling again, his stomach curling from so many different sensations that he can’t keep track of it all.

When Minho’s fingertips stretch a few bare inches from Seungmin’s formerly flat stomach, Hyunjin curves his fingers around his wrist. “No,” he scolds. “Ask permission. What have you done to earn the right to touch him?”

Minho’s eyes rip upward, from the bulge in Seungmin’s stomach to his eyes. Minho is slack-jawed, panting, writhing. His eyes are wide and glassy, though they focus and sharpen a bit once they register Seungmin’s.

“Can I?” he whispers, pleading. “Can I, Seungmin?”

“Yeah,” he breathes back, writhing a little against Changbin’s solid chest, but the hold he has on his hands stays firm. He’s restrained, Minho’s to do with as he pleases.

For now, he just seems to want to poke and prod and stroke at the intrusion in Seungmin’s abdomen, deliciously distending his stomach. Changbin gives a thrust as Minho’s fingers delicately skim the bulge of it, and he and Seungmin both moan.

“You want Minho to touch you for real, sweetheart?” Hyunjin asks sympathetically.

He feels Changbin’s lips at his neck; Minho’s touch at his stomach feels teasing. “Yeah,” he breathes again, and Minho’s thumb dabs at the fluid gathering at the head of his cock.

He arches against Changbin, and Minho’s hand wraps firmly around Seungmin’s cock, stroking him shakily, unsteadily. He is shaky and unsteady from Hyunjin behind him, but Seungmin feels so close to bursting that it doesn’t matter anyway.

“Come for me, Seungminnie,” Changbin urges, his lips against his skin. “Come for us.” Changbin rocks his hips minutely; it’s not realistic or maybe even possible for him to truly fuck Seungmin, and maybe that’s why he gets so hazy and dumb for him.

But he spills between Minho’s pretty fingers with a cry, his thoughts going dark, swirling blissfully somewhere far above the bed. He’s boneless, falling back against Changbin, and Minho’s hand falls loose.

Hyunjin’s hips have picked up speed while Changbin’s have slowed, content to just stay inside Seungmin. Hyunjin drags Minho’s fingers, splattered with Seungmin’s release, up to his mouth, sucking them clean as he fucks Minho to his own release. Seungmin thinks they might even finish together, collapsing onto the mattress, but he feels far away, spacey—distant, but so, so content.

There’s a ball, some meaningless holiday frivolity that Seungmin, being prince consort, is unable to wriggle out of. He has to go, and he has to go on Minho’s arm.

Minho isn’t any happier about it.

“I’ll go sleep in the rain,” he threatens Hyunjin one evening, “and I’ll fall ill. I won’t be able to go if I’m ill.”

“I’ll make you,” Hyunjin protests. “It’s one evening. Go, dance with your husband, and it won’t be nearly so painful as you’re making it out to be.”

Most nights, it’s the four of them in bed, now. Changbin had just started spending nights without being invited, and no one really had anything to say about that. There’s still a pretty clear dividing line, Seungmin and Changbin versus Minho and Hyunjin, but Hyunjin is always sure to blur the line a little.

Seungmin is still not sure where he stands with Minho. The most interaction he has with him is when they’re all in bed at night, and it’s mostly pretty indirect. There’s a lot of looks, a lot of glances, and not a whole lot of physical touch, if any. He still hasn’t fucked anyone besides Changbin, unless you count his disastrous marriage consummation with Minho.

Changbin, as Seungmin’s attendant, should theoretically be the one to get him ready, but he gazes over at Hyunjin helplessly until he abandons the documents he’s discussing with Minho to beautify Seungmin. Does Hyunjin have to drape across his lap to fix his hair? Not strictly speaking, no. But is Seungmin going to point that out and risk having him move? Absolutely not.

Minho doesn’t complain about the hijacking of his advisor, nor that it isn’t technically Hyunjin’s job. Instead, he’s watching with rapture as Hyunjin pouts his lips at Seungmin and fusses over him.

“No metallic thread this time, cutie,” Hyunjin promises, though Seungmin can’t say he’d minded Hyunjin unwinding it from his hair the last time. “We’ll just leave it bare, your hair’s cute as is.”

But despite this, he threads his fingers into Seungmin’s hair, tilts his head back, and brings their lips together. He’s warm and soft but commanding in every sense of the word. He commands Seungmin’s attention and—he presumes—the attention of Minho and Changbin.

Seungmin whines, his fists clutched in Hyunjin’s robes. He’s thought it before, even if in a haze of lust, but he wants Hyunjin. Maybe he shouldn’t, maybe it’s weird to be this affected by his husband’s lover, but at the same time it’s as if Hyunjin demands to be wanted. Seungmin is honestly helpless but to follow where Hyunjin leads him.

“Don’t get too needy,” Hyunjin mumbles against his lips. “You have a whole evening ahead of you.”

Seungmin goes rigid at the reminder—he is not looking forward to an evening of following Minho around and pretending like their marriage is at all normal. He’s fallen in love with the safety of their chambers, the promise of privacy, and going out is a little overwhelming. It would be much easier to stay in, to curl up with Changbin and maybe Hyunjin, too, and just while the evening away.

But he’s married, however ridiculous a notion that is, and he has to pass his evening in a ballroom with a husband he barely knows.

But he does, and it’s as torturous as he fears. Minho is stiff beside him, straight-backed. His fingers are wrapped around Minho’s forearm, light and uncertain.

They don’t dance, though Seungmin can’t help but think that they’re maybe expected to. Hyunjin twirls with a few courtiers who ask, and then he drags Changbin out to the floor; he gazes at Seungmin with wild-eyed panic.

Seungmin thinks he doesn’t really know how to socialize anymore. He’s been stuck too long in his chambers, and he realizes that he scarcely knows any of Minho’s court, or knows them by name or by sight only. Minho is little help, offering curt, one-word answers and otherwise staring blankly in stony silence.

They’re not happily married; Seungmin knows that. But he thinks that Minho could at least try, could at least pretend.

He’s on Minho’s arm until he isn’t, until he leaves Minho for perhaps a minute to go track down another glass of wine. And then he simply… vanishes. He’s gone, like he’d been waiting for an opportunity to ditch Seungmin.

He hadn’t been having a good time with Minho, and Minho hadn’t been much support, but now without him, he feels lost and adrift. There’s a sea of courtiers he doesn’t know and he wants to shrink into a corner and avoid eye contact, the insufferable small talk, but he fears that would look somehow worse.

Hyunjin saves him, seeing him alone and breaking from his dance partner to grip Seungmin’s upper arm. “Go check the gardens,” Hyunjin tells him softly. “It’s where he goes when he’s overwhelmed.”

Overwhelmed? What does he have to be overwhelmed by, when he’s left the socializing and the small talk to Seungmin?

But he’s grateful for an escape. He’s only being a dutiful husband in scurrying from the stifling merriment of the ballroom. He thinks he’d rather suffer in pregnant, oppressive silence with Minho than the constant, anxiety-inducing chatter of the ballroom.

He shuffles out urgently, and the all-around noise fades pleasantly to the background, white noise. It’s dark and quiet out in the corridor—it’s calm, and Seungmin feels at last like he can breathe.

He’s tempted to just continue on up to his—to his and his husband’s—chambers. He can fling off the heavy robes and the jewels and retreat to the safety of his bed. Changbin would come eventually and wrap around him, lay atop him until his heart quit pounding.

He thinks it’s the fear of being seen abandoning his husband that urges him on to the gardens, instead. If someone saw, and the sham that is his marriage unraveled, he’d lose the perfect little scenario that’s been crafted for him. He can’t have that, he can’t lose Changbin, and so he scurries to the garden to grab his husband. They can go up to the chambers together, wait for their respective lovers to return and make them whole, because Seungmin can’t complete Minho and Minho can’t complete Seungmin.

Minho is on a stone bench under a weeping willow. His elbows are on his knees and he’s hunched forward, staring intently at the ground like he’s trying to come back to himself. His fists are clenched, and even in the faint light of the moon, the lanterns stationed regularly around the gardens, Seungmin can see the skin stretched white and taut over his knuckles.

There’s room enough on the bench beside him, so Seungmin sweeps over gently, so as not to startle him. He settles on the cold stone beside Minho. It’s close enough that they’re touching without being intentionally pressed together, and Minho looks up in surprise at Seungmin’s sudden appearance.

“Let’s go back up,” he urges quietly. “Hyunjin and Changbin will come.”

Minho straightens, but doesn’t stand. He turns to look at Seungmin—he looks stricken, but Seungmin can’t figure out by what. His expression is almost pained.

And, yeah, he’s stuck in a marriage that neither of them want. He’s forced to go to balls with Seungmin and now they’re in a quiet little garden because neither of them could handle said ball together. But Seungmin can’t help but feel that it’s alright, that it’s worked out the best it possibly could have, so he’s not sure of the reason for Minho’s pain.

“I owe you an apology, Seungmin,” Minho says quietly. There’s something strained in his voice, and Seungmin realizes with a start that it’s because he’s near tears; he sees them glittering in his eyes, oddly beautiful in the moonlight.

“You don’t,” Seungmin insists, mostly because he doesn’t know what he’s going to do if Minho cries. “It’s worked out the best it possibly could have for us.”

He’s said something wrong; the tears pool at Minho’s waterline before falling down his cheek, delicate. He doesn’t sniffle or sob; he just cries, looking at Seungmin.

“You think so?” he asks, his voice wavering.

Seungmin is… not good at comforting strangers. And that’s what Minho is to him, a stranger. “Uh—” he says uncertainly, and awkwardly reaches out to grip Minho’s hands. Maybe it’s comforting, who knows? “You have Hyunjin, I have Changbin. That’s all either of us wanted, right? Our marriage is of little consequence, in the end.”

Minho flinches at his words, but isn’t that what they’d decided? Together? “You’re happy?” he asks, squeezing Seungmin’s hands. “You’re happy like this?”

Seungmin is… bewildered. Yeah, he’s happy. He has Changbin, and he even has him in a way he couldn’t have had him before. He has… something with Hyunjin, something that Minho doesn’t seem to mind or discourage. Overall, he’d say he’s happier than he would have been not married to Minho, which is a bit unbelievable, considering how little he’d wanted to marry him.

“I am,” he says, but his chest feels oddly hollow when he says it. He doesn’t quite believe it, even though objectively, logically, he is happy. He pauses, stutters, blinks down at the ground. “I am,” he repeats, like maybe if he says it again, with more insistence this time, he might believe it. “I’m happy.”

“Seungminnie,” Minho says, and the fond nickname sounds wrong coming out of his mouth. Seungmin thinks of his husband as Minho now, rather than king or husband, but he realizes with a start that he doesn’t think he’s ever actually addressed him like that, with his name. “You stay in bed all day. You don’t leave the chambers. You look so… hollow most of the time.”

“If I leave the chambers I can’t be with Changbin. If I leave the chambers I’m just your husband,” Seungmin says, and he’s mortified to register that now he’s crying, sniveling and sniffling there in the garden, holding his husband’s hands.

“And so you’re unhappy,” Minho concludes, but it’s soft, like it’s just for himself. “Seungmin, I—I should have been a better husband to you. I should have tried.”

“You can’t force yourself to love me,” Seungmin says, appalled. He’s on the verge of reminding Minho that he loves Hyunjin and Seungmin loves Changbin, but Minho speaks first.

“And I didn’t have to.”

Seungmin feels like he’s been submerged in water, suddenly. The world goes muffled and Minho looks warped and distant, even though he’s right there, holding Seungmin.

“You love me,” Seungmin parrots to his husband, and his own words sound like they’re not his own.

“I do,” he admits softly. “I thought you might have noticed.”

Seungmin has noticed… the looks. There have been lots of looks, lingering ones. He remembers the brush of Minho’s fingertips against his stomach. He remembers the furtive glances cast his way for reasons he’d never figured out—he’d assumed disdain. Love? Was it love?

“You love Hyunjin,” he argues, because his husband’s love feels impossible. What has Seungmin done to make Minho love him? Nothing, nothing but rot in bed and love someone else.

“I do,” Minho confirms, and Seungmin is torn between relief and dread. “I love Hyunjin and I love you. I don’t think it’s impossible. I might love Changbin. I love him for the way he treats you. It’s how I ought to treat you.”

“Why don’t you?” Seungmin asks. His eyes fling over to Minho, blurred by the tears in his eyes.

“I thought I messed it up already. And you’re happy with Changbin—maybe.”

He is.

Isn’t he?

He wouldn’t be happy without Changbin, he knows. But what does he do these days? Lay in Changbin’s arms in bed, let his lips drag over his gaping wounds and try to sew them back shut. Wounds over what? Marrying Minho?

Or of being scorned by him?

“Can I kiss you?” Minho asks. “I want to—I need to make it up to you. I want to start over.”

Seungmin has never kissed Minho. He’s kissed Minho’s lover now, but he hasn’t kissed his own husband. They’re both crying, still, and Seungmin wants to kiss his husband so badly.

“I’m your husband,” he says levelly. “You don’t have to ask.”

“Do you want me to kiss you?” Minho asks instead, because apparently Seungmin’s response wasn’t what he wanted.

“I do,” he admits, and Minho’s lips are on his. He moves slowly, carefully, tentatively, his hands still grasping Seungmin’s.

They’re out in the open, which feels instinctually wrong even if Minho’s lips feel right against his. But they’re the king and the king’s husband—if someone were to stumble upon them kissing in a moonlit garden, they’d merely stammer an apology and back away, offer them privacy.

It’s agency Seungmin hasn’t felt maybe ever. He’s always hidden his love. It’s been reserved for dark closets and secluded chambers, his heart poured into letters that had to be tossed into fires immediately after for safety.

He wants to love Minho, and he wants to do it openly, boldly. He wants people to apologize to them for daring to stumble upon it, for intruding upon it, even when they lay everything bare, when it’s raw and exposed and perfectly invulnerable.

Minho is his husband, and he wants to love him openly, unapologetically, fiercely.

“Seungmin,” Minho murmurs as he grows more insistent. His hands are locked on Minho’s waist, his teeth nipping at his lips. “Wait, we’ll—the chambers.”

“We’re husbands,” Seungmin reminds him, and he pulls him down to the soft grass. “We don’t have to hide, and I don’t want to.” Minho shudders on top of him, clutching desperately at his shoulders, like it’s what’s keeping him grounded. “You want me,” Seungmin reminds him. “You love me. I want you to show me how much. Don’t make me go back to our chambers, not yet.”

“Okay,” Minho breathes. “Okay, Seungmin, can I—?”

He doesn’t finish the question, just tentatively lifts the skirt of Seungmin’s robes.

“We’re husbands,” Seungmin says resolutely, pinned beneath Minho. “You don’t have to ask. I don’t want you to have to ask.”

Minho freezes, torn between insisting and doing what Seungmin wants. In the end, he checks, “You want it, too?”

Seungmin huffs, because Minho is being annoying, if a little sweet. He drags his palm up to the front of his robes, lets him feel just how much he wants it, how much he wants Minho. “Right here, like this,” he confirms.

Minho nods and brings their lips together again. The grass beneath them is soft, it’s quiet, and probably no one will stumble upon them here. But they could, and it wouldn’t even matter if they did.

He pushes the bottom of Seungmin’s robes up enough that he can crawl under. But Seungmin wants to see—he won’t hide anything. He tugs the skirt up all the way, bundling the heavy fabric around his waist. There are bruises of various ages and sizes littering him here, around his hips and up his thighs—Changbin’s doing. They’re places that stay hidden in polite company.

Minho drags his fingers around them almost reverently, presses his lips to each and every bruise. He doesn’t try to cover them or make his own, because they’re Changbin’s, and Seungmin hoards them like treasure.

Minho swallows him down then, bold and unashamed. He moans around Seungmin’s cock, louder when he grips his hair and thrusts experimentally into his mouth. Minho lets him, he welcomes it, and his eyes go glassy and stare only up at Seungmin.

It’s strange, but he can’t help but think that they’ve been here before, that they’ve done this. But they haven’t, not like this. Maybe in proximity to one another, but not with Minho’s mouth actually on him, not with the privilege of being allowed to grip his hair and guide his movements.

Minho’s fingers dig into the tops of Seungmin’s thighs; he’s pure softness, pure tenderness, and content to let Seungmin do with him what he pleases. He’s pliant, he’s perfect. There’s spit pooling out of his mouth and dripping down Seungmin’s cock; it’s obscene. It could only be better if Changbin were here touching him, if Hyunjin were here to offer teasing words. And eventually, Seungmin is sure they will be—but for now, it’s just him and husband.

They stay like that for a while, Seungmin gently thrusting in Minho’s lax mouth. It’s Minho who’s the receptacle this time, he can’t help but think, and he wonders if the thought excites him the way it had shamefully excited Seungmin, back on their wedding night.

Minho pulls back eventually, squirming. His fingers are digging into Seungmin’s skin. “Our chambers, maybe?” he suggests quietly. “I—Seungmin, I want you.”

He can’t resist teasing just a little. He grips Minho’s face and tugs him up to his lips. The grip he has on Minho’s cheeks pouts his lips out more than they already are, and he kisses them like that, Minho trapped firmly between his fingers.

“What if I want you?” he asks, and Minho whines, his hips roll down atop Seungmin’s.

“Any way you want me,” he promises in an urgent whisper. “Anything you want from me. I owe you that much.”

He looks so sincere, and his eyes unabashedly sparkle at Seungmin; they’re catching the moonlight, he thinks. “Come on, then,” Seungmin murmurs.

They can speed walk back up to their chambers halfway entangled, Minho’s arm tight around Seungmin’s waist. People do see them, odd servants flitting about the castle, courtiers otherwise engaged in urgent, quiet whispers. And they’re met with nothing but polite little bows because they’re meant to be together.

Seungmin’s struck with the urge to crowd Minho up against one of the stone walls and kiss him within an inch of his life, just for the giddy feeling he knows will come when a servant scurries past as if nothing’s amiss, but they’re both too far gone for that. They need to be in their chambers not for the secrecy it affords, but for mere practicality. Maybe Seungmin will take to tucking vials of oil in his sleeves just for the excuse to have Minho wherever he’d like.

Minho’s not going to wait. No sooner do they crash into their chambers than Minho is resolutely tugging him towards the bed, shucking robes impatiently, like they’re burning him.

“Am I fucking you or you fucking me?” he asks, already positioned stark naked on the bed, knees spread.

It seems he’s chosen what he wants with his positioning, and his eyes follow Seungmin’s movements hungrily as he strips his own clothes off. “What do you think?” Seungmin asks, amused. He kneels between Minho’s legs on the bed, stretching for the bedside as Minho’s lips come up to taste his skin.

He’s seen—and heard—Hyunjin stretch Minho open, and he suspects he teases him a little with it. Minho doesn’t seem to be in the mood for teasing tonight; his cock is hard and leaking, and though he sighs in contentment which Seungmin presses two fingers forward, he quickly begins squirming impatiently.

“Seungmin,” Minho mumbles. “Just go. You don’t have to stretch me this much.” Then, maybe unable to resist, he jabs, “I’ve seen your cock, you’re no Changbin.”

It’s meant to be cutting, or perhaps teasing, but Seungmin won’t deny his husband anything. He doesn’t even respond to Minho’s complaint, just rips his fingers from his hole and, in the next movement, stuffs his cock inside, to the root.

Minho goes rigid, but Seungmin has an arm lovingly tucked around his waist, urging his hips up. He doesn’t move yet; he feels Minho’s hole spasming and fluttering around him. No matter the shots he’d fired, he wasn’t expecting this.

“Seungmin, I—sorry, wait,” he gasps, rocking his hips down minutely. It’s okay, because Seungmin can take his time raking his fingers along Minho’s skin, every bit of him that he’s able to touch now. “This is how it should have been,” he murmurs, his back arching into Seungmin’s touch. “Our wedding night.”

“Probably,” Seungmin admits. Because what else is he supposed to say? “But honestly? I thought it was kind of hot then. That I was just a place for you to finish.”

Minho stifles a laugh into his hand. “I felt awful,” he recalls. “You got yourself off on the bed after.”

“You have an entire marriage to make it up to me,” Seungmin reassures him. “And I’ll be cashing in, don’t worry. But if you ever wanted to fuck Hyunjin or Changbin and just use me to to catch your release, I wouldn’t be opposed.”

“Not tonight,” he murmurs, and when he gazes up at Seungmin, it’s with so much tenderness. “Another time.”

“Of course,” Seungmin agrees, leaning down to dust an indulgent kiss against his forehead. “We have all the time in the world.”

He draws his hips back; their foreheads are pressed together now, their noses brushing.

And the door slams open.

“Oh—” comes Hyunjin’s voice, and Seungmin hears an intake of breath that’s definitely Changbin. Hyunjin’s voice at first is shock, surprise; they’d evidently been looking for the two of them and coming to their chambers was their last ditch attempt at finding them. “Oh,” Hyunjin repeats, and this time his tone is breathier. “So you finally figured out what a husband is for, Min, huh?”

Minho whimpers beneath Seungmin; he feels a hand run up his spine, and Changbin is at his side, kissing him deeply. His hips falter a little, and he feels another set of hands curl around his hips, steadying them, driving him into Minho.

“You’re not a multi-tasker, huh?” Hyunjin asks. “That’s okay, Min’s a spoiled brat in bed, anyway. It’d serve him right.”

Seungmin thinks he groans, but if he does it’s against Changbin’s lips, and he’s suddenly not very cognizant of anything, anyway.

“Changbinnie,” Hyunjin says conversationally, like this isn’t affecting him at all. “You should kiss Minho. He looks lonely.”

Changbin pulls back from Seungmin and glances at Minho. He’s writhing beneath Seungmin and had obviously just been staring at the two of them kissing. But—Changbin doesn't know about Minho, Seungmin feels. He’s uncertain; this is the king, after all.

Minho has no such qualms, and gropes for the front of Changbin’s robes. He pulls Changbin to his lips and mewls into his mouth. He falters for only a second, before his hand comes up to cup the side of Minho’s face tenderly, trying to calm him.

Seungmin is… kind of floored. Minho is on his back beneath him, his legs wrapped around Seungmin’s hips. Changbin is at his side, kissing him tenderly and shushing him every so often. He can feel Hyunjin’s hands gripping his hips, his mouth working along his shoulder.

Can four people come together so naturally? Two husbands, sure, two lovers, but—four people? Two pairs, though Seungmin isn't sure how to demarcate it.

He’s dizzy again, and feels he's only succeeding in moving in Minho because of Hyunjin’s steady guiding, his reassurance.

He and Minho can exist in the outside world, acceptably. He and Changbin can't, and he and Hyunjin can't, but could it be possible?

Seungmin doesn't know, his brain power is directed elsewhere, split three ways before it fizzles and fractures; he spills inside Minho and he goes dark for a moment. Hyunjin murmurs something and moves his hips a few more times, even as he shudders and whines from the stimulation, the tight clench of Minho around him.

He draws out with Hyunjin’s gentle urging; he’s vaguely aware of him taking his spot and plunging into Minho. But Changbin is drawing him to his chest and Minho reaches for them both. His lips are parted in a gasp, Hyunjin’s pretty fingers are in his hair—he looks so beautiful, Seungmin thinks.

He’s just sliding his hand along Minho’s torso when he finishes, arching and crying despite Hyunjin’s gentle shushing, his soothing.

Changbin’s lips drag along the back of his ear, an arm locked around his waist to keep him from collapsing onto Minho, into the mess smeared across his torso.

He lets himself go hazy again in Changbin’s embrace, his lips brushing against the sensitive skin at the back of his ears, his neck. He keeps a hand on Minho, who looks as hazy as Seungmin feels. Hyunjin cleans him, cooing in a way that might be condescending in another scenario.

And his eyes snap over to Changbin. “What about you, then?” he asks, his eyes very pointedly dropping down to between his legs. He’s very considerately not pressed it against Seungmin, knowing he just wants to collapse atop Minho.

“I’ll be fine until morning,” he insists, letting Seungmin’s head and letting him gently drop beside Minho. “Tired, huh, Seungmo?”

He groans and lets Minho yank him atop his chest. Changbin’s hand slides along his waist and slots in behind him; Hyunjin fills in the other side of Minho and offers the three of them kisses.

And there's a lot to say, a lot that maybe demands straightening out. But not now, not when they're warm and sated and bundled all together. Not when they drift on the verge of sleep, content and dripping with an emotion they hadn't thought possible to feel for more than one person in their life.

The four of them are free in the privacy of their chambers, of course. Minho and Seungmin can do what they like outside of those confines, and Minho takes him around his favorite sites of the palace, then of the kingdom.

It feels wrong, not having the same liberties with Changbin and Hyunjin. They visit the coast, ostensibly a diplomatic visit for the king and his prince consort—it’s natural that the advisor and the prince’s attendant tag along. And they have to keep their distance in the daylight, though at night they pile into the same bed in their lodgings, no matter how cramped.

They disentangle in the morning; Minho and Seungmin act as a perfect royal couple, Hyunjin and Changbin are relegated to their own duties, and distant.

“Come here, I missed you all day,” Seungmin murmurs to Changbin at night, drawing him close. This despite the fact that they were together all day, but not the way they really are, that they ought to be.

And back in the comfort of the palace chambers, Hyunjin looks up from Seungmin’s skin, over to where Minho is speared on Changbin’s cock in one of the armchairs.

“Min, you're king,” he points out, enjoying Seungmin's fingers stroking through his hair.

He must not feel very regal then, looking half crazed locked around Changbin, the way he always does—he'd never admit it, but everyone knows Changbin is his favorite for things like this.

Now Changbin pats his head fondly. “You are,” he reminds him, on the cusp of condescension.

Minho stares at Hyunjin, wide-eyed.

“Just,” Hyunjin says conversationally, “couldn't you do something? About the four of us? If Seungmin doesn't stop eye-fucking me, there's gonna be trouble.”

“I…” Minho says. “Now? We have to have this conversation now?”

Seungmin and Hyunjin both chuckle. “No, baby,” Hyunjin decides. “Have fun with Changbin, we’ll talk later.”

It’s later, when Minho is nearly asleep in Seungmin’s arms, that Hyunjin brings it up again.

“So,” he says, thumping Minho on the forehead to wake him up. “The royal couple. You two can do what you want. Hell—Changbin and I could go around together, even.” He tightens his arms around said man, and Changbin nuzzles back against him happily, like he likes the idea. “But you're king. Can't you have some unusual relationship and make it okay?”

Minho cracks an eye open at Hyunjin, whose expression has turned demanding, expectant. “You want me to make a decree saying we’re all fucking each other and the court can deal with it?”

Surprisingly, Hyunjin turns offended. “Is that what we’re doing, Min? Fucking?”

There's a lot of that. But there's a lot of nights where that doesn't happen. They pile into bed, into armchairs, into laps. They talk or play games or tease. Once Changbin, swearing he knew the comings and goings of servants and guards, had successfully snuck them all up to the tallest tower in the palace and they'd watched a meteor shower together, awed.

It's love. They're in love. It's whispered often, as private as their relationship. Changbin has whispered it, overwhelmed, against Minho’s mouth, and Minho has whispered it back reassuringly. Hyunjin has said it to Seungmin casually, watched him get flustered and stammer his way through a response.

Seungmin and Minho get the fortune of saying it to one another in the light of day, bold and daring and often to the collective awww of their court.

Minho knows he's offended Hyunjin—a block of wood could tell that Hyunjin is offended. “Jin,” he says carefully. “Maybe we don't need a royal decree for such a thing? What if we just… try being open about it? Very few people—other than you—dare to say anything critical to my face.”

“I think we could try it,” Changbin offers, stretching his hand for Seungmin’s. “People will get used to it.”

“Seungmin?” Minho checks, craning his neck back.

“Yeah, Minho,” he mumbles, nuzzling down into his hair. “Yeah, we can try. You know I hate hiding with Bin and Jin.”

The portrait painter is frustrated with them, and trying very hard not to show it. He’s only just been by perhaps a couple of months ago to paint the royal couple’s official portrait.

Fitting four people in is a different struggle entirely—a pain to fit them in frame and a pain to get them to sit still long enough to be properly painted.

But he's being paid handsomely, he reminds himself, so he adjusts his glasses and clears his throat so the king quits pinching his advisor’s cheek, so the king’s husband stops pretending to squeeze his attendant’s torso with his legs.